#how would they even dye their entire body do they just do it in sections a little at a time

[sonknuxadow]

do you think sonic characters ever dye their fur. and if they do do they dye their entire bodies or just add highlights here and there

[captain-of-silvenar]

🛁💁‍♀️👠 for yera and/or kerasil, your pick :3

I did Kerasil earlier today, so I'll do Yera for this one!

🛀🏿 Is bathing a luxury or a chore for them? Are they a long, sybaritic soak sort of bather, or a just-getting-clean sort?

BATHING IS A LUXURY. After spending weeks, or even months, on the road living in the dirt or woods, in sleeping inside caves and dungeons, all Yera can afford at times is a wet rag or just living in her own sweat for awhile. Nothing she hasn't done in her long life, but it certainly isn't always the best when you roll up to an inn or tavern and you can hear the folks flinch away from you.

Yera used to be pretty efficient with cleaning before she got into her wealth. Just wash in the lake, or the river, make sure to get all the leaves and dirt out of her hair, and she was golden. Now that she actually owns a house and the funds to have a bathtub, a warm soak is the best thing in the entire world.

That's not to say she is only a bathtub soaker anymore. It depends on the mood and how convenient it is to do so, but if given time and space Yera will always choose having a warm bath over anything else.

💁🏾‍♀️ What is their hare care regimen like? Do they color, straighten, curl, or otherwise change their hair regularly?

Yera would say she takes great care of it. She combs it, cuts it even, makes sure to get all the dirt and leaves and bugs out of it. It's a distinguishing part of her features so it has to be taken care of.

If you ask Lydia, she would truthfully answer that it is haphazard at best, and looks more grey than white most days.

There is a reason Yera keeps her hair short and a low maintenance hairstyle. It's not that she's neglectful of her hair, just that she feels that just a quick finger brush and keeping it clean is enough for her needs. So long as it's not sticky or falling over her face annoyingly it's alright in her books.

It's not horrible looking, but once Lydia learned that her Thane was basically dunking her head into a barrel of water and calling it there she knew she had to do something.

So now Yera has a dedicated hair care regimen that is required at least once a week by order of her housecarl (Lydia can be pretty forceful when required). It's a really nice bone comb that Lydia got her for, and Yera takes great pains to make sure the comb is well cared for and never chips.

Lydia wishes Yera had the same dedication for her hair, but it's the thought that counts.

Yera also doesn't really change the hairstyle, nor dye it despite how different it looks and how easily identifiable it makes her. A blind bosmer woman with pure white hair is pretty easy to narrow down, but her hair is a feature of her person. And Yera will be damned to let anyone tell her how to change or manage her body in a way she doesn't agree with.

👠 Do they coordinate their outfit and accessories carefully, or just wear any old rag that passes the sniff test and their most comfortable shoes? Somewhere in between?

To shift how Yera takes care of herself again, she does take great care in coordinating her outfit. In the beginning she only had one set of clothes and armor so she just cared about those being in good condition. Now that she has a house and money to spend on outfits she likes accessorizing again.

It's been over 100 years since Yera last saw colors, but she still remembers them and which one she likes the most. This usually falls into reds, yellows, the occasional blue paired with darker colors, and obviously gold when affordable.

Lydia helps out putting the clothes together and describing them to Yera for selection. Then they're put close together in the closet so that there is less confusion as to where they are.

Boots are organized from utilitarian to comfort on the rack for Yera to decide on a whim to wear that day.

Accessories are in a dedicated jewelry box with extra dividing sections Yera can organize to her liking.

You won't find Yera wearing precious jewels or dressing up in a gown, even in important social events. She still prefers function over fashion, but there's no reason to not get those plush cotton pants at the market today. Lydia, please, they're a different color this time and they feel so soft. We have so much money, what's another pair of pants to us?

[williowdrake]

First Person- Cat's Side Story

I am a long-haired black and white cat. There is nothing really special about me, I mean pronoun wise, since everyone seems to ask nowadays. I am an adult. Just barely, anyway. Fine, fine you kiddos always know when someone is saying something wrong. I am old enough to be a grandparent three times over. I never go looking for adventure. Adventure just finds me. I hate being in the spotlight. I hate it so much- it's too bright. Even the big stars let the little stars shine sometimes,- I know, but why does it always have to shine on people who have light sensitivity? Oh? My head tilts at a tabby’s question. You don’t know what light sensitivity is? Hmm… How to explain? Well light sensitivity just means that my eyes can’t handle a lot of light.

A tiny black cat bumshuffles forward “can you tell us the story again? Please?” The tiny cat askes with wide eyes of wonder.

“But you’ve heard it a thousand times.” I replied, faking a whining tone. “Don’t you want to hear a different story?”

“No!” They cry in unison. “We love it!”

“Fine. I will tell it again.” I say with a grin.

“Yay!”

You see, I am a babysitter. A cat sitter,- if you want,- but I assure you that I do not sit on the cats. Not intentionally, of course. Today will mark the eighty-eight anniversary of my old boss’s discovery. It is one of the kids' favorite stories even though it actually happened.

It all started when I was a young adult. I was on the search for a stable job when I remembered where my friend Fox worked. Fox was a shy bushy tailed red fox. He loved adventure and could make anyone smile. Despite being longer than most red foxes, (about the same size of a german shepherd or husky), he always helped others. He also was a natural born leader. The store that he worked at was a tiny one. A tan body, metal roof, and only one floor. Nowadays, you have several floors to go through to get to the grocery section of the store. Times have changed.

“Wasn’t there six sections to the store?” A short haired cat asked.

“Yes, Tommy. There was the deli, meat, bakery, cash, grocery, and produce.”

“And you worked in produce with all the fresh veggies and fruits?” Tommy asked,

I nod my head and continue with “I worked in that department with a blue eyed healer dog.”

“What’s that?” The tabby cat that asked about the question involving light sensitivity interrupted.

“You see, Emma, a healer dog is a type of cattle dog native to Australia. They herd all the cattle,- a group of animals generally shown as sheep in storybooks,- in a group to an area where it is safer for them. Healer dogs generally come in two colors- red or blue but a chocolate coloring may also occur. In the case of my working buddy hea was red with blacking markings-like a mask- with blue eyes.” The kids sit quietly hanging onto every word.

At the beginning, I was curious about everything and anything. So curious in fact that I missed many details. One of these details I noticed much later.

“That was the writing on the tiles- the floorboards?” the tiny black cat that likes to bum shuffle instead of walking asks.

"Yes, although it wasn't writing just a single word located in one of the corners of the tile." The tiles were discolored from age. According to my friend they were once white but the entire time that I worked they were yellow. A muted yellow that you would most likely find on a 1980s sun faded tie-dye shirt. The words were simple-deli, bakery, grocery, produce, cash, backroom. Sometimes the words would repeat as if a hidden message to how to get to certain departments of the store. No one was sure of this though. I was not a simple cat, where once something was found to explain the mystery that the curiosity would fade. Rather, I was the one to find the truth not a logical answer. I asked Dog -the blue eyed healer- what he knew of the writing. The answer was short but did make sense but it did not stop my curiosity. What bugged me the most was why some of the tiles never indicated which department was where- just the name of the department.

On this day particular new items were shipped to the store. Dog stored them in a corner of the store with wrinkles adorning his face, eyes crinkling in thought but a scowl replaced his mouth. Dog then disappeared in search of Cat's friend. A few minutes later, Dog appears with a beautiful red fox with tiny black streaks hugging his mouth in a wavy pattern to match his natural shape of his face. Dog explained to me that Fox will be helping since Dog needed a break. Dog left to go on break leaving Fox and I with a pile of boxes to go through and place the items on the shelves. I noticed that some words were written on the floor. Some of the words were the departments and others were written so small that it was difficult to tell what it said.

I approached Fox with some items to put away, looked around to see if anyone else was around, then asked “why is there writing on some parts of the floor?”

“It’s not just here. I have noticed them throughout the entire store.” Fox explained to me as he has worked in every department.

A big brown gruff looking bear appears with a beeping rectangle tool. He mumbles something that I can not hear as he bends down to scan a barcode with the tool. He then leaves Fox and I alone.

[pupika-samika]

A King Is Nothing Without His People

Chapter 3

Confident

Cw: Character having a breakdown, survivors guilt, and self victim-blaming (If that's a thing)

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The Ta'loh Naeg Shrine sat on a beautiful spot above Kakariko. Overlooking the whole village in front of it, leading to a fairy fountain next to it, and a beautiful, small meadow above it. But nothing could compare to the beauty he saw now. The village was alight with happiness, joy oozing out from the entire village. Everyone was buzzing in excitement. Music was being played, tears were being spilled, lives were being changed. Everyone was in the center of the village, whites, and reds dyeing the streets of the village. He almost didn't want to go down there and ruin their excitement with his bad news. Even Paya was down there and enjoying herself! Link took a few steadying breaths. How was he supposed to go to Impa and tell her of the princess' passing?

Link was about to jump off the platform when remembered Fostri. A glance around the area showed that the korok was nowhere to be seen, at least not anywhere Link could see. "Fostri? Fostri where are you?" He called out, taking his paraglider out from his slate. He paused once he looked at the glider remembering exactly who gave him the cloth. The ghost of the dad of his dead girlfriend-princess friend gave him the glider as a goodbye present. Maybe he should think about getting a new one made, this one was old and falling apart at the seams. It wouldn't be able to stand much more of his abuse.

Link waited for any kind of reply from his korok companion, a frown settling on his face when none came. Maybe it was playing hide and seek? Or did it get tired of him after only a few hours together? What if it was hurt? Link looked around the area more thoroughly, spotting a rock he was sure hadn't been there on any of his previous visits. He walked over to it and picked it up, jumping back when a puff of green smoke pop up from underneath. "Yahaha! You found me Mr. Link!" Fostri giggled out, handing Link a flower instead of a korok seed. It was a small weed, a dandelion if he remembered correctly. The yellow petals were still tightly hugging the bud, not bloomed yet. "Since I already gave you my seed I figured I'd give you another kind of seed! A dandelion means faithfulness and happiness! I'm faithful to our friendship and want you to have all the happiness in the world!" Fostri explained as it held out the flower bud. Links’ eyes widened at the explanation, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. A gift? They've only known each other for less than a few hours, why was he giving Link a gift? The korok began panicking, quickly taking the flower back. "Mr. Link I'm sorry- I didn't mean to make you cry. Please don't cry Mr. Link," Fostri begged as he tried comforting Link.

Link gave a weak laugh and wiped at his eyes, gently taking the flower from the korok. "Don't worry Fostri. I- I love it. No one's ever given me a flower or explained the meaning behind it before. I love it Fostri, this is the best gift I've ever gotten," he said. And he meant it, no one -at least as far as he could remember- has ever given him a gift before. He gently set the bud in his slate, setting it in the important items section. He couldn't let such a fragile gift get broken so easily.

"Do you want to come with me to see Impa? I doubt there will be anything fun for you to do if you do want to come. There's a korok outside her home if you don't want to come with me." While Link would prefer the korok to keep him company he also wasn't sure he wanted his new friend to see him start crying. He knew he was going to cry.

Fostri stayed silent for a few seconds, most likely processing what just happened. He began hovering up to Link's shoulder where he draped his body over Links left shoulder. "I'll stay outside, I want to say hi to any korok we meet." He answered as Link finished setting his glider up. There wasn't much to do besides tie some loose strings but even then Link didn't think the glider would be safe to use. Maybe Harth or Saki would be willing to make him a new glider? Would Teba be willing to help him? They know the skies best after all. As Link thought of his Rito family he heard a clucking sound. With his glider almost out of commission Link suddenly had an idea. He looked past the lone tree and saw the producer of the clucks. A single Cucco that had escaped from home.

Link nodded to himself and walked over to the Cucco, grabbing the bird before it knew what had happened. It gave a few startled and annoyed clucks, rapidly flapping its wings in indignation. "Hold on tight, this is going to be a bumpy ride." He warned the korok on his shoulders and began running to the cliff, giving a slight jump before he let the Cucco hurriedly flap them down to Impa's porch. It was nowhere near as fun as his glider but at least now he didn't have to worry about possibly breaking his gift.

It took an uncomfortably long amount of time for the Cucco to flap them to safety. Link threw the Cucco down the stairs once it had finished its job, not paying attention to the bird as it flapped for its life once again. "Go down the stairs and on the right there should be a korok near the statues. I'll go get you once I'm done here," Link quietly explained to his korok friend. He knew if he wasn't careful Impa would hear him talking to himself and she already had enough causes of concern to worry about. Fostri hummed and let go of Link’s shoulder, quietly floating down the stairs.

Taking a deep, calming breath Link opened the doors to Impa's house. The old woman was perched on her pile of pillows, her hat resting on the ground next to her. Link's heart was beating in his chest, thumping loudly in his ear. His heart was beating and her heart wasn't. Her heart was corrupted and probably still dead in the shrine. He couldn't breathe and the room was blurry. Impa was right there, he had to get a hold on himself! But his heart, it was burning. No, wait- that was his eyes. And his heart. He didn't think he was breathing. Or was he breathing too much? Was Impa talking? Maybe. Was she always taller than him? No, he was just on the ground. His legs had given out on him. When did that happen? He couldn't help it, he broke down once the door was shut. Better to let the village continue on with their fun.

He couldn't hear what Impa was saying, but he knew he had to tell her what happened. He had to tell her that...that he killed the princess. The princess he swore to protect. The princess they both swore to protect! Impa had to hate him, she had to. If he had been faster- if he had killed Ganon sooner! If only he'd pushed himself and his limits more! He explained it all to Impa. The fight with Ganon, how Zelda helped. He explained what Zelda looked like, how she smelled. She always had this flowery smell to her, almost like the silent princess that thrived in her old study. That once earthly smell was covered by the burning smell of malice. Like the smell of too many spicy peppers being added to an already spicy dish. The sound of her body hitting the floor, the sound of her last breath leaving her body. Her glassy blue eyes looking up at him, filled with so much hatred. Hatred because he killed her. He could do nothing but sob his heart out in front of the old woman, begging her to forgive him for dooming their kingdom. There was no King. No Queen. No princess or prince. No heir to the throne. No royalty to lead them. And it was all his fault! Everything was his fault!

"It should've been me that fell to Ganon! I should have been the one to die that day! Not Zelda! Zelda would still be here if I wasn't so weak! Impa what am I- what am I supposed to do? Everything hurts and I- I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know what to live for anymore," he cried out. He didn't hear the soft patter of feet hitting the floor, nor did he feel the smaller lady getting closer to him.

"Link... You're so very wrong Link. The princess knew she would die. She always knew she'd die to Ganon. That's why we came up with the idea of you being King of Hyrule." Impa said, staring him in the eye. There was something soft in her eyes as she looked at Link. An understanding look, like she knew what he was going through. Maybe because she did know. They had both lost the Princess today. Impa allowed Link to cry himself out, patiently standing in front of the boy as he calmed down. He doesn't remember when, but at one point Impa began running her hands through his hair. As she started running her hands through his hair, Link felt warmth. His whole back, arms, and neck were unbelievably, comfortingly warm. Just like earlier that morning with the princess. Except this time it didn't go away once he realized it was there, if anything it got tighter. Like someone was hugging him tightly. The action and hug-like warmth helped Link get a hold of himself, his bone-wracking sobs calming into occasional sniffles. Impa didn't stop running her hands through his hair, even allowing him to rest his forehead on her shoulder. He barely let himself lean on her, relying on the fact that she would let him lean on her to comfort him more than actually leaning on her. He held most of his weight himself in fear she'd tip over from too much resting on her frail shoulders.

It was only when he'd fully calmed down, his breathing even and his eyes near dry did she remove her hand from his hair. The warmth from before faded a while ago, leaving only a confused memory behind. He took his cue and backed away from the frail lady, wiping away any of the remaining drying tears. "Thank you, Impa. For doing that," he said quietly, ashamed of how he acted in front of the village chief. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, listening to the now quiet cheers of the villagers. How long had he been crying? Would it be rude to check? Deciding to check anyway he found he had been crying for- two hours?! Time passes quickly when you're crying your heart out over a dead princess. Before he turned the slate off he saw the Bow of Light and decided to take it out. He wouldn't be using it anytime soon. "I think she'd want you to have this." He offered Impa the bow, holding it with delicate hands.

Impa let out a shaky breath once she saw the bow, carefully running a finger over the golden metal. There was no familiarity in her eyes, only awe and grief. Had she never seen the Bow of Light before? Surely she's seen it before, she was Zelda's babysitter for so many years. Surely Zelda showed it to her once? She traced along the intricate patterns that made up the sides of the weapon before pulling her hand back, shaking her hand. "She'd want you to have it. You'd put it to much better use than I."

Link looked at the weapon uncertainly. He didn't trust himself to use the champions’ weapons without breaking them, how could he trust himself to use not only a holy weapon that could kill Ganon but the last thing Zelda ever gave him? "Are you sure? What if I break it? Wouldn't she get upset if I broke her only weapon? The only thing she's earned with hard work?" He asked, desperate for any reason not to keep the bow in his possession. Any reason not to keep a reminder of her.

Impa nodded, gently pushing Link's hand away from her. "She'd want you to have it. I don't think even you could break a holy weapon such as that bow. It's been in the royal family since Hylia created it. If anything could break that bow it would have been found ages ago." She reassured him, not looking away from him until he carefully placed the bow back in his slate. While he had his slate out he put the Great Eagle Bow back in his slate too, watching the two bows disappear in intimidating swirls of blue light.

"Impa? I may have misheard you earlier but did you say I was going to become King of Hyrule?" Link asked, remembering the few words he had been able to hear during his crying. Goddess how he hoped he'd heard wrong, why would Zelda and Impa choose him to lead a broken kingdom? He was broken, he couldn't fix a broken land when his own mind was shattered beyond repair!

Impa turned away from Link and began walking to her pillows, picking up her hat before she slowly sat on top of the small pile. The silence that flooded the room was almost suffocating as she looked at him, a passive look on her face. Link did not like that look on her face. The only time he'd seen that look on her face was when she had an idea he probably wouldn't like. "Why yes I did, shall we talk about what that entails?"

While Link and Impa talked, four upset spirits lingered nearby. Of course neither Hylian nor Sheikah could hear them but they still kept their voices quiet.

"Poor Link... I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and shield him from harm. He doesn't deserve all this pain handed to him, Zelda wouldn't want him to suffer this pain on top of being King." A Zora healer muttered sadly as she sat beside the Hylian, hoping he could feel her trying to comfort him.

"Now now, be patient. We've waited a year, we can wait another day or two. Besides, it would probably do more harm than good to show ourselves now," a Gerudo warrior stated as she rested a hand on the Zora's shoulder.

A scoff was heard from the opposite side of the room, momentarily distracting everyone from the conversation at hand. "Honestly, you act like he'd keel over and die if he saw us. He wouldn't believe we were here if we hit him over the head with a rock." The Rito archer marched over to the Hylian, knocking a wing against his head. None were surprised when the translucent feathers simply fell through the flesh.

The tension created by the Rito was broken with a jolly laugh coming from a Goron miner. "Revali that's not nice! Link would much rather eat the rock than be hit with it! Besides, were you not the one who hugged him when he cried a few minutes ago?" Came the mischievous reply, effectively causing a squawk to come from their Rito companion.

"I'll have you know I was simply cold and Link is the only one who could provide me warmth!" Revali squawked out, feathers flattened in embarrassment and irritation. "Besides we agreed not to talk about that!"

Urbosa let out a powerful laugh, throwing her head back from how sudden it was. "To be fair Blue Jay, only I agreed to that. Mipha and Daruk did not!"

"I agree, Daruk and I never once uttered that we would never talk about it. Maybe we should tell Link so he could provide you warmth from time to time." Mipha teased behind her giggles, hiding her mouth behind a webbed hand. She leaned into Link, letting out a hum when she felt his warmth instead of falling through him.

"J-Just shut up! Impa is explaining something important to the kingdom!" Revali finally snapped, blush so intense it could almost be seen through his feathers.

"Now Link, I understand if you don't want to agree to these conditions, but you're the only hope we have. Hyrule needs you Link! The people know you and you understand them. They trust you, Link. No matter what happens we, the Sheikah, will be with you every step of the way. I will be with you every step of the way. I may not be young anymore but I will always have your back." Impa declared as she stared at Link, her gaze heavy and expectant.

Link didn't want to be King. In fact, he was almost scared to be King. But... Impa was right. Hyrule did need him. They needed a King. No matter what, no matter how scared he was, no matter how much he wanted to run away and never look back. No matter how much he wanted to die, he would be the King these people- his people needed. He couldn't run away. He's done enough running and he was tired of it. With a heavy head and an even heavier heart, Link looked up at Impa and nodded. "Yes. I agree with all these terms and I accept the position as King of Hyrule."

"Welcome to the throne, your highness," Impa said warmly and wiped a stray tear from her cheek. "It's been far too long since those words have been said," she laughed to herself, a joke only she could hear. "We have a lot to talk about."

"Can we continue this elsewhere? How long do you think it would take for you to travel to Hetano?" Link asked, suddenly fidgety. He didn't want to talk here, the air was so stuffy and humiliating. Besides he was sure he looked like a mess and he didn't want to talk about official royal business with tear tracks on his cheeks.

Impa thought about the idea for a few seconds, doing the mental math. "It would take a week and a half to travel to Hateno from here, granted nothing goes wrong. Perhaps two if anything happened. Would you like to talk there instead?" She asked, already figuring out what he wanted to do.

Link mutely nodded, shame creeping on him. He shouldn't have suggested moving if it would be such a toll on the older woman. He'd have to start pushing his own comfort down for the sake of politics soon. "If I could freshen up a bit we could continue our talk here. That was just a suggestion-"

"Nonsense! It'd do me some good to get my old bones out of this house." She started waving him off before she seemed to remember something. "Before you go, can you give these to Robbie and Purah? You shouldn't need to explain what it is so don't worry about what it means." As she said this she took out two identical pins with the royal family crest on it, holding them out for Link to grab.

With the Hero now in possession of the pin, she shooed him off. "Now go Link, take care of what you need to. I'll gather up some soldiers and we'll be at Hateno in a week and a half." Impa cut him off and- with a flick of her hand- sent him out the door. Link took a deep breath as he began walking down the stairs, the sun well into the sky by now. Where should he go? He had at least a week until Impa arrived at Hateno. Maybe he should pay the other races a visit?

But first, he should probably pick up Fostri, who he could see was juggling apples in front of the staircase.

Inside her house, Impa let out a sigh and looked over to where a picture of deactivated guardians and ruins sat on her wall. "He's going to be a mighty fine King your highness. I only wish you could have been here to help him instead of me. I don't have that long to teach him so please give me just another year to help him." She prayed, feeling

[howisavedtheworld]

there is no feeling better than this | tsukishima kei

genre: VERY FLUFFY, like hk tooth-rotting fluff, tsukishima kei x fem!reader, established relationship

warnings: curse words scattered in there somewhere, kei being a total simp for you and helping you bleach (dye??) your hair, other than that i cant think of much! just a really cute late nite moment

a/n: i havent posted in a while so hi its me again heres some fluff <3 fun fact: when i first watched haikyuu in like 2016, tsukki was my favorite character. also pls send requests im running out of scenarios to write abt with my pea brain 

wc: 844

“fuck it, i’m dyeing it.” you announce to kei while soft sounds of morning birds travel through the living room window.

it was an impulse decision: granted, you were running on nothing but adrenaline, having spent the entire night surveying diy hair dye videos with your boyfriend by your side.

he stares at you, eyes skeptical before shaking his head.

“you know, you’ve said that a hundred times.”

“well, this time, i’m serious! and i’ll do it by myself!” you exclaim, walking over the bathroom where the various bottles of store-bought hair dye, bleach and developer are scattered. “in a little bit, you might not even recognize me. mark my words.”

he snorts from the living room couch. “well, if it looks ugly, i’m leaving you.”

you roll your eyes, sliding on a pair of latex gloves to mix the ammonia-scented chemicals together to lather on your head.

you’ll prove him wrong.

at least you thought you would.

20 minutes later, you sprint into the living room, eyes welling with tears of frustration. “kei, i need your help. i can’t see if i’m getting the bleach in the right spots in the back and it’s stressing me out. can you do it, please?”

“oh?” he blinks and pushes his frames up to the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowing.

“what happened to ‘i can do it by myself’?” he mocks you, although getting up to follow you back to the bathroom.

truth be told, tsukishima hates seeing you upset, especially if he can easily salvage the situation. whether it was helping you find the word that was on the tip of your tongue, or zipping up a dress that’d been frustrating you to no end, even if you ask him to fill in the unbleached spots in the back of your head after you previously claimed you could do it without him, he always obliges.

he may never admit it, but he loves the way you praise him afterwards, your lips curving upwards and uttering admiration, your eyes softening while you throw your arms around him in gratitude. he loves every second of it, and does everything he can to see you do it over and over again.

“well, i could do it by myself,” you jokingly lied. “but since you’re here and everything, you might as well give it a shot.”

he huffs, slipping on a pair of latex gloves and dipping the brush into the bowl of bleach.

“whatever.”

you bend your head to offer him better access, and he got a glimpse of you in the mirror.

you’re tapping your foot anxiously with your lip caught in your teeth, and his chest warms at the sight of you, all the nervous habits of yours that he’s familiar with, and all the trust you put in him to make things right again.

“this stuff smells like shit, y’know?” his nose scrunches before he applies the brush on a section.

“ugh, i know, right?” you laugh knowingly, your body slightly shaking under him. “but i’m gonna wash my hair after this.”

he lets out a hum, having always been obsessed with the scent of your shampoo, shoving his face into your hair whenever you hug him or lay on his chest.

“does it hurt?” he pauses, looking down at you. like he expected, your eyes are warm and the biggest smile appears on your face.

“no, no, i’m okay!” you quickly reassure him, pressing a soft hand on his thigh. 

these are the moments tsukishima can never forget: the version of yourself only he gets to see. how your eyes crinkle at the sides and you couldn’t even wipe the grin off your face if you wanted to. to know that he is the only one who can make you feel that way makes him love you all the more.

“done.” tsukishima quickly pulls the latex gloves off his fingers, disposing them in the garbage. his eyes follow you as you carefully wrap a plastic shower cap on your head to seal the bleach.

“alright, 30 minutes and i’ll put the color in.” you turn to face him, a loving smile on your face.

he raises an eyebrow. “what?”

“hmmm…nothing. just thinking about how i have the best boyfriend in the world.”

his cheeks turn a unmistakable shade of pink before he covers them with his lanky fingers, pushing up his frames again.

“oh, shutup.”

you grin, tugging on the fabric of his shirt to pull him towards you.

he almost gives in before he remembers and steps back. “you’re gonna get your bleach on my shirt.”

“shit, i forgot.” you nod before slightly pouting. “..so i can’t touch you for 30 minutes?”

he furrows his brows before slouching to meet your eyes. your eyes widen and he chuckles at the way you bashfully respond to him even after months of dating. 

“nah. i think i can fix that.” he says before pressing his lips on yours softly, feeling you smile against him.

he’s sure that there is no feeling better than this. 

[haikyuu-scenarios-drabbles]

Shower Friends (Miya Atsumu x F!reader)

The dorm you live in has co-ed bathrooms. Why that’s remotely a good idea is beyond you; and recently, your precious shower time is being interrupted by a certain blonde haired setter for the volleyball team. When he lies to his teammates that he has a girlfriend, somehow you get roped into his scheme.

genre(s): college!au, fake dating, angst, fluff, mutual pining, enemies to lovers (kinda), eventual smut (maybe)  words: 3.5k

a/n: ah the sweet sweet smell of mutual pining. also 3 more chapters are planned, not written yet though bc i just decided i’d be writing them lmao. hopefully can get started on that this weekend and post them next week 🤗

taglist:  @apollochjld @kurosarium @vicassa @carbs-need-more-love @underratedmage @idek-at-thispoint @wtfeverbrandi @food8me @yikes-buddy @ntimacy @nyxiie @oikawasbooty @chocolate3010 @sugawarabby @greenyiplier @kritiiiii @tokyosdawn @youstydiaa @h3llok1ttygirl 

one | two 

Chapter Three

“You want me to help you with what?” You ask, a bit stunned when he showed up at the door, a terribly annoying but also cute pleading expression on his face.

He groans, his shoulders hunching forward in exasperation. “Ya really gunna make me repeat it?”

You peer closer at the top of his head and see that he’s being serious. The roots of his hair growing in are a dark brown and it had never even occurred to you that he dyes his hair the blonde color you’re so used to. “No, but why do you need my help?”

This is so embarrassing. Normally his roommate or a teammate can help him but none of them are available today and he’s already let the roots grow longer than he likes. But when one of them suggested you help him out instead, something inside him rebelled. For some reason, the thought of having you dye his hair for him made him uncomfortable, like he’s showing you an intimate part of him. This hair has been a part of him so long he can’t remember the last time he’d let it grow out.

“I can’t see if I got everything,” he admits. It took a lot of pacing around his room and staring at his roots for him to get up the courage to come over here to ask you. He can’t really explain why he was so against it, especially since you don’t seem to mind after you got over the initial shock of realizing this isn’t his natural hair.

A wave of relief washes over him when you sigh, conceding, “Alright. Just let me change into something I can get bleach on. I’ll meet you at your dorm.”

While he waits for you, he busies himself with mixing the dye together so it’s ready for you, and when you arrive in a t-shirt and shorts with paint splatters all over them, he mentally kicks himself for thinking about how even wearing something so simple you still look better than anyone he’s ever seen. Crossing your arms, you motion for him to take a seat at his desk. Before he does so, he reaches behind his neck to grab at the collar of his shirt and pull it over his head.

You stand there dumbfounded for a moment, it taking you a second to process that he’s now standing before you shirtless and you’re free to ogle his muscular chest and arms to your hearts content. He doesn’t pay any attention to you, knowing if he meets your gaze, he won’t be able to stop the heat threatening to crawl up his neck. Instead, he wraps a towel around his waist to protect his shorts and sits in the chair to wait for you.  

Except now, you have free reign to stare at his back, which is just as defined as the front of him and you need a few more seconds to reel your thoughts back.

“Whaddya waitin’ for darling?” He drawls, throwing you a glance over his shoulder, not expecting you to be standing there frozen, eyes pinned to his now bare chest.

He opens his mouth to tease you further, but your eyes snap to his and you practically shout, “Do you have another towel?” He just cocks a brow and then points to his closet where another towel is hanging on a hook. Snatching it, you return to him and drape it over his shoulders, hiding most of his annoyingly toned body. “Don’t want to get any bleach on your skin,” you explain, no way in hell ever admitting to him that you’re finding it hard to focus with him on display like that.

Absentmindedly, he hands you one of the clips he bought a long time ago, one that’s almost completely bleached itself and you start running your fingers through his hair to section it. He closes his eyes, focusing intently on the soothing sensation of your fingers on his scalp, doing his best not to groan out loud at how good it feels. With anyone else, this isn’t anything special, normally he sits as patiently as he can whilst trying not to annoy whoever is doing his hair (lest they decide to ‘mess up’ as punishment). But with you, it’s a different feeling entirely.

It's jarringly intimate as you clip his hair back and reach over him to grab the plastic gloves that came with the dye. Lathering up the applicator brush, you start slathering it onto his hair, trying your hardest to make sure it’s evenly distributed and surrounding each strand. As you do so, you ask, “How long have you been doing this?”

He resists the urge to shrug, not wanting to jostle you, replying, “Osamu and I started in middle school.”

“Osamu dyes his hair too?”

“Yeah, he goes for gray. But I’d heard blondes have more fun so—here we are.”

He grits his teeth as your fingers skim over his scalp, glad for the towel you wrapped around him to hide the goosebumps skittering along his bare skin.

“Let me guess,” you muse. “You guys did it because people couldn’t tell you apart?”

“That,” he laughs, “And we thought it would look cool. The first time we did it, it looked like shit.”

Your answering laugh warms his heart as you unclip a section of hair and keep working. “I can’t imagine your mom being too happy about it.”

“Livid. We got bleach everywhere.”

You laugh, continuing to move through his hair methodically. It doesn’t take very long as you’re just dying his roots and they weren’t that bad to begin with, contrary to what Atsumu thinks. When you finish, he gives you a sheepish look and has to swallow his pride to ask you to help him wash it out. Every time he’s tried to do it himself, he always ends up leaving a huge chunk of bleach somewhere.

You oblige, following him to the bathroom, not bothering to care about the looks you get along the way. If they want to stare at a shirtless Atsumu and then glare at you for having that all to yourself, that’s their prerogative. It does wonders for your confidence, regardless that all of this is a ruse.

Luckily, the bathroom is empty and Atsumu dutifully bends over the sink to let you start washing the dye out of his hair. He’s immensely grateful his eyes are shut, and his face is shoved into the sink to hide his flushed cheeks as he thoroughly enjoys your fingers running through his hair. The sensation of your fingernails lightly scraping over his scalp makes him ball his fists as he has to bite his lip to keep from making any sounds.

You’re unbothered, until you notice the towel has slipped from his shoulders and with the way he’s bracing himself against the counter every muscle in his back and arms is on display for you to see. It’s an effort to continue your task as if nothing is wrong and force yourself to look off into the distance instead of eyeing him up.

It’s no easy feat. Especially when you finish and he rises, scrubbing at his face with the discarded towel before moving on to his hair. You press your lips into a firm line and let yourself indulge just a little bit looking at the way his muscles flex with the movement, droplets from his damp hair trailing down the planes of his chest towards the waistband of his shorts and—your attention is broken at the sound of him chuckling and you snap your gaze to his.

You find him staring at you with mischief sparkling in his eyes, so you speak before he can tease you. “Is that it?”

“We have to actually dye it now.”

“Oh.” You turn on your heels desperate to escape his gaze. “Let’s go then.” A smirk plays across his lips, but he refrains from teasing you, solely because he very much enjoyed the way you were looking at him and doesn’t want you to stop.

And yeah—sue him if he thinks about your hands in his hair for the rest of the day. In the end, he might be a little grateful no one else was available to help him.

When mid-semester break arrives, it comes as a surprise that you actually miss each other. What surprises you even further, is that he’s the one to bring it up. Within the first night, he video calls you, a sheepish expression on his face, explaining he needed someone to complain to.

“What do you mean?” You teased. “Sounds like you’re getting stuffed with good food from Osamu and you have plenty to brag about.” You winked, smiling devilishly at him and pointing to yourself. You’re only joking. Slightly. You aren’t sure what will come about if he tells his family about you, or if that’s even a good idea. It’d be much easier to break this off cleanly without the involvement of each other’s families.

He sighs, flopping down on his bed and scrubbing his face with one hand. “They’re just dyin’ to meet you now.”

Your brows lift, half-expecting him to have tried to keep this a secret. “You told them?”

“I wasn’t gunna,” he explains. “But apparently some college sports news channel caught um—,” he coughs awkwardly, remembering very vividly this day, yet the two of you haven’t acknowledged it since. “Our—uh—celebration.”

Eyes widening, you stare at him a moment before the both of you burst out laughing. Between your giggles you manage to say, “Oops.”

Laughing alongside you, he grins, despite the pang in his heart at the voice in his head desperately trying to remind him all of this isn’t real. You aren’t his girlfriend and the moment all of this ends, you probably won’t bat an eye at him ever again. He hates how much that hurts.

Forging onward towards his demise he discloses, “I am now a very proud owner of a very jealous brother now, so thank you.”

That only makes you keep grinning, setting a hand on your cheek and dramatically saying, “What? Of little ol’ me?”

He fights the urge to tell you that yes—jealous of little ol’ you. The girl who is slowly becoming the girl of his dreams. The beautiful, funny girl who deals with him and everything that comes with him. He swallows all that, keeping the mood and saying, “He refuses to let me try any of his onigiri. A crime, really.”

“Of the highest caliber,” you agree, stifling your laughter. “Though I’m sure you steal some when he isn’t looking.”

“Yeah, but he caught me and hit me on the head with his spoon.”

“How dare he. Lucky for me, my family is clueless.”

“What do they think yer doin’ right now then?”

Shrugging you say, “I told them I had a project to work on with a classmate. Which isn’t entirely a lie, I do have a project to work on. But someone interrupted.”

He smirks. “Wonder who that could be.”

“Beats me.” His responding grin does something to you that’s been happening a lot more frequently lately. Making you feel like all the air has been punched out of you and like your heart is going to beat out of your chest. Though, you’ve gotten quite good at hiding it.

In the distance, you hear someone calling his name. He panics, it’s bad enough his family knows about you now, but he isn’t sure if he’s ready for them to meet you. Especially Osamu, who he has the sinking feeling is already suspicious of this. It’ll be a miracle if he can slip this by him.

“Gotta go!” He says quickly, and before he ends the call, he hears you chuckle and say, “Beware the spoon.”

Every day his situation only gets worse.

The next night he can’t get Osamu off his back. Enough that when he tries to retreat to his bedroom to give you a call, pathetically missing you again, Osamu bursts in when he’s about two minutes into the video call with you. He tries to shove him out, embarrassed and afraid Osamu will see straight through him. But Osamu is stubborn, and he hears you laughing on the other end of the call before saying, “Aww, Atsumu won’t you at least let me try to charm the pants off him?”

He grits his teeth, the thought that he wants you to charm the pants off of him, not his brother flitting through his head before he can stop it. But he relents, letting Osamu sit backwards on his desk chair to join the conversation.

He isn’t sure how, but somehow you get Osamu to believe this is real in a matter of minutes. You have him laughing and talking about culinary school and he almost feels jealous that your attention is now on Osamu instead of him. It’s a ridiculous notion, he knows it, but it doesn’t stop him from keeping the camera on him as much as possible.

When the call ends, Osamu looks at him seriously, and for a moment Atsumu thinks he’s just been pretending to believe you this entire time. However, he breaks into a smile and smacks him on the back saying, “Got yerself a keeper, there.”

Atsumu tries to grin with as much sincerity as he can. Yeah—he knows he does. But that isn’t going to stop this from ending.

That night, both of you go to bed feeling like you’re getting in too deep.

And as per usual, when school starts back up again, neither of you bring it up. You’re happy to keep ignoring it, hating yourself for liking this arrangement and him more and more every day. It sad really, how much time in your day is spent thinking about him. Wondering if there’s any possibility that the two of you could just transition to a real relationship. Because to you, that’s already what this is. Nothing would change, but at least you’d stop feeling guilty every time you enjoy his hand in yours or the soft press of his lips to the top of your head.

A few days after returning to school, you find yourself alone with him in his dorm room studying. He’s sitting at his desk, hunched over a textbook while you lay on his bed, head propped up by an elbow. You can feel your eyes drooping, the words blurring together, it becoming harder and harder to stay awake. His bed is too comfortable and smells overwhelmingly like him, a scent you’ve come to enjoy every time you’re pressed up against him. A mixture of his body wash and the ever-present faint smell of the volleyball court. Eventually you’re powerless against the solace of sleep.

When Atsumu notices you, his heart jumps into his throat. You look so serene and peaceful, your chest rising and falling ever so slightly, part of him wants to crawl in beside you and press his face into your neck and fall asleep right along with you.

But he too has begun to feel like this game has gone too far. The moment he had to tell his family, lie to Osamu, he knew he’d crossed a line. It isn’t fair to you. No longer does he need to pretend for his teammates that he can have a serious relationship, there isn’t a reason to torture himself and keep you tied to him anymore.

Yet, thinking about not being without you, no longer eating lunch together, studying together, or having you in the stands at his games wrenches his heart in such a way he actually feels like it’s crumpling inside his chest. He hasn’t been able to admit it, but at some point along the way, he thinks he fell in love with you. And it just hurts too much to keep pretending. Especially when you’re only doing this for peace and quiet during your showers.

For you, he shouldn’t drag this on any longer.

So, a couple days later, you texted him telling him you were in the library and can join him anytime if he wants. A harmless text, one you’ve sent him many times since this whole thing started, but this one makes his heart sink. Knowing this is the opportunity he’s been waiting for to talk to you. He tries to not think about it, trying to let volleyball take over his thoughts, but it’s futile. All he can think about is saying those words to you, and how it’s quite possibly going to utterly destroy him.

But you take it well, as he expects, squashing the hope that you might feel something for him too.

That night in the library feels particularly lonely. There’s no quick-witted remark from the boy who carved himself a place in your life, no one there to make you laugh when you’re struggling with a problem. Instead, you’re met with nothing but the darkness and silence of the library. It’s almost too much to bear, and once the silence starts closing in on you—you force yourself to leave, refusing to let yourself wallow.

The next weeks are hard. He never imagined that he’d think that after all of this was over. He keeps showering in the mornings to avoid you and uphold the deal you two struck months ago. He ignores the empty hole in his chest when he eats lunch without you, or studies late alone. The most jarring thing is your absence at his games. He constantly finds himself searching the crowd for your face, before remembering you won’t be there. He misses that intense gaze he could always feel on his back, the one that kept him awake at night when he let his thoughts run wild.

He feels as though something has been ripped from his life, leaving nothing but a gaping hole behind that seems intent on devouring him whole.

The same can be said for you.

Who knew you’d ever miss his teasing remarks while you shower? Or miss how you could complain to him endlessly about classes and then have him comfort you in the warm solace of his arms? Even the little things like walking to class together, now that you do it alone, it feels like there’s something missing.

The two you go on like that, thinking of the other every night before sleeping, tossing and turning with the thought of what could have been.

And eventually, you reach the point where you’re over it. Over pining after him day after day, peering out your door to make sure he isn’t around, or taking detours just to avoid him in the hallways. You’re over it. Enough that you’re willing to swallow your pride and confess to him, even if he doesn’t feel the same way—maybe you can fucking move on then.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you stomp to his dorm room, his roommate opening the door; his eyes widening upon seeing you. Immediately, he grabs his keys saying into the room, “I forgot I need to go to the store Atsumu, see you later.”

He leaves no time for Atsumu to protest, out the door in a matter of moments, leaving you standing in the doorway. Atsumu is just sitting in his desk chair, looking dumfounded at you, having fully expected to never see you again.

The gears in his head grind to a halt as you say, “This is stupid.”

He gives you a bewildered look, unsure what exactly you mean by that.

You steel your courage and press on. “I like you. And you like me. I think. And all this pretending that we don’t is stupid.”

After a few moments, his lips curve into a smile, the mischievous one you used to hate but now feel relief seeing. He can’t help the joy building in his chest at your confession. How many sleepless nights thinking about this very moment did he endure?

“You said it,” he teases.

Despite giving him a look, you do nothing to stop the grin rising to your lips. “Well, it didn’t seem like you were going to.”

His smile only widens, and he motions you into the room. “Get yer butt over here already.”

You move on instinct, striding into the room and climbing into his lap, settling your legs on either side of his you wrap your arms around his neck. The overwhelming sense that yes—this is exactly where you want to be, washes over you. He smirks up at you, his large hands resting at your waist, waiting for your next move.

“I can’t believe I actually missed that stupid smirk,” you say, lowering your lips to his, fingers slipping into the short hair at the base of his neck.

His smile hasn’t faltered, muttering against your lips teasing, “Does this mean I can shower at night again?”

A laugh bubbles out of you, but he smothers it in another kiss and refuses to let go.

[altairtalisman]

"Why does everyone ignore me? Please, anyone... Just notice me..."

The original appearance of the Dark Curse before everything happened, all 'he' wanted was to be noticed... even if it meant being hated...

The Dark Curse’s bio is under the cut.

Name: Stark Nikto

Age: 19

Height: 178 cm

Birthday: 13 March (Pisces)

Pronouns: He/Him (but doesn't feel comfortable using them)

Likes: Socialisation, fairy tales with happy endings, intricate crafts

Dislikes: Bland food, being forgotten, dangerous activities, tattoos, swearing

Hobbies: Resin crafting, metalsmithing, playing chess

Clothes: Faded white long-sleeved t-shirt with a square collar worn under a black vest with simple yellow patterns, along with a pair of loose black pants and a red cloth wrapped around the waist. A pair of sturdy black boots is worn along with a pair of black gloves

Sexuality: Aromantic Asexual

Description: Tall, slim build with slightly messy hair hair dyed an electric blue, 'his' grey eyes are a stark contrast to ‘his’ caramel skin as ‘he’ greets everyone with a friendly smile.

Background: Stark lived in Dassuleit Village, now lost to the freezing winds of Tschilly Peak, with 'his' average family. Growing up, 'he' was keenly aware that 'he' didn't stand out as compared to 'his' peers. Even 'his' family ignored 'him' after a while, soon becoming nothing more than just a ghost to 'his' family.

'He' soon discovered that 'he' couldn't use magic, which left 'him' limited paths 'he' could pursue for 'his' future. Stark became the village's librarian when ‘he’ turned 15, however as nobody visited the library, 'he' was usually alone with only the books to keep 'him' company.

Whenever 'he' was free, 'he' would deliberately approach others in an attempt to hold a conversation with them, but was always ignored by them. 'He' didn't understand why, until one day 'he' overheard a conversation about one of the villagers' picking up a new hobby which garnered much interest. 'He' then came to the conclusion that the reason why people ignored 'him' was because 'he' was a dull person, and sought to find hobbies to make ‘himself’ interesting.

As such, 'he' learnt how to play chess, craft intricate objects out of resin as well as make detailed metal jewellery with the help of the wide array of guide books in the library. 'He' thought that now that 'he' had hobbies, there would at least be someone who would want to talk to 'him'.

However, the entire village continued to ignore 'him' which fed Stark's loneliness further. ‘He’ then overheard a conversation about how one of them dyed their hair in a striking colour which led to a flurry of compliments, leading ‘him’ to conclude that ‘his’ hair wasn’t eye-catching enough.

‘He’ then went to buy a bottle of hair dye, and dyed ‘his’ platinum blond hair an electric blue. Thinking that this would finally get someone to talk with ‘him’, ‘he’ went out to search for someone to talk to but they still ignored ‘him’.

Dejected, 'he' made 'his' way back to the library and return to 'his' duties. Before doing so, 'he' made a trip to the washroom to freshen up and caught sight of 'his' appearance.

Seeing 'his' average appearance, Stark came to the conclusion that it was actually 'his' face that made 'him' average in comparison to 'his' peers. 'His' face hardened with resolve as ‘he’ entered the library's forbidden section in a bid to find a way to rid 'himself' of the accursed face.

Eventually, 'he' came across the Losirethan Abolishment, a forbidden spell that even those with magic could cast as long as they had the right materials and mindset. 'He' spent months gathering all of the required materials, and once 'he' did, ‘he’ cast the spell so as to finally grant 'his' desperate wish.

Stark knew the spell worked the moment 'he' saw 'his' expression floating in the air. What 'he' failed to realise at that time was that without a face, 'he' wasn't able to live and 'his' body started to decay after a week while 'he' watched.

'He' hoped that someone would notice 'him' not around the village anymore, but months passed and no one ever asked where 'he' was. 'His' soul grew hateful as time ticked on, envy accumulating as everyone went about their lives while treating 'him' as though 'he' never existed.

When Stark's skeleton was finally discovered in the library after three years, 'he' held hope that the villagers would finally remember 'him' and mourn 'his' death. 'He' was enraged when ‘he’ heard the villagers asking who did the skeleton belong to, and that they didn't know that someone had worked at the library to begin with.

Consumed by 'his' hatred, 'he' swore to make everyone suffer just like what 'he' had. 'His' soul plunged into the nearest villager, with the entire village soon lost to hatred and envy...

[morganaspendragonss]

dealing in danger

for the wonderful erin's birthday!!! (@halsteadmarchs) this is literally nothing like your original prompt skdshjkl hence why i made it into a new post but i hope you like it!!!

i did however manage to include the dialogue prompt you requested! 40 - "Hasn't this addiction done enough damage already?" from the angst section of this list

title from can you hear me by anson seabra

ao3 | 1.9k | pre-series, drug addiction, overdose, questionable parenting decisions

TK is not supposed to be hearing this. Not that his parents have ever seemed to care about what he does or doesn’t hear; his entire childhood was spent listening to the harsh whispers that drifted through through the walls and doors of their apartment. He could tune them out, if he chose, but these days the arguments seem to increasingly be about him, and TK thinks he has a right to know about his own life.

Especially when so little of it seems to belong to him anymore.

He’s been living under lock and key ever since he fucked up and accidentally left his stash out in the open a week ago. It was a rookie mistake, but in his defense, he’d been pretty fucking high at the time. Granted, that defense hadn’t gone over particularly well with his mother, but TK thinks it’s a valid excuse. He’d woken up that morning to a pounding headache and a dry mouth and his parents waiting for him on the couch with several baggies of pills in front of them. He’d pretty much been dragged straight to the doctor’s, and he’d only managed to avoid a stint in rehab by some miracle.

Said miracle being, an impassioned plea to his dad and a promise that TK had no intention of keeping to play things by his rules. His mom had tried to object, but TK is an adult, more or less, and he lives with his dad anyway. She can hardly enforce something she’s not around to bear witness to.

Or, at least, that was the theory. In reality, his mom has been here most days, and at least three quarters of those days have featured an argument over their different approaches to this situation.

“You know it will end up worse for him if we force it!” his dad is saying, probably violently gesturing towards TK’s room.

“And if we don’t?” his mom demands, her tone matching his exactly. “Our son has clearly been doing this for long enough that he knows how to hide it from us; what makes you think that you can control it now when you’ve obviously failed to up until now?”

“Oh, that’s rich! TK has two parents, you know!”

“He lives under your roof! He probably did drugs right under your nose; maybe if you were ever home, you would have noticed!”

And so it goes.

It’s the same every time—his parents passing the blame back and forth, ultimately getting nowhere and only really serving to piss each other off more. TK is kind of tired of it, but it’s pretty much the only entertainment he gets these days, so.

He’s kind of just waiting for the day when they realise that things were better before. Back when he was at one friend or another’s house getting high and they never had to bother about keeping an eye on him. No-one could deny that those days had been happier, for all of them.

But, hey, it’s not as if they want TK’s opinion anyway. It’s only his life and all.

“Hasn’t this addiction done enough damage already?”

That’s new. TK sits up straight, ear practically pressed to the door to hear; his dad seems to have finally realised that he can hear their every word, and has adjusted his volume accordingly.

His mom seems just as lost. “What are you talking about, Owen?”

“Have you looked at our son recently?” There’s something hard in his dad’s voice that TK has never heard before, not even when they found out about the drugs, and it takes him aback. “He’s not well.”

“Which is why he needs to be in rehab—”

“Which is why he needs to be with us. Come on, Gwyn, you think this whole thing isn’t our fault?”

TK raises a brow. In reality, the drugs had probably only been a quarter about his parents, if that, but it’s classic Owen Strand to think that the world revolves around him.

“I know that.”

And classic Gwyneth Morgan to agree with him.

“We were never there for him, and now look where we are. You said it yourself—none of us even noticed that he was...what he was doing. It was an accident that we did find out. If we send him away for months, he’s not going to see it as us trying to help him; he’s going to see it as us not wanting to deal with him.

“TK looks bad now, but imagine what time there would do to him. His addiction has already hurt us all enough; now it’s time for us to start managing that. You know I’m right, Gwyn.”

There’s a long pause after his dad has finished speaking before his mother mumbles something that TK takes to be an agreement. He’s not listening now anyway, his father’s words on repeat in his mind.

Hasn’t this addiction done enough damage already?

He’s not well.

...hurt us all enough

He’s right. His dad is right.

TK has hurt his parents enough. And he’s pretty sure that his dad knows he’s already figuring out a plan to go back to the drugs; he’s just choosing to ignore it because he doesn’t want to believe it.

But there’s a simple solution to this, and TK doesn’t know why he didn’t see it before.

He’s the problem, so to fix it, he just needs to not be around.

Simple.

So, that night, TK quietly steals the cash from his dad’s wallet, picks the lock on the apartment door, and creeps out into the night.

*

It’s pathetically easy to not be found if you don’t want to be. TK knows that by now his parents will have gone through every possible channel to find him, but he’s abandoned all his old haunts and used his dad’s money to get as far away from Manhattan as possible. He makes sure to keep outside of the 252’s service area, changes his name, and even buys some hair dye and new clothes to reduce the chances of him being recognised as fair as possible.

He has no money left by the time he feels safe, but that’s okay. There are other ways of paying for what he needs, after all.

TK survives almost two weeks in his new life. He steals food, grabs dropped money, and sleeps on the streets, or sometimes in a bed if that’s what his dealer of choice prefers for that night. It’s obviously nowhere near as comfortable as his old life was, but needs must, and TK knows how to adapt.

Anyway, at least he’s not trapped with his parents and their constant arguing anymore. At least he can get Oxy pretty much when he wants, in exchange for a quick fuck or two. And he knows that he can’t keep this up indefinitely. He knows that, sooner or later, his choices are going to catch up with him.

Thing is, TK gave up on old age a long time ago. Live fast, die young—that’s how it goes, right? It doesn’t sound so bad to him.

Or, it doesn’t, until his mistakes do finally find him again.

That night, he does his usual business, a baggie of pills for him, a blowjob for his dealer, and then it’s over. He’ll be on the streets tonight—apparently his dealer had ‘other matters’ to take care of—but TK doesn’t mind. It’s a balmy night, and alleyways can be surprisingly cosy if you know how to make them so.

Drugs, it turns out, work a treat.

TK doesn’t bother inspecting the pills as he tips them back, dry swallowing one after the other. Even if he had, it’s doubtful that he would have noticed anything off—and, later, he has to wonder if he would have cared if he had.

Slowly, the high begins to wash over him, and TK feels happy. He’s flying, but then it feels like something slams into him, and panic seizes his chest as he crashes back down to earth.

His body isn’t moving—TK can’t move—but he has this swooping sensation in his stomach and dread growing slowly in him. Something is horribly, horribly wrong, but his brain can’t think beyond helpcan’tbreathedyingDAD—

TK twitches and chokes, and then there’s no time for thinking anything as his head drops to his chest and his eyes fall shut.

*

Owen stares down at his son, lying comatose in a hospital bed. It’s only been two weeks since he fled the apartment, but already he looks so different, so much worse. Apart from the dyed hair and the streaks of grime on his face, it’s obvious that he’s lost a horrific amount of weight—weight TK could ill afford to lose.

There are deep purple bags under his eyes and his hair is limp and greasy to the touch. Nevertheless, Owen reaches out anyway, tangling his fingers in the strands as he prays for TK to open his eyes.

Worse, TK’s body is a patchwork of bruises and cuts, some in places that leave little doubt as to what he was doing to pay for the drugs. Owen feels sick to think about it, the idea of his 20-year old son out on the streets, doing...doing...that for something he thought he needed.

Jesus.

The doctors have told them that TK was lucky he was found when he was. Apparently, his dealer had fucked him over, given him much stronger drugs than TK normally took, causing him to overdose. On top of that, they’d been a bad batch, so TK wouldn’t have even had time to go looking for help if he’d known what was happening.

And there’s a thought niggling at Owen. He thought he knew his son, but looking at him now, he realises that he’s never been more wrong. Because Owen wonders whether or not TK would have gone for help if there was time, and he has no idea of the answer.

Heels click behind him, bringing him out of his thoughts. Owen knows what’s coming before Gwyn speaks, but he doesn’t try to stop her.

“Hasn’t this addiction don’t enough damage already?” she parrots, her tone cold and harsh.

Owen sighs. “Gwyn—”

“I accept my role in this, Owen,” she says, marching to stand on the other side of the bed, “but if you had just listened to me before then none of us would even be here. TK might not have been happy at rehab, but he wouldn’t be in a coma after almost dying either.”

“I know.”

“You know,” she scoffs. “Listen to me, Owen. We tried doing this your way, and look how it ended up. If—” Gwyn gasps and breaks off, sudden tears filling her eyes. She turns to look out the window for a moment, blinking hard, but she’s still not quite fully composed when she faces Owen again. “When he wakes up, we’re going to do what we should have done three weeks ago, and we are going to fix this.”

“I know,” Owen repeats, his voice a whisper. Gwyn seems startled by his ready acceptance, but Owen looks at TK’s pale, thin, bruised face, and he realises that a second chance is the last chance they’re going to get.

And he’s not going to lose his son.

[potatotrash0]

Hey idk if youve done this alreadh but im curious about your body headcanons for the sdr2 cast!! An anon sent some in for characters previously (the one where they said things like angie has vitiligo and stuff-i love them and they really stuck with me haha) and i wanna know your headcanons!! :D

Hmhmm this one I might be listing off the spot lmao. I feel like my hcs are mostly just. Common hcs but hey I never said I wasn’t basic skdjksjdks

cw for. Everyone. Yeah kdjfksjdks

Hajime…..I like to think he’s slightly buff? Maybe that’s not the right word. Toned? Idk, I hc that he jumps around hobbies a lot because he wants to find something he’s good at, so that includes sports. I like the idea that a few stick with him, like swimming and basketball. I imagine he also has light scrapes and scars on his legs from falling, both with skateboarding and general Clumsy Shit.

Also this one switches a lot but with Trans Hajime, I can see him with top surgery scars.

Oh ah, I like freckled Hajime!! It’s cute. This one goes with the sports hc, but I like the idea that he’s kinda tanned. Entirely unrelated but I also like the idea that he has calluses from playing guitar.

Chiakiii!! She’s soft bc I said so. Specifically her thighs, arms and stomach + some stretch marks. And moles all over. Projecting big time onto a cute fictional girl, call that self care <333 /j

uhh other than that, I imagine she has bags under her eyes from staying up late gaming. Also tan Chiaki my love. Shh I know she probably doesn’t go outside for days on end. In my defense I tan easily and I imagine she does too. Again with the projection. Shhhh

Oh oh!!!! I forgot to mention but!!!! Chiaki gets a ton of moles. I saw the boob mole and went !!!!!! fellow mole haver!!!!!! and went nuts. This is the one weird niche entirely irrelevant thing that can get me to like a character, just. Being able to point at them and jump up and down with joy over them also having moles. Idk why it’s just therapeutic <33

Nagito’s bony. Skinny mf. Could probably cut cheese with his elbows. Maybe grate it on his collarbones. Cuddling with him would be a fight to see if you can find a position that doesn’t end with something poking you in the gut. I mean this affectionately, he’s bony as shit but he’s my bony fucker <3

Pale asf, sunburns if he’s in the sun for more than two minutes. His eye bags could hold the entirety of his life’s trauma. Sharpest features ever. Sometimes I hc that he looks greasy, and other times I hc that he looks ethereally pretty in a ghostly way. Either way he always looks like he’s had the soul sucked out of him by a Dementor.

You can probably definitely see the veins in his hands. They’re. Very There. Also I’ve brought this up before but he definitely has big ass hands. L a r g e hands, all the better to head pat you with. This was originally so much more pining but I decided no I’ve exposed myself enough on this blog skfjksjdkd

Oh last minute thing, I think he’d be tall as fuck. Specifically 6’0 or taller. Also he probably (definitely) has at least a few scars from his childhood, particularly that plane crash. And I like to think he has glasses when he’s older. I’m so sorry that his section is so long I have so many thoughts about him ;;;;;

Okay uhh Imposter? Mmm. Idk actually. I do think they’d have callused fingers but soft hands. Probably from having to adapt to using a ton of different talents for their Imposter Agenda. Also stretch marks probably, all over their body.

Teruteru uhhhhh. God. Can you tell I don’t think about some characters ;;;;; Idk I don’t have much that differs from canon. I like him. Oh but he probably has cook hands? Chef hands, whatever you wanna call them. Probably faint scars from cuts and burns from when he was still learning how to cook from his mama.

Mahiru……hmm well freckles obviously dkjfksjd. I think she’s tanned as well since I feel like she likes sunlit shots. Idk I don’t have much. I like to think she’s got a stockier body type though.

Also not necessarily her body but I like her with an undercut!

Peko’s buff <3 it’s canon <333 /j

N ee way yeah. Buff Peko my love. Also she probably has a few scars from handling her sword when she was younger and less experienced. I also feel like she would have contacts she wears when she trains bc fuck exercising with glasses

I don’t really have anything for Hiyoko until she gets her growth spurt. Afterwards, I imagine she’s tall and kinda thin? Mainly bc of fast metabolism probably, though when she’s older maybe she’d be a little less spindly.

I don’t know if her hair would be bleached or not, but if it were, I like the idea of her letting her actual hair color grow in. If not, I think Ibuki might help her try a few sections of dyed hair? Idk I just like the thought

Ibuki is a fellow bony bitch. I mean this lovingly. She’s skin and bone. Skeleton rocker lady

Probably tan, I imagine she spends a lot of time in the sun. She strikes me as a summer person. Oh, I also saw some art of Black Ibuki with vitiligo and loved that!! Also calluses from shredding guitar, obviously

Hmmm I like the idea that she rollerskates? So possibly some bruises or scars on her arms or legs from falling on concrete when she was still learning. Oh oh I imagine she has a ton of piercings!!! On her ears, nose, lips, brows, tongue, belly button…….maybe she has a split tongue too idk. Also she totally gets a ton of tattoos when she’s outta Hope’s Peak, prove me wrong.

Mikan uhhh. I like tall Mikan. She deserves the height. 5’8 to 6’0 Mikan good 👍

Hmm she probably has scars all over, particularly on her arms and legs. Uh. Idk I imagine she’s curvy probably. What do I say for her I don’t have anything skjdksjdks

I’m not even gonna lie I don’t have a damn thing for Nekomaru. Or. Wait nevermind here’s a concept: buff Nekomaru but like. If you’ve seen those wrestlers who have fat on them that hides some fucking crazy strength? Yeah that’s him. Also hairy asf.

Gundham……tall vampire vibes. I’d say he’s a stick but also I feel like he’s the slim type of muscular. Idk how to describe it. Shigaraki type muscle? Male gymnast. No nevermind those guys have visible muscle. Shigaraki type it is

Hmmm I think this is canon but probably a few scratches from his pets. His arms and legs mainly but I’m sure the Devas have scratched up his neck at some point or another. Just a little though. Also piercing fiend Gundham my beloved. I also like him having a couple tattoos when he’s older. Ibuki probably helped him heheh

I’m torn between Fuyuhiko being skinny as shit and Fuyuhiko being tiny and buff. I like both………hhh

His hair is probably bleached. Peko probably helps him re-dye it when his roots start growing in. I also like him having glasses

Uhhh tooth gap Fuyu’s cute. I used to have a super small one before I got my braces, I imagine it’s the same for him. Him, Ibuki, and Gundham are probably Tattoo Buds.

Kazuichi…..I want so bad to say he’s a weakling just to make fun of him but he’s a mechanic that probably works with heavy machine parts a lot and he probably has some sick biceps. But he probably also smells like hair dye, oil, metal, and Monster Energy. Win lose situation I guess.

I like to think he has a couple piercings? Not as many as Ibuki, but maybe he’s got like. Second or third place in the class. Also he totally filed his teeth to be sharp like that

Akane!! Buff lady, could probably deadlift me or something. She’s definitely got some scars from running around, especially when she was first learning parkour. Ummm oh, I like to think she has a chipped tooth or smth like that from falling roughly as a kid.

Soniaa <33 in my heart she will always be tall and have at least some muscle. Novoselic is a war country if I remember correctly, she’s definitely got some military training in her.

Idk why but her with heterochromia just popped into my head. That pretty greenish blue gray that she has + maybe brown or hazel? I think that’d be cool. And hip dips.

[honey-dewey]

Dye Day Disasters

Pairing: Shane ‘Dio’ Morrissey/Reader

Word Count: 2,377

Warnings: None!

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Dio dyes his hair black every three weeks, and he does so in his bathroom. He has it all down to a science, so he should have no problem helping you dye your hair a fun color, right? Let’s just hope this afternoon project doesn’t turn into a colorful hair fail. 

“I’m going out!”

You looked up, seeing Dio by the door, stepping into his boots. “Where to?”

Dio shrugged. “Drug store. It’s dye day.”

Almost immediately, you were up and by his side. “I’m coming.”

“You aren’t dressed,” Dio pointed out. “And why?”

“I wanna dye my hair too,” you said. “Wait here, I’ll be ready in ten.”

True to your word, you were ready in ten minutes. Dio rolled his eyes, but put his arm over your shoulders as you two walked down the street to the drug store on the corner. The summer sun was warm on your skin as you walked, and you had no idea how the hell Dio wasn’t dying in his leather coat.

“Alright,” Dio said once you were in front of the dyes in the drug store. “What color do you want?” As he spoke, he reached over you and grabbed a bottle of black dye for himself.

You shrugged, looking over the dyes. “I dunno. Will I need bleach?”

“Probably. I’ve got some at home, but grab another one just in case.”

You grabbed a bottle of bleach and continued to consider your colors. “What about this?” You pointed to a bottle of hair dye that was the color of maraschino cherries called ‘Poison’. “Danger Days red!”

Dio snorted. “Mhm. Okay Gerard. If you want our bathroom to look like a crime scene, go right ahead.”

You laughed, continuing down the line. “Beetlejuice green?”

“Yeah,” Dio said. “It’d look good on you.”

Humming, you kept looking. “I’ve made up my mind,” you announced, grabbing the ‘Iris green’ and the ‘Virgin pink’ dyes. “We can half-and-half it!”

Dio smiled. “You’ll look like a watermelon.”

“And you’ll look like a bottle of ink again when we’re done,” you pointed out, walking happily to the counter.

When you got back to the apartment, Dio popped over your windows while you dragged your office chair into the kitchen. Spinning it eagerly, you lined up the various dyes on the kitchen counter and called Dio in.

“What the fuck is this?” He asked, seeing you emptying the sink.

“Bathroom gets cramped when it’s the both of us,” you reminded him. “Plus, this chair is infinitely better than bending over the sink.” To demonstrate, you sat in the chair and tipped all the way back, fumbling with the lever on the bottom that would lock it in place. “See?”

Dio sighed, looking over the dyes. “Fine. Drag the chair back over here. I’m bleaching your hair first.”

Rolling back towards Dio, you smiled watching him take his jacket off. “Comfy?” He asked, putting his hands on your shoulders.

“Yep!”

Dio popped open the bleach and expertly mixed it in a dye bowl. He set the bowl on the counter and looked at you. “Do you like that shirt?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You’ll ruin it,” Dio said. “Put this on.” He handed you an oversized Panic! at the Disco shirt with bleach and dye stains around the collar. You stripped out of your shirt and put Dio’s on, sitting back down and letting Dio put a towel across your shoulders.

“Ready?” Dio asked.

You nodded. “Do it.”

Dio smiled at your enthusiasm and slowly began to section your hair, using a surprising amount of hair clips. You relaxed into the chair, knowing you’d probably be here for a while. Scrolling aimlessly through your phone, you eventually found a playlist you’d made for Dio some time back. It was entirely the small sliver where his taste in music overlapped with yours. As soon as you hit play, Twenty One Pilots began to play, and Dio chuckled from behind you.

“Why don’t you bleach your hair?” You asked as Dio began to brush the bleach onto your hair.

“I’m going from brown to black. I don’t need to bleach it,” Dio said. “If you were going to black, we wouldn’t be bleaching your hair either.”

You had to stop yourself from nodding. “Okay. Why do you dye your hair?”

Dio paused. “You’re just full of questions today, aren’t you?”

“I’m curious, you emo fuck.”

That drew a laugh out of Dio. “Yeah yeah. I dye my hair because I like having black hair,” he said. “I tried vibrant colors years ago, but I liked having black hair the most.”

You thought about it for a minute. “Wait. If today is dye day, does that mean if we shaved your head, it would be completely brown?”

Dio stopped what he was doing and turned the chair around so you were face to face with him, his hands on the armrests trapping you in place. “Do not,” he said slowly. “We are not shaving my head.”

You nodded, eyes wide. “Okay mr. I’m in charge here. Not shaving your head. Got it.”

Satisfied, Dio turned you back around and continued to mess with your hair. You, still somewhat scared, sat very still as he worked, until he was wrapping your head in plastic wrap and pulling the towel from your shoulders. “Alright. Half an hour, but we’ll check it at twenty minutes.” And then he was gone, headed into the bathroom. You followed, regaining some of the confidence Dio had intimidated out of you.

“What are you doing?” You asked, seeing Dio take his shirt off. “I thought we were doing this in the kitchen.”

“We are,” Dio said, opening the bathroom cabinet and rummaging through it. “I’d just rather not get hair everywhere in the kitchen.” He resurfaced with a pair of scissors. “Have you never seen me do this before?”

You shook your head. “You cut your own hair?”

Dio nodded, ruffling his hair and examining himself in the mirror. “Yeah. I could do yours too, if you want.”

“Yeah no, I’ll leave that to the professionals,” you said, sitting on the edge of the bathroom counter and kicking your legs.

“I am a professional.”

You snorted. “Box dyeing and trimming your own hair doesn’t make you a professional, Dio.”

Dio shrugged one shoulder. “My sister, the oldest one, went to cosmetology school. I was her guinea pig. Eventually, I managed to graduate to the rank of her student. She taught me everything I know about all of this.”

“Huh.” You hadn’t even considered that. “Is she the one who visited last month and told you that you look like an oil spill?”

“Yeah, she is.”

You nodded. “I liked her.”

Dio finished his hair quickly, put a shirt back on, and herded you back into the kitchen to check the bleach. “Eh. We’ll wait the extra ten,” he said. “This stuff is powerful, so you’ll only need one round of bleach.”

The extra ten minutes were wasted with food. Dio sat on the counter while you spun lazily in the chair, humming to yourself and eating. When the timer went off, Dio hopped up and turned the sink on while you readjusted the chair.

“The water won’t be warm,” Dio warned you, but you just shrugged, rolling towards the sink.

Despite the warning, you flinched when the cool water hit your head, and Dio sighed. “Told you.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, and he returned the favor, giving you a flash of his tongue piercing in the process.

Somehow, you managed to relax into the water after a minute. It probably helped that Dio was slowly massaging your head, turning your body into jelly as he worked shampoo through your hair. When he was done, he wrapped your head in a towel and helped you sit up, looking you over for bleach burns. You had none, so he kissed the back of your neck and grabbed your hair dryer.

“Aren’t we gonna dye your hair?” You asked as he unwrapped the towel on your head.

“Yeah. When I finish yours,” he said, turning the hair dryer on and killing any protests you had.

Dio nearly put you to sleep with the hair dryer. It was warm, and he was running his free hand through your hair, and you were just about to fall asleep when he turned the dryer off and poked your shoulders. “Time to dye,” he said in a sinister voice, and you laughed.

“Dork.”

“Sap,” he said in return, mixing the dyes in two separate bowls. “Now’s the time to say something if you want me to cut your hair.”

You shook your head. “Just the color this time.”

Dio nodded, picking up his hair clips and putting them on the edge of his sleeve. He slowly and methodically sectioned your hair in half, clipping down the left side and leaving the right side loose. He turned away, and you heard the harsh snap of rubber gloves. The towel was around your shoulders once more, and then Dio was painting electric pink dye into your hair. He started near the back, so you couldn’t see a single thing he was doing. But you trusted him, so you let him continue, occasionally turning the chair when he asked so he could have better access to your head.

When the pink was done, the green was next. Dio unclipped the left section of hair, humming along to the unbearably adorable Train song you were playing. “Still sure about the watermelon colors?”

“Still sure,” you confirmed, holding up your phone. “Smile!”

Dio looked up and smiled, knowing this photo wouldn’t ever see the light of day. While he started to work the green into your hair, you made the photo your phone background. It was cute, and while Dio wasn’t known for being cute, you knew him differently than everyone else did.

“Green’s done,” Dio announced after a bit. “Let me just wrap it up and then you can do my hair.”

You were plenty eager to dye Dio’s hair, so you sat still as he wrapped your head up again. When he was done, you and him traded places.

“Just read the instructions carefully,” Dio said as you opened the dye. “It’s not as hard as it sounds.”

Dio was right. The instructions where simple, and you were soon pulling on a pair of gloves and putting a towel over Dio’s shoulders. You poured the black dye into the bowl and picked up the brush. “So what?” You asked, standing behind Dio. “I just paint it on?”

“You’re doing my roots, it’ll be easiest if you brush it on and then go back through with your hands,” Dio explained. “Just do what I did on your head. It’ll be hard to fuck this up.”

Nodding, you picked up the brush and began to apply the dye. It was a lot like painting, which you didn’t suck at. You, at Dio’s recommendation, did his hair in sections, the same way you had seen people straighten their hair. It was easy to gain a rhythm like this, and before you knew it, you were done. Dio took over, wrapping his head in plastic wrap and falling onto the couch. “Alright. Half an hour at the least.”

You two cuddled and watched some conspiracy theory show Dio liked, having to pause the episode about Mothman because your timer went off.

“Alright watermelon head,” Dio said, tipping the chair back and gesturing for you to sit. “Let’s get this done.”

Again, you went boneless as Dio used cold water to rinse your hair. Despite the chill that raced down your spine, his hands were experienced and helped relax you as he worked.

“Y’know,” you said softly while Dio was still working. “You could totally do this for a living. You’re good at it.”

“What, dye hair?” Dio asked.

You shrugged as best you could. “No. You could do what your sister does. For a living instead of just for you and me.”

Dio sighed. “Not my thing,” he said. “I’ll stick to doing your head and my own head, thank you very much.”

That was promptly the end of that conversation, mostly because Dio was helping you upright and turning on the hair dryer again. This time, you didn’t fall asleep, focused instead on Dio standing in front of you. His sternum was at your eye level, and you were half tempted to lift his shirt and kiss his belly. But you didn’t, mostly out of fear he’d fuck your hair up.

When he finished, you stood and he sat, tipping the chair back so you could wash his hair.

“No soap?”

“Nope.”

“Cold water?”

“Yep.”

You nodded, turning the sink on and beginning to rinse Dio’s hair. The water ran black for a while while you used your hands to massage Dio’s head, and when it finally ran clear, you turned the water off and squeezed the excess from Dio’s hair. He sat up while you messed with the dryer, turning it on and slowly beginning to dry Dio’s hair.

It took him some time to realize you’d put an attachment on the hair dryer. “Are you diffusing my hair?”

“Maybe,” you said happily, already seeing the curls Dio did his best to hide. “C’mon!” You said upon seeing the displeasure on his face. “Your curls are so pretty!”

Dio continued to pout while you dried his hair, and when you were done, he stood and stretched, shaking his head. “You did good. Wanna see?”

You nodded, pulling Dio into the bathroom and eagerly looked at yourself in the mirror. Dio looked almost no different, the black a bit more prominent and less faded than usual. But you, you looked like a whole different person. The vibrant green and pink gave you life and made you look unforgettable.

“I love it!” You said, ruffling your hair. “Oh it’s so cool!”

Dio smiled. “I’m glad you like it,” he said.

You sent photos to your friends and family while Dio cleaned up, eventually joining you back on the couch so you could finish your conspiracy theory show.

“Thank you,” you said out of the blue, watching someone who claimed to have definitely seen Mothman.

“Hm?” Dio looked down at you, the hand that was running through your hair stopping. “What?”

“Thank you,” you repeated. “For my hair.”

Dio shrugged. “Just doing my job,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “Love you.”

“I love you too, you dork.”

[delimeful]

not always what they seem

finished g/t space au commission for @legendsgates ! it was super fun to work on, i hope everyone enjoys!

warnings: dehumanization, treating people like animals, abduction, miscommunication, remus being remus, deceit, misguided but good intentioned light sides

-

“Hey, kid, wake up.” 

Virgil groaned, shifting to his side. It was still dark, why was someone bothering him? 

“There you go. It’s a great day outside, open your eyes already.” 

Wait. He lived alone. Who was talking to him?

Visions of chatty burglars or insane door to door salesmen breaking and entering flashed before his eyes, and he jerked upright with a gasp, eyes flying open. 

Darkness. He couldn’t see a thing. “What?” 

Virgil nearly poked himself in the eye in his haste to check his face for a blindfold. He should be able to see plenty; there was an annoying streetlamp just under his apartment window. Had he spontaneously gone blind? Had he been kidnapped? Was he in a trunk, slowly suffocating to death? 

“Hey, calm down. Everything’s going to be fine, don’t pass out on us now.” 

A burst of unhinged, echoing laughter nearly cut off the end of the sentence, and chills ran down Virgil’s spine. “Oh god. Look, I take terrible care of my body, you don’t want my organs, I promise.”

There was an aggrieved sigh nearby. Virgil hesitantly reached his hands out to feel the space around him. It didn’t feel like a car trunk. He was sitting up just fine. 

“I don’t think we’re being trafficked, but if we were, you’d be pleading your case to the wrong guy. I’m in the same situation as you.” A dull knocking accompanied the words. “Unfortunately.”

Virgil carefully turned his body to face the direction of the voice, squinting in case he could make out any sign of an attack. “...Right, sure. Care to fill me in on what-- what exactly that situation is?” 

The stranger only seemed sardonically amused at the bite in his voice. “We’re trapped in a room. There’s glass walls dividing the room into sections. There’s a little bit of light coming in through the roof, your eyes will adjust soon. That’s all I’ve got. Remember anything from before you woke up?” 

 Virgil shoved down the rising panic, rising to a tentative crouch with his arms outstretched for balance. He’d been… What had he been doing? “I… I don’t know.”  

Another sigh. “Yes, I assumed so.” The outline of a silhouette seemed to be coming into focus. Unless Virgil was just imagining things. “Thank you so much for being helpful.”   

He bristled at the tone, but before he could respond, another giggling laugh reverberated around them. 

“Don’t fret so much, figments,” a new, somewhat nasally voice said cheerily. “I’m sure your terrible and inevitably gory deaths will only hurt for as long as the dream lasts.” 

Virgil took a long, shaky inhale. “What the fuck.” 

“‘The fuck’ is Remus, the third occupant in our room. As far as I can tell, he believes this is all a hallucination brought on by sleep paralysis. Best to just ignore him,” the first stranger advised dryly. 

“I’m still ignoring you back,” ‘Remus’ returned in a singsong. Virgil almost couldn’t blame him. He’d really rather wake up and realize this was all a dream, too. 

He wasn’t going to bet on it, though. He stumbled forwards, feeling the walls for a door, a switch, anything. 

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” the unnamed stranger scorned. “I’ve already checked everything that could be checked. Nothing’s going to happen--” 

His voice was cut off by three quick, consecutive beeps from somewhere above their heads. Virgil turned his head this way and that, searching for an intercom or mechanical device nearby. “What’s that?” 

Neither stranger answered, and Virgil realized that this was something new just as one side of the room began to slide upwards like a garage door. He raised a hand as bright light poured into the room, backing up as far as he could. In the corner of his vision, another person was doing much the same.

Something large moved outside the room, its shadow falling on them and making it a little less difficult to see. 

Unfortunately, what he was seeing was impossibly horrifying enough to be real.

A huge figure, like a giant from a children’s fairytale, was visible from the torso up. It was wearing something close to a full body hazmat suit, its inhuman face visible behind a pane of red-tinted glass. Piercing red eyes were placed just slightly too far apart, and a shiny black shell covered the bottom of its face like a curved medical mask.

It leaned closer, and Virgil recoiled harshly enough to slam his back into the corner of the room. The eyes settled on him for a moment, before flicking over to the other occupants. Adrenaline surged through him, but there was nowhere to channel it. He couldn’t flee, and there was no way he could fight. He was helpless.

In the section next to Virgil, a short man dressed in formal wear stood carefully still. He was meeting eyes with the monster, his expression neutral and still. Where Virgil had felt like a deer in the headlights, this man acted more like a snake assessing prey. The only sign that he was unsettled was the white knuckled fists at his sides.

The monster made an unsettling sound, like a hum interspersed with clicks, and then turned its attention to the only human still laying on the ground, presumably Remus. A few rigid plates along its forehead twitched downward, and it chittered at Remus. 

Virgil caught what looked like mandibles protruding from under its face plate, and felt lightheaded. 

“Remus, I suggest you look alive,” the snakelike man muttered, attention still locked on the huge creature. Remus didn’t respond, though whether it was because of the monster or because he was still ignoring them was anyone’s guess.

A moment later, the monster reached up with a limb, the suit glove doing nothing to conceal the creature’s spindly, clawed fingers, arranged like an osprey’s talons. It tapped the glass between them, and Virgil was abruptly reminded of a child at an aquarium. The ‘room’ they were captive in was a mere box to this being. An enclosure.

Remus finally sat up, stretching lanky arms as though it was a normal morning. He cocked his head at the monster, squinting. “What are you looking at, you big bitch?” 

Virgil inhaled sharply through his teeth, but the monster didn’t react beyond its forehead plates shifting back up, and before long, it was looking down at a strange grey cube, flicking talons along its surface like it was a touchscreen. 

In his section, Remus had unfolded to his ridiculous full height, and was ambling up to the wall separating them. He smiled, something about it vaguely unhinged. “Hmm, hallucinations aren’t supposed to be this expansive! It’s almost like we’re actually here, captured by giant monsters that are probably going to stick us in a blender for a morning smoothie!” 

The snakelike man rubbed his temples, still holding onto his composure. He didn’t dignify the gory statement with a response, but Virgil was more than happy to. 

“Hey, it was Remus, right?” Virgil asked, and he saw the man nodding enthusiastically in the corner of his vision. “Please shut the hell up.” 

“Never been very good at that!” 

—-

Roman glanced up from the data sheet, watching as the new specimens wandered about and made little noises at each other. He couldn’t help but hum a bit at the sight; the little animals were so charming. 

“Roman!” a familiar voice trilled, and he turned to the lab’s entrance, clicking in greeting at the sight of his partners. Though he’d been uncertain about working with beings from other quadrants at first, they’d managed to overcome most of their original hurdles and now worked smoothly together. There was nobody he’d rather have as his research team, even with the disapproving twitch in Logan’s ears. 

“Dear friends,” he returned, gesturing widely and making all the specimens freeze up again. “I swear I haven’t opened a single sect, only gazed upon our newest finds. You’re going to love them Patton, they have the strangest little noises.” 

The Nilh wasted no time in scampering forwards, just barely prevented from bumping the enclosure by Logan’s tail tugging him back slightly. “Oh, they’ve already started communicating with each other? What about body language, did you have the vidfeed on?”

“Yes, and of course,” Roman gestured with a pointed flourish, “I have also followed procedures and had the cam on since I entered the lab, treasured nerds.”

Logan’s hand flicked in an exasperated gesture, but his ears were no longer angled down, so Roman counted it as a win. Patton tugged the Glanrim closer by the tail, using his multitude of hands to push him into his spot. “Look, Lo! I think this one is threat displaying at me! They’re all acting so differently, it’s going to be so exciting to figure out what sort of sounds they use!” 

Despite his professional demeanor, Logan’s eyes all widened with excitement as he bent slightly to inspect their samples. “There’s quite a variety in patterns and sizes as well,” he observed, voice low and resonant. The little creatures all seemed to stiffen at it. “I would almost believe them different species entirely if not for the similar body structure.” 

“They’ve even got little primitive outfits, see?” Roman pointed towards the calm one in the middle, eyeing the seams. “There must be a bonding purpose for it, like how some mammalian animals will use pigment-dyes for enhancing appearance to attract mates. The real question is, how did they all end up looking so different? Which one is closest to the traits that make one desirable?” 

“I don’t see any reason we can’t find out!” Patton responded brightly. “We’ve got three samples, one for each of us, so what say we each get started on recording all the information we can!”

“We only have three specimens, so it’s important that we don’t push too far with any of them. This is only preliminary work,” Logan cautioned. “That said, I agree. The sooner we begin, the better.” 

“I’ll take the yellow one!” Roman immediately chimed in, his wings vibrating slightly inside his suit. 

—

“There’s three of us, and three of them, so of course they’re going to eat us.” Remus remained blithely oblivious to Virgil’s glower. “It’s lucky there’s not one more, otherwise we’d have to rock-paper-scissors on who gets torn in half.” 

Of course, this was the moment that the monsters stopped their odd, chitter-click-buzz noises to turn back to the container, and the first monster, the red one, began to fiddle with the side of the glass. Virgil started to breathe heavily as there was mechanical clicking around them, and then the ground under their feet shifted slightly. 

Without another second of suspense, Red reached under the box and slid the middle section out like a book from a shelf. The man in formalwear went with it, stumbling slightly and pressing against the glass for balance. 

“Oh hey, you got the freaky insect one,” Remus said, waving cheerily. “Hope your death is really cool and gory! Try not to make it cooler or gorier than mine though!” 

“Very helpful,” the man hissed through gritted teeth, his eyes slightly panicked. Virgil stumbled forwards to the front of his section as though he could reach the other human through the glass, terror chilling him. It was a pointless gesture, but as he was carried out of sight, the man offered him a nod anyways. 

Remus seemed to be unfortunately correct about them being split up, since next the one with the six arms and rocky skin pried the tall man’s section out and left with it as well. That left Virgil with the last one, a monster whose face was covered in neat fur and long whiskers. It looked at him with way too many eerie slitted pupils, and Virgil couldn’t help but compare it to a predatory big cat. Maybe several predatory big cats.

Its gaze was nothing compared to its size, of course, and Virgil couldn’t help but drop to a crouch, curling in on himself as gloved hands curled around the glass box he was stuck in and lifted it with ease.  

The floor of the box was transparent, and he stared at the dizzying drop to the floor the whole transferring process. When there was finally solid ground beneath him again, he looked up and found that his box had been placed on a sterile, shining counter. 

Before he could get much of a read on his surroundings, a shadow darkened the floor around him, and he barely got to flinch before cool fingers were descending on him, lifting him from the box. 

The hold was firm and clinical; his arms pinned to his sides, and a finger under his chin to prevent biting. The pressure on his throat was just slightly too much, and Virgil let out a choked cough, struggling to breathe through his panic. 

Thankfully, it only lasted for a moment. In the next, he was released, and his hands and knees met a solid surface. He scrambled to his feet, glancing around. 

The bad news was that he was out of the relative safety of the glass box. The worse news was that he appeared to be in a warped version of a hedge maze, walls and corners twisting around him. The worst news was that the monster was still present, and now it was manipulating some kind of square device. 

A heartbeat later, the walls around him started to buzz ominously, making the hair on the back of his neck rise up as he pictured every Saw movie he’d ever seen. 

“Fuuuuck this,” he muttered, shifting to his feet and starting down the nearest path. He alternated between making sure he didn’t get too close to the walls and making sure the monster hadn’t moved or otherwise acted suspiciously. The creature was watching him unerringly every time he looked up, and having all those eyes on him didn’t help his increasing unease at all.

As he turned a corner, he was faced with something new, and automatically ducked away in case it was going to start shooting at him. The small orb continued to sit in the middle of the path innocently, at just the right height to take out someone’s achilles heel. 

Virgil shuddered and turned around, backtracking to the last fork in the path. He wasn’t messing with monster traps, no fucking way. 

Above him, the monster seemed to sigh slightly.

—-

“... just too timid,” Logan was saying when Patton re-entered the main area of the lab. “The specimen didn’t engage in a single puzzle during our session, not even one.” 

“What a puzzling situation!” Patton chimed in, carefully slotting his own specimen unit back into the container. Inside, the little creature continued to make a bizarre assortment of calls, not even in Patton’s direction. 

Logan exhaled shortly. “Am I to assume that your insistence on wordplay means that you had greater successes than us?”

“Well, you could go with that, but you know what they say about assuming!” he replied, tucking a pair of arms behind his back as he wandered over to the others. “The little guy seemed pretty aggressive, so I tried to see if there were any specific threat calls I could make out, but… it almost never repeated. Either they have very complex body language that I’m missing or my little friend is a few sticks short of a tree!”

The other two looked disheartened, and the linguist glanced over at Roman. “You two didn’t have any luck, either?” 

“No. My specimen barely participated in the trials I set up, and so I haven’t discerned what level of intelligence we are working with yet,” Logan gritted out, ears flat.

Patton tilted his head slightly. “Not even the treat ball? Most sentient life forms have no trouble with that one.” 

“No, no interaction at all. It may be worth looking for more compelling bait…” 

Roman cut in, antennae flicking in displeasure. “Anyways, mine was uncooperative too! I was trying to get a few samples of their outer shells to see what the fabric is constructed of, but it was so resistant after just one layer that I started getting worried that maybe removing any more would actually harm it.” 

“Good. Better not to risk damaging them.” Logan turned to the units, nose twitching as he thought. “There are other non-invasive tests we can try, but results might shift if we try different samples for different tests.” 

Roman click-buzzed in complaint. “That could take forever, though! We’re supposed to be coming up with significant research, not trading specimens around!” 

“Maybe, instead, we could observe all of them at the same time,” Patton suggested, getting both of his teammates’ attention. “After all, isn’t controlled engagement with multiple specimens one of the tests?”

Roman and Logan exchanged a look, before the latter inclined his chin, slowly. “It’s worth an attempt, at least. Just watch carefully for any signs of aggression. They can’t harm us, but they could certainly harm each other.”

---

By the time the monsters finally decided to put them all in a penned-in space with each other, Virgil was almost too exhausted to be worried. Almost.

He shuffled away from where the three bizarre creatures were looming over them, but carefully remained out of grabbing distance from the other two humans. He wasn’t stupid; he barely knew these people.

“Aliens,” Remus greeted them, holding his hands up in an exaggerated pose. “I’ve totally cracked it.” 

“You’ve totally cracked,” Virgil shot back, but most of his attention was on the well-dressed man. Or, formerly well-dressed, since now he appeared to have had all top layers except his undershirt removed. “Hey, what happened?” 

“Oh, is it not obvious?” the man hissed, arms crossed tightly. “I’ve been robbed. Clearly, this must all have been an elaborate mugging for my blazer and button up.”

Remus cackled. “Yeah right! That suit is cheap as hell!”

The man rolled his eyes, and Virgil couldn’t help but notice the way he was shaking. It didn’t seem like a fear shake, not with this man’s demeanor. “Okay, but are you okay? You seem, uh, cold.” 

“Of course I’m not cold. Why ever would a half-dressed, anemic man in a glass box be cold?” the man snapped. One of the aliens moved slightly, and their gazes all flickered up for a moment. 

Once it became clear no grabbing was happening, Virgil sighed lowly, pulling at his zipper and shifting the sleeves of his hoodie off. “You’re kind of a bitch, huh?” 

The man snapped his head around, opening his mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but Virgil interrupted him by tossing the hoodie at his face. “Excuse m-- oof!”

“Don’t spill anything on it,” Virgil muttered, ignoring the man’s perplexed stare. “You can pay me back with your name.” 

“... It’s Dee.”

---

“Did you see that?” Patton bounced on his toes, tugging at Roman’s talons. “It gave away it’s covering!” 

“Astonishing,” Roman replied, not tearing his eyes away. “Is it a social hierarchy thing? Did you see any familiar dominance displays?” 

“I… didn’t, actually,” Patton replied, face scrunching in perplexion. “Maybe this one is less attached?” 

“No.” They both turned to Logan, whose eyes had gone wide. “It was an act of assistance. The yellow specimen was shaking, likely from temperature exposure due to losing some of it’s covering. It was… kindness.” 

“Woah, what?” Roman clicked, antennae perking up. “But that would mean--” 

“Look!” 

At Patton’s cry, they all watched as the other specimen seemed to attack, almost jumping forwards to intervene. At the last moment, Patton’s arms pulled them back. “No, wait!” 

Though the small, gangly creature had flopped onto the shorter one, the action seemed to elicit no pained cry or battle screech, only mild grumbles as the two readjusted in their impromptu pile. The one that had given away its covering made a face before carefully folding into a sitting position as well, a seat that kept it between the aliens and the other specimens. 

“These specimens were all pulled from different locations,” Logan half-stated, half-asked. Roman nodded, eyes wide. “They can’t be nestmates. What in the galaxy is this?”

“They’re sapient,” Patton blurted, a hand pressed to his mouth. “The sounds, they’re too complex because they’re not calls, they’re words. Language.”

“Language? But, the planet was said to only contain primitive lifeforms!” Roman protested, wings flaring up in agitation. “You’re telling me… Oh man.” 

“The heat sharing, the communication, even the extreme caution shown in unfamiliar circumstances,” Logan spoke slowly, as though warming up to the idea. “It… does seem to be a potential explanation.”

They all looked back to the tiny bipeds, now seeing their every action in a new light. 

“Well, there’s only one way to be sure,” Patton said, lifting up a hand and waving it slowly in a generic friendly gesture. “We’ll just have to figure it out for ourselves, using our own judgement.” 

After a long moment, one of the specimens-- no, aliens-- waved back. 

[mandoinevarro]

Red Steam

Words: 2.5k

Rating: E

Warnings: Masturbation, mentions of violence

Part II here because i’m not that mean 

 The Twi’lek healing baths aren’t exactly a brothel.

Although “healing baths” is definitely a euphemism used to deviate the attention from some of the obscure services offered inside the tall building in the outskirts of Nevarro, its name very literally delivers on its premise. There are actual healing baths inside, along with other relaxation chambers, and the most erotic service you can get from an employee is probably just an oiled massage, but you’re not stupid enough to think that the droopy-eyed visitors you saw leaving through the front door had those drowsy smiles permanently glued on their faces from a particularly satisfying massage.

Still, it’s not a brothel. At least not the section you’re in.

The steaming chamber is a manmade cave completely crafted from some smooth black mineral that you’ve never seen before. Unlike other rocks, its surface exudes the opposite temperature of its surroundings, so the one you’re sitting on right now is frosty against the backs of your legs. Apart from a long bench made with the same material that surrounds all four walls and a tall rectangular table in the middle of the room, there isn’t much of a decoration inside. There’s one door, no windows, and a single grating on the floor from which more sweetly scented steam gushes out when the old one starts dissipating. The only source of light is bright red; it dyes the vapor floating around and your dripping skin crimson.

Some of the women around you are chatting quietly, but most of them sleep with the light fabric everyone was given beforehand covering their naked bodies.

You sigh. You really needed this.

Mando’s bounty is apparently hiding somewhere in the maze of steam and pools and mysterious rooms that make up the healing baths. It’s supposed to be an easy enough job: The son of a wealthy Rebel official had…dishonored a high society girl who was already engaged and skipped town. His own family put the bounty on him. All Mando has to do is shake him up a little to teach him a lesson and deliver him to his father. It isn’t the kind of job he’d usually take, but the money’s good and the risk low, and he can’t really afford to reject sources of income with an extra mouth to feed.

A woman walks out of the steaming cave, and most of the vapor streams out of the room, which lowers the temperature of the chamber but increases the one under your fingertips.

You tagged along because you figured some rich brat lounging in the more questionable corners of the local business wouldn’t be too dangerous. Plus, you’re sick of the Razor Crest’s shower, whose only temperatures are cold and fucking freezing.

You honestly can’t remember the last time you were allowed to relax for such a long time.

The steam rises again, and you swear it’s a little thicker than before. You’re sweating more. Your skin tingles.

To your left, a female Togruta and a woman are talking on a corner, a little too close to each other. The Togruta is murmuring on the other woman’s ear and brings a hand down to caress her knee. You only catch a word: “upstairs”. She nods slowly and takes her companion’s hand. They stand up and leave the room, the vapor following them out.

You haven’t even been here that long. The grating has only emitted new vapor three or four times, but your mind is already slipping. The mist is heavy on your shoulders and its odor lovelier every time you inhale. You could swear it started smelling of wild flowers, yet now it reminds you of burnt wood and rain. Of metal. Of him.

Fuck.

You throw your head back, bumping it against the cold stone.

You’ve been torturing yourself with daydreams of the Mandalorian for months now. They were gentle at first, only innocent musings about him that you entertained because they made you feel giddy and naive. Could he ever see you as anything more than an employee? Could it ever develop into something more intimate? You started wondering how he’d move his lips against yours; how he’d hold your face in his large palm.

It was all still chaste enough, but that didn’t last very long. You see him every day, hear his every breath, grunt, and dramatic sigh. You study the way he moves, his powerful build, the carefulness of his arms when he cradles his son and his violence when manhandling his prisoners. It all got crammed inside you and, soon enough, your fantasies turned darker. Could he ever see you as a woman? Would he claim you, if given the opportunity?

You usually weed these fantasies before they can take root. You’re painfully aware that you can’t have him. He’s a serious person—consumed entirely by his child, his Creed, and his work. More importantly, he’s a good man who’s always been courteous to you and doesn’t deserve to be at the receiving end of your filthy yearnings.

And yet, right now…right here, where the women’s mumbling sounds like whispered confessions and his scent is crowding you and you have to work for every single breath you take and your better judgement stayed at the Crest…right now, you don’t stop them from coming. And, fuck, you know he’s here somewhere, hunting for his prey. What if he found you? What would you be willing to—

A loud crash and a man’s shriek interrupt your train of thought.

The remaining women in the chamber exchange panicked stares and, as if bouncing on springs, suddenly sprint out of the room, taking most of the steam with them. The screaming continues, along with a few grunts and some bangs. A couple of doors slam shut.

You melt further into your seat. It’s Mando. He’s found the quarry.

The brat’s apparently putting up a fight, because the sounds of chaos keep coming from different parts of the building. You feel completely relaxed.

An exhalation of the lattice makes up for the lost mist. Droplets condense on your flesh and mix with your sweat. You raise your wrist to your nose and—sure enough—his smell is there, but now it’s mingled with yours, and the blend creates an addictive aroma. Is this what it would smell like, if you two ever had an encounter? Would he be willing to bare his skin to you and allow the moisture of your bodies to blend into one? Or would he fuck you clothed and urgently, barricaded by his armor?

A blaster goes off, and something plummets into the floor, but you’re a lot more focused on the way the flimsy cloth you were provided with is sticking to your chest. It’s soaked at this point and doing very little to cover you, so you lift a heavy arm to work it off your body. Your bare ass is warm when in presses back down on the bench, which makes the stone cooler. You try to imagine it’s beskar.

You know you’re losing it when you start feeling sorry for the quarry. He’s probably just some rich idiot who was looking for a quick fuck with a sense of danger, but what if he isn’t? What if he and the girl truly wanted each other and could no longer hold back? If someone knows what it’s like to want someone out of your reach, it’s you. If someone knows that agonizing desire…

It takes you a little too long to put a finger on the third smell that’s mixing in the room. It’s been weeks—probably months—since you last touched yourself. With your responsibilities on the Crest, you barely have time to sleep and shower, let alone take care of your other, more primal needs. So, you don’t immediately recognize the pungent odor of your own arousal. Once you do, though, you know it won’t relent.

And, even though the feverish fog filling the room more by the second is entering your ears and scrambling your resolve, you still find some moral righteousness in you that judges your desire to pleasure yourself to the thought of the Mandalorian. Because he doesn’t deserve to be disrespected like that. Because he doesn’t think of you like that.

But your hair clings to your damp face and neck, the mineral presses icy against your backside, and beads of sweat and moisture drop from your slippery nipples. And maybe…maybe if you only feel yourself. Not explicitly masturbate, but maybe if you just rub your body a little some of the ache will go away.

You place your hand on your left knee, because it’s only a knee and nothing bad has ever happened from touching one’s knee. You draw circles around it with a finger, then your entire palm. You try to stretch your leg and support it on the table in the middle of the deserted room, but it’s too far back for your foot to reach, so you bend your leg towards you and rest your heel on the bench. By the time your hand slides lower to your calf, gathers the moisture there, and rubs it on your ankle, the raucous sounds outside are almost completely muffled by the ringing of your ears. The red steam grows denser, and you have to open your mouth to breathe in as much oxygen as you can, which is why your exhale sounds like a moan. That’s what you tell yourself.

Hands sliding against your sides and drawing lazy patterns around your ribs, you wonder how he’d touch you. He could be gentle and take his time exploring you, trying to enjoy the rare instance of feeling someone else’s bare skin come to life under his touch. Your hands scoop your breasts and test their weight. Or, perhaps, he’d be in a hurry, drunk on the sensation and unable to control himself at the first caress of your soft curves. It’s difficult to know which one you want more.

Both of your hands sail down aimlessly to your belly and press there. How big is he? You’d like to be able to feel him between your legs afterwards, after he’d go back to being the Mandalorian, as a reminder that he let himself be something else with you. Ten digits land on your thigh and massage there, slowly gliding together up, up, up, until they’re almost where you most want them most. They stop. You’re panting and you swallow hard.

“Maker,” you mumble to yourself. You’re obviously more worked up than before, so you can either stop right there and keep your moral high ground, or…or—

The answer comes from somewhere outside the cave, when you hear the thump of something substantial hitting the door, followed by a low, unequivocal groan. The modulated baritone sends a flood between your legs.

And, just like that, you give up.

You spread your legs and lean your hips forward, pressing your open cunt against the gelid surface; it’s so cold it burns into you. A ragged whimper pushes past your mouth, but your ears don’t register it, since you’ve started rocking back and forth against the black ore, finally throwing wood into the fire that started burning months before. You picture cold beskar instead, thrusting back and forth between your folds to bring you to your release, strong thighs moving lively beneath you.

You’re suffocating. The first time your clit brushes the edge of the bench, you throw your head back, bring your right hand to your breast, and hold on to it for dear life. Your small fingers knead the fat there, but it feels better if you imagine coarse leather doing it instead. Fuck, would he be as quiet and stoic as he always is? Or would he let you hear every moan and grunt? Would he whisper every dirty thing he wants to do to you or would he let you guess? The pace of your back and forth rutting quickens and your guts knot tighter. 

“M-mando…” You try to be quiet; if you can hear him outside he can probably hear you too. You limit yourself to a few tortured sobs, but the blood-red vapor is making it harder to breathe, sweat covers every inch of your skin, and all openings of your body feel horribly empty.

Your scoot back on your seat, open your legs wider, and sink your right index and middle fingers inside your pulsing hole. Two fingers of your left hand go inside your mouth. A loud, long moan of relief pushes through your fingers and lips. You’re too far gone to care.

The digits inside your pussy stretch you open, swirl in circles, move in any way that will cure the awful ache you’ve been fighting for fucking months. What about the helmet, would he leave it on? Blindfold you? Maybe he’d take it off, but get you down on all fours and grab your hair to prevent you from looking back.  

Your eyelids drop. A fat droplet drags down your spine and into the crack of your ass. Your tongue licks your own skin eagerly, tasting their salty sweat and fantasizing about your Mandalorian’s fluids. It’s not enough; it can’t be when you can still hear him outside the door, when all you want is to have him inside you, anywhere inside you.

Your fingers will have to make do, so you curl them and hit something that makes your legs cramp. The five-letter nickname everyone calls him bubbles past your throat in an exhausted gasp. You drag your digits out and smear the thick cum they gathered around your inner lips and walls. Your mind races with endless possibilities: Would he demand you cum or forbid it? How many times would he take you? Where would he touch you? Where would he cum? What does he taste like? Is he patient or demanding? You shut your eyes tightly. Something that feels like a tide is steadily climbing to your chest, making your every muscle rigid.

The fog recedes a little. You’re dizzy with pleasure and every fiber of your body is pulling tighter by the second. Your tongue is still sucking at your fingers—picturing pulsing veins and velvety skin—when you start drawing quick circles around your clit. The stone under your ass grows a little warmer. Drool spills out of your mouth. 

You’re close. You’re so fucking close. Your panting turns erratic, your hips buck forward, one of your leg stretches, and your toes brush the cold material of the table.

“S-stars, Mando…!”

You’re right there, right there, and—

Wait.

Your toes are brushing the chamber’s table. The same table you couldn’t reach earlier. You stop grinding and remove your fingers. New vapor spouts out of the gratings.

The table moves.

Sweat stings your eyes when you try to open them, hesitantly, not really wanting to see what’s in front of you.

You blink a few times and see an opaque silver mirror where your disheveled appearance stares back. One of your hands reaches forward unprompted and brushes the cloudy layer of condensed water on the mirror’s surface. It’s beskar. It’s Mando’s beskar cuisse.

You lift your face and see a T-visor floating in crimson fog, staring down at you. Panic and adrenaline pump in your veins, but you both stay like that for half a second, almost drinking each other in. Waiting.

Until his hand starts moving, so slowly, towards your body.

It��s hard to tell where it’s heading.

[c-c-cherry]

What's the most embarrassing thing each of the Bucci gang has done/has had happen to them?

Ok I took WAY too long on this but I loved this question so much and it was so fun coming up with these. Special thanks to my girl @jjadegreen for helping me!!

**This isn’t NSFW but I’d say its teen and up just because of some of the stuff talked about hehe**

______________________

Mista

-Pre-canon Mista was a bit sick one night so Bruno made him stay home while they all went on this one mission

-So naturally he’s like “HELL YEAH HOME ALONE”

-Bruno forgets his wallet and had to come back a little while later to get it and walks in on him wearing the following:

One of Abbacchio’s signature goth dress robe thing

Like 12 of Bruno’s barrettes all sticking to the top of his head

Fugo’s tie

Narancia’s bandana

All while BLASTING K-Pop at full volume in the living room. And our man is INTO IT. This isn’t just some radio coincidence shit, he was SCREAMING the lyrics. He owns the CDs.

-Bucciarati LOSES IT. Mista has never been so mortified in his life and Bruno has never laughed so hard in his life.

-He promises not to tell the rest of the gang but tells him it’s officially blackmail material

-They never speak of it again but at Christmas Mista opens Bruno’s gift and it's a brand new K-pop CD and everyone thinks its just a gag gift but like

-He definitely listens to it later alone in his room

Bucciarati

Bruno Bucciarati does not get drunk for two main reasons:

He blacks out every time

He’s an absolute lightweight

-The last time Bruno got absolutely piss drunk, he was with Abbacchio and it wasn’t even funny. It was just surreal because Bucciarati never lets himself go to such an extent

-For whatever reason Bruno is like “hey I never drink we should go to the bar or something” after a successful mission

-Even though the legal age of drinking is technically 16 in Italy they leave “the kids” home to watch mean girls or some shit

-Mista tags along too because he’s worried Bruno will get drunk and spill about the unfortunate “K-pop incident”

-My man Bruno drank like two beers and was immediately GONE like he got up and got lost in the bar after way too many drinks and ran into a drag Queen with Abbacchio’s hair

-Said drag queen became Bruno Bucciarati’s new drinking buddy

-He stumbles over to the karaoke contest and gets onstage and grabs the shitty bar mic and screams “THIS GOES OUT TO LEONE I LOVE YOU SO MUCH MWUA TWO YEARS HONEY~” and Mista is just like 👁👄👁

-Because uhhh they have literally been together for two years but everyone in the gang just thinks its a weird on/off thing because they never talk about it

-He sings dancing queen because its by ABBA and both Leone and Mista are fucking screaming with laughter and Abbacchio is filming the entire goddamn thing

-He buys the entire bar drinks they all love him so much

-Afterwards Leone tries to get them home so he leaves them outside while he takes a piss and when he walks back out THEY ARE GONE.

-Mista thought it would be a perfect time for them to get tattoos because his fucking capo is drunk off his ass and there is no better time

-Mista gets these two giant smoking guns on his back and his ass is in SO MUCH PAIN afterward that he leaves Bruno alone while he’s picking out his tattoo to get ice cream

-When he comes back Bruno has a tattoo ON HIS LEFT FOOT THAT SAYS “Never don’t give up.” The tattoo people tried to correct him but he insisted

-Abba finds them and is just like “jesus god” and takes them all to a hotel because there is no way in hell he’s taking them back home like this

-The next morning Bruno remembers absolutely NOTHING and as the gang admires Mista’s giant tattoo they ask if Bruno got one too and he’s like “god no I’m not that irresponsible”

-As soon as they’re alone Abba’s like “you got one on the bottom of your foot” and you can just see the moment Bucciarati’s soul leaves his body

Fugo

-Ok so if y’all didn’t know Fugo literally canonically wears a thong

-This isn’t sexualizing him (also I am indeed a minor don’t harass me) it's just a fact of life. You do you Fugo.

-So he sneaks out of the house once in a while and goes shopping for them cause our man’s gotta live, you know?

-He pops in the underwear store one day and you wanna know who he fucking passes by in the lingerie section?

-Bruno fucking Bucciarati.

-Which isn’t exactly a surprise considering he’s wearing visible lingerie in his tiddy window outfit but like

-That’s like running into your dad at femboy hooters

-Much to his dismay, the man spots him immediately and there’s just this...awkward silence as Fugo is holding this shopping basket of underwear and Bruno is holding the raunchiest piece of clothing he’s ever seen in his life

-They never talk about it again. Fugo finds a different store.

Abbacchio

-The most mortifying moment Abbacchio can live to remember is the first time he told Bucciarati that he loved him

-Pre-canon, our man is NOT having a vibing time

-He gets absolutely wasted with while Bruno’s at his apartment

-He’s the most miserable drunk, so he’s just fucking sobbing and Bucci is sitting there trying to console him and Abbacchio just looks up at him with tears streaking down his face and says “I’m in love with you” and the look on Bruno’s face just makes him feel even more miserable

-The entire night he keeps blubbering about how much he loves him and how much he means to him and how beautiful he is and the entire time Bruno is doing that thing where he tries to cover his face with his hand because our man is mega FLUSTERED up in here

-When he wakes up he remembers EVERYTHING and he wished he didn’t because then maybe he would be able to say that he didn’t mean it

-Bruno is surprisingly just like “Did you really mean it?” and he can’t lie so he just tells the truth and he’s just nonchalantly like “me too”

-Bruno thinks it’ll be a nice wedding story and Abbacchio no longer wants to live on this planet

Narancia

-Mista and Narancia are vibing in the living room one night and Nara tells Mista to grab his gameboy from upstairs

-He says its under his pillow (or else Bruno will take it away every night hehe)

-But you wanna know what else is under Narancia’s pillow? His Diary. No, it’s not a journal or just a blank book, Mista finds a book titled DIARY.

-And the shit in there is priceless.

“Bucciarati is sooo cool. I tried cutting my hair like his, but it didn’t really work. I think I gotta wear this hat for the next couple weeks. Shit. Fuck. If someone takes it off, I’m so fucked.”

“I clogged up the toilet yesterday and was too scared to tell Abba, so I just flushed it again but then the water wouldn’t stop flooding everywhere so I used Aerosmith to explode the toilet and told Abba that it was a stand attack. He believed me. If ANYONE ever finds out, I’m dead.”

“HOLY SHIT. I swallowed a tide pod yesterday and freaked out so I made Giorno turn it into a grape in my stomach with his stand. I almost DIED. But I didn’t so I’m over it. If Giorno ever tells anyone, I’ll kill him.”

-Narancia realizes about ten minutes after Mista left that HOLY SHIT HIS DIARY

-he finds Mista three quarters way through it and gives him $50 not to tell anyone about it.

-The shame never leaves, though

Trish

-Jade gave me a cute headcanon that Trish’s mom was still only teaching her how to properly put on makeup before she died (it's not like there was youtube or anything to teach her either) so our girl Trish only knows the basics

-She puts on lip gloss and blush and mascara and stuff but she’s never even TOUCHED eyeliner and rarely puts on eyeshadow. She doesn’t even wear concealer most of the time (she honestly doesn’t even need to, her skin is baby soft smooth)

-So long story short she kind of misses her mom and remembers how her mom was going to teach her a smokey eye before she died and is determined to teach it to herself now

-So she pulls a little heist and snatches some of Abbacchio’s makeup while they’re all out doing stuff

-She was not prepared for how heavy this shit was. She was used to the lighter, more natural stuff but Abba’s makeup is EXTREME.

-All of his stuff is waterproof so it doesn’t wash off while he’s crying at 3am and it’s just this—dark, heavy stuff.

-She actually hasn’t used a thick, real tube of lipstick before, only those little gloss tubes with the stick because she has smaller lips so when she crouches over with a small makeup mirror in fear of anyone somehow walking in on her and smears Abbacchio’s thick, dark purple lipstick on her lips, she knew she was absolutely fucked. She has no idea how to do this shit, especially not with dark, heavy goth makeup

-The smokey eye does not work. It’s just smeared eyeshadow EVERYWHERE, it looks like she has two giant, awful, black eyes and her first attempt at eyeliner was just—unspeakably horrible

-She has no idea where to start so she just puts on way too much of absolutely everything and immediately regrets it the moment she looks at herself in the bathroom mirror

-Abba comes home early and immediately realizes that some of his makeup is gone and he knows it has to be Trish

-He walks upstairs to confront her but just hears loud, ugly sobbing coming from her room and bursts in only to find her desperately trying to wipe off layers of caked-on water-proof makeup and absolutely failing

-The two of them spend all night taking it off all while Trish is still crying teary apologies to him

-To add in some wholesome Dadbacchio, he teaches her how to properly put everything on the next day <3

Giorno

-Some people forget that as a 15 year old, Giorno sometimes has absolutely no impulse control

-So when Polnareff tells him that he’s the spitting image of his evil, murderous, vampire dad he’s immediately like “haha well I’m gonna go dye my hair now”

-Everyone had something to do that day/night so Giorno waltzes over to the nearest drug store and grabs one of those at-home dying kits (he got dark green cause he thought it would look cool with his new outfit)

-He gets home and has absolutely no idea what he’s doing so he just thinks it’ll work out somehow

-Soooo yeah he does NOT put it in properly at all, he just kind of takes the shit and slathers it all over his hair and doesn’t do his roots and doesn’t put it up and leaves it dripping down his back and stuff and his stupid ass FALLS ASLEEP with the hair dye in

-He wakes up and the sheets are this really awful light green colour but he doesn’t pay any mind to it

-He looks in the mirror and from the front it actually looks good and he gets all excited and decides to wash it out

-When he gets out of the shower it’s this awful disgusting light light ugly green and he almost cries. Almost.

-It looks like someone dunked him in that Nickelodeon slime and he looks at the package and it says the dye will stay in for at least 3 weeks and there aRE TEARY EYES

-He spends the next hour in the shower trying to wash it out. It does not wash out.

-Utterly defeated with his hair matted and donuts practically falling apart, he stumbles over to his room and tries to wash the sheets covered in slime-coloured hair dye which *surprise!!!* doesn’t wash out either!

-He must dispose of the evidence, but of COURSE they’re out of garbage bags so he shoves all the dye kit stuff and the sheets into a mafia body bag and chucks it by the garbage can outside without a single thought

-Which he SHOULD have had a single thought about it, because when they get home and Narancia spots the body bag he’s like “holy shit guys I think Giorno killed someone while we were out”

-So they all panically pop into the house and cautiously try to find Giorno. Fugo finally finds him pacing around his room in the dark and when he flicks on the lights HO-LY SHIT.

-Fugo obviously bursts out into laughter and Bruno books it up the stairs and also starts cackling and Narancia is like “OH MY GOD YOU KILLED SOMEONE LOOKING LIKE THAT?!” and Giorno has to explain to them that the body bag is filled with stained bedsheets (much to his embarrassment)

-Abbacchio takes so many pictures and Giorno is having a nervous breakdown because he cannot live with his hair looking like this

-Bruno makes Abba fix it the next morning and he loves every second of Giorno’s mortification

-The pictures Abbacchio took of that night are framed next to the pictures of Bruno’s wasted karaoke night in his room

______________________

Thank you for the ask, anon!! I’m absolutely exhausted now haha so I’ll scroll through the rest of the asks when I wake up!!

[banashee]

Hi Folks, welcome to my second fic for the Archival Pride 2021 project! Look at their tumblr for more info :) @archivalpride

Archival Pride 2021, Week two (June 8-14) Prompts: identity, embrace, celebration, intersectionality, firsts

The key words I've used here are identity, embrace, celebration and firsts

-

Content Warnings: Once again, this is mostly a bunch of fluff but to be safe:

- the words "murder" and "crime scene" are there, but it's not related to anything serious, no one comes to harm here and it's only part of some jokes related to hair dye. - mention of Top-Surgery, nothing graphic - some swearing

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Oh and by the way? Jon's move of accidentally dousing Tim with the showerhead was taken out of real life. My best friend fucking did that to me when helping me with dyeing my hair... Thanks, Dear. @bananaink I love you lots! ♥ Thanks for being my favourite human and being a great inspiration for shenanigans like this :D

-

 Wear your colours and be proud

 “Careful! The tub already looks like we murdered a smurf, if you move too much we’ll have to clean the entire bathroom... Again.”

 “Excuse me, Mx. Sims, if I recall correctly it was      you     who put the entire showerhead down the back of my shirt and scared the ever-loving shit out of me.” Tim complains good-naturedly, bent over the bathtub as Jon is standing over him and washes out the bright blue hair dye.

 “Okay, one: it wasn’t the      entire     showerhead, two: there was hair dye on your neck and I didn’t think it through. Besides, I already said I was sorry!” Jon is having a hard time not bursting into laughter again – they didn’t lie, they really are sorry, but washing off the dye from Tim’s neck before it stained too much, with what they were currently holding in their hand anyway, seemed like a perfectly logical thing to do at the time. The startled yelp of a dripping wet Tim informed them that no, it wasn’t, in fact, a good idea. Who would have thought?

 Jon had simultaneously apologized profusely and burst into laughter that had them wiping amused tears from their eyes. Okay, so, they hadn’t exactly planned this through as well as they could have.

 “You’re laughing. I am suffering, cold and wet, and you’re laughing at my misery!” Tim laments, but the amusement that creeps into his voice absolutely betrays him. Nevermind that it is in the middle of summer and anything but cold. It is a matter of principle.

 Behind him, Jon bursts into more helpless giggles – in their defense, they had too much caffeine already.

 “Aw, Love, I apologize.” This time, it doesn’t sound like it at all, but they keep massaging Tim’s scalp, blunt nails scratching gently even as the water begins to run clear. The happy, satisfied hum they get in response tells them everything they need to know.

 Jon has learned many many years ago that Tim will absolutely melt into a puddle under their hands if they give him head massages or even just play with his hair. They love doing it, but it also serves as a useful distraction sometimes.

 “On the plus side, we’ve got two more rounds of colour to go! Plenty of opportunities for me to not do that again.” Jon tells him innocently, wraps a towel over the back of Tim’s head and squeezes out as much residue water as possible.

 “Well, that’s reassuring, Dear.” He replies bluntly, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, before he gets up from the floor and then pulls Jon into a very wet, very tight full body hug, causing them to yelp.

 “Tim! What the hell!”

 “      Now     we’re even, my Love.” Tim tells them with a shit-eating grin, and then presses a quick kiss on top of his half-heartedly glaring partner's head.

 “…Would you like to blow dry it yourself or do you want me to do it?” They finally ask instead of a rebuttal, and Tim considers this for just a moment.

 “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to do it. Cover the mirror while we’re at it, then it’s a surprise for me as well.”

 “Of course, Love. Turn around?” Jon asks, and Tim does as he is asked, but not without turning the simple request into the beginning of “Total eclipse of the heart”, using a hairbrush as a makeshift microphone. Of course, he is putting his everything into the little performance. That is, until he is cut off by Jon and the hair dryer, which they are blowing directly at his face.

   Somehow, Jon, Tim and most of the bathroom survive their shenanigans for long enough until Jon lifts the towel away from the mirror and lets Tim take a look at his new hair colour.

 Hours ago, they started out by trimming his undercut, which is easy enough, followed by removing the rest of some particularly stubborn shade of green with bleach and giving his dark roots their own quick round of bleach. Then, the disaster with the blue dye starts. After that, the bathroom looks a bit worse for wear – indeed, it looks like a smurf crime scene and they keep joking about that. But Tim and Jon keep going, only having to take a break to fight off a giggle fit about two or three times.

 Even now, after so many years with them, Tim is amazed and happy to see and hear Jon laugh like that. He hadn’t known they were even capable of being so carefree, let alone silly, when they first met. For most people, it is still a rare treat to see, if they even get that honor at all. But after many years of being together and acquiring two more wonderful and lovely partners, things are different – and even better.

  They wouldn’t want to trade their family, this life together, for anything.

   After a round of bright purple hair dye and much of the same, they move on to pink, and by the time that last round is done, Tim is getting more than a little excited, but truth be told, so is Jon. They really hope that they did good on this dye job – they only ever helped Tim, and many years ago, Georgie and some of their friends at Uni, to dye their hair in one solid colour. This multicolour thing is new territory for them, and they hope it turned out well. At least they’d like to think it did, but what it comes down to really, is what Tim thinks of it – it’s his head, after all.

   As the towel falls from the mirror, Tim steps closer to take a look. Even under the unflattering bathroom light, his hair is shining bold and bright in the colours of the Bi Pride Flag. Pink, purple and blue in the longer hairs on top of his head, neatly sectioned off into thirds and dyed in hours of work. The smile on his face is bright and instant, but there is no trace of a joke in it. He looks really happy, and most of all, proud – as he should be.

 “It’s perfect!” he exclaims, turning his head a few times to look at himself at all angles, the genuinely happy smile still plastered all over his face as he pulls Jon into another hug.

 “Thank you, Love. I appreciate the help.”

 “Glad you like it, then.” They pull Tim down for a kiss, fingers brushing gently over the freshly buzzed sides of his head. It’s one of those feelings they’ll never get tired of. The soft, short stubble feels incredibly satisfying, and Tim just knows he’ll spend the next few days with Jon, Martin and Sasha constantly running their hands over it. Not that he minds – as if he’d ever turn down head scritches from anyone.

 Right now, just for a moment, the two of them remain standing in front of the bathroom mirror together. They are surrounded by and covered with various hair dye stains, despite best attempts to achieve the contrary. The bathroom needs a good cleaning session and both Tim and Jon are in desperate need of a change of clothes. But they look at themselves just for a moment, taking in how much they have changed over the years. It’s definitely for the better. Both of them are happy and comfortable with who they are, they have each other – and they have two wonderful people who they love dearly waiting downstairs to see the result of their hair shenanigans.

 Neither of them says any of this out loud – they don’t have to. But it is Jon who breaks the silence this time.

 “Let’s go show the others, we’ve been in here for hours.”

 “Oh they’re fine. 5 pounds say they’ll roll their eyes and just tell us –“

   “- All we heard was yelling, laughter and occasional singing, so we thought, you know, what else is new, they’ll be fine.” Sasha says without looking up from her phone. She’s nestled into Martins side, the both of them cuddled up on the couch with their phone and book, Crumpet dozing in the crook of Sasha’s knee while Gandalf has decided that a day with 26 degrees outside would be the perfect day to become a sentient scarf for Martin. The poor guy looks hot, but he doesn’t make a move to dislodge either the cat or Sasha.

 Really, it is too warm to cuddle, way too warm, but what can you do? The two of them are wearing shorts and matching Hawaii shirts and have an old but steadily blowing fan facing their direction on the couch. It helps a bit, but neither of them looks to be up for much. At least it’ll cool down a bit at night.

 “That about sums it up doesn’t it? Worth it though.” And with that, Tim rounds the corner, arms stretched out next to his head.

 “Tadaa!”

 A small cheer erupts from the couch, quickly followed by variations of

 “You look great!”

 Of course, Tim takes the opportunity to be dramatically fabulous and bows down in front of his audience and then makes a beeline for the couch where everyone else has now rearranged themselves.

 Being the catlike human that they are, Jon is immediately by Martin’s other side, leaning in as their hands find one another. Their hair is tickling his nose, but he is so used to it by now, he simply bends down a bit to press a soft kiss against the side of their head.   It’s only then that he realizes that Jon is drenched with water.

 Martin huffs a laugh.

 “Did you take a shower with your clothes or something?”

 “No, but Tim did.” they answer, a sly grin on their lips.

 “Jon means they fucking doused me. ‘By accident’ as I’ve been told as they laughed their arse off.” Tim corrects the statement, air quotes included, as he flops down on the couch on the other side. He wraps an arm around his partner, pulling them close for a moment, then his hold relaxes a bit and his fingertips travel over to Martin in search for more physical contact. He happily lets him, summer heat be damned.

 Tim continues with a shrug and a shit-eating grin of his own,

 “I just decided to share the joy, generous as I am.”

 The explanation is met with laughter from everyone, as well as an affectionate sigh of,

 “You two, I swear...”

 “In our defense, you knew bloody well what you were getting into with us.”

 Crumpet, annoyed by the human’s sudden loud behavior, gracefully gets up from her spot, stretches and then swaggers off, her head and tail held high. Gandalf, on the other hand, merely lifts his head from Martin’s  shoulder and only stares for a bit, as if to say “What on earth are you silly creatures up to now?!” but then goes back to sleep.

 Once again, it is too hot to cuddle, but that doesn’t stop any of them. At least, there is ice cream and the ancient fan that rattles for its life but still gets the job done.

 It’s the end of June, and that means it’s hot, way too hot to be bearable for your regular British person, or anyone really, who doesn’t enjoy boiling themselves in their own juice.

   End of June also means: its pride month and the London Pride Parade will take place very, very soon and that is a source of excitement for all four of them. Due to various circumstances in the past, this year is the first year that they can go to pride with the whole family together. That in itself is cause for celebration, really, but there are also the individual, personal milestones.

 For Martin, this is the first summer and thus, the first pride that he can experience post top-surgery. That in itself has him excited to no end, and as a result, he’s spent much more time in open chested shirts than ever before. His happiness alone would make him an utterly beautiful sight, but honestly, his partners would readily admit, very vocally, that they enjoy the view an awful lot.

 The first time he receives their plentiful heartfelt compliments, Martin blushes a bright scarlet red, but even more than that, there is euphoria and happiness. He might have cried a bit from being overwhelmed with too many feelings at once, but it had been a good day – a very good one.

   For Jon, it is going to be the first pride they’ll spend not hiding their gender - or lack thereof, depending on the day. For many, many years, even long after they figured it out for themselves and told a handful of loved ones – mostly those in their chosen family, really – they didn’t tell anyone. Mostly for work reasons, because it seemed safer and easier in everyday life.  It’s why they kept going by He/Him for their entire career in research, despite heavily preferring They/Them, but at that point, only Tim and Sasha knew.

 It really helped that they would avoid pronouns at work, and only call them by their name and refer to them as They when in private.

 Later then, they met Martin and got transferred into the Archives together. At this point, Jon felt comfortable enough to use their preferred pronouns at work, at least in their private circle.

 As of now, they stopped caring – they deal with so much bullshit, in general and from Elias, they simply stopped giving a fuck, and this is how they explain it. All things considered, it goes over relatively well, and thankfully, no one bats an eye when they arrive at the institute in skirts or with nail polish or anything else they feel like wearing that day.

   Early in the morning, with all doors and windows open in the house, so they can let in the fresh, cool morning breeze, Jon sits on the living room floor and in front of the couch. There are several bottles of nail polish scattered about in their lap, and Jon scowls with intense concentration as they slowly and meticulously paint each nail a different colour. Pink, purple and blue surrounded by two black nails on their right hand, which is still kind of drying, and yellow, white, purple and black on their left hand. They’re on their second coat by now, and as a result, their posture starts slouching again. Sasha gently pulls them back and closer to her.

 “Hey, stop moving away, I’m not done yet.”

 “Oh. Sorry, go on please.”

 Sasha adjusts her grip on Jon’s hair. There is a tablet open on the coffee table and Sasha skips back to an earlier part of the video tutorial that is currently playing, just to check if she got everything right.

 The thing is, Jon has a lot of hair as it is, but now, there are some bright purple clip-in extensions added to it. Paired with their natural black that keeps getting more and more grey over the time, it all creates a swirl of colours, dark and beautiful and very much resembling the Ace Pride flag. Originally, they would have gone for a simple, partially braided half updo but that was before Sasha had grabbed them by the bony shoulders, sat them down in front of her and said,

 “Don’t move, I want to try something.” – That had been about an hour ago, but just going along with it is a lot easier than arguing with Sasha, especially when she gets excited about something.

 Besides, being forced to sit still gives Jon the time they need to paint their nails properly without ruining them after 5 minutes because they couldn’t wait long enough for them to dry before they start doing something else. It also gives them the perfect opportunity to ramble on about the article they read the other day. This seems like a fair trade off: Getting a complicated hairstyle done that Sasha wants to practise, in exchange for an info-dumping monologue about tropical birds and their natural habitats.

 Their cats come and go, occasionally rubbing themselves against whichever human body part is currently closest, and there may or may not be a touch of cat hair in Jon’s manicure. Then again, there is always cat hair on them. All of them - it’s part of the wardrobe at this point. .

 After a while, Sasha cheerfully informs Jon,

 “And it’s done! Here’s a mirror, but you’ll see better when I take a photo from the back… Hold on…  And here we go.”

 Truth be told, Jon isn’t sure what they expected, but it certainly wasn’t a complicated arrangement of different kinds of tiny braids, falling down the back of their head in loops and little waterfalls, far down their back, surrounding what looks like little roses in the middle made of hair. There are four of them, and Sasha managed to sneak in more of those clip-in extensions, which leads to the flowers sticking out even more – each and every one of them is one solid colour. Black in the top, followed by grey, white and purple.

 “Oh, wow.” They carefully touch the back of their head – this is probably the most detailed hairstyle – or anything, really – they’ve ever worn.

 “Thanks, Sasha. This is really beautiful. I, I know I’ll feel bad whenever I have to take those out again” They pull her into a tight hug that she happily slips into and squeezes back just as much.

 “Thank      you     – I’ve always wanted to practice this, but it’s way too hard to do on my own head, my arms will fall off long before I’m done.”

 “…I’d offer help, but the result won’t be anywhere near as good or intricate as yours.”

 Still, Sasha smiles brightly.

 “Please do. Like I said, arms are falling off and all that.”

   So this is how their morning goes. By the end of it, Sasha’s long curls are in a half updo with fishtail braids and glittery hair clips in her pride colours. Black, grey, white and purple on one side of her head, two shades of green, white, grey and black on the other side. Together, they form a constellation of some sort on the back of her dark, shiny hair, and she seems to be thoroughly happy with it.

 In the meantime, both Tim and Martin  have managed to finish getting ready entirely. The two of them are currently sprawled out on the floor, right in front of their trusty old fan, now that it’s getting hotter again. They are holding drinks with ice cubes swimming in them.

 Martin and Tim patiently wait for Jon and Sasha to be done with their hair - those two have a truly impressive head full of it each - and they do so with their legs tangled into one another. Tim and Martin are currently discussing a video game that neither of the other two is interested in - something, zombies, something something. Thankfully, it’s still early enough in the day so no one needs to rush. Besides, it’s nice to just spend time with one another, in any way that presents itself.

 Meanwhile, Gandalf is living his best life. He is dozing on his back, nestled into Sasha’s lap while she happily provides pets and scritches for their giant spoiled feline wizard. Crumpet, on the other hand, has made herself comfortable on the back of Jon’s shoulders, completely unbothered by their constantly moving arms. By the time they’re finished braiding Sasha’s hair, the little black cat  still clings on, even by the time they make their way to get dressed for their day out.

 Jon knows it’ll be fruitless to try and dislodge Crumpet from her current place, but they still try it. Surprising absolutely no one, the little cat meows pitifully as if to say “No one in this house loves me anymore, oh how shall I live on?!”

 “I know, my little void, I know. Would you mind letting go of me for, like, 2 minutes?” Jon tries to soothe, but the next attempt to pluck Crumpet off of themselves results in her digging her claws into their T-shirt. Well -      technically     Tim’s T-shirt, but the tiny claws still end up in Jon’s shoulder since they’re currently wearing it.

 “Ow. Crumpet, please. I cannot and will not be going out in my pyjamas.”

 Crumpet meows again, more intently this time. Accusingly, almost. Jon sighs - they knew this was going to happen. While they gently, very gently pry off the cat claws from their person, they try to reason:

 “Yes, I love you, too. But you need to let go now, please. Thank you.” As they hold Crumpet up with both hands, to keep her from digging in her claws again, they blink slowly and return the gentle head bump, making sure the “I love you” will travel over in cat-language. Then, Crumpet is set down and immediately jumps into the open closet. Oh well.

 Jon starts rummaging through the shelves, looking for a specific top. It must be in there, somewhere, but in an array of… very mismatched clothes, it’s not that easy to find.

 To be fair, their part of the closet very much looks like the laundry baskets of several retirement home residents and a punk rock band got put into a blender and the result is what they wear on a daily basis. Although their work attire leans more toward cardigans and grandmother skirts than fishnets most days. Sometimes, just sometimes they’re tempted to try, just to see if they would get away with it.

 On their search for the purple fishnet top, they come across a swooshy, purple skirt they haven’t seen in a long time. They acknowledge their find with a surprised but happy noise. Quickly, Jon puts it aside on the bed and as well as the shirt that falls out with it. Upon closer inspection, they realize it is a shirt that they got for their first ever pride - it’s a simple black cotton shirt with a rainbow print, slightly too big for Jon and cut off in some places to make it look more interesting. It’s survived with them since uni, and they’re pretty sure it will always have a place in their closet, even when it falls apart completely one day.

 There are a lot of memories tied to it, a lot of stages to their self discovery. Naturally, it’s what they choose to wear for the big day.

 When the four of them step out of their house, they all but leave a colourful trail down the street on their way to the train station. Behind them, over their front door and tied to the rails of a small balcony, a rainbow flag is blowing in the wind. It is big enough to stretch across it the entire way, something every single person in this household is very happy about.

 They are chatting away and laughing, holding hands with one another for the entire way. Some people on the street shoot them odd looks - this isn’t central London, and here they stand out a lot more than they would there. But trying to find a house, let alone a flat there that is big enough for all of them, has been… Difficult. Especially since finding a place that would have a bedroom big enough for their double queen sized DIY-we-are-all-clingy-and-can’t-sleep-apart-bed while still allowing them to walk through the room has been hard. Harder even close to the city, which is why they decided to move here in the outskirts.

 Living there means a longer commute to the city and the institute, but it is a small price to pay for their collective happiness.

 On the train itself, there are a few more people and smaller groups, decked out with rainbows or their own specific pride flags. The closer they get to the city, the more people who are clearly coming to London for Pride Celebrations enter the carriage, and soon, everywhere is full of happy and excited people.

 By the time they step out into the streets together, there are people everywhere. Most, if not all of them are proudly wearing their colours and as do Jon, Tim, Martin and Sasha.

 Martin is happy and comfortable in his skin. Just like planned, he is wearing a white button up shirt with a light blue- and pink floral pattern, only closed halfway up. There are several bracelets on his wrists, one in matching pink, white and blue, one with bright pink, yellow and turquoise blue and one rainbow. Both of his arms are occupied though, with one arm wrapped around Jon and the other around Tim, whose other hand is occupied holding Sasha’s.

 She chose comfort over most things, settling for Jeans shorts and another older pride shirt. Additionally, she is wearing a split Aromantic/Asexual flag wrapped around her waist like a half-skirt - and her hair, of course. The clips are sparkling in the sun, instantly noticeable in her dark hair.

 Next to her, Tim is literally a walking Bi Pride Flag. His new hair colour is bright and bold as anything, shining in the sun, and then there is his shirt that stands out bold in the same shades of pink, purple and blue. Even if it wasn’t for his bright smile and loud laugh, he would be shining bright.

 On Martin’s other side, happy to be able to have one arm free to gesture around with while they’re talking, Jon is looking just as fabulous. Their skirt is dark purple, and the thick soles and front of a beaten up pair of Docs are only just visible under it. They successfully found the shirts they were looking for earlier, and they are wearing a belt made out of multiple small pride flags. There are four different ones - the rainbow, pink, purple and blue, followed by black, grey, white and purple followed by yellow, white, purple and black.

 Of course, there is the hair - it got them, and in addition, Sasha, many many compliments back home, where all of them admired each other shortly before leaving.

 “What can you do, all of us have great hair!” Sasha had said, and is 100% correct. While her own and Jon's hair is long, thick and structured, Tim always rocks some sort of fashion colours in the fluffy tuft of hair. Martin has just as thick, defined reddish brown curls that fall into his face sometimes, and a well-kept and well-cultivated beard to match it.

 There is a little bit of glitter stuck to them - all of them, actually, because no one remembered to stop Tim from getting into the loose glitter. Hence, all of them are wearing glitter now.

 That stuff travels, especially if one keeps hugging or kissing the culprit who brought the sparkly plague along in the first place. And it’s not like any of them keeps their hands off of each other for long. So, it spreads… It doesn’t take long at all until the tiny, sparkling specks find their way to everyone else.

 There is no doubt that they will carry the remains of it into the office next Monday, whether they want to or not. But right now, they couldn’t care less. They are here to enjoy the day, enjoy themselves and be proud to show their colours.

 For once, they fit right in.

[iceshard1011]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sanders Sides (Web Series) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Characters: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Morality | Patton Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Additional Tags: Wings, Tentacles, Self-Worth Issues, Platonic Cuddling, Scars, Miscommunication, kind of, because these dumb dumbs are determined Not To Talk About It, Mild Language, remus being soft??, Family Bonding, i mean what do you expect at this point, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Angst, look this site is has been starved of soft remus and bonding creativitwins, that needs to be fixed, i will not rest until i have a sufficient number of happy creativitwins interactions in my life, No Romance, :). Summary:

Roman reached over and lifted it up, eyeing the ugly scar. “What happened here?”

Remus didn’t reply for a moment before he pulled away, tucking the tentacle out of sight. “Nothing much.”

Oh, and wasn’t that a red flag if Roman had ever seen one?

~~~

The wedding affected everyone.

1k word fic under the cut :)

Roman’s wings were supposed to be red. A fiery red, too, with shades ranging from so pale it bordered on pink to so dark around the edges they were almost black-rimmed. The feathers on the inside were a white so pure it was blinding when catching sunlight. They were stunning and magnificent and beautiful.

Currently, the red was rusted and washed out. They looked like a bad dyeing attempt. The insides were dirtied and grey-brown tinged. Currently, they didn’t look majestic. Currently, they looked exactly how Roman felt: Pathetic.

The pair of extra appendages sprouting from the prince’s back only manifested in the closed confines of his bedroom or the separate world of the Imagination. They were always present, but they became heavy and solid and real at his back the moment his door shut. No one knew about them.

Except Remus, of course, given he was in the same position with those slimy, horrid tentacles of his. The pair had grown up with these features; it was evident that their young years spent play-fighting would leave their connected rooms scattered with slime and feathers. Unfortunately, though a wall now separated their rooms at this day and age, Roman couldn’t seem to get the connecting door to disappear, no matter how many times Remus knocked it down.

However, today wasn’t an ‘ignore Remus’ day. It wasn’t even a ‘put up with Remus through eye rolls and inward groans’ day.

Another loose feather was added to the growing pile beside him on the floor.

“You’re molting an awful lot,” Remus remarked at Roman’s back, his concentration on a particularly stubborn section of Roman’s right wing and a rebellious cluster of feathers that weren’t listening to his effort to straighten them.

“I’m stressed,” Roman admitted, plucking a baby feather from the inside of his left wing.

“This isn’t stress molting,” Remus said. “Stress makes your feathers all flaky and dry. This is different.”

Roman sighed and gave up on his wing, resting his head in his hands. “Can’t we just talk about something normal?”

“This is perfectly normal!” Remus protested. A scratch through the feathers, down the side of his wing made Roman shudder. “I mean, the standards are you having wings, so…”

Roman didn’t reply. Remus continued to work in silence. He didn’t have his tentacles manifested today. They tended to get restless and search for things to do when Remus was absent minded, and the pair had come to find that was both distracting and mess-making, especially with neat piles of feathers taking up residence on the carpet.

“Is it about last week?” Remus asked.

“It’s always about last week,” Roman grumbled. Remus bit the inside of his cheek in thought, which Roman couldn’t see, and continued to sift through his brother’s feathers.

“You’re going to have to do something about it sooner or later,” Remus said with a shrug. “Doesn’t have to be good. You could put spiders in Patton’s bed, or cut the power to the heating elements in Janus’ room. I did that one once. It was pretty funny; took him thirty minutes of shivering and muttering on his rock to realise nothing was happening. I recorded it.”

Roman didn’t reply.

“Of course,” continued Remus, “then he confiscated all my weapons and didn’t let me poison the coffee, so it wasn’t entirely worth it.”

Roman sighed quietly. He ran a hand through the feathers of the inside of his wing, fingering the tufts closest to his body. They should be as soft as a freshly groomed chinchilla’s fur, but they felt stiff and unhealthy.

“They’re dying,” he said as if they were houseplants not getting enough sun, but it made sense to him. He pulled back and gripped his arms while he glared at the floor. “I can’t even take care of these properly.”

He felt Remus’ gaze burning the back of his neck but ignored his brother. Chances were that he would get bored and leave. Roman would probably have a breakdown, then, but at least there wouldn’t be any witnesses.

Remus shuffled behind him, and a pair of arms wrapped around his waist. Except arms were supposedly not wet and slimy with suction cups on the inside. Roman opened his mouth to ask what Remus was doing, but then his brother was leaning over his shoulder and pointing to a bleached scatter of spots staining the tentacle curled around Roman’s ankle.

“That’s from running into a thorn bush in the Imagination,” Remus said, then gestured to another spot on a separate appendage. Roman blinked at the pale scar running upwards along the moist skin. “That’s from when Logan yelled at me when we were teenagers after I burned all his projects for a prank.”

“That was a dumb move,” Roman told him. Remus grinned.

“This one over here is from when I touched a curling iron to see how it would feel, and then got yelled at by Janus for it,” he said, and Roman wasn’t sure whether to sigh or laugh. “That’s why it’s a weird shape.”

“It does look odd,” Roman admitted. Remus bobbed his head against Roman’s shoulder in agreement. Roman eyed his brother’s wiggling tentacles, several of them finding ways to wrap around his legs, one even reaching up to curl over his wrist. He zeroed in on one, though, not itching towards him and instead twitching along the carpet. Its end looked to be chopped off, leaving a blunt stump awkwardly half-heartedly navigating its path.

Roman reached over and lifted it up, eyeing the ugly scar. “What happened here?”

Remus didn’t reply for a moment before he pulled away, tucking the tentacle out of sight. “Nothing much.”

Oh, and wasn’t that a red flag if Roman had ever seen one?

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Roman asked.

Remus shrugged. “Not anymore. It did when it first happened.”

Roman’s reply was a hum. Remus began to fidget with a cluster of feathers at the edge of Roman’s wing. Roman allowed him.

“What was it?” he asked after a long silence. Remus seemed caught off guard, but then he huffed.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

Roman frowned. What did that mean? He tilted his head over his shoulder to watch Remus begin to gnaw on the side of his collar while he scratched at Roman’s wing.

“You can tell me anyway,” Roman offered softly. Remus shrugged again. Roman leaned backwards and patted the tentacles around his waist comfortingly. Remus didn’t return the affection, but he didn’t pull away. Roman decided it was good enough.

“Sorry,” Remus murmured, but Roman wasn’t sure why.

“You know that you can always come to me when your tentacles are hurt,” Roman murmured, tracing a long scar trailing along one of the slimy green arms.

“Why don’t you come to me when you molt?” Remus asked. Roman opened his mouth, about to retort, but Remus cut in,  “Without having to make me chase after you?” Roman closed his mouth. He sheepishly fiddled with the end of one of Remus’ arms as it curled through his fingers.

“My turn to apologise?” he asked. Remus shrugged. The quiet room suddenly felt oppressing and uncomfortable. It was much different compared to the atmosphere a few minutes ago, when Roman’s wings had first begun to be preened. He didn’t like it very much.

“It kind of sucks.” Remus’ voice was uncharacteristically quiet. “Sometimes I don’t even have to be around to get the scars.”

Roman swallowed. He wondered if he already knew what had mangled Remus’ tentacle. “I can try and make them disappear,” he volunteered quietly.

Remus, predictably, looked affronted. “What, the marks? And take away my battle scars? Who the hell do you think you are?”

Roman relented with a chuckle. “Alright.”

The room echoed with a knocking from the bedroom door.

“Dinner’s ready, kiddo,” called Patton’s voice. “If you have time to come down for a little while. Hope to see you there.”

The twins listened to the moral’s sides footsteps shuffle away. The tentacles around Roman’s waist tightened and Remus headbutted his shoulder with his forehead. “Are you going to go down?”

“Are you?” countered Roman.

“He didn’t ask me,” Remus pointed out.

“He might have.” Roman frowned over his shoulder. “You haven’t been in your room.” Remus didn’t seem convinced. Roman didn’t move to stand up.

“You’re not going?” Remus sounded surprised.

Roman shrugged. “My left wing hasn’t been preened yet.”

“You should eat.”

Roman levelled his brother with a skeptical look. “And since when do you care about my health?”

“Since I found you sobbing in the corner of your room with your wings torn to shreds,” Remus snapped. Roman didn’t have an argument. Remus pulled back and stood, brushing off loose feathers. “Come on, you dumb slut.” Roman shot him a glare, but Remus was dutifully, stubbornly, ignoring his gaze. “If I eat, you eat. Deal?”

Roman considered it, then sighed.

“Very well.” He rose to his feet. He flared his wings, shaking himself. He pretended not to see Remus eyeing him cautiously and moved briskly to the door. “But I still need my left wing preened.”

“Don’t be greedy,” Remus snapped, in as much of an agreement as Roman figured he would get. “Maybe I’ll braid all the feathers so tight you have to shave your wings.”

“Stop being foul,” Roman said, holding the door open for his brother. The rude menace didn’t thank him as he darted out.

“You know that’s my whole deal, right?” Remus asked over his shoulder, his tentacles now having vanished. Roman listened to his brother rant as they travelled downstairs and were greeted by the others. The weight of his wings was still at his back as he sat down to eat, even though they were now hidden.

He smiled when Janus made a joke that made Logan fight to hide a smile and Virgil choke on his drink while Patton scolded them, and Remus made everything worse by adding onto the gag.

The food would be fantastic, as Patton’s cooking always was. Even Janus would compliment the meal, and Patton would go giddy with joy as he cleaned up. Janus stopped Remus snorting the crumbs on the table while Logan packed leftovers. Roman helped clean up, and he and Virgil washed the dishes in companionable silence.

He waved goodnight to everyone, the first to retire upstairs, and held the image of his family's smiling faces to his memory. He felt Remus watching him quietly as he left, but he didn’t acknowledge his brother. That was, until he found the gremlin waiting for him in his bedroom, perched on the edge of his bed in the dark with glowing green eyes like the gargoyle he was.

Roman fell asleep that night easily, with newly preened, fiery red wings.

[wonderofwillows2]

The Training 2

Anna Priya and the other women led Victor from the small room and down the hall to a small door marked “staff only”. The woman who led the group opened it revealing a set of stairs leading up. Once more Victor felt a tinge of nervousness and began to slow but Priya and Anna held his arms reassuringly and led him forward. The group ascended the stairs and before long turned into another hallway identical to the one below. Two separate small rooms lined the hall each with a heavy door. They were led to the one at the far end of the hall and made to enter. A row of seats sat along one wall exactly five. The woman leading the procession took the center and her two escorts on either side. She motioned for Priya and Anna to take the farthest two. The woman at the center then pulled out a small remote and clicked a button. There was a slight noise in the back of the room and then silence again. Victor was once again racked with nerves as the only one left standing.

“Victor, I’m sure you’re anxious to know what’s going on. I just want you to know this was all the idea of your sister and Priya. My name is Jen and I want you to feel comfortable. On my right is Nadine and on my left is Sophi.” The woman in the center said with the most perfectly regulated voice Victor had ever heard. She held a neutral expression on top of it.

“What is going on here?” asked poor, nervous, Victor.

“I’ll allow Priya and Anna to explain that.” Said Jen.

Anna and Priya stared at each other for a minute before Anna motioned for Priya to continue. Priya looked hesitant and then began to talk.

“Victor, you are genuinely wonderful in my mind but these women are here to see if you might fit into their program. It’s to help guys like you who never had a lot of social skills and to teach them how to be better lovers.” Priya said.

“This is very surreal. Also, you mentioned the idea already, “a workshop for social skills” is what you said Anna.” Victor exclaimed.

The woman with the clipboard made two notes.

“We do prefer educated young men, you seem to at least have something of a vocabulary.” Jen noted still keeping her neutral tone and face.

“It’s also about the physical part though Victor, you have trouble picking up the ques so I thought this would help. Poor Deena threw herself at you for over a month last year.” Priya seemed so imploring that Victor could not help but feel his anxiety soften to a need to ameliorate things.

“She did? Why didn’t you say something to me?” Victor asked, now concerned.

“I did tell you but you were so incapable of getting it, I think this will help.” Priya added.

“Yes, please consider this. I know dad treats mom well in some ways but he does not get it sometimes either.” Anna added, once more imploring.

“Alright, what do I need to do then?” Victor asked, still racked with anxiety about the situation.

“The first thing would normally be a check of your social skills at a base level however you’ve shown sufficient interest in the concerns of others that I think we can dispense with that. We’ve also noted your SAT scores as provided by your sister so we can dispense with testing for intellect.” Jen said to the group.

“You gave them my SAT scores?” Victor glared angrily at Nadine.

“Just a copy we don’t have any vital information about you. Don’t be angry.” Jen said and victor did indeed calm a bit. To go a bit farther, he felt almost too calm. Yet here he was and so, he decided to try and make the best of it.

“So what is next?” Victor asked.

“Well that is the physical part. Let me ask do you exercise?” Jen asked him.

“I run three miles four or five times a week” Victor replied.

“Very good, now here is the thing. We will need to see the results this brings you. I will need you to take off your shirt.

“What do you mean?” Victor asked her. He was stunned but surprisingly calm.

“I mean I need you to take off your shirt.” Jen replied still the without emotion.

“It’s ok they are here to help” Priya added encouragingly.

Reluctantly victor began to take off his shirt. He did so slowly but without the feelings of embarrassment or apprehension that might normally influence him, in fact he felt almost comfortable. All of the women were looking at him including his sister and yet he did not feel embarrassed or out of place. All the women’s eyes were on him then including those of his sister and it still did not bother him. The odd calm remained and he wondered if it were the ritual aspect of this place, the space he was in or if there were something more to it. Priya’s eyes were on him too and this made him entirely more nervous than Anna’s or even those of the panel of women.

“Now your pants.” Intoned Jen.

Victor paused then and the nervousness sprung up once more but he decided instead to comply, the situation simply didn’t seem hostile to him and neither Priya nor his sister had even flinched at the suggestion. It was almost as if they had known. A thought that disconcerted him a bit but that he did not seem to mind. What harm would it be for them to see him in his boxers? It would have been so little to do. While thinking this he suddenly realized he had been slowly and unwittingly complying to the command and had kicked off his shoes and lowered his pants more than half way. He proceeded to take them off and then to slowly nudge them aside. Suddenly he was aware of a chill in the room and felt himself shiver a bit. His slim and mostly hairless body mostly on display. Priya and Anna looked on with slight smiles.

“Now the measurements. Nadine please.” Jen commanded her associate.

“The what?” Victor asked.

“Just like a tailor, please hold still.” Jen said.

With that Nadine stood and pulled a small tape measure from a pouch on her waist. Victor was shocked that he had not even noticed the small instrument on her before. With that she began the measurements. She took the length of each arm, the width of his chest, and his total height. She checked the width of his neck as well before measuring his waist. The affair was both intimate and invasive but victor allowed it quietly. Finally she move on to his lower sections and Victor started only briefly as she measured the circumference of his waist and then his buttocks and the length of each leg. He started only briefly when she measured his inseam and her hand lightly brushed against his penis. The whole process was not too long, no more than a few minute but it felt long and engaging.

“Now the last step. Your underwear too Victor.” Jen said, Nadine had not seated herself again. This time Victor really did feel uncertain. He looked to Priya and then to Anna but both looked at him with encouraging glances. Neither had any doubts about what was happening.

“Go ahead.” Anna implored.

“I don’t know if I want you watching.” Victor said with a slight tremor in his voice.

“It’s ok, I can turn away.” Anna said.

“No you may not, the sponsors must participate.” Said Jen coldly.

“It’s ok, I’ll be right here.” Priya said.

“Please do this, for us.” Anna gently coaxed.

Then he did, to his own surprise Victor dropped his underwear before these strange women, his good friend and his sister. More to his surprise none of them batted an eye this exchange. They all seemed pleased even Anna.

“Nadine if you please.” Jen intoned to her subordinate.

Nadine began to reach for Victor’s flaccid penis and immediately he jumped away.

“Victor, please. Let her.” Priya implored him again. Victor stood still.

With that Nadine wrapped her hand around his flaccid penis and victor gasped and fought the urge to pull away. Nadine got out her tape measure and began measure his penis base to tip before reporting the number to her seated compatriot with the clip board. They all seemed satisfied and even Anna watched.

“Now to see him aroused. Put your hands behind your back Victor.” said Jen. Victor was nervous but oblige the command.

Slowly Nadine began to manipulate him, she stroked up and down his shaft and drew the foreskin back and forwards over the glans of his still slightly shrunken penis. Victor was suddenly aware that all three of the strange women were quite fetching and that Nadine herself was a young woman of no more than twenty-five. She had wonderful curly red hair and a few freckles spotting her pale complexion. Victor was soon entranced and so were Priya and Anna at the rhythmic stroking of Victor’s penis. Before long he was past any social concerns and had grown to his full length. Once again Nadine measured his penis both the length and width and noted them. Victor’s head swam and he doubted this was even real, he came to the sound conclusion it must be a dream, but it persisted on and he let himself go.

“Now there is one last thing Victor. We need you to orgasm for us. How long has it been since your last orgasm?” Jen asked the shocked young man.

“Maybe three days?” Victor was shocked at the question despite having lost his right to be shocked some time prior.

“Well it should be easy to do so with your foreskin, you’ll need no assistance. Show us how you give yourself pleasure Victor.” Jen had managed to keep her tone entirely neutral once more and now Victor was becoming certain that this was a common happening here. Against his better judgment he fond himself complying and took his penis in his hand and began to stroke himself. Slowly at first and then more rapidly moving his foreskin across the glans. Anna and Priya watched transfixed while the other women took a more cold and professional stance.

“Go ahead, think of Deena. Think of her little red nipples. I don’t know if you have seen them but I certainly have. they’re lovely.” Priya added while victor continued his stroking. Victor could not help himself now, the fantasy had seized his mind and now he was incapable of stopping even as Anna looked on. He continued to stroke.

“She has a nice little landing strip too, she has dark pubic hair, darker than her normal hair but she doesn’t dye either.” Priya offered again.

With that Victor felt himself orgasm, a powerful orgasm and so intense his legs trembled. He could not contain himself and he felt the rush of semen form and flow up his urethra and then eject itself in small spurts and dribbles. Anna and Priya watched with smiles now enjoying the vicarious pleasure victor felt at that moment as his penis twitched and pulsed before his audience. He had not thought of it then but he was facing Jen and the other women. He had not managed to ejaculate with the force necessary to hit them however. They remained well dressed and immaculate. Finally as Victor’s breathing slowed to it’s normal pace and his clarity returned he realized with slight horror what he had just done and was filled with regret though oddly enough no anxiety. Jen’s formerly stone like expression broke and she smiled at him.

“That was very nice Victor, you gave us all a show. Didn’t you enjoy it Anna?” Jen asked and Anna nodded in agreement.

“I am glad you can orgasm so strongly.” Anna added smiling.

“You seem like good material for our program Victor, more than adequate in many ways. There is just one thing. You’ll have to be circumcised. The foreskin is a relic of times past and has no place in age of gender equality. you’ll have to be circumcised.”

Victor stared in horror, unsure of what he had just heard. He realized now this was an adventure that was only beginning.