#it's embarrassingly self-indulgent and revealing

[eoinmcgonigal]

16: Bill/Johnny

For the prompt from @almost-a-class-act: "I think the… kitchen is haunted?"

Shoutout to this event for keeping me going when I have absolutely nothing else lol

-

It feels like only moments after he’s fallen asleep that Bill is woken up again. He shifts, blinking blearily in the light that’s spilling in from the hallway, silhouetting Johnny’s cautiously moving form.

“Wha’izzit?” he mumbles.

Johnny is creeping towards the bed, something off about his breathing. As Bill tries to sit up, he breathes: “I think the… kitchen is haunted?”

Bill huffs so heavily he almost collapses back down into bed.

“No, seriously!” Johnny insists. “I can hear… sounds…”

“Fuck sakes,” Bill sighs, slipping from beneath the covers. He scruffs his hair out of his eyes as he makes his way round the bed. “Come on.”

Johnny, in spite of all his usual bravery, lets Bill lead the way. “There is definitely something in there,” he breathes in a hushed tone.

“Mhm,” Bill agrees, squinting beneath the lights. He would rather be cosy in bed. This is utter nonsense, but he’ll humour Johnny. It’ll be nothing more than whatever movie Johnny has been watching and an overtired imagination. The kitchen is not haunted.

To prove his point, he flicks the light on when he reaches the kitchen. Behind him, Johnny squeaks and flinches back. Bill wants to say ‘see?’ as he casts his eye around and everything is as it should be.

“Over there,” Johnny says tightly, pointing towards the sink.

Bill crosses over to it, looking. Nothing. He picks up a bowl that was precariously stacked on two others, and has shifted. “This?”

He sets it down again, and it slides, so he leaves it.

“I wasn’t scared by the—”

Johnny freezes. There’s a noise. It’s a groan, something whining and protesting with all its tormented worth.

“There!” Johnny breathes. “That!”

Bill rubs his hand over his eyes, letting out a sigh. “Come here,” he says, walking towards the fridge-freezer.

As if frightened to be separated from him, Johnny follows. He squeaks again when the noise restarts, grabbing at the small of Bill’s back and clinging to a fistful of his top.

Bill opens the door, and the noise stops.

He closes it, and after five seconds it starts again.

“Why is it doing that?” Johnny pleads.

“You seriously didn’t notice it before?” Bill wonders.

“No?! That’s not natural!”

“It’s been like that for months.”

“It… has?”

Bill lets out a breath, ready to go back to bed. “I has, I promise.”

“Oh.”

“No haunted whatevers,” Bill emphasises. “Just a shitty fridge. Did you enjoy your movie?”

“Fuck you,” Johnny says softly, but there’s no venom in it. He is shaking, still clinging to Bill.

“Do you want me to check anything else?” Bill offers.

Johnny hesitates, and then shakes his head. “No, it’s—”

The bowl shifts again, and Johnny yelps.

“Bed?” Bill suggests.

Johnny nods, not letting go. It’s up to Bill to nudge him along, and to turn the light off as they go. So much for a nice early night while Johnny stays up to treat himself to a horror movie, he thinks, trying not to answer the shiver the ripples through him as something at the back of his own mind whispers: But what if…?

War is Helloween

[wakeup01]

You’ve been talking to this fit guy online for a few weeks now. Granted, he was a bit dim and getting him to talk about anything but himself was like trying to get Mona Lisa to smile.

Despite your lack of common interests - and polarizing positions on the evolutionary scale, he had his ‘qualities’. Namely, he was a showoff. And you would put up with any amount of inane nonsense about how his cock was a gift from god as long as he continued showing you pictures of his pecs.

When he posed the idea of swapping bodies with you, you could barely believe it. You were a unremarkable nerd, why would he ever agree to that? In the moment, logic and motivation seemed less important than the fantasy he had offered. You say yes embarrassingly quickly. Within a second you blink, feeling odd as the room around you now looked completely unfamiliar. He must have been a real idiot to willingly give his body to you. Well, he may have forgotten to mention that there could be certain…side effects. That much became clear when you saw your new self in the mirror and felt the alien compulsion to pose and take pictures. You move on autopilot, flexing and narrowing your eyes lustfully at your facade.

Wow, he—you looked phenomenal. You raise your arm above your head, getting insanely hard as you sniff at your new sweaty pits. The overpowering musk made you feel strong, manly. PERFECT. A monument of masculinity and dominance. The desire to stroke is too intense, your hand lowering to idly fondle your oversized junk. Huh, maybe it was a gift from god.

His lingering narcissism swelled and quickly took over every other priority until all that mattered was your own body. Your own alpha cockiness. Your dripping sex. YOU. You were all that mattered. Your mind was inflated by his all encompassing ego, to the brink of bursting as it pushes everything else out of your air filled brain.

Complex personality traits were for ugly people, you convince yourself. You didn’t need to worry about all that crap. Hot guys could be as shallow as a puddle with the intellect of a pebble. And that’s exactly what this body had made you. All looks, no substance. Just a pretty sight with nothing else of note. It was only natural for you to be dumb. Dumb. Stupid. Dimwitted. There was something validating about those words.

You smile at your self assured idiocy, indulging yourself as you take another picture to shamelessly share with your nerdy online friend. Unaware of how he was snickering in your old body, watching you get off on your own stench and happily surrendering to his corrupting confidence. You laugh dimly while you send him the revealing photos.

‘Huhuh. Fucking look at me. Fuck. Dude is gonna cream himself, fo’sure.’

[veliseraptor]

Fic Authors Self Rec

I was tagged by @kasasagi-eye to self-rec five fics which is always. a fun challenge in a few different ways. but good practice I think! and I did go through and make an Author's Favorites series for myself a while ago, which made this easier!

tried to do a bit of a spread of fandoms/time for funsies

Elegy, or Twelve Scenes About One Thing (The Silmarillion).

An old one! But I'm still pretty pleased with it. It's a style I don't write in as much anymore as I used to, but rereading it reminded me why I liked writing it to begin with. Just an impressionistic set of vignettes about Finrod and Curufin in Nargothrond; good old-fashioned cousin incest for a pairing I haven't written in a long time but am still deeply fond of.

Curufin’s hands had a smith’s calluses. It was the strangest thing, to feel how they caught on smooth skin, or on scars as Curufin passed his hands over Finrod’s bare chest. As though he were a piece of metal or gemstone to be coaxed into revealing its secrets. Finrod wondered what he found. “You fascinate me,” Curufin said, suddenly. Finrod blinked at what might have been an echo of his own thoughts. “Beg pardon?” “You fascinate me,” Curufin repeated. “You are…a rare thing.” His fingers paused, and tapped just above Finrod’s navel. “For all I watch you, I am unable to guess your mind.” “I am no great mystery,” said Finrod. Curufin shook his head. “Ah,” he said, “But perhaps that, there, is your mystery.” He smiled, eyes almost glittering, and lowered his head to drag his teeth along the curve of Finrod’s shoulder. “Still waters, they say.” Ran deep, Finrod thought, and untroubled. He did not feel untroubled. If he was still water, then there was a turbulence in his depths. A whirlpool spiraling toward the surface.

post war blues (Wheel of Time)

This is one of my favorite fics even though it's written for an audience of maybe five if I'm generous. I had a lot of fun with it. Min/Elan post-canon, sort of, with a background side of Rand/Elan and Rand/Elan/Min in the future if I kept writing this AU.

“You promised me higher praise,” Elan said, something arch in his voice. Min laughed. “All right,” she said. “I like you. When you’re not thinking about it, you’re a fairly decent person, at least now. You’re smart; I like smart people. And you have good cheekbones.” Elan stared at her, and she shrugged. “A girl can’t help but notice.” “Cheekbones,” Elan said, sounding incredulous. “That’s what you’re stuck on?” Min said. “I thought the ‘decent person’ would get to you more.”

gather frankincense (Lymond Chronicles)

Had to put this one on here mostly because I was proud of myself for writing Lymond fic complete with a satisfying number of references in it, but also because I love this fucked up pairing (Lymond/Gabriel) so much.

“Am I meant to ask what desires I need to concern myself with?” Lymond asked, voice still light; not precisely indifferent, but not much affected either. “The rest,” Gabriel said, and gestured at Lymond’s untouched glass. “Drink, be merry. You’ve already ruined yourself with opium. Surely a glass of wine is not too much an indulgence.” “I am not in the mood for indulgence. Is there a purpose to this pageantry, o my Pasha?” “Save that it is my pleasure?” Gabriel regarded him with a touch of amusement. “You would rather I tied you to a whipping post and had you flogged?” “You would gain marks for consistency,” Lymond said.

like a trigger (get me ready to shoot) (Kinnporsche)

This is, like, an embarrassingly personal fic in some ways which is probably also why it's important to me. I have strong feelings about Vegas and sadism and it was fun to explore them here and write a bit of a character study through that lens.

He stopped trying to make it last. There was always work, where he could hurt people so much worse and it didn’t matter, there was no reason to hold back and nobody who looked at him like some kind of monster, except for the people he wanted to. His dad gave him a man and said punish him and Vegas could, would, did. It was never quite enough. Somehow he was always coming up short when it mattered. A step below, a step behind. His father’s impatience and anger and frustration, always quick to remind Vegas of his inadequacies. At least when it was just him and his tools and a body meant to suffer, he knew what he was doing. He knew how to get what he wanted, and did. He liked to hurt people. He was good at hurting people. There might be something wrong with him but at least he was in the right line of work for it.

That Unwanted Animal (The Untamed/MDZS)

A fic for this fandom I don't talk about so much, written for an exchange a few years ago. Modern AU, which is a funny thing that I don't usually write except in a few very special cases, and this is a modern AU that I'm actually pretty proud of the execution on, mostly because the messiness of it and the construction of the relationships is one that I remain happy with even on reread (far from a guarantee). The side Jin Guangyao and Xue Yang dynamic is one of my favorite things about this one, funnily enough.

So the thing was that Xue Yang knew that this shit was too good to last. It was like some kind of fairytale, wasn’t it? Cinderella, or something. Go to a ball, meet a handsome prince, get swept off your feet. Plucked out of your shitty life and dropped into someone else’s. If Cinderella was a psychotic headcase and the prince was two stupidly handsome men who apparently had a thing for that, one too nice for his own good and the other one too head over heels for the first one to tell him no.

I tag @curiosity-killed, @lu-sn, @ameliarating, @brawlite, and @highladyluck.

[andhaveapleasanttomorrow]

I think because I'm not experiencing real life I can't write anything, like the input is so minuscule the output is zero. anything I write is either embarrassingly and obviously self-indulgent + revealing (+thus a blatant repetition of every other self-indulgent thing I've written) or a total failure of mimesis (I don't know how real people talk or act ; all input is also from fiction). and anyways none of this is relevant because I'm not creative and can't come up with ideas in the first place. but that's also probably due to low input

[yourheartonfire]

A continuation of this sad baby hunter and tired monster.

CW: extremely unhealthy usage of alcohol as a coping mechanism

"It will help to think of yourself as a resource - a limited asset that has to be carefully spent," Mentor had said patiently, patching the protagonist up after that first hasty, ill-advised battle with the antagonist. "If you fail to care for your sword, to keep the edge sharp and the metal oiled, it will fail you. If you fail to care for yourself, if you waste your energy on hopeless battles, your body and your mind will fail you. Be strategic with your strength. There are a lot more of them than there are of us." 

.

The rules of the antagonist's house were simple. The protagonist would complete a task, and the antagonist would provide a bottle of some liquor that tasted like fire and made the pain stop. Drink this pitcher of water - get a bottle. Eat this bowl of soup (chicken noodle, from a can) - bottle. Shower and dress, drink more water, eat more soup - bottle. Focused on those magical bottles, the protagonist obeyed.

It was days, maybe a week later, when the protagonist reached for a bottle - and the thought of more alcohol made their head hurt worse than the dull ache in their chest.

Cradling the stoppered bottle, the protagonist rolled onto their back to stare at the ceiling and wait for it to stop spinning. Hours later they gave up on that. But they heaved themselves up anyway, tossed the bottle into the pillows of the overstuffed settee, and shuffled off to the en suite unprompted.

When the antagonist entered with supper tray in hand, they pulled up short to find the protagonist sat up on the settee, dressed and reading one of the books from the shelves.

"I'll take my sword now, please," the protagonist said, not looking up from their reading.

The antagonist took a breath and slid the tray safely out of the way, their talons clicking against the lacquer. "Hello, [antagonist], how are you, thank you for pulling me out of my death spiral at great risk to your reputation and position."

The protagonist scoffed. "You're the ruler of the monsters, you can do whatever you want."

The antagonist snorted. "If that's how you think politics works, you're even more of a child than I feared."

The antagonist stalked forward and the protagonist bolted to their feet. Not that they'd be able to do much without steel and silver in their hand. Still, they hadn't been raised to show weakness. They jutted their chin. "Sword, and I'll remove my childish self from being your problem." 

The antagonist smiled. Toothily. And lunged.

The protagonist made an embarrassingly uncoordinated spasm in response. But the antagonist blurred past them, to snatch up the book forgotten on the settee. "The Groestelle Bestiary? Interesting from a historic perspective I suppose, but not a priority for your education." They snapped the volume shut and glided away to return it to the shelves.

The protagonist blinked at their back, still primed for a fight. "My... I'm sorry?"

"Apology accepted," the antagonist said, running a finger along the shelves and plucking out volumes. "You can start on these this evening, if you think you can get through another few hours without collapsing in self-indulgent pique again. Tomorrow we'll start building your strength back to what it should be."

"Um." The protagonist planted themselves more firmly. "I'm leaving. Now."

"Ha." The antagonist dropped a load of books onto the coffee table between them, narrowed their red eyes. "I told you, I need a Hunter in my town to maintain order, keep my predators in check. Your presence, half-trained as you are, is already missed. With [Mentor] gone, we have no choice. I shall complete your training."

The protagonist burst out laughing.

"Indeed," the antagonist said sourly, returning to the bookshelves. "Tempted to laugh myself."

They gave a kick to a green book on the lowest shelf. The whole row of spines fell open to reveal, yes, a false compartment. But before the protagonist could say I knew it, the antagonist fetched out - two silver-edged swords. 

One was the protagonist's practical, no-nonsense gladius. The other was a rapier; an elegant piece of work. The protagonist had never seen the antagonist before with a sword in their hand - monsters hardly needed weapons - but they had no doubt from the antagonist's stance, their grip, that this was a deeply personal and extremely deadly tool.

The antagonist kicked the gladius across the polished walnut floor to the protagonist's feet. "Key to the door is in my pocket," they said, taking a familiar defensive stance. "You think you're ready to get back out there? Go on. Take it."

The protagonist had caught the handle of the blade under their bare foot. Their fingers itched to grab for the leather wrappings, to reduce the world down to the simple stakes of life or death. But they did not.

They scanned the room again - the sound-muffling tapestries, the human-sized furniture, the heavy locks on the doors and windows, the stack of books pulled from the shelves, the way the antagonist held their sword... They felt their stomach lurch again in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol. They felt sick and so horribly, horribly stupid.

"Oh fuck me," the protagonist whispered. "There's no 'Hunters' organization, is there? It's you. This is how you've stayed on top of the monster heap for so long. You're running the Hunters as... what, your tools? Your boogeymen? Your assassins?"

The antagonist flicked their sword through a careless pattern. "There we go. Points at last. Only half credit, though," they added. "I didn't found the Hunters. I'm not that old. But yes, after the Gunpowder Schism and fall of the Antioch Council - you'll read about it in the third book from the top there - I took responsibility for keeping a Hunter cell alive in my city. And I do mean 'alive' literally. You have no idea how many times I have intervened to keep you and your predecessors from meeting the same fate as most of your fellows."

Now the protagonist lunged for their gladius, brought it up with a shaking hand. "Was [mentor] in this room? Did you kill [mentor] to get me here?"

That wiped the sardonic smile off the antagonist's face. "No," they said gently. "And no. It's... preferable when I stay behind the scenes." The antagonist lowered the point of their sword to a cautious rest. "She never knew, though by the end I imagine she suspected. The good ones figure it out and she was..." They swallowed again. "I truly will miss her."

"Don't you dare talk about her!" screamed the protagonist and flung themselves at the antagonist.

The fight was fast because of course it was. The protagonist's wild swings were expertly parried, and then a swipe. Closed fist to the face - a mercy. If it had been a slash of those claws to the throat the protagonist would have been bleeding out, dead in seconds. Instead they were flat on their back on the wood floor, their cheekbone aching and their wrists pinned with one hand.

"You were watching the sword, not me," the antagonist sighed above them, carefully pushing the gladius out of reach of the protagonist's thrashing. "This is why I hate teaching."

"I won't work for you!" the protagonist howled, flailing against the antagonist's weight pinning them down. "I'll die first!"

"Oh, if you won't work for me willingly, I definitely won't let you die," the antagonist purred, flashing their fangs. "You know too much now. Does the phrase fate worse than death ring a bell?"

A rush of pure animal fear froze the protagonist in place as cold breath ghosted over their face. The antagonist smirked and let go.

"Read the books," they said, rising to gather both swords and the half empty bottle from where the protagonist had left it in the couch. "Eat the soup. You've got a lot to learn: up to you if I have to make your life hell to make you learn it."

The protagonist rolled painfully up to their feet. "How do you have all this?" they snarled, a hand to their ringing head, "Who are you?" 

The antagonist shot them a tired, disappointed look, like they'd failed a test. "What you should be asking," they said with a half-hearted smirk and a swish of the rapier, "-is who was I, before I became this. Get reading. Fate worse than death, remember?"

The door slammed and the lock clicked.

[angrymongol01-archived]

a/n: just another short and self-indulgent Kenma drabble that I've typed on Notepad again hehe; was inspired to do one after I've had my hair cut short yesterday, and is thinking, 'Kenma fixing your short hair and tying it into a bun'; also, I borrowed the 'Kenma's s/o sucks at playing games that's why he's offering to teach them but secretly wants to hold their hand' hc from @ugh-tsumu 's answer to an ask I've sent last month, so thanks ^^;;

note: this is, again, not proofread and stuff... but I've been careful in using my past tenses so *shrugs* ^^;;

warning: none, this is pure domestic fluff y'all!! Enjoy the cute Kenma crumbs~ *bows* :)

------ <3

[8:38 am]

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air as you slowly and sleepily walked your way into the kitchen.

"G'morning..." you yawned.

Holding two cups of hot coffee, your boyfriend Kenma greeted you with a soft smile on his lips, and gave you a forehead kiss before handing you your cup.

"Morning, kitten! I hope you've slept well after what happened last night."

"Ugh... please, I don't wanna remember about it! Why're you being so rough at me!?" you pursed your lips and stared coldly at him, taking your seat.

Kenma smiled back in response. "'Cause you sucked at playing Valorant, I have no choice but to guide you." A sip of coffee.

You sipped a bit into yours. "Sheesh... I know you're doing it because you really want to hold my hands, you touch-starved cat boy!"

Blush crept across Kenma's cheeks, his golden cat-like eyes widened. He cleared his throat.

"I-I'm not... maybe you are-" which it's your turn to blush "-also, what a nice bird's nest you've got there on your head, Y/N~"

"What do you mean... ha!?" You embarrassingly tried to fix your short mess of a hair, while fuming a bit at a slightly giggling Kenma.

"You copying Kuro's bedhair or something?"

"S-shut up, you... I forgot to tame it earlier while washing my face in the bathroom, and I can't find my hair scrunchie-"

"You mean, this hair tie?" he raised his wrist to reveal a mint green patterned scrunchie. "I saw it lying around on the floor earlier and picked it up."

"Kyanmaaaaa...." puppy eyes mode.

He really can't resist that cute charming look of yours, one of the reasons why Kozume Kenma love you dearly.

He got out of his chair and headed over behind you, his long setter fingers skillfully gathering and finger-combing your short messy hair.

Which you loved; you slowly closed your eyes and hummed at his touch, melting comfortably...

Kenma twirled your hair into a high half-bun and secured it with your scrunchie.

"There, all good!" he leaned over and kissed your cheek, earning a smile and giggles from you. "You look beautiful, my Y/N...."

You gently cupped your hand onto his cheek, which he nuzzled and kissed over your palm lovingly. "And you're my handsome Puddinghead. Thank you~ and I won't stop saying 'I love you (too)' to you for days and years and more to come..."

"...and vice-versa."

DO NOT REPOST/EDIT WITHOUT PERMISSION. PLAGIARISM IS A CRIME, KIDS. LIKES ESPECIALLY REBLOGS ARE HIGHLY APPRECIATED. ALL WORKS © angrymongol01 - 2021.

My Masterlist

[mandalorewhore]

Hunter (formerly Hunter and Prey)

Cis-Female Reader Insert/ Din Djarin

Gif by @themandaloriandaily

Thank u to @cptnbvcks, @whenimaunicorn, and of course @no-droids for the inspiration and your superior writing skills, whenever i was stuck on a portion i would reread all of u guy’s works and feel inspired again

Rating: Explicit Content Warnings: Exhibitionism, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Breath Play, Deep Throating, Masturbation, Pining, Depictions Of Violence, Canon-Typical Violence Words: 11k AO3 LINK

Summary: AU where Din Djarin stays with the mercenary group owned by Ranzar Malk. Takes place a few years before Din is contracted for Grogu's bounty. You're a merc trying to make a name for yourself in the group when circumstances end up having you run away with Din. You become his hunting partner in order to support yourself but you cant help falling in love with him, even as trained killers chase you across the galaxy.

FULL FIC:

As a mercenary, you wouldn’t consider yourself an overly sensitive person. 

Maker knows you wouldn’t have lasted a week in the job if you couldn’t handle your emotions. Although you don’t consider yourself entirely void of empathy, having a sense of detachment is useful when your waking hours are spent committing crimes throughout the galaxy.

          So why the fuck are you so jealous right now?

          The obscene moans and harsh slapping that echoes throughout the hangar shouldn’t inspire a larger reaction than disgust as you dutifully continue to repair the blaster marks on one of the rogue-class starfighters. Luckily, it seems that most of your immediate associates have ran off into the deeper areas of the bay to toll your last mission.

Excluding three members, you guess.

          Thank the fucking Maker Migs isn’t here You think bitterly, willing the sparks to fly higher and machine rumble louder as you carefully manipulate your buffing laser on the metal surface. His snarky attitude certainly wouldn’t lessen your misery as you try to drown out the sounds of sex. Raunchy words hiss, bouncing off the metal walls, before finding your feet and slithering up your limbs with a foulness that chokes you. Controlling the hot spinning laser seems to stoke your inner seething more than it distracts you. 

“Mando! Stars, keep-fuck- keep doing that,” you hear Xi’an echoing. Fucking Xi’an. She knows what she’s doing to you. The cruel Twi’lek is far too observant to not know that she is practically comm-station broadcasting her sexual exploits to the entire crew, and with that sheer volume, might as well the entire galaxy. You truly wouldn’t care about her sex life if it wasn’t blatantly obvious that Xi’an was doing this to mock you. You know this is meant for your ears only, a repeat of every other time you’ve found yourself stuck with this chore.  

Even if she wasn’t directly rubbing the fact that she was fucking the Mandalorian in your face, you don’t doubt that she would find a way to taunt your nonexistent sex life just for the fun of it. Another salacious moan echoes in the bay causing you to cringe and slightly jerk the repair tool in frustration.

Fuck, why did it have to be Mando? Aren’t there enough people on this kriffing space station to warm her bed? And how is he being so quiet right now? After a second you remember that’s a stupid question, considering he is probably the quietest person you’ve ever met.

His reservation serves to intimidate your targets, all the while unintentionally stoking that warmth in your belly when you are near him. His all-encompassing presence when he enters a room strikes fear in the hearts of the opposition, meanwhile, you are secretly pressing your thighs together in desire, enjoying the spectacle?.

 You’ve found yourself reveling in the few jobs where Ran’s strategy has you in a decoy-role, weaponizing your feminine charm to lull your target into a false sense of power. The muscle composing of Burg and Mando make quick work of those men once they're thoroughly wrapped up in your wiles. Despite being placed together for jobs on several occasions you’ve never actually had a real conversation with him. 

You’re too scared to talk to him, a near-silent man covered head to toe in Beskar, but you make money killing people and robbing gangs every week. It would be funnier if that purple freak wasn’t so vile. You don’t even know how to casually approach him.. Nice job killing those guys while I manipulated them into trying to fuck me! I’m pretty good with a gun, too. Maker, it’s so ridiculous that you don’t even bother with trying to figure it out. Other fantasies are easier to picture, such as the thought of him strolling across the room to slot himself in-between your spread legs, directing that intensity into your willing, aching body.

  This infuriating crush is why you suppose that your envy wouldn’t be as biting if you caught some sort of noise from the man during these displays of exhibitionism. It would give you something to repeat in your mind while you stow away in the late hours of the night seeking your own release. You guess the inability to hear him is proof of how far Xi’an is pushing her volume. It’s all just to piss you off. 

“Uhg, how miserable..” You mutter to yourself, allowing a little moment of self-indulgent angst. Typically, you wouldn’t allow yourself to wallow like a petulant teen seeing as you’re a literal fucking criminal. 

I’m supposed to be a hardass, dammit you think, spirits low as repairs wrap up far too swiftly. You swear you’ll buff right through every layer in the ship if you keep procrastinating on finishing your job and wandering into the tucked away fresher for a shower. Wandering past….them.

Wherever they are choosing to fuck can’t be that far considering the slap of skin on skin is already fucking loud enough. The sounds seem to be emanating from a vent not too high up the wall, you deduce it connects to one of the bunk rooms not too far from the landing pad you’re working next to. It really is fucking loud with all these metal surfaces to echo off of. Making your way to your small bunk might cause you to go deaf and if the last thing you ever hear is Xi’an wailing as she rubs in the fact that you aren’t fucking Mando, well, you might just take this spinning laser to your head. Unfortunately, at this point, the exterior of the gunship couldn’t possibly get more pristine.

Sighing in defeat, you push up from your crouching position on the metal floor and start to assemble your tools for clean-up while the sounds of Twi’lek pleasure predictably pick up  in volume.

“Fuck, fuck-Ah I’m close, I-I’m going to-“ A literal howl pierces the air as your gut twists with discomfort. Fuck, this is so awkward... and like, weird? Does he consent to this? Does he like that we can hear it? Maker.. Pushing that thought out of your mind you start to jog to your goal of the darkened hall that leads to the station fresher, still so wrapped up in jealousy that you almost miss the rough modulated growl accompanying the scream.

 O-oh.

Oh shit. Was that Mando….Moaning?

The swirling jealousy is suddenly overtaken by a- stars- painful heat, so debilitating that you stumble and almost double over with an intensity that shoots through your groin. Okay well, now you feel like an actual pervert. This display of eroticism was engineered by Xi’an to make you uncomfortable, not so painfully turned on that it’s dizzying. You vaguely register a growing slickness between your legs as you hurry along the cold hallway, desperate to drench yourself in icy water and pretend to forget the sound of Mando moaning.

Shit, Maker, was he cumming? Was that what he sounds like when-- no stopstopnope. Don’t think about that. Your inner monologue is running amuck as you desperately try to block it out. This feels kinda gross, as if you’re a greasy peeping tom spying on Mando’s private endeavors even though this whole situation was shoved in your face to make you ache in countless, longing ways.

That deep growl repeats in your mind as you hum nonsensically under your breath, tapping your skull as if you can knock the sound out of your consciousness despite being well aware that you will go to your fucking grave with every detail. The top of your inner thighs is so embarrassingly slick that you have to resist waddling along the corridor to the showers. Just as you are about to round the first corner, one of the side bunker doors slides halfway opens with a whoosh. The smirking Twi’lek saunters out like the loth-cat who got the cream.

I suppose she did get the cream... Your split-second of sour mirth is further spoiled as Xi’an slides the rest of the door open revealing the gleam of silver beskar and red steel as the ever still Mandalorian adjusting his…thigh armor. You spy a large vent at the junction between wall and ceiling, confirming your earlier suspicions that she chose this location on purpose. Quickly glancing between Mando and Xi’an, your face uncontrollably floods with fire when her giggles pierce the air. You register his helmet tilting toward you right as Xi’an’s tongue slowly extends to liiiick her fingers, any curiosity at his gesture burning away in revulsion.

What does she get out of making everyone uncomfortable? You think to yourself, wanting to squirm away from the obscenity but resolving to hold your ground.

“Xi’an,” You greet the two shortly, hands linked behind your back. “Mando.”  He nods.

“Sorry,” Xi’an offers in a voice devoid of guilt. “Were we being too loud? I would never want to distract you from your… projects.” Her taunting smile curls so widely that it is almost disturbing. “What would the team do without our junior mechanic!”

Her cackle rings through the suddenly freezing hall as you spin on your heel and try to not look like you’re fleeing. Red is tinting the edges of your vision from her insult while tears threaten to flood your eyes out of embarrassment.

You need to get to that shower quickly.

    ----------------

  As the tepid shower rains down on your flushed body, you childishly wonder if you should run away. Or rather, if you could run away considering you technically don’t own any of the ships currently residing in the hangar bay. Although you technically have free reign to pilot most of the spaceships available, that freedom entirely applies to transportation between merc assignments . The thought of running away from your current acquaintances on a stolen ship is not appealing. In fact, the only crew member owning a personal vessel happens to be Mando, his Razer Crest gunship was often subject to your mechanic skills.

Mando, who always offered a genuine “Thank you.” after you’d spend hours touching up the vessel’s damage procured from the rare missions he lent its flight to. Mando, the person who you are presently trying to not think about while naked and still trembling with emotion.

Your sillier fantasies would sometimes involve stealing away in his gunship, hand pressed over his chest and leg thrown across his lower body like a romance novel while he skillfully pilots the ship away. Kriff, you felt like a soft girl whenever you run this scenario through your mind, so cliché and campy that you cringe at yourself. Thus, this particular dive into your consciousness was reserved for special moments such as lying in bed after a strenuous job, or after long days spent working through that junkyard of hangar bay trying to strong-arm your way into earning worth in the company. Private moments where you are finally comfortable letting your guard down to drift aimlessly throughout maladaptive daydreams.

Not so soft fantasies exist in your mind as well. Once again that modulated groan springs to the forefront of your mind causing your clit to throb softly. The conflicting feelings of embarrassment, rage, and painful arousal serves to create an energizing cocktail that goes straight to your pussy.

‘Fuck it,” You whisper breathily to yourself, “Nows as good a time as ever..” your fingers are trailing down your stomach as you say the words out loud. You adjust the water to be slightly warmer and sigh as the comfortable heat compliments your tickling fingers. If only you could replace your hands with the significantly larger leather-clad ones of a certain bounty hunter. The thought spikes your arousal as you lightly brush against your mound, choosing to tease yourself as images flash through your mind. The armor-clad Mandalorian gripping the back of your neck to you press facedown on the floor of his ship and take his cock. Or your legs spread wide across his hips, crushing your pussy on his groin while he’s seated in the pilot seat of his ship.

Your fingers dip slightly into your slick hole then drag up to your clit causing you to bite your free palm and hold back a moan. Eyelids heavy, you give in to the fantasies and begin to earnestly rub at your clit.

“Mmf Maker, f-fuck..”, you whine into your hand at the thought of him breaking your pussy open. You just know he fucks hard -- it’s a given that the crazy Twi’lek would be one for rougher sexual affairs. Someone who spends nearly every moment of life feeling nothing but the weight of fabric and beskar on their skin must be so fucking touch starved. You bet the opportunities he’s had to feel a tight cunt wrapped around his length would completely overwhelm his restraint. Muffled moans begin to fill the fresher as your fingers speed up between your legs, head hanging forward into the metal wall and water dripping off your brows.

Your eyes flutter shut as you pull your hand from your lips to tug at your hardened nipple, other hand still between your legs, imagining a dark visor being trained on your soaking wet, writhing body. The image sends a shooting pleasure up your spine as you spin around and press your back to the wall. Imagining his dark form watching you from the other side of the gathering steam, you open your thighs and spread your labia apart, sighing at the wet sound it makes. “Like what you see, hunter..?” you whisper into the empty room wishing he would find you in this shower.

Removing your fingers from your nipple you reach down to your crotch and greedily fill yourself with two fingers, pumping in and out as your other hand works at your swollen clit. The volume of your now unmuffled pleasure is likely overheard by anyone on this section of the station, but you can't find it in yourself to give a shit. If Xi’an can screech out her orgasms at any given opportunity to fuck with you then let them hear.

Let him hear.

Your imagination runs rampant at the notion that he could hunt down your gasps and take care of you himself, causing you to gasp louder. S-shit people can hear you, you just won't say his name out loud, it's fine, it's f-fine- The thought of him discovering you here is so hot that it's blinding, and suddenly your orgasm is rushing up to crush you entirely.

Your lower half is locked tight then suddenly your knees buckle and you’re cumming hard. Your choked gasps cutting through the steamy shower like blaster fire as you peak higher, uncontrollably calling out for the Mandalorian while white-hot pleasure wrings you dry. Let him hear you crying for him as you gush around your fingers, convulsing in bliss.

     In the shuddering aftershocks, you don’t hear the uncharacteristically loud padding of leather boots retreating away from the fresher door.

    ------------------------------------------

    You’re good at your job. You wouldn’t be doing it if you truly couldn’t handle the ordeal of being a mercenary. The whole point of the job is to take care of the dirty work, so those far disconnected wouldn’t have to dwell on their choices too hard. You’re used to not asking questions, motivated by credits and reputation alone. But in moments like these, a job going this awry… well, you just feel like pure shit. This hit was way too easy and far too filthy even for your career mostly consisting of professional filth. It was so glaringly obvious that even if your associate’s numbers were sliced in half, you would still sweep the ground with your winnings.

And what meager earnings they are.

The crew’s assignment this round was to hit a casino shipment just outside the outer rim planet of Cantonica. Due to the Razer Crest’s ability to fly under the radar of both Imperial and New republic records, Ran rudely allotted that Mando should allow his ship’s use for crew transport. You’re surprised he agreed at all, but perhaps the prospect of gain motivated him. His motivations are rarely clear to you. You’re guessing the price of a wealthy city’s supply sounded frankly too tempting for everyone involved; Ran was practically salivating over the drawing board for this particular errand. One would imagine a hull stacked to the top with credits and the finest luxuries for Canto Blight’s flashy tourists. It is Catonica’s main attraction after all.

But once the team’s resident crime droid, Zero, breached the cargo ship's record, the whole team is  informed that the cargo-freighter ship only contains “organics”.

Slaves.

          In the end, Migs remarked that there may still be something of worth to obtain from this job, and thus the plan morphed into an robbery on the surface once the cargo landed at its isolated dock. You reluctantly agreed to continue while Mando shortly nodded, both of you last to assent on this change in direction.

----------------   

Some hours later you’re crouching in a derelict warehouse while the lessening blaster fire showers spark like fireworks across your corneas. The fighting between your crew and the dockyard guards has almost died down at this point and you take the moment to catch your breath behind a large stack of cargo boxes.

          “Holy stars,” you gasp out, head falling between your knees as a wave of guilt consumes you momentarily. This job fucking blows. It’s so much easier robbing Imps and gangs because they are inherently bad fucking people. Robbing a group of slaves is the lowest point you think you have ever hit in your life. This is so wrong, this is so so wrong, they don’t even have ownership of their own lives and here your crew of fucking mercenaries swoops in with a vengeance over being cheated out of something that we didn’t own in the first place.

The last straw was when you witnessed a young bedraggled woman fearfully tossing the Twi’lek sibling, Qin, a small wooden necklace, the last possession from her life before slavery. You ended up turning tail and running deeper into the dock while Qin needlessly hissed at her just to enjoy her terror. You’re sure he’ll just toss the thing after the job is over.

“I never would’ve agreed to this…” You breathe out shakily to the empty air, hollowness swallowing your ability to compartmentalize your humanity from the nature of this work. You are still fighting the impulse to give in to that deep pit of sorrow when a large shadow makes you start and grip your blaster before relaxing in recognition at the chrome gleam.

          “Oh, hey, Mando,” Smiling tightly in his presence as he approaches silently, his helmet tilted down at your crouched form. His gaze makes you straighten up quickly, realizing that you probably shouldn’t look so stricken in front of your crime associate. Gotta look tough, can’t let people think you’re too soft for this work. Man, didn’t he help start the company? That thought motivates you further to stand up and face him head-on.

 “Not what we expected huh? Certainly no Canto luxury here..” you quietly murmur to his cheek groove.

If you looked directly where his eyes might be he would likely catch the sparkle of moisture threatening to pool at your bottom lashes.

          “No,” he breathes shortly through the modulator. “Not this.” Something in his voice inspires the bravery to glance at his T-shaped visor. Compared to his usual tone of speech he almost sounds …stricken right now. Distraught by this display of debauchery your crewmates have shown the slaves and few people manning the dock. It's not noticeable unless you’ve been around him enough to read him on some level but deep down you know he feels the same way. You try to recall him taking part in the violent takeover and realize he was barely present for the ordeal. Aside from the initial violence that broke out during landing he hardly did anything and was noticeably absent once the slaves were targeted. In the back of your mind, you pray that he won't be reprimanded for the lack of effort. The thought is ridiculous but you’re scared anyway.

Stars, this is all too much, your head is swirling with grief and stress as your heart rate picks up and suddenly you are so desperate for humanity, for empathy  that you lose your filter and-

          “Couldn’t stomach it either?” You blurt out to him, desperately hoping he understands and will not judge your deep sorrow for the enslaved people affected by this brutal takedown. Your mind catches up in panic half a second later when Mando doesn’t immediately respond. Did you just seek sensitivity from the Mandalorian? Fuck. Wait. That sounded like an insult too. Fuck um-

“Ah, um I-I mean. I just mean I don’t remember you firing on anyone helpless and I um- I didn’t either, I didn’t fire my blaster at all to be honest I-Fuck- I hid. They’re just slaves not Imps, Mando. The guards were taken out in seconds and-” You hiccup and stutter as tears gather at the edges of your eyes and begin to fall. You feel so overwhelmed with anxiety and guilt that all of a sudden you forgot about his open show of emotion.

Pull it together, don't do this in front of the Mandalorian. He is the very picture of a stoic, hardened mercenary and now you’re kriffing crying in front of him? It briefly registers that this is the first time you’ve ever spoken one on one with him, the both of you were almost always alone or with members of Ran’s party during time off. You internally curse your existence for thinking you could tearfully word vomit in front of a fucking bounty hunter and get comforted by him. Your knowledge of Mandalorians is limited, despite knowing one, yet you think the point of his whole creed about giving up your identity and giving yourself to war. Why the fuck did you cry in front of a damn Manodlorian? You’re just starting to unfreeze from your panic-stricken muscles to dab at your cheeks when a gloved hand swiftly brushes just below your eye to catch a tear.

          ‘This wouldn’t have happened if that Droid could do his job,” You glance up at him in shock at his biting tone juxtaposed with the gentle gesture, but he’s already turning away, voice rotating with his visor. “The worst is over now that the shooting stopped. Let’s round up the others.”

          He pauses with his back turned and you take that moment to compose yourself. You’ve only shed a few tears so your eyes can’t be that red.

“O-okay.. .” You reply, trying to inject your usual backbone into the tone of your response before moving to follow him around the piled boxes and regroup. Staring into your warped reflection in the back of his helmet you try to find the words to thank him but they get lost in the ghosts of today.

          Your mind is still swirling but the clouds of despair have mostly cleared away. You know you don’t have time to dwell on your short interaction yet your mind is fully absorbed in his every move, both present and past. Coming from anyone else his reaction would seem shitty and dismissive but coming from Mando... well, you're honestly shocked. Those two sentences were fairly long for someone usually so silent. And what about his reaction to the way this job has gone? Him brushing away your tears?

You are gazing down at your feet deep in thought when you suddenly bonk into the back of Mandos broad back, wacking your forehead on the base of his helmet.

          “Oww.” You groan lightly, rubbing your forehead and stepping to the right of his body, “Why’d you stop so sudde-'' It is then when you notice the muffled whimpering coming from the clearing in front of the both of you. A crimson pool of blood laps at the Mandalorian’s boots, its kiss staining the leather a deep black.

Now you are truly sickened, bile rising in your throat as a ragged gasp leaves your mouth.

          “Why…? How can you..”

          “Xi’an!”

          Your choked whisper leaves your lips at the same moment the Mandalorian fucking barks the Twi’leks name.

A crumpled form adjacent to her body is the source of the whimpering and bloodshed, their contorted limbs looking less than human as muscles strain against metal binders. Xi’an’s triangular blades are dripping in her grip as she spins on her toes like a dancer and flounces childishly in the direction of your frozen form. Tearing your gaze away from the shell of a human you meet her eyes with open hostility. She stops several yards away from you.

          ‘Aha! So good to see you two. Isn’t this job sooo disappointing?” She calls out to the two of you casually. When no one responds her body deflates as she twists her knee inward and clutches one arm peevishly. Performative. “What? No hello? I could’ve died today!” She cackles at the notion.

          Mando is a statue at your side. You can feel the rage radiate in waves off his body like a heater and you wonder what's going to happen if Xi’an pushes this further. Your heightened stress from moments before is vibrating throughout your nervous system, compelling you to step forward and speak up.

          “Xi’an… this-this is completely unnecessary. The only thing required to complete our hit was taking out guards! What the fuc- and they were clearly incapacitated by you before you decided to take your blade to their skin!” Okay, that came out a little shakier than intended, but it feels like a disservice to hide your revulsion for her actions with the victim lying right there. “You could’ve just hit em’ in the skull with a blaster shot if you needed them out of your way!”

          “Guards? Oh, I already took them out. This-” Xi’an punctuates the word a kick into the person’s stomach causing them to groan weakly, “Well, this is just an Organic as Zero would put it.” Organic? Fucking- You jump slightly and glance to your left when the Mandorlorian makes a shocked exclamation at her words. Maker, you’re so sickened you forgot he was with you.

“You mean a Slave? From the shipment?” He hisses the question through his teeth. You can’t see his face but you can hear the tension in his jaw, his body still a ridged form at your side. Xi’an pokes her tongue out and runs it lightly over the pointed edge of her teeth while she considers her response. She seems to be measuring her response to Mando with a little more care than she bothered with while speaking to you. You’re guessing that she cares far more about his perception of her than your personal attitude regarding the Twi’lek. Wouldn’t want to piss off her fuck buddy.

“Answer me!” He snaps when her response takes a millisecond too long. Your purple associate sighs, exasperated now.

“Yes a slave,” she hisses, drawing out the word in contempt, “Really I’m doing him a favor. From the looks of him, he was picked up on Tatooine. I doubt he even had a family to mourn him back on that shitty dustball of a planet-” Her eyes suddenly bulge as she clamps her mouth shut, gaze fixed on the armored man betraying a twinkle of... fear?

Slowly, you turn to him. The pit in your stomach is somehow weighing heavier than ever when you take in his body language. If you thought he was emanating white-hot rage before Xi’an’s response then you don’t even have words for how he holds himself now. You take a half step back in trepidation as the air around you seems to warp around the Mandalorian’s gravitational pull.

“A foundling?” His tone is unexpectedly quiet for someone who is manipulating the very atmosphere of this desert planet. Time seems to freeze. Shadows are ebbing at the edge of your vision and your head feels like it is going to pop in the pressure. You want to do something, anything, to relieve the pressing wall closing in on the three of you, to somehow end this interaction so that you can crawl in on yourself and bury the ghosts in the back of your mind. Fuck, your mouth is so dry, heart palpitating with a painful squeeze. Shit, fuck, what do you do? What did he mean by that question and why is Xi’an freaking out? You’re still fixated on the gleam of his helmet, rushing to find appropriate words when-

A flash of red explodes in your peripheral-vision, sparks seeming to fly 20 feet in the air. The words die in your throat in shock.

Did he? Did he shoot her? You barely saw him move yet as your mind races to catch up on this turn of events, you realize his blaster is drawn low on his hip, while the rest of him hasn't shifted an inch. The pressure cooker disappears in a sweeping wave of silence.

You swallow and turn awkwardly back to Xi’an. Oh.

He shot the slave.

Xi’an is just as stiff as you, her arms slightly raised as if she instinctively tried to ward off the blaster fire before realizing its trajectory. You are still processing his actions when a gloved hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you swiftly as he runs from the scene, tossing a flash bomb behind the both of you.

Without question, you run with him.

  ----------------

  “Hey!” Within minutes your chest is burning from keeping up with Mando’s relentless pace. You’re fit from your job but he's twice as big as you and probably more than twice as fast. You get the feeling that he's moving slower than usual so you aren’t left behind. Struggling to control your breathing, you attempt to make sense of the jumbled thoughts by wheezing out, “M-Mando what are we doing?”

“Running.”

“Okay, fucking obviously!”

“To the Crest.” He clarifies just as shortly. Okay. Okay, once you reach his ship maybe you’ll get more answers. Right now, both of your priorities align with getting the fuck away from Xi’an before her vision returns and she comes after the both of you. But you can’t yet push some of the recent events to the side.

“You shot him.” You mean to phrase it like a question but it comes out more accusatory than intended with how breathless you are. “The slave you shot-“

“I ended his suffering.”

Oh. That makes sense, even if it makes your chest contract in duress you recognize his killing the slave came from a place of empathy. What exactly did he say right before drawing his blaster, something about… foundlings? You don’t know the term exactly but contextually you can guess it means orphan or alone. Fuck, this is so bad. Just what are you going to tell everyone? He may not have directed his shot at the Twi’lek but he temporarily blinded her. That still counts as an attack on a member of the team. Your chest is burning unbearably now so you slap at Mando’s vambrance to signal your need for a break. He drags you gasping around a corner into the shadowy edge of the warehouse.

“Listen, hey, look at me.” His large hand reaches out to gently grip the side of your face, warm against your skin and smelling sharply of blaster residue. Looking into his visor you realize your cheeks are damp again as hysterical hiccups threaten to make themselves known. “We are going to run. You don’t have to come with me of course but I unintentionally put you in the position of being complicit by attacking Xi’an. That-that wasn’t the plan… but I was leaving the company anyway”

His chest suddenly deflates as he rids it of air.

You realize you were holding your breath at the same time as him as you gasp out, before rubbing at your cheeks and asking dumbly, “Y-you were… leaving the company? Is Ran pissed?”

Stupid question. Of course, he’d be pissed at losing the one Mandalorian in the group. Mandos' presence gave him cred. 

“Ran doesn’t know.”

“Ran doesn’t… what? When was this happening then?”

Mando’s visor turns away from your gaze and looks off into the middle distance. His gloved hand on your face is still gripping gently to lock you in place. “Today. That’s the only reason why I agreed to let him use the Crest for this job.”

He shakes his helmet slightly and turns back to your face, the metal covering his face becoming your main focal point while the room spins. You can't see his features, and never would, yet you feel as if you are looking directly into his eyes. Your body has impeccable timing when you feel your cheeks heat blushing.

However, your senses return in an instant when a familiar piercing howl echoes off the walls. The glove drops and he is gripping your shoulders,

“Can you run again?”

Adrenaline springs your limbs into action as you spin around, catching his wrist and pulling, roles reversed as you lead him in the direction of his ship.

Dust is billowing from below whenever your feet meet the ground. The steps sound like thunder in your ears as paranoia begins to worm its way into the forefront of your senses, every corner, every shadow, every blindspot could be hiding one of your former partners. Xi’an is an excellent assassin; time and time again her main skill has proven to be stealth, targets dropping dead expectedly. The Crest isn’t very far thankfully. It sits right on the back of the targeted freighter since Zero requires physical contact to hack the other ship systems for paths. Oooohh shit you forgot about the droid- 

“Mando, Zero’s in there.” You puff out shortly in between breaths. 

“Fuck that droid. I’ll take care of him, just back me up.” You both slide around a corner as he responds, bringing the two ships into your field of view. You are facing the rear end of the larger vessel, thankfully leaving the coast clear as far as you can tell. Mando’s helmet scans the area then nods, indicating the go-ahead with his fingers before running ahead of you. You follow him, casting fervent glances behind you for any signs of life. You reach the ship a millisecond after he does, his vambrance held high to lower the rear ramp. As the ramp begins to lower he grips your shoulders and spins you around dizzily.

“Stay right outside here. The second I enter the crest I’m dropping the Droid. I’ll call you once it’s safe.” You gulp quickly and nod in assent right before he leaps into the opening of the ship.

Seconds pass. 

Your nerves are plucking way more than they normally would.. You never particularly liked Zero, but the sudden turn of taking out your ex-allies is making you high strung and nervous. Zero’s voice cuts through the silence, making you jump.

“Mandolarian, you are back early. Were the prospects plentiful despite being Organics?”

“No.” You twitch when a shot echoes in the hull followed by the clash of metal on metal.

 The Mandalorian sharply calls your name springing you into action. You enter the ship immediately spying Zero’s body under the cockpit ladder, blaster wound still smoking with red-hot metal ringing the edges. Your eyes linger a little on the droid’s body, slightly leery at the death of someone who was your backup only hours ago, then you sigh and duck to get a handle on under his shoulders, dragging him to toss out the open entryway. 

Grunting with effort you direct your voice at the cockpit, “Tossing the droid! Take off when read- Shit.”

One of the droid's hip joints gets stuck on a portion of the hull wall, preventing you from moving his corpse. Something wizzes above you at the exact moment you duck down to adjust the body, right where the back of your head was a second ago. One of Xi’an’s triangle blades ricochets off the wall and slides across the floor, stopping right under your nose. Oh f-

“Fuck! Fly, fly, she's here Mando!” You lurch to the floor as the thrusters kick in, twisting your head to try and get eyes on the clearing. Through the rapidly closing ramp, you see a flash of purple skin, but before you have time to react the Crest door snaps shut. Heart thudding at what feels like a million beats per second, you try to get your bearings on the floor. Twisting sideways you suddenly find yourself face to face with Zero’s corpse, revulsion whipping through you like lightning as you scramble backward on your hands and feet.

    You can’t do this right now. 

    The last thing you want is to seem weak and needy in front of the man who just selflessly saved your life, for reasons still unknown, but you can’t do this right now. A creature of habit, you fold your neck between your legs, the same reaction you had to the violence on Cantonica. A minute, you just need a minute, a minute and then this horrible drone will go away, and you can deal with this, you’re a fucking mercenary…  the blackness swarming at the edges of your sight overtakes you all at once and you slide limply to the floor.

  ------------------------------------------

  You aren’t sure how much time has passed once you rouse. At your request, Mando tosses Zero's body before kicking into hyperdrive right about 120,000 feet in the air. You stare at its flight path until the speck disappears in the taupe shithole that is Cantonica. Feeling shaky as your adrenaline finally dips, you decide that the Crest could do with a once over before the long journey. 

After performing a quick analysis on the Crests systems it’s determined that the two of you are lucky this hunk of metal can fly. Hyperdrive operating at 67% capacity, weak communication signal if it even works half the time, plus more damage than you can currently process. If there weren’t five million different stressors weighing on you, your mechanic brain would probably explode at the current state of Mando’s ship. He probably should’ve taken it to you, or anyone else handy with tools if he wanted it to be in proper form for departure, but it makes sense that he didn’t want to draw too much attention. Hopefully, his pilot skills will compensate for the Crest’s sorry state. 

 To be fair, the whole blow-up-your-coworker-and-run-for-your-life aspect didn’t seem to be in Mando’s original plan. 

“So… where are we going?” You’re on the floor in the cockpit, back facing the passenger chair while the Mandalorian is seated pilot. After crawling under the console for a while you couldn’t bother to lift your aching muscles on the chair, resigning to scoot on your butt over to the closest object that could support you. As a result, you end up craning your neck to look up at him, his back straight in the chair. 

“My original plan was to head to Nevarro to take on a few quarries. I’m still with the guild and Karga doesn’t give a shit whether I’m running with Ran or going in alone.” You bite your lip anxiously. Oh yeah, you kinda forgot your presence threw wrench in his plan. He notices and tilts the helmet sideways at you, “You’re not in the way. I’m not concerned about you joining me, someone of your skillset is helpful to have around. I’ll introduce you to Karga so you can get on your feet.”

The compliment lifts your spirits enough to make you playful, poking at his boot with your toe, “Gee, glad I’m useful enough to keep around. All I have is my blaster and the clothes on my back, so if you drop me, I’d be  pretty fucked.” 

You giggle quietly but you know it’s the truth. All of your possessions are back on the space station, but you didn’t own too many personal artifacts, aside from some clothes and weapons. The only thing of use would’ve been your credits. You worry again at the realization, dipping your head before continuing to speak,

“Shit Mando, I don’t have any money on me. It was all back in my bunk, I don’t know how I’ll help pay for things around here unless Karga decides I can take on a quarry right away. Even then I’ll have to bring it back before I ever have a lick to my name.”

“You can make it back. I’ll split the profit from jobs that you assist me on. Cut depends on how useful you are and once you prove yourself, Karga will give you the decent pucks.” He swivels the chair and faces you, knees slightly spread as he leans forward in the chair, “Deal?”

You swallow and nod your head, mind blanking at how your head is level with the bend in his hips. You don’t think he's trying to come across as suggestive but the effect, intentional or not, invites a flutter of desire in your tummy. The Mandalorian leans back on his leather backing and sighs, the sound gentle despite the modulator warping his natural tone,

“You aren’t in my way. I swear it. If I had more time before leaving I would’ve asked you to join me anyway, you're good with your hands and always had more… compassion? Than anyone else in the company. I admire that quality.” That makes you straighten back up to meet his visor. He sounds nearly shy.

“O-oh…” You never even thought he noticed you aside from when you touched up the Razor Crest. The compliment sends warmth throughout your body, as languid as sex pollen in the near feverish effect. You don’t know how to respond at all, you’re feeling disjointed, like you may reveal too much if you don't change the subject soon. You wish you could be snappier but you’re exhausted. Maybe try for a joke?

“I g-guess you value girls good with their hands, huh. H-haha?”

Silence. Hm. 

That was the absolute worst thing you could’ve come up with. 

It didn’t meet even a single one of your simple ass goals, which entail the following:

Thank him.

Change the subject.

Not reveal how much his words make you want him to rail you.

    Wow, what the fuck- kill me. He hasn’t moved an inch, much less reacted to your shitty joke. The positioning of your bodies that you found so hot ten seconds prior is now a place you’d try anything to escape from. It’s almost comical how his height advantage serves to emphasize the disappointment in the small room. He hasn’t responded so you’re guessing he won’t bother to try. Heavy silence suffocates you to the point of desperation, you need to fill it with something right now or you swear you’ll die. 

    “I-I jus-t mean like- Well you had certain- ah- habits, you’d adhere to in your free time. Li-like um, I mean you didn’t hide much. Kinda obvious if you- listen, uh, I didn’t mean t-to say that I-I was joking around-”

“Get to the point.”

“I-” Your tummy fills with heat at his command. “Umm..” You wipe your hands on your thighs and glance down from his voice. The hours of on and off adrenaline must be majorly messing with your head. It’s kinda weird that you want him this badly after everything that went down today. Wasn’t your most recent concern something about avoiding death at the hands of a bitch you hate most in the galaxy? To be honest you can’t recall. 

The proximity of his groin is suddenly at the forefront of your mind. Again.

He slowly tilts his helmet to look at you, arms bending to settle in a relaxed position on the armrests. You are extremely aware of how you’re blatantly staring at him but your mind is slow to come up with a valid response, blankness written in the reflection on his visor. His position on the chair is mountainous, looming over your body in a way that boxes you in between the passenger seat and the Crest console. You feel like a prey animal... In a sexy way? Maybe?

Although, when he leans back into his seat, helmet still trained on your face, you are unsure if you’re actually pissing him off or not.

“Say what you mean.” 

Okay, the sexy is mixing a little with anxiety. 

“Ah- Um well, I just mean like. It’s not like you hid it from me- everyone else too. In the company. Ran’s company? ‘Cause, I- We… always overheard you and Xi’a- Her…” Fuck, your mouth is so dry that last part came out like a squeak. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling again um, I kinda thought you were doing it on purpose. With Xi’an. Making me hear when you’d...fuck her.” Cheeks blazing, you duck your head back down, which doesn’t help at all since you’re just face to face with his crotch once more. 

    “You say ‘always’...” Mando’s inflection is lost somewhere between statement and question, his tone confusing enough that you end up lifting your head from its bowed position below him. 

“Y-yes?”

“As in this was a common position you found yourself in? Did you overhear me multiple times?” Now he poses not one but two questions for you, neither of which you feel brave enough to answer steadily. You can’t deflect further at this point so you answer him with a sigh.

“No, I only heard you once. Xi’an always wanted me to hear her though. It was gross.” Mortified, you gather your legs under your body to stand up from the floor. You think the hyperdrive issue is fixed well enough to hold until Nevarro. When your hand reaches for the edge of the armrest to pull yourself up it is abruptly enveloped in warm leather. Half crouched, your arm jerks back a little in surprise at his touch. 

“I wasn’t asking about myself specifically. And I wouldn’t force you to participate in her games, had I known.”

Maker strike my ass down. Can humans die from embarrassment? You wish it were possible if it got you out of this conversation. He’s correct, he didn’t specify whether you had heard his moaning. If you weren’t nursing these stupid feelings for Mando you never would’ve given away the fact that you memorized every tantalizing second of what you overheard. Not only is this embarrassing, but you don’t want him to think you’re a sicko who wanted to eavesdrop in the first place. The clarification about his awareness of Xi'an's timing is comforting but not enough to erase what you already admitted to him. You somehow feel sweaty and bone-dry at the same time, a flush spreading over your face.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I heard you too.”

You both speak at the same second, and a beat passes before either of you process what the other said. He- what? What is he talking about? Are we having two totally different conversations right now? When did you ever fuck someone on that space station anyway… unless he means… in the fresher…

This time he is the one who breaks the silence, “You’re sorry for… overhearing me?” 

“Y-yes, I really, really, don’t want you to think I’m a creep or anything. Anything I heard was involuntary, I swear. Xi’an w-wanted to make me… Um…” You trail off shyly, sitting down again. His hand is still over yours.

“Get to the point.” His voice is filled with heat now, so low and compelling that you’d tell him anything just to keep it that way. You whisper your response, lifting your eyes to his dark visor wishing you could meet his gaze.

“She wanted to make me jealous. Over you.”

“Mm… You wanted me instead?”

“Maker, yes.”

The climate between you and the Mandalorian made a 180. Nerves dissolving like honey in tea, all at once being taken over by a hum of sexual tension while his fingers caress a warm pattern over your knuckles. Exhilaration builds within you, though in the back of your mind you are calculating the possible motives behind his advance. 

You know sometimes, after a particularly rough day, people are compelled to relieve their pent-up stress through intimacy. There’s a reason why the market of sex work thrives under wartime, terror existing constantly in a fighter’s life must be paired with the softer, inner-most comforts of knowing another living being, or they’d go mad with sorrow. Brothels made a lot of money during the last stages of the Empire’s rule from both Imps, Rebels, and neutral parties alike.

It’s not out of the ordinary for you to seek each other out right now, yet can’t help but dream that this might mean more. 

The Mandalorian’s hand currently encasing yours flips your wrist to trace the lines of your palm. Sighing you tilt your head to the side, a curtain of hair cascading across your features. His free hand reaches out to brush the strands away before he gently grips your jaw, hand large enough to press his thumb on the front of your chin while his fingers wrap lightly under your ear. 

“I heard you too, pretty girl. You called out for me in the fresher… just what were you doing in there? Describe it- please.” He speaks with such allure that you break under his voice, pressing your cheek to his palm.

    “I-I thought of you watching me while I touched my pussy. I was so wet thinking about how I want you to feel me after being under all your armor, Stars, even the wind can’t touch you Mando. I thought about how you must crave the feeling of something so soft… can I show you how soft I am?” Your free hand raises to rest gently on his knee, fingertips hesitating at the edge of his thigh piece. He is still fully suited for battle, explosives strapped to one boot and rifle across his shoulders. 

You wish so badly to help him unwind, you would never disrespect him by trying to remove his armor, but you want to help him move past the experience that was Cantonica. Mando continues to stare at you for several tense seconds before melting into your touch.

“H-helmet stays on.” He breathes out shakily, a slight tremor running through his legs as your fingers lightly explore the fabric under the edge of the piece of metal. “But the rest… the rest can come off.” 

He’s already moving to undo the magnetic connectors holding his cuirass in place so you scramble to follow his movements. The rust-colored armor on his body has complex enough attachments that you don’t really know where to begin. Your hands clamber around, mostly following his deft movements. Slowly a man of flesh and blood is revealed, and as his impenetrable exterior melts away you find the true shape of him. 

The armor serves to add a few inches of bulk on his features, enhanced proportions making out a dramatic silhouette designed to be spotted from miles away. Without it his body is still so powerful, built hard as stone and broad, hard angles melding enticingly with a hidden softness. Not hidden- you realize -it compliments him completely. The pieces fall away and you’re left with the unexplored bareness of him. He is human and warm, evidence of this betrayed in rare moments where his hands travel lightly up your arms while you work at his pauldrons, brushing through your hair here and there before finally returning to your jaw to hover in front of your lips. 

“Off.” He instructs shortly, brushing the seam of his thumb over your bottom lip. Your mouth falls open to explore him with your tongue, tasting salt, blaster residue, and a hint of the heat he holds in his body. Satisfied, you bite down gently on the glove ridge, watching as he pulls off the leather encasing his hand and drinking in the sight of golden skin as it is revealed to you inch by inch. All you’ve seen of him is one bare hand and somehow it is the sexiest thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on. Flames lick your body, spreading from your white-hot core, energy gathering with such impassioned motions that at any second now it will burst from your skin, a reaction so immense that you could birth another galaxy.

You want to taste his skin too.

“Fuck baby-” You take his middle finger down to the knuckle, emboldened by his slurred reaction, noises startling to babble out of the bounty hunter as his stoicism falls apart under your tongue. Humming around the digit, you start to bob your head gently, eyes locked on his impassive visor while filthy, filtered noises drift through the beskar. It’s like there is no barrier at all between you, the air thrumming with a longing so great that you feel one with the man crumbling before you. If you're not careful you will fall with him. 

“Mando, Plea-se,” You stutter around him, voice shaking more than intended. “I want to f-feel more of you, let me touch you, please-” You squawk, mouth empty when he suddenly rips off the other glove, tossing it behind him before reaching down his torso to pull the hem of his trousers south. You gulp in trepidation, unable to tear your eyes away as enticing dark hair displays itself, leading to the base of his cock. He pauses, but you’re so caught up in discovering him that you don’t notice the tonal shift.

“Before I show you this-” dark words enunciated by palming his cock through the fabric, “I need to know where to put it.” 

What kind of question is that? You’re honestly bewildered, mind blank before you realize that the options are overwhelming. In his own way, he is asking you to verbalize consent, which is very much appreciated. You want him in your pussy, to work his way deep in your body and in turn, discover just how human you are... yet… You feel oddly unprepared. It’s not that you don't think you can take him, in fact you can't recall ever being this wet in your life. It’s just… after today… you want to help him unwind but you’re still not fully there. You still want to please him, but you’re not ready to let him know you that way, not until you come back to yourself. 

So in that case…

“I want you in my mouth, hunter.” 

Mando growls then grabs your wrist, guiding it over the edge of fabric and onto his throbbing length. He shudders while you process the feeling of him. He is thick, the width of his cock so wide that your middle finger and thumb are straining to meet each other. You release him from his pants then try to pull at the hem to wiggle them down his thighs. He obliges and lifts his hips so that you can reveal more delicious olive skin, but he makes no move to assist you with his hands. You get the feeling that he is drinking in your efforts to touch him, the sensation of your jerky movements giving away how much you want him. 

You kiss and nibble at every possible moment, one hand drifting lightly over the length of him, twirling at the base dusted with short, dark hairs, cupping his balls then moving back up, your mouth traveling to meet your fingers. Hissing, his hand flashes up to meet the back of your head, fingers tangling in strands to tug tightly on your scalp. With a light moan, you tongue along the side of him, teasing hot air more than actually licking him. 

“Look at me- fuck - pretty thing, s-so fucking willing for me, I want to see you take my cock as far as you can, s-show me how much you can handle-” He pulls harder at your hair, dragging you roughly enough to control your neck, back up from where you were sucking at his hip to the head of his dick. “Are you going to show me yourself before or after I gag you on it?”

Fuck, you never realized how tantalizing submitting to another person could be, not until that came out of his mouth, rough enough to clip through the modulator. You elect to show him what you can handle. Leaning forward to meet the swollen tip, you part your plush lips and kiss at the drop of precum gathered there, before relaxing your jaw to take him halfway. He groans and nearly doubles over at the sudden sensation, holding you there for a second before you draw back up to spread your saliva more thoroughly. Lips rewet, you sink back down on him, gliding smoothly as you pull his cock deep within your mouth, drinking in his breathy groans.

“Maker, yes … that’s it, fuck-” You attempt to sink even further down on the Mandalorian’s impressive length, but stop short a few inches from his base, blunt head pressing in your throat. “-so good, s-so good for me baby, you look perfect like this.”

He’s so far back inside you that you can’t access your vocal cords to produce any noise at all, otherwise you’d be whining at his praise. Your hands are free to assist you at any time, you could circumvent his daunting length if you wanted help. But you want to impress him. Besides, your palms are warm on his torso, traveling under his shirt to feel the ropes of muscle there. You don’t want to remove them. 

You surface to the tip, taking a deep breath in preparation before ducking to take him as deep as you can manage. He watches you, entranced at the sight of a face so lovingly strained to please him. Your gag reflex spasms but you will it away, determined to fully engulf his cock at least once even if you find you’re unable to handle more. The noises rising from your throat are brutal and raw as you choke around him, his helmet blurring when tears fill your eyes. You bob a little then almost give up when the urge to retreat floods your senses but then he starts talking again- so filthy that you can’t stop yet.

“You’re trying so fucking hard, fuck, I love seeing you wrapped around my cock, Maker, you feel so fucking good, I can’t imagine how your little pussy must feel, you’re so warm, so, fu-fuck, tight…” The stream of filth serves as your motivation to bob for as long as possible on his length, throat stretched obscenely around him. You realize hazily that there are tears streaming from your eyes, but the urge to pull off is lost in dizziness as the oxygen in your lungs depletes. You keep going and going, your high at its peak as you recognize that your body is starting to fade in black. You should pull off and breathe, one quick breath is all you need, but the way he’s filling you is more addicting than the purest Spice. He notices when you start to slump into his lap and pulls you up gasping for air. 

Nearly fainting never felt so good.

“Shit, are you alright?” You nod and rest your cheek on his thigh, face turned on its side to meet his visor as he spins little circles in your vision. A soothing hand brushes against your cheekbone, tracing a gentle pattern on its height. “You were doing so good for me baby. No need to hurt yourself.” Mando’s voice is still breathless, offering you tenderness through a cloud of stimuli.

“I’m okay- I’m… I just need to catch m-my breath.” You’re still heaving unevenly but you want him so bad, you want him to finish for you, your wants translating into weak pawing at his dick trying to give him more sensation. He catches your wrist with an airy laugh and guides your uncoordinated movements to better stroke him. The sound fills you with light.

“Pretty thing, I know you want me. Try to not die on my dick before I’ve had the chance to feel your cunt.” His hand leaves yours on his length and reaches over your ass to cup the apex of your thighs through your pants. You jerk up and almost crack the crown of your head open on the chin of his beskar but his other palm is pressed between your shoulder blades, keeping you bent over in his lap. A garbled noise tears from you when his index and ring finger spread on either side of your outer lips, allowing his middle finger space to travel up and down your seam, so wet that you can feel the slickness gathering through two layers of fabric onto the tip of his finger.

“Ah, Fuck! Mando, I-I- wait please, please, wait-” He draws his hand up away from your wet center, reaching your asscheek before you yelp and snatch his forearm to stop him from retreating farther. “I s-still wanna, I wanna make you come. You first, before-before me.”

“Baby, you’re… fuck okay. Can I still touch you?” Mando caresses your hip at the fold where it meets your thigh. 

“Later, let me d-do this, please.” He allows you to lift his arm from your spine and rest it on the crown of your head as you move forward and try to meet his cock again. Pulling his thighs to the edge of the chair, you settle back on your knees and stroking him one-handed while he hums low in his throat. You wrap your lips around the swollen head, sucking and swirling your tongue before taking him deeper, this time using a palm to stroke the last few inches instead of opening your throat. Starting up a rhythm of bopping and stroking his velvety length that pulls incredible noises out of the Mandalorian, each one going straight to your swollen clit. 

Coming up for air you start to jerk him off faster with your slick hand, meeting the T of his visor with your heated gaze, hoping that you are finding his eyes. He must enjoy the sight of you jerking him off because his moans start to tighten, hips thrusting into your palm. 

“K-keep fucking doing that, good girl, fuck I-I’m close, where-where do you want it, baby?” You respond by settling low near his thighs, putting his cock above you with your tongue sticking out, wetting the tip while your wrist moves faster. Somehow he’s harder than ever and-

Mando curses through his teeth as his cock convulses, warm spurts of cum painting your tongue, cheeks, and nose bridge, rivers of him flowing down your chin and dribbling on the swell of your chest. He grips the back of your head tight enough to hurt, then rips one hand down to stroke himself, smearing the mess across your features. 

The fingers on your scalp loosen then graciously begin rubbing at the base of your neck to soothe the soreness on your head. One of your eyelids is sealed shut due to a rope of his cum crossing from nose to eyebrow, the other eye unfocused, hazy with pleasure as you listen to him come down from his peak. A low noise rises from your throat as he massages your scalp, feeling tingly all over as blood flows back to the area.

“T-Thank you… that was great, I-“ he breaks off when you start to gather his cum off your skin, licking it off your fingers while studying his visor through your lashes. “Hey, let me…” 

He surprises you by wiping at your face with his cape, still hanging off the arm of the pilot chair from when you detached it. You giggle, “Is there a way to wash that on here? I can’t even tell if that hole in the wall includes a shower.” 

“There’s enough to work with.” 

You laugh louder at that, “That’s encouraging. I hope there’s ‘enough to work with’ so that I don’t meet Karga covered in cum.” Pausing to consider your current position, you add, “Actually, that might help my case.” 

Face wiped mostly clean, you're able to open both eyes now, taking in his posture. A jolt shoots through you when you realize he’s holding himself differently for some reason, he looks almost predatory but maybe that’s just the effect of Beskar’s harsh angles... Nope, he’s leaning forward now, caging you in again.  

“You want to look sexy for Karga?” Gulping, you try to figure out the best response but he continues before your slow-ass mind can catch up, “You’re right, that might help you get better pucks. But I don’t know if I want my hunting partner to be introduced that way. I still need to return the favor…” 

He lifts your body with ease, pulling you sideways onto his lap. Mando’s warm hand slides along the bend in your knee, slow and sensual on your body. He caresses you aimlessly, relaxed in the afterglow of cumming so hard. You’re still tightly wound, energy balled in your body as his movements serve to wind you up even more. But he’s not moving any faster so you relax into his broad chest, enjoying the feeling of his bare skin. 

Time blurs with your senses. His touch pulls you to a place right out of your daydreams, where everything is draped in velveteen and silk. You’ve honestly forgotten his original goal in the first place, and as his arm begins to drag on its path, it seems like he has too. The stroking on your arm has lowered your arousal to a simmer, leaving you content to stay laying across his lap, the glow of hyperspace streaking over your bodies. All at once, you realize he’s no longer moving over your body, his chest rising and falling deeply against your shoulder. 

He’s asleep. Surprise registers sleepily somewhere in your exhausted mind, the realization behind layers of warm fuzz. Didn’t even think he slept. 

There’s a full day of travel until you reach Nevarro. Snuggling closer into the warm crook of his neck to resolve to live in this dream for as long as possible. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

[shutupandshipit]

5+1 - Oneshot

Summary: "Come on, Deku, spit it out," Kacchan growled. They were chest to chest now, his hand digging into the concrete behind Izuku's head. "You run your mouth all the time, but now you shut up? Cat got your tongue?"

No, not in the slightest. Something, be it Kacchan or the blood in his mouth or the pain spreading through his face or the tightness of his groin, had Izuku climbing straight up a wall. And as Kacchan continued to run his mouth, Izuku's resolve to just let it be was worn away little by little. He'd gotten better at rolling with Kacchan's temper and anger, much much better. On his good days, he did really well. On his bad day... Needless to say, today was not one of his good days.

With a clench of teeth and frustrated growl, Izuku grabbed the front of Kacchan's uniform to jerk it out of way and pull him in at the same time. Their mouths collided with a 'click' of teeth and mash of lips. Izuku had never felt so brave and so stupid and so exhilarated in his entire life as copper exploded anew on his tongue. A snarl pressed against his lips.

.....

Or five times Katsuki and Izuku got caught by the media making out in places that they shouldn't, and the one time they didn't.

Pairing: Bakudeku (because I only really write BkDk anymore)

Rating: M

Author’s Note: Welcome to another installment of my horribly self-indulgent fics. Also, 10 yrs of writing fanfiction, and this is the first time I’m writing this format? I’m behind on the times. It’s almost as bad as the fact that I’ve never written a coffee shop au. I’m slacking. Anyway, enjoy!

1:

It all started with a kiss.

Isn't that how the saying goes? Izuku wasn't sure. He'd been interested in girls his entire life, and never put two and two together about his fascination with male heroes as also liking boys. Well, it was more his fascination with Kacchan because he'd equally obsessed over male and female heroes. Really, he wasn't even sure if he actually liked other boys. It really just was Kacchan. Always Kacchan from the get go. From day one of their rocky friendship as kids.

He'd been interested in girls, sure. Ochako. Hatsume, fleetingly -very, very fleetingly-. Neijiro. Embarrassingly Mitsuki Bakugou when he was a kid. Mt Lady. Even Midnight for a spell, but he thought maybe that had more to do with peer pressure and pure sexuality than anything else. Strong, amazing women all in their own right.

No one could hold a candle to Kacchan though.

He just never thought he was sexually attracted to Kacchan until he saw him pressed up against the side of a school building, some nameless faceless boy's hands on him and lips on him and body on him. There had been a soft pink blush scattered across Kacchan's cheekbones, his hands fisted in the boy's blazer, his knee pressed up between the boy's legs. Even up against the wall, he was the one in control, the one setting the pace.

Izuku had stopped dead in his tracks, body going hot from head to toe as he stared, stared, stared. He stared long enough that when Kacchan pulled back for a breath, slitted crimson eyes flickered to him. And then a smirk had jerked up the corner of Kacchan's mouth, cocky and sure and sexy in a way Izuku had never thought of him. When he'd pulled the boy back in, he'd stretched out his tongue to obscenely lick into the boy's mouth, and the boy moaned wantonly.

He'd bolted. Of course Izuku had bolted. He wasn't made to endure such sights, especially after finally weaseling his way back into Kacchan's friendship. In all honesty, he'd been positive that Kacchan would find him later that day, punch his teeth in, and renounce him as a friend all over again.

That's not at all what happened.

What did happen set off a whole chain of events that Izuku had not imagined happening in a hundred universes. Instead, they all decided to converge in on this universe.

Was he mad about it? No, not really. Not at all, actually. Could things have happened differently? Sure, but the media was going to be up their asses no matter what they did. They'd already been up their asses since the sports festival in their first year, so what was this to add to it?

No, Kacchan did not punch his teeth in, but mouths were involved. Very, very much involved.

Later that day out on patrol with Kacchan, one of Endeavors sidekicks, and a mouth bloodied from a fight with a villain, Izuku leaned against the wall of an alley. His breath huffed out in small white clouds, the frigid city air almost burning against his lips. Outside the mouth of the alleyway, he could still hear Kacchan screaming at the villain even though he'd already been immobilized to await the police. There was copper on his tongue and pain blooming further along his cheeks and lights dancing beneath his closed eyelids. It had been a long time since someone had landed such a solid hit square to his face. The feeling was as unpleasant as the first time he'd ever gotten clocked. Only this time he'd allowed his teammates to finish dealing with the villain while he took a break.

Sniffling back a trickle of blood, Izuku thought, 'Just another minute. Another minute and I'll go back.'

Of course, Izuku couldn't have that one moment -that would have looked too much like a gift- before he heard Kacchan calling down the alley at the top of his lungs, "Hey, nerd, you fucking dead back here or what?"

Izuku didn't deign to answer him, but he did crack one slowly swelling eye open to glance at his friend sauntering towards him, hands shoved as deep as they could go into the pockets of his pants. He wore his winter uniform now, and Izuku had never gotten over just how good he looked in it. Only now, he recognized that as him being physically attracted to Kacchan. Shirt stretch tight and taut over muscles he hadn't had when they were in middle school. Pants straining over an ass he could bounce a quarter off of. The people who talked about Izuku's ass had clearly never turned their eyes to the Katsuki Bakugou's. Kacchan's winter uniform tested Izuku's willpower every. Single. Second.

"What? Too good to answer me now?" Kacchan sneered, stepping close so they were only a meager distance from each other. "Just going to stare at me instead, huh? Just like earlier? Seems you've developed a habit of staring, haven't you? Not that you weren't always a creepy little fucking stalker, but I never took you as a voyeur. Picked up a new passed time? Have to watch other people get it on because you can't get any yourself?"

Izuku wasn't really in the mood to deal with Kacchan's taunting, but his words brought back the images from earlier that day. Kacchan pressed against a wall, tongue disappearing into that boy's mouth, face pretty with pink blush, knee pressed flush against his partner's crotch. Heat flushed through Izuku's body all over again. Worse this time though was the feeling of his pants becoming just that much tighter. "N-no! I didn't mean to w-watch! I just got surprised!" he tried to defend himself, but the crooked set of Kacchan's mouth told him that he wouldn't get anywhere.

"Sure you weren't," Kacchan growled, stepping ever closer, their noses just inches apart now. Their bodies weren't that far either. "Did you go back and jerk off like the peeping tom you are? Imagine you were the one pressing someone up against a wall? Imagine shoving your tongue down someone's throat, fucking their mouth like they actually wanted you to?"

Actually, Izuku had gone back to his room and jerked off to the thought of Kacchan pressing him against that wall, Kacchan shoving his tongue down his throat, Kacchan shoving his hand down his pants. It had been a very awkward and revealing jerk session. One that had left him unable to look Kacchan in the face for the remainder of the school day and most of their patrol. "No! Why do you have to be vulgar all the time?" Izuku hissed as his eyes darted down the alley toward the opening. They were still blessedly alone though.

Once upon a time, he'd imagined being friends with Kacchan would had toned down his taunting, but no. Sometimes if felt like they were still against each other. No, this was just how Kacchan acted at least fifty percent of the time when interacting with others. Well, interacting with Izuku. None of the others got quite this much scorn. He had to admit though, most of it was self-inflected. Like now.

"What then? Got a problem with me being into dudes? You homophobic, Deku? That's not very heroic."

Izuku ground his teeth, turning his eyes back to Kacchan and wishing beyond wishes that he could just tell him he wanted him the same way that boy had had him without getting into a fight. He couldn't say that though because Kacchan would one hundred percent blow him up. He'd detonate his quirk right in Izuku's face and obliterate every single one of his stupid freckles.

"Come on, Deku, spit it out," Kacchan growled. They were chest to chest now, his hand digging into the concrete behind Izuku's head. "You run your mouth all the time, but now you shut up? Cat got your tongue?"

No, not in the slightest. Something, be it Kacchan or the blood in his mouth or the pain spreading through his face or the tightness of his groin, had Izuku climbing straight up a wall. And as Kacchan continued to run his mouth, Izuku's resolve to just let it be was worn away little by little. He'd gotten better at rolling with Kacchan's temper and anger, much much better. On his good days, he did really well. On his bad day... Needless to say, today was not one of his good days.

With a clench of teeth and frustrated growl, Izuku grabbed the front of Kacchan's uniform to jerk it out of way and pull him in at the same time. Their mouths collided with a 'click' of teeth and mash of lips. Izuku had never felt so brave and so stupid and so exhilarated in his entire life as copper exploded anew on his tongue. A snarl pressed against his lips.

Instead of pulling away and punching his lights out like Izuku expected, Kacchan gripped the back of his head, bit at his bottom lip to spill more blood, and turned his head to lick feverishly into Izuku's mouth. Kacchan kissed him like a man starving, and it was all Izuku could do to keep from collapsing on his jelly knees. He moaned into the kiss, fingers tightening in Kacchan's collar to pull him closer still, legs spreading enough for the knee that pressed urgently between them.

At some point, the only thing holding Izuku up became that knee between his legs pressed tightly against his groin and Kacchan's hands on him, one on the back of his neck and the other on his hip. That hand traveled further and further the longer they were there, the more desperately they kissed.

Kissed? Was that even the right word for what they were doing? Devouring was a better, more proper word for what they were currently doing. Hands gripping at waists and in hair. Mouths wide and moaning. Tongues hot and slick against each other. Izuku had never kissed anyone before, but in that moment, it couldn't have mattered less. When he inhaled Kacchan's groan, he knew his inexperience didn't matter.

Kacchan's hand slipped from his waist down over the rise of his hip to grip his ass tightly, and Izuku moaned, "Kacchan."

"Deku," Kacchan snarled into his mouth.

And then a flash went off.

Kacchan ripped away from him, cheeks blazing red and mouth smeared with crimson. His eyes were wide and completely focused on Izuku's mouth.

"Is that Deku and Dynamight?"

"It is! Quick!" Another blinding flash accompanied by footsteps running away from them.

"Fuck!" Kacchan snarled, whipping his head towards the opening of the alley, but Izuku didn't turn to look. If he turned his head, he'd be on the ground. "Those pictures are going to be all over the motherfucking internet come morning! God-fucking-dammit!"

Izuku was breathless and boneless, lips sore and chin slick with what he hoped was just blood. He knew better though. His cheeks and body were burning hot. "Stop cursing, Kacchan, there's nothing we can do about it now," he whispered, allowing his eyes to slide shut. Now that Kacchan's mouth wasn't superglued to his, all the strength in his body gave out. He slid to the dirty pavement. "I think my nose is bleeding again."

"Jesus, Mother Mary and Joseph," Kacchan spat, and Izuku laughed.

2:

After that first kiss, Katsuki made a point of not being caught alone with Deku for any reason whatsoever. If they were changing for patrol, he always made sure to leave before Todoroki's was done. If they were in the classroom, he only sat at his desk when he was required to. Otherwise, he loitered around Kirishima's desk. If they were in the dorms and everyone else was headed out, he shut himself away in his bedroom and definitely did not obsess over how much he wanted to get Deku under him again.

Katsuki had known for as long as he'd been breathing that he was fully and completely attracted to guys. There was no negotiation about that fact. He was gay, period. End of discussion. What was up for negotiation was the dirty secret crush he'd had on Deku when they'd been kids that had bloomed all over again just as he was managing to get over his mental road blocks and have a friendship with the nerd.

He didn't need that in his life. At all. He had other means of releasing his pent up sexual frustrations, all in the forms of students from other departments. They were fine as friends, and he didn't want to go ruining something that had taken so long to build in the first place. Was he just expected to flush two and a half years of progress down the toilet for one little make out session? No, absolutely not. Especially not one that wasn't even that great to begin with. The nerd had clearly never kissed anyone before, and remembering everything that Deku had done wrong helped Katsuki build the list of cons against doing it again. What it did not help with was remembering everything he had done right. And he had done so many things right.

The dig of his fingers into Katsuki's shoulder. His other set of fingers gripped harshly at the short spikes of his hair. The settle of his weight on Katsuki's thigh. The way he had moaned Katsuki's name. The taste of his blood on Katsuki's tongue.

Okay, so there had been a lot -a lot- of pros to making out with Deku as well.

But that still didn't negate the fact that Katsuki wasn't going to ruin everything. Plus, they really didn't need to be getting distracted from the bigger picture of graduation. And he wasn't going to ruin things.

Accept, well, he hadn't been the one to stumble over his crush and initiate the kiss. Deku had been the one to initiate the kiss.

Everything was so fucked up. So, Katsuki avoided Deku, and was doing a pretty passable job at it for about a month until they both landed themselves in the hospital. They'd been in the hospital at the same time plenty of times before, but they'd never shared a room. This time, the universe seemed hell bent on ruining Katsuki's avoidance plans. Granted, he couldn't say he was pissed to be roomies with the nerd. At least this way he'd be able to make sure he was okay. They had come close to dying plenty of times in their high school careers -maybe more so than any other students who had ever come through UA- but this time had been especially close. So close even that Katsuki hadn't been able to go back to sleep since waking up despite with all the drugs he was under, anxiety roiling in his gut the entire time. It only got worse if he closed his eyes, cut off his view of Deku.

He just lay in his bed, eyes wide open and bleary as he stared at Deku and waited for his to open again. All he wanted was to see green faux innocence staring back at him, and then he could sleep peacefully. His anger, dulled by the drugs, simmered quietly in the back of his mind. This, all of this just like always, had been Deku's fault. Even after more than two years of training, Deku was still the same stupid teenager that he'd always been. He was a great strategist and could come up with a plan in a split second, but when his heart was concerned? Good luck. It was like he lost all sense and became a blathering idiot. Unfortunately for Deku, his heart seemed to always be involved.

Deku had run headlong into a fight he couldn't win alone, and Katsuki had stupidly followed after him.

Now, they were both in the hospital -again and he could almost hear the years falling off Aizawa's life- and it was Deku's fault, but Katsuki just wanted him to open his eyes. To make sure that he was still alive and himself. To catch hold of those emerald irises again.

To his side, Deku's heart monitor's steady pace blipped, his breath hitched, his fingers twitched out the end of his casts.

Katsuki struggled to push himself up, kicking his legs over the side of his cot. "Hey, shitty nerd, you awake over there?" he called quietly.

"Kacchan?" Deku asked weakly, voice dry and scratchy as his eyelids fluttered open and closed several times, "K-Kacchan? Kacchan, where are we? What happened?"

Pushing himself to his feet and shuffling to Deku's bedside while dragging along his machines and IV, he stared down into bruised eyes that were shot through with burst blood vessels. "Hospital, where else?"

"Why?"

"Because we were fucked up. Why else?"

Deku blinked up at him, and he could see how slow the drugs the doctors had them on had made even Deku's brain. "Did we win?"

Katsuki couldn't help the smirk that immediately plastered itself to his face, but he didn't feel the smugness that usually came with it. All he could feel was the fear that he'd been feeling since he'd woken up. That pervasive fear that either of them could have died this time. That the one kiss -make out session, let's call it what it was- they'd shared would be their only. Katsuki was so gone for this stupid asshole, just like he'd always been. "Fuck yeah, we did. Who do you think I am? Just because you got your head bashed in didn't mean I wasn't going to win. I can win without your shitty help." In all reality, Katsuki had won because he'd gone postal after Deku had been knocked out. Now he was paying the price, lying in the hospital.

Green eyes flicked down, staring at the black compression gloves around Katsuki's hands and forearms, following them up to the bandages poking out of the tops. "Yeah, silly me," he whispered, but his eyes remained transfixed. Before Katuski could formulate his next sassy response, Deku said, "You went too far again, Kacchan, you can't keep doing that."

Katsuki couldn't keep the words from falling from his mouth, strained and choked and wet, "You almost died, idiot, and I almost-"

"Sorry to put you through that," Deku said, eyes sliding away from Katsuki to stare out the window. A thin layer of frost covered the panes. If it rained, they'd have snow by the morning. "If you had just let me then at least you'd finally be rid of me. Why keep saving me?"

Katsuki stared at him, confusion slowly leaking into his system alongside more fear. It was as if the drip of his IV was straight emotion, and had nothing to do with keeping him hydrated and out of pain. "What are you talking about?"

"It's true," Deku said, eyes distant and glazed as he stared out. They were on the fourth floor right beside a tree whose branches just barely reached the window, enough to gently tap in the wind. "You'd be better off without me. Not held back. You've pretty much been saying it since we were kids. You haven't even really looked at me in the better part of a month. What's the point of you continuing to save me from myself?" For someone drugged to the gills, Deku was talking an awful lot, but maybe this was all stuff Deku had been thinking for a long time so it didn't take as much effort to pull it up. "You hate me and are disgusted by me, so why go through the trouble?"

Or maybe Katsuki was overestimating how drugged Deku really was.

"Who the fuck said anything about me being disgusted by you or hating you in recent memory? No, really, who was it because it sure as fuck wasn't me," Katsuki snapped, the burn of his anger feeling more normal now, more like his usual level of anger. It burned through his veins, chasing away the ice of the drug.

Deku gaped at him, finally looking back with eyes more focused than they'd been in the past minutes. "W-wha- But you-"

"Don't put fucking words in my mouth, Deku. It's been two fucking years since I've actually hated your nerd ass, and as for being disgusted. Why in the hell do you think I'm disgusted by you?"

Red crept into Deku's cheeks, making the caramel freckles spattered across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose all the more obvious. He dropped his eyes to the thin blanket over him, curling and uncurling his fingers in the fabric. "W-well- Um- T-The uh-"

"Come on, spit it out! I don't got all night. I'd like to go to sleep again sometime this century."

"I kissed you," he hurried, cheeks only seeming to grow redder with the passing seconds, "And you haven't talked to me or looked at me for a month. Don't think I haven't noticed you avoiding being alone with me. You kiss me to within an inch of my life and then pretend like I don't exist, not just that it didn't happen, but like I literally don't exist. What was I supposed to think?"

Katsuki stared at him for several long moments that only seemed to make Deku all the more agitated. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know! Something! Anything! If you really don't hate me than a reason would be nice." He lifted his eyes, tear filled, but steely with determination, to stare at him.

The next words that came out of his mouth were due to the drugs. He would die on that hill. No way in hell would he ever admit what he did in that next moment if he'd been sober. No way in hell. "I didn't want to ruin our friendship. It took long enough to get back."

Deku's mouth flopped open. "What are you talking about? I was the one who kissed you."

"Yeah, but I'm the one who wanted to do it again."

Blinking rapidly, Deku's mouth slowly eased shut only for a smile to take its place. And then laughter was falling from his mouth, sweet, dorky, snorting laughter. Katsuki was going to combust. "Kacchan, did you ever think I wanted to do it again too? You just thought that- What? I don't even know what could follow that. Kacchan! You've been ignoring me for a month because you wanted to kiss me again?"

Katsuki could feel his face heating exponentially, and he gritted his teeth against the rising blush. "No one ever said that."

"You literally just did! Are the drugs making you forget?"

Leaning over Deku, Katsuki snarled, "These drugs aren't doing shit to me. I fucking remember everything." Except that one of those statements was a dirty, dirty lie and Deku knew that.

Eyes squinted with the force of his smile, Deku said, "Well, for the record, I want to kiss you again too and I'm glad you saved me. I'm glad your alive." He didn't look down as he made a grab for Katuski's hand where it had sunk into the bed. With his cast though, he could little more than flutter his fingers over Katsuki's.

Glancing down at their hands, Katsuki muttered, "Well, I guess I'm not pissed that your alive."

With a huffed sigh, Deku said, "I'd kiss you again, but I don't think I could pull you in right now."

Smirking, Katsuki lifted his eyes and leaned into Deku. The kiss started out slower than the first one; soft, exploratory, missing the taste of blood. It was a press of lips, a slide of mouths, a hand on the crook of Deku's neck and shoulder. Leaning heavily onto his hand, Katsuki leveraged himself over Deku, swiping his tongue over Deku's bottom lip that he accepted readily.

The hot, wet press of tongues turned the kiss inside out. Breath grew short, ragged, moaned. Tongues slid against one another, against the inside of teeth. Teeth clacked. Noses smashed as Katsuki tilted his head to get a better angle. He wasn't sure when he climbed into the cot, but suddenly there was too many wires and too many tubes and Deku's heat pressing up into him through a scant few layers of fabric. It didn't feel like his decision when he ground down into Deku's lap.

"Kacchan," Deku moaned between kisses, hips stuttering against Katsuki.

The heat of Deku's blush warmed Katsuki's palms. He groaned into Deku's mouth when fingers skimmed along his calf to hook around his ankle. "As soon as we get out of this hospital-" he snarled into Deku's mouth, but was cut off by a sudden flash of light in his peripheral view just like the time in the alleyway. "Oh, what in the everlong fuck?" he spat, jerking back from Deku as they both turned to look at the window.

A camera disappeared over the ledge.

"How are they even up there? Aren't we on the second floor?"

"Fourth," Katsuki snarled, punching the call button as he carefully crawled off Deku's bed and hobbled for the window. He willed the fabric of his medical gown and boxers to lie flat. "Fuckers. That's the second time. Endeavor's gonna be pissed."

"Mr. Aizawa is going to be pissed," Izuku groaned miserably, and he was right, that was the worse of the two.

A nurse bustled in at that moment, and as soon as she heard what had happened, she was out of the room again. She paused only long enough to order, "Get back in bed, Mr. Bakugou!"

3:

Things didn't really change after that, but that had more to do with the fact that Aizawa had them separate as much as possible due to the now two sets of pictures of them making out in places that they shouldn't really have been. That alleyway with blood smearing their mouths and the hospital while they were still recovering. He couldn't do anything besides lock them away in the dorms. House arrest with only class and occasionally their internships to break up the monotony. As much as he might have wished, he couldn't keep them away from each other in the dorms.

They were more careful though. After that, they didn't get caught because they got better at hiding. They stuck to their rooms -which they should have been doing the entire time- and within four walls provided any windows had curtains drawn. No longer out in the open. No longer where they can easily get caught. They're relationship went from nonexistent to hidden very quickly.

Izuku hated it. He hated it with every cell of his being. Finally, they figured their shit out -mostly- and were immediately forced to conduct their relationship in the shadows. He waited literal years for something he didn't even know was going to be a possibility. He'd held out silly hope, and when that hope was finally fulfilled... He couldn't even hold Kacchan's hand in the open without the teachers or someone else flipping out because "It'll be better for your career if you two are straight." Which... what? How did that even make sense? Yeah, popularity played a massive role in the success of a hero, but Izuku was 99.9% sure that a hero's sexuality had never played that huge of a role. Until he started to do research and couldn't find a single confirmed gay hero. Which baffled his mind.

In that moment, he decided he would be the first openly gay hero to be successful, and then he'd make history again by being the first openly gay No.1 Hero as well. And Kacchan agreed with him.

They'd still decided to keep a low profile because they were well known enough already, so hidden they were. They made it all the way to graduation.

The graduation party their class threw was held on the beach that Izuku had cleaned as part of his training with All Might what seemed like decades ago, and it was large. And rowdy. And loud. And alcohol was involved, so naturally stupidity. The party was everything Kacchan hated, and things that Izuku found invigorating to a certain point.

It was several hours and more than a few drinks into the party that Izuku had filled his quota on social interactions for the day, and teetered off into the dark down the beach. There was no moon, and the sea stretched endless and pitch black into the distance. Stars wheeled overhead, the Milky Way brighter than he ever thought he'd see so close to the city. The beach weaved out in front of him, the sand cool between his toes. The scent of salt and brine filled his nose, making his head just that much lighter. The waves 'shushed' close by.

He nearly fell ass over teakettle when a hand shot out to press to his stomach and another grabbed his wrist. Instinctively, he jerked away, but the hands held fast.

"Deku fucking chill," Kacchan's ever distinctive voice snarled, palms warm on his body, "You almost tripped over me."

"Oh, Kacchan, I wasn't expecting you to be out here." Izuku allowed himself to be guided to the ground by hands that grew gentler the closer he got. He straddled Kacchan's lap, resting heavily against his outstretched legs. Even as his head spun, Izuku could clearly focus on Kacchan, always on Kacchan. "You're so pretty."

Kacchan huffed out a gruff laugh. "And you're so drunk, shitty nerd. How much have you had to drink?"

"Not that much. Just a few drinks."

"How many is a few?"

Squinting, Izuku lifted up his hands taking a moment to appreciate just how weightless they felt before trying to count. Kacchan didn't let him finish after he restarted for the third time, and he whined. "Kacchan, I was using those."

"Not very well." Kacchan pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, leaving it tingly and warm. He nuzzled along Izuku's cheek. That had been new and surprising, Kacchan's need for physical contact. They hadn't gotten much further than cuddling and feeling each other up, but they had spent a fair bit of time just touching each other. Izuku loved every moment of it dearly. "Why aren't you at the party?"

Izuku sighed, leaning into the touch. "Got loud. Needed a break. I would ask why you aren't, but I already know."

"Oh? You think you know me so well, huh?" Kacchan's lips were pressed to the spot just below his ear, and he could feel his growl as a vibration more than actually hear what he said. He trembled in Kacchan's grasp. "Tell me why you think I'm out here."

Izuku turned his head, seeking out Kacchan's mouth with his own. If he'd been sober, he wouldn't have been nearly as confident as he pressed their lips together, wrapped his arms around Kacchan's neck, pressed their bodies flush. Kacchan was the one to lead most of the time in their relationship. It felt good to kiss first, touch first, hold first. He moved his mouth to Kacchan's ear, and whispered, "You just wanted to lure me out here so we could get all sandy and dirty without anyone else seeing. Naughty Kacchan."

Kacchan's gravelly laugh was and would always be the best sound in the world. The feeling of that laugh rumbling through his chest was Izuku's second favorite sensation, the first being Kacchan's kiss. "Caught me, nerd. How did you know?"

"I'm just that good." Izuku grinned as he returned to kiss Kacchan again. This time, they didn't stop. This time, it was all tongues and bitten lips and hot shared breath. Kacchan pulled him down so that he was lying on top of Kacchan's chest, the cool sand beneath them. Izuku moaned into the kiss as Kacchan's hands slid down his back to his waist, back up, and came back down to grip his ass tightly. Kacchan lifted his legs just enough that when Izuku ground down into him, all he saw was sparks behind his eyelids.

This was how their nights went. They'd sneak into each others rooms. They'd kiss each other senseless, hold each other close. Their hands would drift, their bodies reacting instinctively to each other, but it was as far as they would ever go. Neither of them needed to be sore going into training the next day. Neither of them needed to go to class smelling like each other either, even if their entire class already knew about them. Even if the entire world already knew about them. There was always a reason to stop, always a reason not too take it too far.

Izuku was tired of that though, and he knew Kacchan was as well. Each day, his hands grew bolder, hotter, needier, more adventurous. “I want-” he started.

“Yes,” Kacchan moaned into his mouth, and he drank down the sound, “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Please,” Izuku whined. He ground down harder, panted against parted lips, slipped his scared fingers beneath Kacchan's shirt.

It took an embarrassingly long time for him to realize that they were being watched. He hadn't seen a flash, but that didn't mean that they weren't using some form of night photography or a quirk. He clenched his teeth against the groan of his frustration, stilling above Kacchan at the same time Kacchan stilled beneath him.

They listened intently, mouths parted and close, sharing breath. They waited for another sound, another shuffle of sand or rustle of leaves. What they heard was the sound of a camera shutter.

“Yeah, that looks great. This is going to be such a hit. What a scoop.” The whisper was androgynous, and not quite quiet enough.

Izuku and Kacchan pushed up at the same time, anger driving them to their feet and towards the sound. “Hey, asshole, where the fuck do you get off spying on people, huh? You wanna die?” Kacchan shouted, explosions crackling in the palms of his clenched fists, sending up smoke tails.

“I won't let him kill you, but it's very rude to spy on people having a private moment,” Izuku chastised as what he assumed were paparazzi scrambled away. His head spun sickeningly, and he stopped before getting any closer.

“Where do you think you're going?” Kacchan shouted as they took off at a sprint. Izuku caught his arm before he could follow. “What the- Deku?”

“I think I'm gonna be sick.”

Snarling, Kacchan glanced between where they could still see the paparazzi stumbling across the sand and back to Izuku. Scrubbing a hand through his hair in agitation, he turned towards Izuku instead. “Don't puke on me, or you'll be the one I murder,” he grumbled as he leaned down to give Izuku a piggyback ride.

The pictures, of course, were the top trending images the next morning. Good thing they'd already signed contracts. The agency wouldn't be able to get rid of them for at least a year.

4:

Katsuki wouldn't say that they were careless, but he wouldn't say they were careful either. They kissed when and where they want, though they were quite a bit more tame than they preferred to be in their apartment. The apartment they'd gotten together after their first year out of UA. On the battlefield, in a convenience store, on the train, in the agency, at the park.

The park was where they found themselves that particular night, drunk and stumbling and giggly after an outing with the other heroes from the agency.

Deku crashed into a swing, laughing as Katsuki crowded his space. He pushed Katsuki away with a hand on his face. "No, Kacchan, push me!" he demanded, backing up onto his tiptoes.

Katsuki ducked out of the way as Deku swung forward, laughing his fool head off. "Asshole," Katsuki spat, but rounded the set to shove Deku forward with each downward swing.

"Higher, Kacchan! Higher!"

Of course, Katsuki complied. Deku's back was warm beneath his palms, shoulders hard with muscle. He swung higher and higher, laughter flung out for everyone to hear. Katsuki continued to push him until the chains started to go slack at Deku's highest points, the hero going weightless for several seconds before the chains would snap straight when his weight returned to the seat.

He let Deku's momentum slow to a stop, and Deku pouted as he crowded his space again. "I was having fun, Kacchan."

"You could have kept going on your own," he pointed out, hands wrapping around Deku's. His fingers were cold beneath his own, and he left his hands heat just slightly to warm them. When Deku didn't say anything, Katsuki leaned into him. "You'd get sick eventually. You can't hold your liquor."

"That was one time!" Deku protested loudly, "I'm hardly drunk at all this time!"

Katsuki smirked. "This time and this time only." Tightening his hands, he leaned over Deku.

Deku met him halfway, wiggling one hand to free to wrap around the back of Katsuki's neck and pull down further. Deku whispered his name against his lips, a prayer, a reverence. They kissed for several long moments, languid and easy, breath a hot mist between them. Slowly, Deku's hand traced down Katsuki back, dipping low, low, low until his found the edge of his pants. He pushed still freezing fingers passed the waist band of both Katsuki's pants and his briefs to grip his bare ass.

"Deku," Katsuki growled, teeth clenched around Deku's bottom lip, "Don't start shit your not going to finish."

Laughing, Deku pulled his second hand free, repeating the process. "Starting what? I'm just touching my boyfriend. I'm not starting anything."

"Shithead," Katsuki growled, pushing forward to close the distance again. He kept his hands on the chains, palms growing warmer and warmer as Deku's fingers kneaded and pressed and slid against his skin. He inhaled sharply as those fingers circled his rim teasingly. "You are such an asshole."

"Takes one to know one." Deku kissed along his jaw and down his neck, searching for his favorite spot to attack. "Take me home?" he asked teasingly against the skin of Katsuki throat, teeth grazing over his pulse point, "Maybe we can continue this? I'd really love to."

Katsuki was barely listening, all focused on Deku's mouth on him and Deku's hands on him, fervently wishing that his fingers were in him. If he'd been more sober, he would have remembered where they were, who they were in a public place, how bad of luck they had with being in public. He wasn't sober though, so he only moaned in response when Deku asked, "Are you listening to me?"

Again, Deku laughed, huskier and hotter and needier this time. "Take me home, Kacchan."

"Yeah," Katsuki breathed, body engulfed in the hot fire of desire, "Yeah, let's go home."

Before Deku could pull his hands away, a couple things happened at once. A camera flash blinded them. The chain links beneath Katsuki's heated hands gave way and snapped which was new. As a result, Deku crashed to the ground with Katsuki on top of him because his hands were still clutching his ass and Katsuki had been leaning heavily into the chains. They lay in a tangled heap, groaning together as the camera clicked several more times before the photographer sprinted away.

"Jesus," Katsuki snarled, "When the fuck are we going to get a break? One day. One day is all I ask to not be interrupted by the paparazzi."

"That's asking too much." Deku still hadn't removed his hands, eyes trained on the starry sky above. He sighed. "Did you have to break the swing?"

"Didn't mean to. It was an accident."

Finally, Deku pulled his hands out, circling his arms around Katsuki's back instead. "We're going to have to replace it."

"This parks' sets are shit anyway. That swing was going to get a kid hurt one day. Or give them tetanus. I did their parents a favor." Deku laughed, and Katsuki struggled to his feet, dragging Deku with him. "Fuck it. Let's go home. We'll deal with it in the morning when the pictures show up."

5:

Kacchan had been out on a mission for over a month. It had been exactly 32 days, 4 hours, 16 minutes and 27 seconds since he'd last seen his boyfriend, and it was starting to affect his work. Not excessively to the point that he was losing fights or getting civilians hurt or anything. More in the fact that he was far more aggressive with the villains he apprehended than normal. More waspish when he was in the office and passed by Kacchan's closed office door again. He'd thought that taking on extra hours at the agency would keep his mind off of Kacchan's absence, but it had left him simply more tired than ever. All in all, a month away from Kacchan had made him a rather unpleasant person to be around.

He'd relegated himself to his office when not on patrol or being forced to endure hours of the dog and pony show. That day was no different despite the fact that he actually had an reporter coming in for an interview as some point. He picked despondently at a store bought bento one of the secretaries had brought him earlier, and it only made him miss Kacchan all the more.

"Dynamight!"

Izuku's head jerked up, pushing the bento straight off his desk and into the trash bin as he stood. He hurried for the door, cracking it open.

The desperate angry voice came again. "Dynamight, we've got a debriefing to get to, and then you need to leave for mandatory time off! Are you listening to me?"

"Of course, I'm not!" Kacchan spat back, his voice as harsh as ever as it came to him from around a corner. When Kacchan said that though, it meant he actually had been listening. It was when he didn't respond at all that people needed to worry. "I don't need to be at that stupid briefing, I was there for there entire mission as were several others going to that meeting! I've got better things to do right now!"

Giddiness shot straight up Izuku's spine, a smile spreading wide across his face. He stepped halfway out of the office just like several other heroes were also doing along the hall.

"Dynamight!"

Kacchan rounded the corner, scowl firmly in place and eyes still black with liner as a smaller blonder hero chased after him. His mask had been pushed out of the way, his uniform still on. "Fuck off! I don't give a shit about some stupid fucking meeting!" His crimson eyes found Izuku easily in the hallway of heroes, pace speeding up even if his expression didn't change. "If they really need something from me, they can read my motherfucking report!" Without missing a beat, he wrapped his fingers around Izuku's wrist, pulling him into his office.

Kacchan slammed the door behind him and then immediately slammed Izuku up against it. There was a knee between his thighs, warm needy lips against his warm needy lips, hands on his hips. Kacchan moaned into him. "Fucking long mission. Missed you," he grumbled between kisses.

"Same." Izuku panted, arms wrapping around Kacchan's neck to hold him close. "Missed you too. Missed you the whole time." Pulling him closer, Izuku pushed his hands up into Kacchan's hair and pulled.

Kacchan moaned again, hands trailing down his hips to wrap around the back of his thighs and hoist him up. Izuku wrapped his legs willingly around Kacchan's hips, whispering out a moan as his groin pressed tightly against Kacchan's taut belly. "Get ready, Deku."

"Wha-" Izuku didn't have the time to ask the simple question as he was thrown onto his couch, Kacchan pressing heavy over him. "Kacchan, we're in the agency!" he hissed even as he pressed up into the scorching heat that was Kacchan's body, "What if we get caught?"

"Don't care." Kacchan mouthed down the side of his neck as he pulled down the zipper on the back of Izuku suit to get better access to his skin. He sucked deep red bruises into Izuku's collarbones and along his shoulders, ever careful to make sure they could be covered up. "Let them walk in. Let them know that your all mine. No one else can have you but me."

"We're in the agency," Izuku protested weakly again. Very, very weakly. He had no resolve when it came to Kacchan's hands and lips on him, his body snug beneath his thighs. He almost wanted to tell him not to bother with being careful, to have his way with him, to mark him up for everyone to see. Almost. So very close. Instead, he just tilted his head back allowing Kacchan all the access he wanted. For good measure, he ground up into the blond, pulling a groan from each of their chests. "I want you, Kacchan, want you in me. Now. If we're gonna do this-"

"We're doing this," Kacchan snarled, sitting back on his heels to reach for his utility belt.

Izuku's eyes were so hungry on him, he didn't notice the door knob turning.

They were, in fact, not 'doing thing'.

"Deku! Good afternoon!" the reporter he was supposed to meet shouted as she burst through his office door, camera flashing, "It's so good to see you again! Sorry for barging in, but I'm on a-"

Kacchan's snarl cut her off as quickly as Izuku's shout of surprise. If he'd been hot before, the blush that roared through him made him molten. He was surprised everything he was touching didn't immediately go up in flames. He was extremely aware of the compromising position her photographer had just caught himself, No.4 Hero Deku, and No.5 Hero Dynamight in. Who even took surprise pictures of people? A sadist, that was who. Well, sadists and any reporter worth their salt who was well aware of the debauchery said heroes got up to in places they shouldn't.

"Please, get out!" Izuku cried, hands over his face, "I'll do the interview in a few minutes!"

Kacchan was roaring as well, "Get the fuck out, damn extras! You ever fucking heard of knocking?"

The secretary was doing their damnedest to push the reporter and her photographer out of the door, but they didn't manage before the reporter called back smugly, "Ever heard of a bedroom, Dynamight? Or maybe just a lock?"

"Shut the fuck up and get out!" The door slammed, and only the sound of their panting filled the air for several long moments. Kacchan finally leaned forward, resting his head against Izuku's shoulder. "Five uninterrupted minutes. Five is all I ask," he grumbled.

Izuku couldn't suppress the hysterical giggle that crawled up his throat. "I would hope that it would last longer than five minutes. It's been a month, Kacchan."

Holding himself up to stared down at Izuku, he grinned wolfishly. "Oh, it'll last a lot longer than that, nerd. Just you wait."

Wrapping his arms around his head, Izuku's laughter continued until Kacchan joined. Only when Kacchan pressed a kiss to his forehead and pulled him to his feet did he calm down, still grinning stupidly. "I've got to do this interview, but I'm free after. Maybe I can convince her to delete the photo?"

Kacchan barked out a sharp laugh. "Definitely no chance of that. You know it's already been backed up on six different servers." He leaned in close, smirking. "Might have to save if myself for lonely nights. I bet its the hottest thing anyone has seen for awhile."

Izuku hands were back on his face as Kacchan turned him to pull his zipper up and fix his suit. "Don't say that, Kacchan, I don't want anyone seeing our intimate photos," he all but whined, turning back around to face the other man, "Dinner after? Maybe a movie?"

Kacchan pulled him in again, kiss softer and more chaste than before. "We'll order something in. I just want to be at home."

"Okay!" Izuku couldn't help the grin that split across his face.

1:

To say that Katsuki's day was going bad would be an understatement. To say that his weekend was going bad would be an understatement. It was supposed to be date weekend, the only time during the month that his and the nerd's days off lined up. Sometimes it was every two months, every three. They would have dinner or go see a movie or go to the beach. One memorable time when they'd somehow bagged four days off in a row, they'd flown out to Okinawa to visit some of their classmates that had been stationed out on the island. They'd spent the first two days out there, and then returned to fuck each other for the last two days.

The point was that they spent every second together just soaking in each others company. Most days they might see each other for fleeting moments throughout the day. Passing on the street during patrol, and pausing for an always shortened kiss. In the office for lunch that one or the other always got called away from. At night before bed when they were barely awake enough to make food, take a bath together and maybe watch a couple minutes of a movie before they couldn't stay awake.

Date weekends were usually calm-ish, peaceful-ish, chill-ish. Not much running. Not a lot of people screaming. For whatever god-forsaken reason, people seemed hell bent on ruining Katsuki's very carefully laid plans this time though. He'd planned out the weekend very precisely. Yesterday, he'd planned a whole scavenger hunt for Deku that would take him to all of his favorite places. Inko's apartment, Katsuki parents' house, the playground near their new home, the ramen shop near the agency, the convention center where he had his first meet and greet as Hero Deku, the flower garden where he bawled his eyes out thinking Katsuki didn't want to be with him but had actually asked him officially to be his boyfriend. Which had only made him bawl harder.

Point being, there had been a treasure trove of moments Katsuki had for Deku to remember that would lead to a dinner at Deku's favorite katsudon place and Katsuki down on one knee. It would have been perfect since it was their anniversary. Only that had to be scrapped when they were called in even before they woke up for some stupid sting operation that "absolutely no one else" could handle. They'd been at the agency all day, an exhausting sixteen hour day when they should have been at home.

Now, Katsuki was just doing his best to lose the goddamn media because fuck every paparazzi out there if he wasn't going to publicize his own engagement. Or lack there of if Deku decided to say no. Which was a very real possibility, he was sure. He didn't have any doubts that Deku loved him, but he did doubt that Deku would want to spend the rest of his life with him. Listen, he knew his faults, but he could hope.

So, Katsuki had spent the better part of the day carting Deku around from spot to spot. They had breakfast, went to the new Hero Exhibit Deku had been salivating over for the past week, had lunch, saw the newest movie that Deku had also been salivating over for the past month, had dinner, and now Katsuki was trying to lose the cameras that had been following them for the entire day. He had hoped that they'd lose interest by now, but no luck. They were like wild animals just waiting for a scrap of meat to hit the ground.

"Jesus fuck," Katsuki snarled under his breath as another flash went off right in front of his face, "Fucking vultures."

Deku's hand squeezed tightly in his as he leaned into Katsuki body. "It's alright. I mean, I'd rather be able to spend time with you without ever second being documented, but it was nice either way. I had a really fun time today."

Katsuki glanced over at the dumb smile that would inevitably be pulling at the corners of Deku's lips. He was such a goner for that smile. He was in so deep for the man at his side that he couldn't even see the hole he'd tripped into. He suspected it was because he couldn't fit through the hole anymore. "We're not done just yet, nerd, I've still got more planned. I just need to lose the vultures."

Interest had Deku's eyebrows jumping towards his hairline. "Really? More? We've been out all day. We're usually home by four on the weekends."

Katsuki raised an eyebrow in return. "What? You don't want to or something?"

"Not what I said," Deku snarked, leaning more heavily into Katsuki and making him stumble over his own feet, "Lead the way. I'll follow you anywhere."

A smirk twisted Katsuki's mouth. "Yeah, you fucking do. Get ready to run."

"What?"

Instead of repeating himself, Katsuki grabbed his cell and dialed one of the few numbers he actually used regularly. Before Kirishima could say anything as the call connected, he asked, "Are you and the other extras ready to go?"

'Just got into position! Where are you at?' Katsuki gave him their location. 'Awesome, man! We're actually right around the corner! Hitoshi and Denki are ready for the display. Momo and Shotou are waiting by the docks. Chako, Mina and I are here for support to block any cameras we see on your tail. T-minus two minutes. Make sure you're at the corner.'

"Copy. We're ten feet from the corner. Thanks for the help, shitty hair." He ended the call on Kirishima's splutter of surprise.

"Kacchan?" Katsuki glanced back over at Deku, taking in the furrow of his brow and pinched lips. "What's going on? You rarely thank people unless they're doing you a massive favor, and you never ask for favors."

"Don't worry about it. Just follow my lead. It'll be worth it. Trust me."

Eyes narrowing just the slightest, Deku pursed his lips. "I trust you," he said simply.

Katsuki pulled them to a stop at the corner that expanded into a spreading park just across the intersection. There were people dotting the grass, basking in the last dregs of afternoon light, walking their dogs, studying. If the activity could be done outside, there were people doing it. The park was incredibly close to the harbor which made it the perfect spot for the distraction. Already, he could see Shinsou and Kaminari walking by the fountain, grinning like fools. He pressed his mouth to Deku's ear. "Stop here. When I say run, we're going to sprint to the left and then take a right at the next light. Don't stop until we hit the docks, the ones for private use. No quirks, we want to blend into the crowd."

A tremor rolled through Deku's body, grip tightening on Katsuki. "Got it," he whispered back, and there was a thread of poorly disguised excitement in his voice.

"Not long now." He straightened up, putting space between him and Deku, but keeping their hands clasped. In his head, he counted backwards from one-hundred. He hadn't reached fifty when he saw Shinsou pull Kaminari to a stop and drop to one knee in front of him. The pair had secretly been engaged for the better part of a year, which Katsuki was actually surprised had remained a secret. Kaminari normally couldn't keep his mouth shut, but he knew that just like with him and Deku, they had wanted this to be on their terms. It just so happened they were willing to reenact their engagement in public to facilitate Katsuki's engagement in private. He and the others had run media control for them before, so it was just payback.

Kaminari for all his idiocy, was a decent actor, and Shinsou knew how to stir up a crowd. He'd made sure they were in the mist of a rather larger group of onlookers, and the crowd erupted in high pitched screams of excitement when Kaminari pressed his hands over his face. Like bees to honey, onlookers flocked. That included the paparazzi tailing Deku and Katsuki, and all the other cameras close by.

"Good luck," Uraraka sang close to them as she tapped her fingertips and then their clothes, "That should help you stay light on foot."

"Chako?" Deku squeaked, but Katsuki didn't give him time to wonder about her.

Making eye contact with Kirishima and Ashido, Katsuki nodded. "Run," he said as their tails took off across the intersection with little care for the flow of traffic.

Deku laughed as they sprinted down the side walk hand in hand, weaving through people confused by the cacophony and even more confused when they darted passed them. His laughter became breathless and high the longer they ran, but it never fell away. Even as they slowed at the docks, his chest heaving as he leaned into Katsuki's side, he was still giggling. "What was that?" he panted, hand pressed to Katsuki's chest until it slid away from him to clutch at his knees, "I don't think I've run that much on ground in a long time. It's different without my quirk."

"You're out of shape," Katsuki told him as he grinned. Even he struggled to even out his breathing. He was no spring chicken either, not that he'd ever admit that out loud. "Chin up, Deku, we're not done yet?"

"Running?" Deku whined, standing straight only to flop his head back on his shoulders, "You're going to kill me, Kacchan. This better be worth it."

Katsuki scrubbed a hand through Deku's now sweaty curls before slipping their hands together again. He pulled the other man along, shoes scuffing across the worn wood of the docks. "It will. Now, which dock..." Trailing off, he glanced back down at his phone to find the dock number in the group chat Kirishima had started to organize the whole debacle. While they walked, Deku chattered happily, eyes scanning over the marina and all of the colorful sailboats drifting out towards the open waters. Probably doing something similiar to what Katsuki had planned.

"I was really surprised to see Hitoshi and Denki doing their proposal again. I thought they weren't planning on publicizing until closer to the wedding. Isn't it crazy? Do you remember when everyone was freaking out just from pictures of us kissing? Everyone really thought we wouldn't be able to make it as heroes for being together. Now there's more openly gay and lesbian heroes and couples than there has ever been, and not just heroes either. Did you hear about that hero in Hokkaido that just came out as trans? It's amazing!" Deku's grin was bright and wide, but fell when he spotted their destination. "Shouto? Momo?"

"Hi, Izuku! How's you're day going?" Yaoyorozu chirped as Todoroki passed a key to Katsuki on a hot pink bungee cord bracelet.

Deku's eyes darted between them, watching the exchange intently. "It's been, uh, good. What's going on?"

Todoroki smiled over at him, and Katsuki had to physically resist the urge to raise his hackles. "Have a good time. We'll help you untie and kick off, and we'll be back in about an hour to help you tie back up." He tilted his head towards the sailing boat bobbing gently in the water. Unlike the bungee cord, the boat's sail was an icy blue and white, the hull a dark mahogany color. "Sunset is in about an hour, so we better get you guys on your way."

Deku was still spluttering as Yaoyorozu helped him into the boat with a, "Don't worry about that, just enjoy yourself," and Todoroki started to untie ropes from the dock.

Katsuki dropped down into the boat afterward, quickly checking the front to make sure the blankets and champagne he'd brought several days earlier was where Todoroki told him he could stash it. Satisfied, he deftly went around collecting the bumpers from the water and ignoring Deku's stuttered questions. He sent the pair a two fingered salute as they pulled away from the spot.

"Kacchan! We're going sailing?" Deku asked nervously, leaning over the side of the boat to stare into the water, "I didn't even know Momo and Shouto owned a sailboat. Why do they own a sailboat? Why do you know that they own one? Do you even know how to sail?"

"They've had it for a couple of years now, and they compete on their off days for charity. I didn't spend all that time with Icy-Hot's not to know how to sail like a pro, so yes. I do." Katsuki increased their speed as they made it out of the docks, steering them towards the sea. The mouth of the bay waited for them, the sea expanding out beyond. Other sailboats, sails colorful and bright and patterned flared open, slowly crawling in the same direction. They wouldn't go out far, just passed the bay opening and far enough that any camera lens would not be able to pick them up. They'd still be within shouting distance of the other boats. He relayed the information to Deku.

Deku was still leaning over the side of the boat, staring down into the murky waters of the bay. His head whipped around after a moment of silence, mouth open wide. "W-wait, Kacchan! D-d-did you just say you spent time with Shouto? Like willingly? Like not during work? I did hear you correct, right? Did I just hallucinate?"

Rolling his eyes, Katsuki didn't take his eyes off of what was out in front of him. Though it was mostly open waters, he didn't want to ram into anything that would damage the vessel. He didn't want to think about what the upkeep on it cost, and more importantly, Todoroki and Yaoyorozu were already doing him a solid. He didn't want to owe them anymore than he already did. "You didn't hallucinate. You heard me right."

"But... why? You hate spending time with my friends, especially Shouto."

"I don't hate spending time with your friends. I just can't stand being around them for a long time."

"I still don't understand."

Katsuki chanced a quick glance at Deku as they were about to push through the mouth, sighing through his nose. "This is our fifth anniversary. I wanted to make it special. This was the only way I could think to get away from the cameras." When he glanced again, tears had filled Deku's eyes, and he snorted. "Don't start crying just yet, shitty nerd, night's not over yet." He didn't have to look to know there was red splashed across Deku's face as he scrubbed at his cheeks.

They motored easily through the mouth of the bay, and it was like the land had been blocking every bit of the sunset. Gold and orange and red burned across the sky, and Deku gasped at the sight, standing to scramble to the front of the boat. "Kacchan! Look at it!" Out before them, all of the sailboats that had left before them dotted the calm ocean, bobbing gently as they passed by. "Oh, it's beautiful!" The sun still had a good thirty minutes before it was completely beneath the edge of the horizon.

Katsuki spied other couples out of the corners of his eyes, cuddled up on blankets or leaning against the railing of the vessels or sitting on the backs with their toes just skimming the water. "Go to the front. Get the blankets, glasses and bottle that are beneath the seat. Set them up beneath the sail while I stake out a spot."

Deku lifted the seats he'd been kneeling on, pulling out everything he'd stashed away. "This is where my favorite blanket disappeared to? Kacchan!" he reprimanded, bringing everything up with a huff, "I've been looking for this everywhere." He peeled open the space bags Katsuki had stored the blankets in to keep them clean, the fabric returning to normal in an instant. Deku pressed his nose into the fluffy, soft orange and black blanket, breathing deeply. "Mm, it smells like you."

"You're such a weirdo," Katsuki huffed, but they both knew he was pleased. He slowed the boat to a stop, dropping down onto the back to drop the anchor before joining Deku again on deck. The main deck was recessed providing some form of privacy from any prying eyes. Deku had spread the blankets out, layering them like Katsuki had planned with his favorite on the top. He pulled it around their shoulders as Katsuki sat.

The box that had been in his pocket all day was suddenly burning a hole in his pocket.

Deku snuggled close, head pressed to Katsuki shoulder as they leaned back against the mast. "Thank you so much, Kacchan. I don't think I could have thought of a more perfect way to spend our anniversary."

Katsuki's fingers were itching, palms sweating profusely as he tried to discreetly reach for the box. He had never been so acutely aware of his nerves and his many flaws in his entire life than in this one central moment. "Yeah," he said as calmly as he possibly could manage, but something must have still slipped through.

Lifting his head, Deku looked at him in concern. "Is something wrong?"

Not trusting his voice, Katsuki shook his head, swallowing. He'd managed to wedge the box out, but now his hands were shaking, and 'Fuck, how do people do this multiple times?' To put it simply, Katsuki was freaking out.

"Are you okay? Are you sick?" Deku sat back up, and Katsuki cursed his own nerves for making the nerd worried. Now Deku was all fluttery and stuttery and pressing cool fingers to his sweat slicked forehead. Instead of trying to get the words out, Katsuki simply lifted the green velvet box and pulled back the lid. Deku went completely silently.

They stared mutely at each other for long moments that passed seamlessly from one to the next as the sunset began to fade. Deku's mouth had flopped back open, eyes saucer wide as they flicked between Katsuki's face and the box. His answer was as wordless as his question.

Deku threw himself at Katsuki, pinning him to the deck as he pressed their mouths together. Despite his sudden movement, the kiss was slow and and gentle and searing. A kiss that had Katsuki's blood rushing, heart taking off at a sprint. No matter how long they'd been together, no matter how many kisses and touches they shared, Deku never failed to remind him that he was alive. That they were alive and together.

He opened beneath Deku's mouth, moaning his name quietly as he slid his hands beneath Deku's shirt and up his back.

Deku arched into his touch. When he pulled back, there was barely an inch between their mouths. "Are you going to ask me something?" he whispered, lips a butterfly's breath from Katsuki's. His body seemed to coil beneath Katsuki's hands, fingers tensing against the sides of his face.

"Izuku Midoriya, will you marry me?" Katsuki asked.

The noise that left Izuku's voice was not human in any sense of the word, but it didn't matter when he followed it with, "Yes!" He dived back in against Katsuki, body pressing as close as physically possible as he pressed an open mouthed kiss to Katsuki's waiting and wanting mouth.

Out of the camera's eye for the first time in what felt like years, they kissed until their mouths were red and swollen. When they were finally and truly alone, no other boats lingering nearby, they followed the heat of their kisses to their natural release. Lying together beneath the blanket of stars, naked and sated, Katsuki finally slipped the ring onto Izuku's finger. "We don't tell Icy-Hot about this part," Katsuki said, pulling Izuku onto his chest and running a hand down his bare back.

"No, this is just for us," Izuku agreed, "Finally."

[midyearflowers]

i wanna write again so bad but writing is hard and i have both original ideas and fanfic ideas but all the fanfic would be self inserts but theyre longer story ideas and i hesitate cause if its not my characters then idk if i can write in character and i feel like my self indulgent fantasies definitely change the characters a little bit (tho tbh most of them are like a slow burn type thing so within reason it could be like a character growth thing) idk i wanna share my stories and ideas but at the same time my original stuff i wanna try and publish so i cant reveal too much and my fanfics are all embarrassingly mushy and also involve villain characters getting redeemed/becoming better and we all know how the masses react to characters they dont agree with >.>

[mankai-afterhours]

a helping hand - (IzuSakyo)

⚠️ very much smut ahead 18+ pls be aware this is just self indulgent filth wee woo wee woo ⚠️

Warnings: stripping clothes, oral (female receiving), fingering (female receiving), tongue fucking (female receiving), and that's about it pretty straightforward it's just sakyo being a horny simp guys ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

---------

Izumi chews her lip, hesitating only a moment before knocking on Sakyo's door.

"Come in." Sakyo's voice says, slightly muffled through the wood.

Izumi takes a deep breath. She's about to walk in there and possibly strip naked for a yakuza in order to settle a score and save their playwright's life. She tries not to think about it too much.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Izumi says jokingly, hoping to keep the mood light. Walking into Sakyo's room does feel a bit like being sent to the principal's office.

But Sakyo clearly isn't feeling it. His arms are crossed in front of his chest. He looks angry, quiet. Simmering.

"So, uh..." Izumi clears her throat and shuts the door behind her. "Are we going with my plan?"

Sakyo says nothing. He just stares at her. Her eyes wander around his room awkwardly, and she wishes he would quit the tough guy act, especially considering what's about to happen.

"Look, Sakyo, if this is a bad idea, I can-"

"Tell me," Sakyo interrupts her, uncrossing his arms and letting them hang at his sides. He squints. "What do you see in Fushimi?"

Izumi groans in exasperation. "Oh, not this again, Sakyo! It was just a little fantasy, it has absolutely no bearing on real life." She rolls her eyes, embarrassed that they're even still having this conversation. "Omi's hands just happened to be what excited me that night, so it's-"

"I wonder what else excites you?" He asks, his voice a bit deeper than usual.

Izumi doesn't know what to make of this. She's starting to regret offering to do this in the first place, and it must show on her face, because Sakyo changes tacks.

"Look, are you sure you want to go through with this?" He asks, getting that look on his face that he has when triple checking whether Izumi has stayed under the budget.

She rolls her eyes. "If it'll prevent you from murdering my actors, then yes."

Her sass is ignored, and she can't help feeling like Sakyo's staring at her more than usual.

Being kept under his gaze like a specimen under a microscope sets her pulse up a few notches.

"So. Should I just...?" She starts to say, reaching for the buttons at her collar.

"No," Sakyo stops her, lifting his hand. "I... um, go sit down." He gestures towards his bed, and she hesitantly complies.

Once she's sitting, his hand covers his mouth, and she realizes he's analyzing her position. "Could you lay down?" He asks.

"What? Why?" She asks, suddenly feeling wary.

"I just want to recreate it as closely as possible. What Minagi saw," he replies.

Izumi feels herself flush. But she supposes that it's only fair, given the reason this is happening in the first place. Men can be so difficult sometimes.

She huffs another sigh and lays down with her head on Sakyo's pillow. It has a clean, musky scent, barely noticable, but still pleasant.

"Now can I take my clothes off?" She asks, with mock irritation.

Sakyo stares down at her from where he stands beside the bed, his expression unreadable.

"Could I do it?" His voice has a weird tone, almost gentle.

She laughs. "Yeah, sure. Very funny."

"I mean it, Izumi." His brows draw together. "Would you mind?"

She stares back at him, her heart skipping a beat at seeing him look so earnest. He's not joking, is he?

"I, um..." she looks away, trying to decide if she would mind. Does it matter whether she takes off her clothes or Sakyo takes them off for her? She'll be naked either way. "I guess not."

Sakyo's eyebrows lift ever so slightly. "Good."

He sits beside her on the bed, and at first he stays still, raking his eyes along her body. But before long, his hands start to move.

He traces them slowly up her arms, across her shoulders, his fingers coming together again at her collar to loosen the first few buttons.

Izumi doesn't know why her heart is pounding. It's not like this is the first time she's been undressed by someone. Maybe it's the duality of his gentle fingers and the searing gaze he's pinning her with.

"I wonder how Minagi felt..." Sakyo murmurs, so quietly, Izumi almost can't hear it. "Walking in to see you laying there."

His fingers glide lower and lower, soon he uncovers her chest, revealing her bra. She tries very hard to lay still, though his stare is making her feel naked already.

"Witnessing you in the throes of ecstacy... moaning, imagining strong hands-" At this, he slips his hands to either side of her waist and giving her a squeeze. "-pinning you down..."

She must be blushing now, she can feel it. "S-Sakyo..."

Sakyo removes his hands in an instant, as if they were never there, resuming his work on her buttons. "I would have liked to see it myself."

So he was jealous, after all. Staring up at him, Izumi can't imagine Sakyo having feelings at all, let alone for her.

But he did say his attraction was purely physical...

Soon enough, her buttons are done, and he parts her shirt like a curtain, drinking in the sight of her bare torso and bra.

She starts to fidget under his unwavering stare. "Sakyo. Do you want me to take it all the way off?"

He seems to take a moment to process what she said, but then he nods. She sits up a little and sheds the shirt, leaving her top half a bit chillier than before in only her bra.

"I can do this part, if you want." She says, hastily reaching behind herself to get the clasp, but Sakyo's fingers cover hers, brushing against her back and sending chills down her spine.

"Allow me." He leans forward a bit, and in a moment, he deftly flicks open the clasp with one hand.

Izumi tries to cover her shock and embarrassment as he slides the straps down her arms. "When did you learn to do that?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," he replies, a smirk ghosting his lips.

Once her chest is bare, he fixes her body with that stare again, as if savoring the sight, and she feels herself start to get hot. But before she can remind him, his fingers are already working themselves on the fly of her jean shorts.

She lifts her hips while he pulls them down her legs and she carefully kicks them to the side, adding to her growing pile of clothes.

Sakyo then hooks his fingers on either side of her panties, and gives her another look, checking in again. "May I?"

For a yakuza, he's being unexpectedly respectful about this. She nods. "Go ahead."

He peels the thin fabric down her legs, and exhales upon seeing her cunt, completely exposed.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his gaze unwavering as he takes in the sight before him.

Izumi can feel the heat pricking her cheeks and a spike of it goes straight to her core at the look he's giving her.

She doesn't want him to stop.

"You can, uh..." she tries to find her voice, but it comes out embarrassingly high. "You can keep going. If that'll help you feel less jealous."

She doesn't look at him, but she can feel that stare of his, boring straight through her like a laser.

"You want me to touch you?" He asks in disbelief, and she gives a halfhearted shrug, too shy to speak. "Izumi," He takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger and coaxes her to look at him. "May I touch you?"

She nods.

Sakyo wastes not a moment before his hands cup each of her breasts, squeezing gently. He dips his head down to whisper in her ear, his breath fanning her cheek. "You're so beautiful... I'm unworthy of such a sight."

His voice is deeper than usual, gravelly, and it sends goosebumps down her arms.

"Sakyo," she whispers almost reprimandingly, skeptical of such flattery.

"It's true." His thumbs brush over her nipples, circling around the pert buds. "I am unworthy of even touching such a goddess..."

A goddess? Man, he's really laying it on thick. She shifts a bit, his hands and voice affecting her in ways she didn't know were possible.

"May I kiss you?" He asks in a breathless whisper. "Not on the lips, just... on your body."

The distinction has arousal shooting to her core. Is this how all yakuza express physical attraction?

"Sure, I guess so..." she mumbles, pressing her thighs together to prevent him from seeing how much she's okay with this.

His lips press first to her cheek, then down to her neck, sucking gently on her skin. She lets out a sigh while his hands roam from her breasts down overs her stomach to hold her hips.

"Izumi..." he whispers her name in a way she's never heard from anyone before. He dips a little lower and kisses along her collarbone almost reverently.

But then his hands brush her inner thigh and she can tell he felt the wetness gathering there. She looks anywhere else in the room as she feels him stop moving entirely.

He pulls back, taking his hands off of her, much to her disappointment.

"You're aroused by this?" He asks the obvious, and she lets out a small scoff.

"Anyone would be, with the way you're acting..." she says in her defence, but he seems to pay no mind to her sheepish reply.

Instead, a new proposition leaves his lips.

"Could I give you something to fantasize about for next time?"

Her head whips around to face him. "What?"

He adjusts his glasses. "If you let me help you out, I'll forget today ever happened. Minagi and Fushimi will be completely off the hook, and we'll never speak of this again."

She considers her options. She is pretty turned on at the moment, which makes it hard to think clearly, but if this is a one time thing... and he's been gentle so far... what's the harm in satisfying the burning ache between her thighs and Sakyo's burning temper at the same time?

"Sure, okay." She agrees, giving him a joking half-smile. "My body is yours."

Those words seem to spark something within Sakyo, and in moments, he's kneeling between her legs, parting her thighs to grant him access to her aching core.

"Beautiful..." he says again, and she doesn't even have time to blush before his face is buried between her thighs. He licks a stripe up her center that makes her back arch off the bed.

"S-Sakyo-!" She gasps, gripping the bedsheets in an effort to maintain her composure.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he replies, then begins to eat her out in earnest, his tongue and lips working beautifully together, causing a small gush of arousal to spill from her entrance.

He laps it up, bracing her legs steadily to keep her from squirming while he works relentlessly, deep throaty hums and moans escaping him while his tongue traces frenzied patterns against her swollen lips.

"Ah~! S-Sakyo..." she moans, unable to keep herself quiet as he sucks on her clit, licking up all of her juices.

She feels his finger circling around her entrance before carefully slipping inside, adding to her stimulation.

She's moaning too loudly, but she can't help it with the way his mouth is treating her. She grabs a spare pillow to press to her face, but Sakyo reaches up and bats it away. "I want to hear you." He insists before returning to her pussy, his lips and tongue writing sonnets on her clit.

She can't hold back as he adds a second finger inside her, pumping slowly in a stark contrast to his feverishly paced mouth.

She cards her fingers through his hair on instinct, tugging at him encouragingly, and he growls in response, working even harder to pull an orgasm from her.

He removes his fingers with an embarrassingly wet noise and replaces them with his tongue, easily reaching all the right places inside of her while his nose bumps hastily against her clit, sending a buzz through her with every brush.

She reaches down to help him out, circling two fingers around her clit while he fucks her with his tongue, and she feels herself throb desperately around him, her legs shaking.

"Sakyo, I... I'm close..." her voice wavers, her body arching, aching for release.

She wishes, fleetingly that he'd stick something else inside of her, but the thought is pushed aside by the building of her climax, and all too soon, her mind goes blank as she reaches her peak.

She cums on him with a drawn out cry of pleasure, feeling her walls pulse around his eagerly awaiting tongue.

Sakyo takes it all and sucks her dry, lapping up every last bit of her release with groans of his own. He doesn't let up until she finally comes down, and just when she starts to feel overstimulated, he pulls away with a parting kiss to her swollen lower lips.

"Well," Sakyo says, licking casually at his fingers. "We can consider the score settled."

Izumi huffs breathlessly, laying there seeing stars after such an intense orgasm, and is shocked at how easily he can switch to business, even with her arousal glistening on his lips and chin.

"Sure," she replies with a snort. "I'll just throw my clothes back on real quick, and be on my way, then."

Sakyo smirks. "Like it never even happened."

And that's pretty much how it goes. He carefully helps her to put her clothes back on, no trace of the desperate frenzy in his actions from only moments before.

"Give Minagi my regards," Sakyo says, seemingly back to his usual no-nonsense self.

Pretty soon, she's out his door, heading back to the lounge to help unwrap Tsuzuru, only slightly wobbly on her legs from what just happened.

If she didn't know better, she'd have thought it was all just a blissful dream.

[abecat]

One of the many sketches I’ve done this summer, trying to figure out how to teach the figure drawing/character design class online. Of course, these indulgent drawings are just for me, but they help me think about the biopolitics of figure drawing in the current moment (of pandemic, of political unrest, of collective trauma)

First some background: From late modernism onwards, the whole enterprise of  academic figure drawing becomes highly suspect. As I understand it, the french academic tradition (that spread through Europe and into the US) established the educational standards of anatomy and naturalistic rendering, with the aim of training artists in the creation of highly emotional images. These images would be used by the state to form cohesive and durable nationalist identities: cheesy neoclassical paintings that drew a connection between France’s III republic to ancient Greece and its idealized concept of democracy. Like Uncle Sam in America’s WWI, these neoclassical mascots have one purpose above all: to rouse the spirit in service of the sovereign (emperor, corporation) for easy manipulation. Now, dear person reading this, you may agree with the project of building a national imagery regardless of how “ahistorical” these pictures may be. But you have give modernist their due: the worst excesses of these canons were embarrassingly in evidence during the Third Reich, with its obsession over "perfect” bodies for a “perfect” race.

So drawing state-sanctioned “perfect” bodies is out of the question, but modernist didn’t really delivered us from sin either. There are just too many examples of asshole “genius” artists who thrived on a predatory relationship to their subjects (Gaugin and Picasso, anyone?) It seems that the emancipatory gesture against the naive bourgeoise taste could not extend to the issues of gender and race inequalities. Postmodern artists, aligned to feminist, queer and anti-colonial projects, thrived on these active biopolitics, engaging them to draw attention to injustice, to deal with false consciousness and internalized opression, and to express long-repressed lust. The question become not whether we should do figure drawing, but who and why should do it. I find the question to be eminently just and interesting, but just as often, paralyzing.

In this context, a class “Figure Drawing/Character Design” may look, from the outside like a puzzling idea. It is like a bad recipe that mixes modernis-postmodernist unresolved issues with total capitulation to market forces. Anime? Cartoons? Caricatures? Stories? And all of it mixed with figure drawing? How can this be insightful?

Figuring the potential for insight in this class, given this context I sketch here, has been my challenge for the last five years. I could simply say that there is a market for it, that students/audiences like it, that gaining skills is pragmatic, that people have been drawing “characters” from prehistory... and just move on feeling justified. But that wont do.

One day I will write something scholarly about this, but here is a sketch of why I think this class has the potential for insight: Character design and figure drawing exist in the context of a complete immersion in capitalist communication technologies. After giving ourselves a moment to mourn the fall fo the Berlin Wall (if that’s your jam,) we must understand that our existence in this soup of capitalist communication technologies has the effect of diluting the membrane that trap us in our bodies. The concept of “Character Design” as something that can be learned and practiced by anyone (the putative project of art education) means that we all have the right toy around with the body. Paradoxically, the fact that we all are here shouting in social media, telling our stories and drawing our traumas, attenuates some of the inequalities that made modernist and postmodernist so anxious. Character Design is a conversational tool, a shared language that a huge mass of “content creators” use to talk about The Other, and by extension, The Self.

To put it clearly, drawing characters reveals a deep longing for The Other - an enormously human need for proximity and validation (just ask Henry Darger). But because, in the “old, real world” The Other is prickly and hurts (and we hurt them), we must negotiate. Like transitional objects, these characters facilitate the exploration of new shared realities, new embodiments.

Here is the secret you should know: every character I draw is me. Is not a portrait of me, is not a realistic or idealized version of me. It is me extending my being into matter, exploring other bodies, and making those explorations have real stakes thanks to erotic, violent or tender psychodynamics. In every choice I make about the design of my characters I detect, after the fact, the longings, traumas and hopes to form my personality. For example: all this skinny catgirls I’ve been drawing since Im 12 (way before I knew what the internet and furry or anime was) are intimatel related to life-long struggle with body dysmorphia. As I draw a crispy ribcage, I can feel the sharp angles as if they were mine, to mention one example.

The figure component of the class comes into play in a very specific way: the ritual of drawing a nude model in person is a perfect illustration of the shared responsibility for reality formation among people. Nude models, who must stay still and never turn their heads around to scan the room, depend on all artists in attendance to hold the world together, to perceive and refigure what the model can’t see. It is a powerfully intimate dynamic in which the model imposes a moral contract. The model says “ you see me naked and I hold you responsible for my well being, as I remain in this vulnerable position, all in service of this ritual that transcends us both.” To bring storytelling and character design into the mix (that is, to bring the vulnerability revealed by design choices, as in the case of my anorexic catgirls), is to up the ante. I’ve seen it in the room: both artist and model disrobe, the model by putting themslves, nude, in the hands of us artists in attendance. The artists by revealing their current negotiation with The Other through their characters.

And now I gotta teach this remotely. The model is not available, and so the stakes feel lower, less challenging. As I was drawing these characters using cheesy nude photos I found on some website, I realized that I missed the sacred contract, the confessional dimension of drawing like this in the figure drawing room. I guess I’m writing all of this precisely because I feel the need to confess.

[roaringgirl]

Books read in January

I am keeping this as a little record for myself, as I already keep a list (my best new year’s resolution - begun Jan 2018) but don’t record my thoughts

General thoughts on this - I read a lot this month but it played into my worst tendencies to read very very fast and not reflect, something I’m particularly prone too with modern fiction. I just, so to speak, swallow it without thinking. First 5 or so entries apart, I did quite well in my usually miserably failed attempt to have my reading be at least half books by women.

1. John le Carré - Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (1974): I liked this a lot! I sort of lost track of the Cold War and shall we say ethics-concerned parts of it and ended up reading a fair bit of it as an English comedy of manners - but I absolutely love all the bizarre rules about what is in bad taste (are these real? Did le Carré make them up?).

2. John le Carré - The Spy Who Came in From the Cold (1963): I liked this a lot less. It seemed at the same time wilfully opaque and entirely predictable. Have been thinking a lot about genre fiction - I love westerns and noir, so wonder if for me British genre fiction doesn’t quite scratch the same itch.

3. David Lodge - Ginger You’re Barmy (1962): This was fine. I don’t have much to say about it - I was interested in reading about National Service and a bit bogged down in a history of it so read a novel. As with most comic novels, it was perfectly readable but not very funny.

4. Dan Simmons - Song of Kali (1985): His first novel. This is quite enjoyable just for the amount of Grand Guignol gore, and also because I like to imagine it caused the Calcutta tourist board some consternation. Wildly structurally flawed, however. Best/worst quote: ‘Hearing Amrita speak was like being stroked by a firm but well-oiled palm.’ Continues in that vein.

5. Richard Vinen - National Service: A Generation in Uniform (2014): If you are interested in National Service, this is a good overview! If not, not.

6. Sarah Moss - Ghost Wall (2018): I absolutely loved this. About a camping trip trying to recreate Iron Age Britain. Just, very upsetting but so so good - a horror story where the horror is male violence and abuse within the (un)natural family unit.

7. Kate Grenville - A Room Made of Leaves (2020): Excellent idea, but not amazing execution - the style is kind of bland in that ‘ironed out in MFA workshops’ way (I have no idea if she did an MFA but that’s what it felt like). Rewriting the story of early Australian colonisation through the POV of John Macarthur’s wife Elizabeth.

8. Ruth Goodman - How to Be a Victorian (2013): I mostly read this for Terror fic reasons, if I’m honest. I skimmed a lot of it but she has a charming authorial voice and I really like that she covers the beginning of the period, not just post-1870.

9. Gary Shteyngart - Super Sad True Love Story (2010): I read this on a recommendation from Ms Poose after I asked for good fiction mostly concerned with the internet, and I thought it was excellent - it’s very exaggerated/non-realistic and that heightening of incident and affect works so well.

10. Brenda Wineapple - The Impeachers: The Trial of Andrew Johnson and the Dream of a Just Nation (2019): What a great book. I had to keep putting it down because reading about Reconstruction always makes me so sad and frustrated with what might have been - the lost dream of a better world.

11. Halle Butler - The New Me (2019): Reading this while single, starting antidepressants and stuck in an office job that bores me to death but is too stable/undemanding to complain about maybe wasn’t a great decision, for me, emotionally.

12. Halle Butler - Jillian (2015): Ditto.

13. Ottessa Moshfegh - Death in Her Hands (2020): Very disappointed by this. I don’t really like meta-fiction unless it’s really something special and this wasn’t. Also, I’m stupid and really bad at reading, like, postmodern allegorical fiction I just never get it.

14. Andrea Lawlor  - Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl (2017): This was really really hot! I will admit I don’t think the reflections on gender, homophobia, AIDS etc are very deep or as revealing as some reviews made out, but I also don’t think they’re supposed to be? It’s a lot of fun and all of the characters in it are so precisely, fondly but meanly sketched.

15. Catherine Lacey - The Answers (2017): This was fine! Readable, enjoyable, but honestly it has not stuck with me. There are only so many sad girl dystopias you can read and I think I overdid it with them this month.

16. Hilary Mantel - Wolf Hall (2010, reread): Was supposed to read the first 55 pages of this for my two-person book club, but I completely lack self-restraint so reread the whole thing in four days. Like, I love it I don’t really know what else to say. I was posing for years that ‘Oh, Mantel’s earlier novels are better, they’re such an interesting development of Muriel Spark and the problem of evil and farce’ blah blah blah but nope, this is great.

17. Oisin Fagan - Hostages (2016): Book of short stories that I disliked intensely, which disappointed me because I tore through Nobber in horrified fascination (his novel set in Ireland during the Black Death - which I really cannot recommend enough. It’s so intensely horrible but, like Mantel although in a completely different style/method, he has the trick of not taking the past on modern terms). A lot of this is sci-fi dystopia short stories which just aren’t... very good or well-sustained. BUT I did appreciate it because it is absolutely the opposite of pleasant, competently-written but forgettable MFA fiction.

18. Muriel Spark - Loitering with Intent (1981): Probably my least favourite Spark so far, but still good. I think the Ealing Comedy-esque elements of her style are most evident and most dated here. It just doesn’t have the same sentence-by-sentence sting as most of her work, and again I don’t like meta-fiction.

19. Hilary Mantel - Bring up the Bodies (2012, reread): Having (re)read all of these in about 3 months, I think this is probably my favourite of the three. I just love the way a whole world, whole centuries and centuries of history and society spiral out from every paragraph. And just stylistically, how perfect - every sentence is a cracker. I’m just perpetually in awe of Mantel as a prose stylist (although I dislike that everyone seems to write in the present tense now and blame her for it).

20. Muriel Spark - The Girls of Slender Means (1963, reread): (TW weight talk etc ) As always, Hilary Mantel sets me off on a Muriel Spark spree. I’ve read this too many times to say much about it other than that the denouement always makes me go... my hips definitely wouldn’t fit through that window. Maybe I should lose weight in case I have to crawl out of a bathroom window due to a fire caused by an unexploded bomb from WW2???? Which is a wild throwback to my mentality as a 16 year old.

21. China Mieville - Perdido Street Station (2000, reread): What a lot of fun. I know we don’t do steampunk anymore BUT I do like that he got in the whole economic and justice system of the early British Industrial Revolution and not just like steam engines. God, maybe I should read more sci-fi. Maybe I should reread the rest of this trilogy but that’s like 2000 pages. Maybe I should reread the City and the City because at least that’s short and ties exactly into my Disco Elysium obsession (the mod I downloaded to unlock all dialogue keeps breaking the game though. Is there a script online???)

22. Stephen King - Carrie (1974): I have a confession to make: I was supposed to teach this to one of my tutees and then just never read it, but to be honest we’re still doing basic reading comprehension anyway. That sounds mean but she’s very sweet and I love teaching her because she gets perceptibly less intimidated/critical of herself every lesson. ANYWAY I read half of this in the bath having just finished my period, which I think was perfect. It’s fun! Stephen King is fun! I don’t have anything deeper to say.

23. Hilary Mantel - Every Day is Mother’s Day (1985): You can def tell this is a first novel because it doesn’t quite crackle with the same demonic energy as like, An Experiment in Love or Beyond Black, but all the recurring themes are there. If it were by anyone else I’d be like good novel! But it’s not as good as her other novels.

24. Dominique Fortier - On the Proper Usage of Stars (2010): This was... perfectly competent. Kind of dull? It made me think of what I appreciate about Dan Simmons which is how viscerally unpleasant he makes being in the Navy seem generally, and man-hauling with scurvy specifically. This had the same problem with some other FE fiction which is that they’re mostly not willing to go wild and invent enough so the whole thing is kind of diffuse and under-characterised. Although I hated the invented plucky Victorian orphan who’s great at magnetism and taxonomy and read all ONE THOUSAND BOOKS or whatever on the ships before they got thawed out at Beechey (and then the plotline just went nowhere because they immediately all died???) I had to skim all his bits in irritation. I liked the books more than this makes it sound I was just like Mr Tuesday I hope you fall down a crevasse sooner rather than later.

25. Muriel Spark - The Abbess of Crewe (1974): Transposing Watergate to an English convent is quite funny, although it took me an embarrassingly long time to realise that’s what she was doing even though I lit read a book covering Watergate in detail in December. Muriel Spark is just so, so stylish I’m always consumed with envy. I think a lot of her books don’t quite hang together as books but sentence by sentence... they’re exquisite and incomparable.

Overall thoughts: This month was very indulgent since I basically just inhaled a lot of not challenging fiction. I need to enjoy myself less, so next month we’re finishing a biography of Napoleon, reading the Woman in White and finishing the Lesser Bohemians which currently I’m struggling with since it’s like nearly as impenetrable Joyce c. Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man but, so far... well I hesitate to say bad since I think once I get into I’ll be into it but. Bad.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

So, I just read it on Twitter and had to share it with you. “Climate change has fucked up seasons, does this mean Hades and Persephone’s deal has changed? Is she getting her cheeks smashed for longer now? Is Hades okay with random dick appointments rescheduling? Is Demeter going crazy? Is she going stupid?”

“Your mom must be going fucking nuts, huh?”

It’s 3:32 AM in the morning, the halls of the palace are fast asleep, and the only sound is the soft, muffled crackling of the eternal fires the burn just outside the large, arched window of their bedroom.

For millennia, Hades never really payed much mind to what humans were doing to the world. The wars, the bloodshed, the atrocities— it was always a part of mankind, for as long as he could remember. He’s aware that his mindset is probably do to the fact that he grew up during a time when all of these aspects were very common, so he was numb to them, to an extent.

But in all of his years of life, Harry had never witnessed humans actually be able to push the boundaries of their powers to the point where it was impacting the actual planet. 

Bombs are the obvious factor, as well as mass deforestation, oil wells, mines, and so much more. However, amidst all of these impacts humans lay upon the world, none of them had ever had a direct influence on Harry’s life. He’s sequestered so far down in the depths of the earth that humans can’t possibly reach him here without kicking it first.

That was until global warming became an issue.

Well, an issue for those who live above ground. For him, it was actually working out quite to his advantage.

He’s knows it’s a horrible thing to say but he’s already in Hell so he doesn’t really have much to lose. Actually, he has so much more to gain.

Since global warming is a direct line to climate change, all of the seasons have been thrown out of their natural order. Fall and Winter used to be strictly six months, which is when Persephone would be down in the Underworld with him. As soon as the first of the seventh month hit, it was time for her to go back to Olympus with her mother for their given time of Spring and Summer.

The end of the six month period was usually when the weather would start to warm up on the surface, resulting in Persephone having to go and take the reigns of her godly duty with Demeter. But increasing climate change has been tinkering with the technicalities for the last few years and most of the time, it’s in Hades’ favor.

It’s been two weeks into the seventh month, and with temperatures still near freezing in some areas of the world, Y/N has managed to use this as an excuse to extend her stay with Harry. And since the weather is too risky for crops to start growing, Demeter’s hands are tied in her own grape veins, much to Hades’ glee.

This brings them to where they are now, snuggling cozily under the charcoal black duvet of their humongous bed, legs intertwined as his wife cradles her head against his bare chest, the tips of his fingers tracing both of his names down the expanse of her spine.

The last two weeks had been a hell of a ride, literally and metaphorically.

It reminds Harry of how when they had first gotten married, they had been going at it like rabbits for the weeks that followed, as if the world could end any minute.

But now, it was The Weather Channel that could potentially throw a gear in their little extravaganza. They had been safe thus far into the month, so every day was a triumph, and triumphs obviously have to be celebrated.

The amount of fucking got so embarrassingly frequent, in some embarrassingly unequip places, to the point where one of the cleaning servants had walked in on them in a storage closet when Harry was supposedly at an emergency meeting on Olympus.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been more mortified then when the servant handed him a freshly cleaned towel and said, “Here, you’ll need this for when you’re finished.” before closing the door behind her.

Harry looks down at Y/N, not being able to keep a gentle smile from tickling his lips as she presses her ear over his heart, comforted by the mellow thumping that had been harsh and fast-paced a few minutes prior. He ducks down and presses a caring kiss between her sweaty brows, her skin still hot and clammy from the exertion he’d just put her through.

His voice comes out as a raspy laugh and she can feel the edges of his mouth drawing up into a sly simper against her forehead.

“She must fucking hate me right now more than ever, too.”

Y/N pinches at his tummy in a cautionary manner, but she can’t fight the amused scuff that escapes her. “It’s not like you’re responsible for the weather, though.”

Hades shrugs one shoulder, his dark emerald eyes glistening in the buttery light of the fires below that stream in through the glass window. His tone is cocky and self-indulgent.

“But I am responsible for this.” He streams his fingertips down the dip of her back and onto her ass, moving the sheets down a tad to reveal a darkened outline of his handprint. “And that’s enough to cause her to plunge the world into another Ice Age.”

Persephone fully laughs now, her eyes squeezing shut as her whole face lights up like the Northern Lights and Harry can’t resist scattering a dozen kisses all over her cheeks and nose. She just looks so fucking cute when she smiles like that.

Hades cups the side of her jaw with his fingers, thumbing over the faint dimple on her chin as he rubs his nose over the tip of her’s. Even though his plump, wine-tinted lips carry a tender, sleepy grin, she can hear the sadness weighing his words. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Persephone sighs deeply, reaching up to push her husband’s damp, chestnut curls away from his forehead, combing them back from his softening eyes as he swallows heavily, thick eyebrows furrowing as he tries to keep his emotions from registering on his face. “I don’t want to either, but I have to eventually.”

Harry nods his head emptily, the tip of his cold nose running up and down the suppleness of her cheek. “I just don’t want this to end.”

Y/N snorts lightly, trying to lift the mood of the conversation. “Yeah, I get that. Then you won’t have anyone to ride you in the bathing pool.”

She thanks the gods that it works, heart fluttering in her chest as Harry breaks out into a fit of that high-pitched laughter he does when he can’t control himself. His entire face changes for a moment, his nose crinkling upwards as the corners of his eyes wrinkle in delight.

“Am I wrong?!” She teases, poking him in the stomach and sides until his hands are fumbling for her own, his giggling intensifying when she buries her head into his neck and starts blowing raspberries against his skin.

“Okay, okay!” Harry can barely breathe, his ribs aching but in the best way and he can’t seem to stop beaming. “You’re kinda right.”

Y/N halts her attack, mouth dropping open in fake appalled shock, eyebrows flying upwards outrage. “Are you serious?!”

She tries to yank her wrists free from her husband’s large hands, but his fingers only tighten to keep her from going at him again. Persephone lays there writhing from side to side, yelling out all types of vulgar language that is gradually dissolving into bundles of banter and giggles as Harry makes kissy-faces, warning her to calm down before he “gives her a taste of her own ambrosia.”

Y/N, in the spur of the moment, mounts herself on top of Harry in a whirlwind of messy sheets, straddling his hips with her thighs and trying to tug herself free that way, but his hold is beyond godly. She releases an exasperated groan, slamming their conjoined hands down against his stomach, satisfied at the pained grunt he chokes out. “You deserve it, you prick.”

They are both still grinning from ear to ear, Y/N’s hair a tangled mess of flyaways as she slumps down in defeat against Hades’ lap, pouting and fuming jokingly.

When Harry sees his wife has come down from her bloodthirsty rampage, he slowly unclamps his fingers from her wrists, shrugging his eyebrows warningly. “I’ll pin you, babe. Behave.”

Persephone raises her own eyebrows challengingly. “Oh, yeah?”

Before Hades can react, she has his wrists crossed above his head, pressed into the mound of elegant feathered pillows below him. “How’s that, then? Turned the tables.”

Harry cocks his head to the side with an arrogant air as his bare, tattooed chest heaves alluringly. He runs his bottom lip under his top teeth as the corners turn up into a presumptuously attractive smirk, voice holding faux surrender. “You’re absolutely right, darling. I completely, totally lost. I have you sitting in my lap, naked, with a perfect view of your tits, which is the most dreadful defeat I can possibly imagine.You won.”

Y/N’s eyes narrow. It’s all a game— just for shits and giggles— but the way he’s eyeing her with that amused, conceited smirk makes her want to slap him across the face.

“You’re an asshole.” She huffs, nails digging into his wrists.

A holographic green glint flashes across the whites of Harry’s eyes, irises glowing with a watery jade hue as he mopes at her tauntingly. “Oh, but I thought I was a ‘prick?’”

Now he’s really asking for it. Practically begging for her to do something to make him take it all back. As if reading her mind, Hades flicks up a single eyebrow, and she can read his expression clear as crystal.

What are you gonna do about it?

Y/N can feel her nostrils flaring ever so slightly at the dare, and what drives it forward it that even though she is the one who is supposed to have Harry pinned down at her disposable, it looks more like he has his hands crossed behind his head, waiting for her to bend to his will.

It’s infuriatingly hot.

Something glints out of the corner of Persephone’s eye, her gaze rising until it lands on Hades’ wedding ring as it hugs his finger, the giant emerald jewel glittering in the muted amber lighting. He follows her locked stare, jaw flexing as he tilts his head back against the mattress, trying to find the target of her distraction.

His ring.

He very seldom takes it off, to the point where he has a tan line around the area. It’s his most prized possession, accompanied by his crown, his emblem, and Cerberus.

Y/N quickly wraps her fingers around it, pulling it off swiftly and holding it up above his head, sticking her tongue out at him playfully. “Good luck getting it back.”

Her plan backfires almost immediately.

She tries to swing herself off her husband to get the prize as far away from him as possible, but she had forgotten that their bodies had been tangled together in the sheets. Instead of making a speedy escape, she topples off his sideways, landing face-first into the fluffy duvet.

Harry’s muddled snickering mocks her.

The next thing she knows, Persephone is being scooped up in a pair of strong, lean arms, her back hitting the pillowy mattress and bouncing lightly. Harry’s body collapses over her’s, his hips snug between her thighs as his palms press down against the bed on either side of her head.

He moves strands of her hair away from her face, tucking them behind her ears as his face hovers over her, grin plastered all over it. “That was cute, pet. Ten-out-of-ten for effort. Execution? I’ll give you a two-out-of-ten, only because I love you so much.”

Harry shifts into his forearms, holding his left hand up and wiggling his ring finger. “Now give it back.”

“No.”

He rolls his eyes in mild irritation. “Give it back before you drop it behind the bed, you dolt.”

Y/N rattles her head in defiance, fist tightening around the obsidian ring as it remains pressed against her husband’s chest.

Harry gives her a ominous look, tilting his head to the side with a cautionary tone. “Give me my ring back before I give the other side of your bum a matching handprint.”

Instead of just giving in and returning the jewelry, Y/N decides to take the more complicated (and irrationally ridiculous) route. She pops it into her mouth.

Harry is so surprised he doesn’t blink for a few seconds. Then, he breaks out into awed laughter.

“You’re such a stubborn little thing, aren’t you? S’fucking impressive.” He shakes his head in disbelief, ghosting his index finger along her Cupid’s Bow, licking at the corner of his mouth coyly when he feels her lips twitching beneath his touch. “Now be a good girl and spit it out.”

Her words are muffled over the object. “Make me.”

A dark aura falls over Hades’ face, his hand coasting down from playing with her lips to wrapping delicately around her throat in foreshadowing. His voice is low and assertive. “You know I fucking will.”

“That’s what I’m betting on.”

Harry’s mouth curls into an evilly delighted simper. “Alright. You asked for it.”

Hades grabs one of Persephone’s knees, spreading her legs open roughly and using his own knees to keep her parted wide open. The ring finger of the hand around her throat presses against the center of her lips, the other hand wandering down and cupping her bare crotch without any warning. The two middle fingers of his right hand press deeper against her slick folds until he can feel the bud of her clit, and that’s when he starts wiggling the digits back and forth.

It starts off softly, but is quickly molding into a faster, messier, more eager pace. He usually eases her into sex because he knows how sensitive she can be down there to the point where she’ll cum without much work, but since they’re pitted against each other rather than together, dirty war strategies are expected.

Y/N’s legs act on instinct, trying to clasp shut as she feels her entire body coursing with electric shocks of sudden euphoria. However, the knees he has against her’s keeps her open, allowing him to do whatever he deems fit.

Persephone’s hands desperately grab at her husband’s, trying to get him to stop; she’d clearly overestimated her confidence level. She’d assumed he would just bury himself inside her, a strategy she knows how to fight with the right amount of willpower. But her clit is way more sensitive than anything else on her body and he’d gone in without remorse.

“T-That’s not fair! H-Harry, you can’t just— fuck, oh my God!” Her back arches up from the bed, thighs quivering as she feels deep pulses of pleasure pounding at the pit of her stomach.

Harry’s lips are flushed against her throat, placing hot, sloppy pecks across her juglar as he feels her getting wetter and wetter over his fingers. “I fucking warned you, sweetheart. I’m gonna make you cum like this, without me inside you. It’s what you deserve for being such a brat.”

“P-Please—!”

“Ring.” He growls demandingly, his second middle finger pressing harder against the center of her colored lips, the rest of his digits gripping her jaw firmly. “Now.”

It’s as if Y/N’s brain is no longer in control of her actions, her body acting on sheer adrenaline. Her mouth drops open on command, and she can feel Harry’s triumphant grin stinging across her jaw.

“That’s what I thought.”

The digit dips in and the ring slips past a third of it before Harry pulls it out. He makes eye contact with his wife, ducking down to whisper his next words across the shell of her ear.

“You’re gonna be the one to put the ring back on me.”

With everything that is happening, Persephone has no time to unravel the riddle behind Hades’ words. One of her trembling hands reaches up for his hand, trying to obey him in her drunken state of shock.

But he stops her with a light shake of his head, wet curls bouncing. “Not like that, baby.”

Harry then shifts his body over smoothly, the hand that was between her thighs slamming down beside her head to hold himself up as the hand with the ring takes its place.

In one quick, expert move, he plunges his two middle fingers inside Y/N, and the experience is almost out-of-body.

She can feel the abrupt chill of the metal ring making contact with the skin around her entrance, and then he’s slipping his digits further inside her, the ring pushing against her tight hole and running down his finger until it is snug in its rightful place. Until Harry is knuckles deep and she feels like she’s going to pass out as her senses go into overdrive.

Y/N is bucking and writhing against Hades’ hand, whimpering and whining and pleading with him to stop toying with her. To just fuck her already.

“Oh, I will, love. I’m gonna fuck you with my fingers first. Play with that spot inside you that I know drives you fucking wild. And then, I’m gonna proper raw you until you can’t even stand.”

Harry’s fingers slip out completely, only to pound back inside her harder this time, her whole body jolting upwards against the bed sheets as her throat aches with a broken yelp.

“I’m gonna make you apologize for calling me a prick—” his fingers draw out and slam back in and she’s so wet he can fucking hear it— “and an asshole—’ the same motion again, but this time she feels his teeth staining her neck and jaw with bruises— “and I’m gonna make you scream so loud, they’ll hear you all the way up in Olympus.”

And with the way he rams his digits back inside her, she knows he’ll make good on that promise.

[gaycrouton]

Bumpy Ride

She knew she was going to be the one who would have to sit on someone’s lap, it only made sense because she was the smallest and lightest, and realistically, she knew that someone was going to be Mulder. NSFW

It had never been a dream of hers to carpool with the Lone Gunmen, but honestly it had never been for this reason. Their van was just as messy as their homebase was - a chaotic organization of miscellaneous items that only made sense to them. Because of this, the entire back row of their van was filled to the brim with odds and ends items and they insisted it would be impossible to move them all out without it 'taking hours'. She believed them too. However, that left them with four seats and five people.

"You can sit on my lap," Frohike offered with sincerity as genuine as it was suggestive.

"Why don't you sit on Mulder's?" she deadpanned, ending his inquisitions right then and there.

She bit her lip nervously as she looked into the middle panel of the van that was open and revealing two seats that were taunting her. Realistically, she knew she was going to be the one who would have to sit on someone's lap, it only made sense because she was the smallest and lightest. However, she couldn't help the instinct to resist that flared up within her. Langley insisted that he had to drive, there was no way in hell that she'd ever help Frohike live out one of is fantasies, and the thought of sitting on Mulder's lap made her feel like a timid schoolgirl. She half contemplated asking Byers, but he was already getting into the car as if the answer went without contemplating.

Which, honestly, it did and they all knew it.

"Hey, um. I could always just kinda, uh, lay in the middle," Mulder rambled awkwardly, clearly not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

She was endeared by his sweetness, and touched that he was avoiding all the innuendos that were undoubtedly running through his head. With a sigh, she pulled at the short skirt she'd worn today before gesturing for him to get in. "Tell me if I make your legs fall asleep."

He gulped audibly as Langley snickered at his discomfort. "I don't think any part of his body will be falling asleep with you-"

"Shut up, Langley," Mulder murmured as he bent into the van and took a seat, looking back at her as if to make sure she was actually going to follow and that she wasn't just playing a joke on him.

With a sigh, she stepped in, pulling the door shut behind her as she precariously sat on the very edge of Mulder's legs, practically all but resting her weight on his knees. Frohike looked longingly back at them as he slid into the passenger seat while Byers awkwardly buckled himself in the seat across the median from them. "Um, Scully," she heard him say from behind her.

She turned to see he was offering her the seatbelt which she took and immediately couldn't pull any further. Of course.

She slid back so that she was on the middle of his legs, not too high, but apparently from the way the belt continued to catch, not high enough. "Seriously Scully, I could take a taxi-," he started.

"Shut up, Mulder," she warned as she sat all the way back so that her back was flush with his front and she could feel the part of his body she was trying to avoid. Already, Mulder? She twisted to get the seatbelt to extend again, tugging on it so hard that her whole body jerked until she was able to freely pull it and buckle them both in.

During her attempts, she felt Mulder's hands shoot out and gently grab her hips. While she initially thought it was a move to steady her, what she felt continuing to grow against her ass told her he was doing it to keep her from moving too much. He leaned forward and whispered "I'm so sorry," into her ear.

She leaned back so that hopefully only he would hear and murmured, "It's okay. It's not your fault."

The gunmen, oblivious to what was happening, wheeled out of the parking lot and continued blabbering on about random topics she wasn't following along with. All she could focus on was how Mulder's body felt against her own. "Langley, are you trying to kill us?" his strained voice called out after a few too many rough bumps.

They'd only driven a few blocks, but she could already tell this was going to be hard for him. Literally. Every sudden movement sent her rocking back into him, the flesh of her ass firmly rubbing against his budding erection. The grip of his hands on her hips tightened tremendously and she could feel him trying to push her away and keep her weight from falling back on him, which was quickly turning out to be a fruitless effort.

"Sorry Mulder, it's gonna be a bumpy ride," Langley replied, and he almost sounded apologetic.

As soon as he said that, they hit a huge speed bump that send Scully flying back onto him, grinding his hard-on in between her thighs. She bit her lip to resist gasping as she looked out the window and tried to appear unaffected. She wasn't a nun, having a man's body - Mulder's body - pressed so intimately close to her was lighting her nerves on fire. Every bump sent a jolt of arousal straight to her core and she couldn't help but squirm on his lap in an attempt to alleviate the pressure, occasionally trying to discreetly squeeze her thighs together to get herself under control.

He had to know. He has to feel that she was reacting to this too. Against her better judgement, she turned to look over her shoulder and saw he was leaning back against the headrest with his eyes clamped shut. She could tell from here that he was trying to get control of his breathing and attempting to pretend he was anywhere else.

Her eyes were drawn to his lips as she saw him nervously bite down on the fuller bottom one. Another bump in the road had him squeezing her hips and accidentally caused her to let out a little sound. So quiet that he was the only one who could have heard it, and heard it he did.

Suddenly his eyes were open and focused on hers and she saw exactly what he must've seen as he looked at her: dilated eyes, flushed cheeks, and controlled breaths. She felt self conscious at having been caught and, while his eyes were trained on her lips, she whispered a quick apology and turned around.

Looking around the car self consciously, she saw Frohike and Langley engaged in a dispute over the radio and Byers was comically paying attention to something outside of the window, clearly trying to avoid looking at the spectacle they were creating. God, this was embarrassing.

As ashamed as she was, she loved this feeling. She didn't have to be a psychic to know Mulder felt the same. His arms had now come to encircle her waist, a sign that if it was pointless to fight it, might as well indulge. Though he wasn't lewdly pressing her back towards him, just simply holding her close. She almost jumped as she felt his head fall to rest on her shoulder and nuzzle against her neck. Did he just smell her?

Part of her thought it was odd, but the part of her that was focused on her pulsing clit thought it was hot. That must've also been the part of her that thought it was a good idea to scoot back against him and rotate her hips suggestively against him, pressing his erection straight against her groin. They both reacted viscerally to the clothed friction: she grabbed onto his hands and clutched them like a lifeline while he quietly groaned and hotly exhaled into the crook of her neck.

Another sharp turn had her careening back into him and she felt him involuntarily buck against her ever so slightly. "You guys okay back there?" Frohike asked obliviously.

"Yeah," she answered, proud of how normal she sounded.

"How much longer?" Mulder asked from behind her, not as successful.

"Just another few blocks," Langley replied, paying more attention to the CD collection on the visor than the world's most inopportune lap dance.

Of course, what he didn't mention was that the last few blocks were on gravel. Suddenly she was gyrating against him like he was a human vibrator and she had a death grip on his arms. Only, instead of holding her to him, he'd returned to pushing her away from him, avoiding overstimulating himself and finishing embarrassingly.

That made one of them.

After a few too many bumps reminiscent of her nights of self-pleasure, her clit rubbed against him just right and she was coming. In public, on top of her partner, in front of three people she barely knew beyond their pervert tendencies.

Luckily she bit down on her leg and let her head fall forward so that the other three were none the wiser, but Mulder knew. He had to. She was gripping his arms so hard she had to have been drawing blood and her entire body was shaking on top of his. As suddenly as it started, he pulled her back near him and whispered "Holy shit."

She was so worried about not letting on that she was publicly having an orgasm that she hadn't realized the van had come to a stop next to the warehouse they were checking out. With the exit of the aftershocks of her body came the sick realization of what just happened. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

She couldn't bear to look at Mulder, so she quickly unbuckled herself, slid out of the van, and made her way to the restroom without a second glance. Part of her felt bad for abandoning Mulder without a second glance, but she was too mortified to look back. She could faintly hear him getting made fun of for enjoying the ride too much and being a pervert.

If they only knew.

- Nicole (Twitter/Tumblr: gaycrouton)

[briannamarguerite]

Happy belated birthday to the utterly fabulous @suddenclarityharry who sent us the above prompt. I hope you enjoy this self-indulgent drabble thing!! (it’s kind of different, but that means other people can still use the prompt)  xoxo

The squeak that Harry let out would have been mortifying if he hadn’t already reached his peak level of embarrassment.

“Oh, no. No, no. No, no, no,” Harry said into his palm, which had flown up to cover his mouth once he’d clicked on the stupid post. “Nooooo.”

This was not happening. It couldn’t be. The person had even used his name. Harry. They didn’t go to a big university, everyone was going to know it was him.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, a small cough interrupted the mental fuck-shit-i-have-to-move-and-change-my-name that was blaring on repeat.

Harry’s eyes snapped up. And of course it was Louis Tomlinson standing over him. No one ever came to this corner of the library, it was Harry’s special place that he could escape to when he wanted some peace and quiet. But today of all days here was Louis Tomlinson, one perfect eyebrow raised, his hip cocked, looking ready to dive into action if Harry needed saving of some sort.

“You okay, mate?” Louis asked, pitching his tone low. His voice was still beautiful and raspy and would have made the butterflies in Harry’s stomach dance had they not all been paralyzed from sheer mortification.

He sucked in air, about to attempt some sort of chill answer despite the circus music that had started playing in his brain, but his tongue tangled on itself and all that came out was “Mmghfiph.”

Which brought out the crinkles by Louis’ eyes and made Harry want to crawl under the table. It was just… he looked so soft and beautiful, in joggers that hugged his thighs and a comfy sweatshirt that brought out the bit of green in his blue eyes. He’d thrown a beanie on over his lovely brown hair, completing the effortless, I just rolled out of bed and still am hotter than you look.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Louis said, as he slid into the chair across from Harry… and that really would not help with the forming of words thing at all. “Harry right?”

And … what? “Um, yeah. Harry. Me. I’m Harry.”

The crinkles were back, but Louis pressed his lips together as if to hide a smile. It didn’t seem mocking. “Me, I’m Louis.”

Harry groaned and dropped his face in his hands. Maybe if he closed his eyes this would all be a horrifying dream. Then a foot brushed against his shin. Not quite hard enough for a kick, but persistent enough to get his attention.

“Hey, for real, are you alright man?” Louis asked, and when Harry dared peek up, the amusement had faded from Louis’ face. Harry missed the warmth of it.

He sighed, and tried to get his shit together. In the end, he simple twisted his laptop toward Louis so he could read the stupid post. The one that detailed what he’d thought had been a nice act of kindness on Saturday night.

A girl had come to the bar at the fancy movie theater he worked at to order a bottle of wine and two glasses. When he’d informed her he’d need to see both IDs, she’d told him that she was there by herself and had been too embarrassed about ordering the whole thing alone.

Since he’d been about to get off his shift, and her eyes had gone a bit damp (at least he’d thought they’d had) he’d done the kind thing and watched the movie with her.

Now, it seemed she’d been on a date all along. And everyone would know about it, because she’d posted on their university’s confessions page.

Harry watched Louis closely as he read over the post, gnawing on his thin, but lovely, bottom lip. When he finished, he looked up, his eyes tracing over Harry’s face for so long that Harry flushed an even deeper pink and actively talked himself out of crawling beneath the table.

“You did that?” Louis asked, tipping his chin toward the screen. Not a trace of humor was left.

The only thing Harry could do was nod, as his mouth still wasn’t fully under his control, and he didn’t want to test it.

Their eyes locked, held, and some sort of tension pulled between them. The throb of it pulsed in Harry’s chest, and he couldn’t blink, or breathe, or look away.

But then Louis broke the moment. Without saying anything he stood, turned and walked away.

Harry let his forehead drop to the table, the thunk of it loud in the quiet library.

****

When he got home that night, there was a post-it stuck to his dorm room door. It was neon green, a bright beacon at the tail end of a terrible day. Harry had spent the whole thing trying to avoid people’s eyes as he heard whispers and giggles follow him where ever he went.  

One girl had tried to ask him on a date, and he didn’t know if she was mocking him, but he’d had to awkwardly stumble through the whole coming out to a stranger thing, and that was never fun. A few people had smiled kindly at him, but he read that as pity and moved along. And through it all he tried to forget the way Louis Tomlinson, the kid he’d had a crush on for his entire freshman and sophomore year probably now thought he was a gullible fool.

He grabbed the post-it, blinking a few times so that the words were more than just a jumble of scribbly slashing lines. Mackey’s coffee shop. It was signed with a smiley face with two x-es where the eyes should be.

Harry led a pretty boring life. He was studying pre-law at a small university in the middle of the state. He had some close friends and went to parties, but he wouldn’t exactly call himself adventurous. Bottom line, he wasn’t in the position to turn down a mysterious invitation. 

Especially not when his brain was whispering that he’d seen that smiley face doodle before. On Louis Tomlinson’s notebook.

Dashing inside to brush a comb through his hair, and spritz a little citrus water on his face, he swapped his school bag for just his wallet and then headed back out.

When he got to Mackey’s his stomach dropped when the only person who was there was Tabby, a nice girl in his stats class. She looked up when he walked in, but didn’t move to approach him further. Harry bit his lip, his stomach clenching at the nothing that he’d managed to eat all day. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sweeping his gaze over the small room just in case he’d somehow missed a person hidden by shadows, Harry turned to leave.

“Hey,” a voice called from behind the register. “You Harry Styles?”

Harry swiveled, but it wasn’t Louis, of course it wasn’t. Instead a brunette kid Harry recognized but didn’t know was holding something out to him.  

“Yup,” he confirmed as he took the small box. His fingers trembled but he waited until he was back outside to open it. A post-it sat on top. I like it how you always laugh at Professor Stevens puns, a big, lovely laugh that escapes even when you try to hold it back. Hawkins Building Rm. 312

Beneath the note was a key chain of a little box of fries. IT’S FRY-DAY, the lettering across the bottom wrote. A laugh-sob slipped from his lips, and he took off at a much faster than normal pace to get to the next location.

And so it went, all over campus, a scavenger hunt. At each place, there was a little box, a message and a small gift.

When Lacey Jones forgot her wallet, you paid for her coffee that one day. Along with a Keurig cup.

I could listen to you talk about Dickens for hours. That one had come with a miniature cock and Harry hadn’t been able to stop the honk laugh that his admirer apparently liked so much.

And so it went until ...

The baseball field.

Something about the post-it felt like the last one. Perhaps because it was lacking a compliment. Harry started running, because, he could be honest with himself, he was embarrassingly excited to see (who he hoped was) Louis right now. His breathing was ragged, and there had been multiple instances of uncontrolled tears, and all of his little presents bounced around in the pockets of his jeans, and he just needed to be at the baseball field. Right. Now.

The lights were on, and he jumped over the low fence in a move that was more graceful than everything else he’d ever done in his life combined.

And there, right by the pitcher’s mound was Louis Tomlinson, his hands clasped in front of himself, dressed in black skinny jeans and a lovely red tee. He looked beautiful beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.

Harry came to a stop less than an arm’s length away. “You,” he breathed, because the only other thing he could think to do was kiss the boy.

Louis’ lips tugged up at the corner. “You disappointed?”

“Never,” Harry said, the word coming out even before Louis stopped speaking. “Never. I’ve liked you forever. Since English class our freshman year.”

Everything about Louis relaxed, and it was only when it did that Harry realized how tense the boy had been. As if he had anything to worry about. “I didn’t want to seem creepy, I hope it wasn’t creepy. I’ve just, yeah, I’ve liked you too.”

Harry honked out another full-body laugh and wasn’t even embarrassed because Louis liked when he did that. On cue, Louis’ crinkles came back around his eyes. 

“Not creepy. I’ve noticed you, too. I knew it was your smiley face.”

Louis snapped his fingers like he was disappointed that the mystery had been ruined, but he didn’t try to hide his full-on smile. “Thwarted by my attempts to be cute.”

“You don’t have to attempt it, you always are,” Harry said, and then rolled his eyes at his own cheesiness. Except. Well, he guessed Louis might be cheesy himself. He’d just sent Harry on a romantic scavenger hunt that ended in a grand reveal in the middle of an empty baseball stadium.

“I wanted you to have a lovely date,” Louis said, reaching out to grab Harry’s hand. Louis’ thumb brushed over Harry’s knuckles and the thrill of it rushed through his bloodstream. “You are so, so lovely and you deserve the best date possible. Or at least the best I could come up with on a half-day’s notice.”

Harry groaned. In the excitement of the past hour he’d forgotten the stupid post. “I’m so mortified everyone knows about that,” he whispered the confession. “People must think I’m so foolish.”

Louis shook his head, and tugged Harry’s hand, pulling them both down onto the blanket that Harry just noticed was spread out on the field. A picnic basket sat on one corner. “You don’t realize how amazing that post made you look. You have such a kind heart Harry.”

Blushing, Harry ducked to avoid Louis’ searching gaze. He couldn’t think of what to say.

“Everyone’s going to want to date you after that,” Louis said, and there was a hint of insecurity in his voice that made Harry’s gaze snap to his.

“I only want to date you,” Harry rushed out, beyond coyness at this point.

He was rewarded by a blinding smile. “Well, that’s very convenient, because I only want to date you,” Louis said. “Alright, now how bout some wine.”

Harry groaned again, dropping his forehead to the nook in Louis’ shoulder and they collapsed to the ground laughing.

***

When Harry got home much, much, much later that nigh with kiss-swollen lips, he logged on to the stupid website with the stupid post. There were tons of comments that he didn’t bother looking through. He maneuvered the cursor to the box, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Don’t worry, I found someone worthy.

[justsomeantifas]

Imagine that you’re reeling from the devastating loss of a presidential candidate you supported. Perhaps you’re also dealing with a chronic illness, worried about losing your (price-gouging, impossible-to-navigate) Obama-provisioned health insurance, and up to your eyeballs in debt. You’re drowning in anxiety and grasping for some way to represent your situation, some historical analogy or useful comparison. You might think, “Wow, this is just like when Frodo was stabbed by a cave troll in the movie The Fellowship of the Ring and everyone stared in shock, but then they went crazy with anger and killed the troll together. And Frodo was saved by his mithril armor, which clearly symbolizes the prophylactic power of a well-regulated insurance market.”

If this isn’t how you think, if the great fantasia of geekdom isn’t the prism through which you view life and politics, then you may be missing out on the sort of post-election soul-searching in which many liberals are currently indulging. Throughout the web’s social media feeds and content farms, shell-shocked voters have turned to the shiny emblems of pop culture for anesthetizing succor. “Maybe Obama getting elected was Star Wars,” the comedian Patton Oswalt tweeted. “Trump is Empire Strikes Back. Get behind Booker or Warren—they’re our Jedi in 2020.” The writer and game designer Jane McGonigal was first to respond, excited by this proposed trilogy: “THANK YOU for looking this far ahead. This is exactly what we need to be doing. Thank you.”

It’s more than the occasional Twitter personality popping off about how “winter is coming.” The retreat into juvenilia is epidemic. Dumbledore’s Army is now recruiting, reports BuzzFeed. The Hunger Games is “our most relevant dystopia,” a YA model for the coming horrors, explains Vox. The election is The Walking Dead, says Mashable. No, it’s like The Purge—because of voter ID laws or racist violence or something.

While this turn to the many cherished worlds of fiction may well be helping people work though their bewilderment, it reveals not imagination but a dismal lack thereof. By refusing to engage with the world as it is, by seeing in every political disaster an opportunity to indulge in escapism and dime-store nostalgia, pop-culture liberals overlook the very real horrors already looming for swaths of the population, including those who have never seen Doctor Who. It is its own kind of filter bubble, a self-contained world of soothing bedtime stories.

Like so many others, I’ve gorged on corporate-branded fantasy entertainment most of my life. I have strong feelings about Battlestar Galactica and 30 Rockand am embarrassingly familiar with the Starcraft universe. But these are not models for political thinking, nor are they any kind of map for the present crisis. By their very design, blockbuster fictions excite cultural anxieties only to soothe them, leaving consumers spent and satisfied. We’ve been told in recent years that movies such as Captain America: Civil War are rehabilitating our pop culture, unleashing its “subversive” and even “revolutionary” potential. Instead, pop culture has succeeded in watering down our definitions of those words.

To hear some pundits insist, with perfect seriousness, that it was important for Taylor Swift to speak out on Hillary Clinton’s behalf ahead of the election was to realize how celebritized our virtue-signaling politics has become. When disappointed liberals quote The Hunger Games in the coming weeks, they will only be redoubling the slick and foolish liberal embrace of Hollywood and pop culture that was so fully on display during Hillary Clinton’s failed campaign. Think of HRC mugging on SNL, dazzling the stars of Broad City, or palling around with Lin Manuel Miranda. Lena Dunham and Katy Perry no doubt have illuminating political opinions, but those opinions are the wrong vehicle through which to reach voters in Wisconsin, who have concerns that rate higher than snagging tickets to Hamilton—something Clinton likely would have noticed had she, say, spent any meaningful time in the state.

As Freddie de Boer and others have argued, these pleas for celebrity attention seem to reflect a liberal desire to see their politics validated, even given a halo of glamor, by fellow elites. Clinton’s pithy tweets and Jay-Z concert appearances appeal to the already converted while offering nothing to the millions of American workers wondering if, just maybe, the woman who gives secret $250,000 speeches to bankers lacks a common touch. But for those for whom pop culture icons matter—even as they preach a squishy social liberalism while saying almost nothing about American imperialism, climate change, or income equality—these familiar references are as powerful as a Trump dog whistle is to a Stormfront reader. They signal an inclusiveness and recognition that, like Patton Oswalt’s Star Wars analogy, manages to be politically useless but personally uplifting.

One of the features that makes Peter Thiel and other Silicon Valley titans so disturbing is that their political thinking seems to be derived mostly from the entertainment of their childhoods. Palantir, Thiel’s billion-dollar surveillance-and-analytics startup, is named for the “seeing stones” in J.R.R. Tolkien’s novels, and the influence pervades the firm, which names its offices and conference rooms after locations in Middle Earth. Elon Musk, who has said that education should be like a videogame, dismisses climate change as a problem that we can escape by fleeing on his rockets to Mars. The tech industry thrives on a moonshot sensibility, preaching fantastical change while voting, as San Francisco recently did, to take tents away from homeless peoplewho can’t afford to live in their small utopia. Limitless imagination is practiced alongside a quotidian pettiness.

Now Thiel has successfully backed a politician who, despite launching a hostile takeover of the pop-culture-averse GOP, is himself a celebrity. From first to last, Donald Trump is a media creation, a product of this surface-deep entertainment culture. Like Hillary Clinton and her numerous celebrity endorsers, he is obscenely rich—an entrenched, if deeply reviled, member of an economic elite who, in the American myth-making tradition, has somehow recast himself as a populist. Until a couple years ago, he and Clinton were friends. And with the election safely over, our elites will join ranks against us once again, even as they call limply for us all to come together. You need only look at a post-election interview with Oprah, who said she thought Donald Trump had been “humbled” by his victory, to learn that it will be the rich and famous who will do the most to legitimize his presidency. Trump is, after all, one of them.

Standing in for a shared sense of history, cult films and the YA books of our childhoods offer a comfortable sounding board for liberals as they process an election outcome that seems to them unreal. But as we move forward, these entertainments will not be able to give us what’s so lacking in the here and now: a sense of an ending.