#its the way i draw teeth innit

[semisolidmind]

I don't even think I saw your art during the undertale days, I think it's in the artstyle. In the aura. The vibe. It's in the air. It smells ever so slightly like undertale. I have only met you for the first time and yet, I recognize you. I sense it in you. One name comes to mind... Snas.

some visitors to my blog say they can still hear his voice

[weeo]

What's Bred in the Bone Comes Out in the Flesh

Where the Waters Do Agree - Chapter 4

Pairing:  Tommy Shelby / Alfie Solomons

Summary: Alfie offered Tommy to help him kill his mark—looks like they have a mission to complete, and a destabilising tension to deal with.

Warnings/Tags:  Violence, Blood, Assassination

Notes: This is the 4th chapter of a group fic! If you want to read the story from the beginning, you can have access to every chapter here.

Thank you so much to the lovely @deadendtracks for the beta!

Read on AO3

It may appear suspicious to find your very dear mate, on a serene morning after a churning storm, sharing eggs and bacon with none other than your own fucking mark. Alfie could concede to him that.

As a matter of fact, he’d been the first surprised by this incongruous situation. He considered he’d never get the chance to reencounter this shithead on the face of the earth, let alone come across him sipping tea in the first-class saloon the following day. Surreal, innit? When they parted their way to their personal cabins the previous night, Alfie had no doubts Tommy would squirm for 30 seconds in his bed before wandering through the halls to finish his task. What honestly could have been better than pretending to be Tommy's knight in shining armour without lifting a fucking finger, eh? 

Well, Alfie was open to recognising the situation was tricky. Nonetheless, stomping on Alfie’s foot with his boot heel, while Alfie generously served himself second helpings of scrambled eggs at the breakfast buffet, was an outright overreaction on Tommy’s part. 

Alfie’s cane, hung at his elbow, slammed to the ground in an excruciating commotion. All heads pivoted towards him. How silly of Tommy to draw attention to them in such a reckless manner!

“What the fuck, man?”

Alfie’s knees screamed when he picked his cane up. Blood trickled down the severed inside of his cheek and its bitter taste snaked around his teeth. Thankfully, the counter helped him to regain his feet without looking like a bedridden old grouch.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Alfie?” Tommy stared blankly at the wall facing him at the other end of the room and exhaled a trail of smoke. Slowly. Way too slow, so that the purpose was to be infuriating. Tommy acted like a Hollywood sweetheart, batting his eyelashes on a cardboard film set. Who the fuck does this disdainful prick think he is when Alfie’s been anything but considerate with his friend? 

“Well, actually, I’m doing your job, mate.”

Tommy snickered humorlessly before taking another drag of his cigarette. “I doubt that.”

Alfie smiled. “Hm, silly boy, you’ve not read your documents closely, ain’t you?”

“Should I understand you’ve been spying on me?” 

Alfie’s hand reached to his heart. “Accusing your dear mate of such lowness, what a world to raise children in!”

Tommy turned his head towards Alfie and raised an eyebrow: “It’s not because you can’t bend your knees anymore that such lowness is unreachable for you, Alfie.”

“Well, yeah, you know…”

“What were you bloody doing?”

“Well, I was extending a hand to a very dear friend of mine in need of assistance, because, see, helping you resolves my own fucking problem, mate.”

“Fucking spit it out, Alfie. What were you bloody doing with that fucker?”

“Oh, you know, just paying double for three crates of Tommy guns. You’re supposed to stop this guy from selling and shipping them to the IRA, if you’d read the papers closely.”

“How did you get them?” Tommy maintained an unimpressed—or nonetheless, contained—expression.

“In your coat pocket.”

“Do you think you’re being funny?” Tommy knitted his brows.

“Yeah, mate, indeed. You wouldn’t have fucking noticed if a horse burst into your fucking cabin, no less a simple man snatching a paper from your very own coat pocket.” Alfie nearly swiped his plate away with large, careless gestures. He got carried away—an excess of confidence. 

After a fleeting silence, Tommy admitted: “I just got straight to the main parts.”

“Better not to know, uh?” Alfie fixed Tommy, looking for his eyes. “Yeah, well, I help my mate, and by a phenomenal alignment of events, I also resolve the business I’m on this little trip for. It truly is the best of both worlds, innit?”

“Have you ever done something which wasn’t in your best interest, Alfie?”

“Have you?” Alfie smiled recklessly, showing his terrible crooked tooth on full display. “See, we’re just the same. Hell’s Kitchen also lives up to its fucking name, mate. It’s been put to fire and the sword since some bloody wop insulted the fiancé of my mourned cousin Adam.” Alfie’s hand reached to his heart. “Nonetheless, these bands of fucking savages have been killing each other with meat cleavers, saws and fucking rolling pins. Can’t you believe it? Hm, yeah, nothing’s worse than being ashamed of his own fucking kin, right? Soon, they’ll make their enemy choke on bloody bread dough if no one fucking intervenes. This regrettable shitshow has to be definitely put to an end, and the Thompson submachine guns would let off a good fucking firework finale, don’t you think?”

“Keep it down.” Tommy intervened and glanced to the side without moving his neck an inch.  “You will frighten our friend.” He whispered: “The guns can be part of the deal, but we need to figure out where they fucking are.”

“Meet me in room 47 at 9 PM. I’ll lure your guy in to conclude our business. He arms the enemy as long as the cash is worth it. He shouldn’t be difficult to bait with an increased transaction. We make him spill the beans and send him on an eternal honeymoon with good ol’ Eddie. Easy.”

“Easy enough if I trusted you, Alfie.”

“Look, mate, is there a remarkably better idea offered to you? Well, suppose an impeccable resolution fell on you from the sky this very morning, you know, sent by the Almighty; you could have just said like a freakin normal human blessed with the gift of speech: “No, mate, thank you dearly, but I’ll handle it myself.”, ain’t you?”

Tommy blinked slowly and crushed his cigarette on the tiled floor. He dropped his empty, pristine plate off on a trolley full of soiled dishes and left the saloon without a word. 

Suppose it’s his way to acknowledge he’s on board, eh?

*

He sure won’t complain to the staff about finding Tommy seated on the bed when he got to cabin number 47, but there’s been a real lack of safety and protection of private life on this fucking heap of metal. He was the one who had the fucking keys, for fuck’s sake.

“It’s not yours,” Tommy said as soon as Alfie opened the door.

“Didn’t want blood all over me fucking carpet, ain’t I?” Alfie leaned on his cane. “You already knew though, didn’t you?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Tommy got off the bed like he would offer his seat to an old man on the train.

Alfie stayed planted on his feet where he was, eyes widened and fixed towards Tommy: “Killed by a man mysteriously lost at sea. You offered us the perfect fucking carpet to ruin on a silver platter, mate.”

“When the fucker’s coming?” Tommy interrupted, acting like he’d already thought all this though.

“Thirsty for blood, ain’t you?” Alfie snickered.

“Thirsty to get it over with.”

Alfie’s lower back was cursing him. He waited until a decent amount of time had passed. He refused to appear as if he’d rushed towards the seat Tommy had left vacant. He must be careful about pushing his body like that in the next few days. “I gave you an early appointment, mate.” Alfie paused to restrain his breath of relief when he was seated. “It happens that, you know, we have business to discuss.”

“How much do you want?”

“Five crates of ten.”

“Two.”

“Nonsense. Tell me, treacle, why should I fucking settle for less than the fucking rich prick offered, eh?” 

“Three then. It’s even without spending a bloody pound.”

"Well, love, that would make sense in our dirty ol’ England, but we've been sailing on the waters of the mighty United States of America for a while now. The tip for the service isn't included in the initial price."

“Four. No higher.”

“Deal.”

*

Assured knocks were heard inside room 47.

Alfie bit back a groan when he stood up from the bed. His back had been struck by a lighting bolt. He opened the door and gestured an invitation to enter: “Henry, Henry, come in, mate.”

Henry Aston wiped his feet on the doormat and looked around the room while Alfie closed the door behind him: “I would have imagined you’d be less tidy, Mr Solomons.”

“I should hate to be predictable, shouldn’t I?” Alfie smiled and raised a metal flask out of his pocket: “Rum?”

Henry nodded. “We have to hide like rats to drink a glass of liquor, and they call that progress.”  

The cork of the flask popped off, and Alfie poured two glasses on the side table.

“It has come to my attention that we may share an acquaintance, Mr Solomons.” A shiver raced down Alfie’s spine. He drew his hand closer to his coat pocket. The cold metal of his gun kissed his wrist through the fabric.

“Who would that be?” 

“Edward O’Connell. I had the opportunity to witness how you nearly came to blows on the pontoon before the departure. I’m amazed they allowed you to board after causing such a delaying inconvenience.”

Alfie grabbed one glass in each hand and turned around, harbouring a forced smile: “Good ol’ Eddie. How do you know that tosser?”

Henry accepted the glass. “He’s a very dear client of mine. He happens to serve as the go-between for the shipping companies of armament and the IRA.” Henry smelled its content with his eyes closed. “I suspect he may also work as a counterintelligence agent for the Republic of Ireland.”

“Hm. Two sides to a coin, they say. Tails, you may be lucky. Heads, dirtied by the face of the King. Even truer for Irish, eh?”

“Cheers to that!” Henry raised his glass and gulped its amber-coloured liquid.

“Me own recipe. What do you think of that, eh?”

“Too bitter. That thing is for the workers.”

Alfie lifted an eyebrow. “Hm, yeah, right?” 

“We had important matters to discuss. One especially concerned me to the highest degree. That assassin from the crown you mentioned earlier, have you strictly identified him as we speak?” Henry asked.

Alfie bit his cheek. He hadn’t predicted that the tosser would bring that up so soon. “No, mate. He’s a tough fish to catch.” It’s not like their little games haven’t always been scattered with Alfie’s switches of side. Bet on all the horses, and you’ll never taste the bitter savour of defeat. An unquestionable victory is always tainted, though, whether in a distasteful range of vivid colours or a washed-out beige. Bravery has never made him richer than betting blindly on all the horses.

“Dear Edward had an eye on someone. He was supposed to have more information to provide after breakfast this morning, but he stood me up. Guess he slipped away after being an ineffective, dirty thief.”

“Well, yeah, sounds just like him.”

“You’re as bitter as your rum every time his name is cited in a conversation, and I might very well know why.”

“Do you?”

“He may have tried to intimidate me for the same felony. Men like us, Mr Solomons, are prone to be blackmailed by men like Eddie, if our penchant is ever uncovered by them despite our carefulness. Nonetheless, I conducted him hastily to understand it’d be in his best interests to conserve my friendship instead of provoking my wrath.”

“Well, there’s a variety of means to reach an equal goal, innit?”

“Like punching him in the face.”

“Hm, yeah, sort of.”

“And which means would lead you to blow me?”

Alfie snickered, and Henry’s stare underlined his seriousness.

“Nah, fuck off, mate. I have for a rule, right, that, you know, I don’t blow rich fucking assholes who served in the cavalry.” 

As much as Tommy liked to pretend they didn’t have a deep understanding of each other, Alfie knew damn well Tommy’s blood was boiling right fucking now. He was galvanising him for the hardships to come. It was as much a smack across the face as a delicate, thoughtful gift. 

“Let’s settle our gun business, right? You tell me at which pier we’re supposed to meet tomorrow. I give you your money. And then, I’ll kindly invite you to fuck off.”

“You’re a fool if you believed I ever had any interest in your money. I smelled it on you from afar you were a bloody cock-sucker. You reek of it even more when walking that pikey rent boy around. Your business must have been fruitful to afford such an overpriced, ostentatious slut on a whole boat journey. We could invite him if you need that tight ass to get it up.”

One minute, Alfie snickered humorlessly, and the next, a shadow came into sight behind Henry to trap its arm around his throat. They were both thrown off balance and moved backwards until Tommy’s back banged the wardrobe he’d been hidden in. Henry struggled to free himself from Tommy, who tightened his hold around Henry’s neck. 

“You were jealous, weren’t you?” Henry smirked. He elbowed Tommy’s side and managed to get out of Tommy’s grip.

“You, fucker.” Alfie moved closer and punched Henry’s face. Henry grabbed Alfie’s shirt to steady himself. The rush of adrenaline maintained the illusion Alfie had regained his grounded, rooted in the floor strength of his youth, until something in his back snapped and made him follow Henry in his fall.

They reached for each other’s shirts. “You spent way too much time on a horse, mate.” Alfie took advantage of that hold to give Henry a headbutt. A second. And a third. 

Henry’s nose was gushing blood, and Alfie might have also broken his own. A red fountain was running down his face, dripping on Henry’s chest. Henry gave a shove with his legs and made them roll through the cabin until they hit the foot of the bed. He topped over Alfie and lifted his fist to punch him: “You—“ 

Tommy seized Henry under his armpits to drag him backwards to the centre of the room. Alfie dove on Henry’s legs to help Tommy immobilise him. With a knife, Tommy slit Henry’s throat. Drips splashed on Alfie’s face. A river of blood snaked down the scumbag’s chest and Tommy’s arms. Henry was still trying to stop blood spilling from his throat with his hands, as life was abandoning his eyes. Tommy shoved Alfie further to straddle Henry and planted his knife in Henry’s chest, the side of his neck, and even his face multiple times. Every stab given was hurried and swifter than the previous one. 

The adrenaline unleashed the frightened, contained beast, which never ceased to growl inside Tommy’s guts since France. Alfie could be afraid of it if his stomach weren’t vibrating with the howling of his own, poorly imprisoned with rusty shackles. The beasts living inside them were acquainted. Their barks had the familiarity of relatives’ steps on a staircase. Their instinct danced around the excitement of their shared rage, their shared fear. They were rolled in a comforting scent—the thrill of recognition, their yearning and reunion for a fellow creature intertwined until suffocation.

The tension in Henry’s legs had melted long ago when Alfie called Tommy’s name and stroked Tommy’s arm to stop his repetitive motions. There was so much blood suddenly, as if they burst into an open-heart surgery. Tommy crawled on his knees and stumbled on the carpet coated with a reflective bed of blood. Tommy’s loud breathing started to slow down. Alfie’s back, which had been surprisingly silent, now screamed. He threw Henry’s corpse further away in a last painful effort to lie down next to Tommy.

Half of Tommy’s face was drenched in fresh blood. There were two sides of a coin. Unlike Eddie, the dirt suited him. His eyelashes, covered by blood and tears, were glinting in the awful orange light of the bedside lamp. This scene carried the ambivalence Alfie had always felt towards butterfly wings. He craved to crush the beauty of Tommy’s face under his boot, as much as keeping it pinned behind glass for admiration and never allowing it to yield to decay.

A different kind of beast had been woken up in his lower belly. One that was no less dangerous.

“You betrayed me once again, Alfie.” Tommy interrupted Alfie’s train of thought. He was fixing the wood ceiling over them without even looking at it.

“Hm, yeah, sweetie, you know, don’t put all your eggs in the same basket, they say.” Tommy frowned, and Alfie raised his voice: “What was I supposed to do, right? Waiting for what God had intended for me!? Nah, nah, nah. Fucking ridiculous, mate.” Alfie gave a sour laugh. He turned his face and pointed his raised forefinger towards Tommy, who wouldn’t look at him: “Only fools don’t back themselves, eh? And I fucking well know what you’re going to fucking say: Alfie, he was giving away too much strategic information to plan on keeping you alive.” Alfie imitated Tommy’s rough voice. “I know, alright?” 

Tommy raised an eyebrow, and Alfie mumbled as if he was confessing a secret: “To reassure you, mate, I had put most of my eggs in your freakin’ basket.”

Tommy’s blank stare turned towards Alfie: "It seems your collaboration has a price, doesn’t it?” 

Alfie was torn to say yes because he’d never been a good man, and Tommy would do anything to secure the success of this mission. He was curious. It was nibbling him. He wanted to know to what extent Tommy would go to ensure he had Alfie on a hook. To what lengths could Alfie push him before he snapped and showed any sign of opposition? He would revel in it, even if Tommy’s willingness to comply was encouraged by an axe hanging over his beloved’s head. 

“Everyone has a price, Alfie. Even your fragile loyalty.”

Alfie cupped Tommy’s bloody face and stroked it with his thumb. His selfishness lent credence to Henry's despicable words towards Tommy. But, good God, he’d go straight to Hell if it would stop him. He averted his gaze: “There’s indeed one thing…”

Quietly, Tommy led his hand towards his cheek and interlaced it with Alfie’s fingers. He winced when he turned on his side to face Alfie. Henry’s blows must have bruised his ribs. 

They were both breathing loudly to the rhythm of Alfie’s increasing heartbeat. Tommy grimaced again from pain when he wrapped the back of Alfie’s head with his right arm. He stared into Alfie’s eyes a second too long and kissed him open-mouthed. His arm clasped tighter around Alfie to draw him closer. Alfie was transfixed. He needed to see. He needed to gather proof this moment was real. His eyes were wide open when Tommy’s were tight shut. Tommy squeezed his hold on Alfie’s head and drew closer. He ached to feel it, even if it hurt, and yearned for Alfie to suffer the effects of his wrath. He took his time. It was so soft and passionate; it felt earnest—a truth offered on a silver plate.

Tommy pulled them apart and opened his eyes back. Alfie could only hope what he perceived—what Tommy allowed him to see—was sincere, even if it’d be more than he had the right to expect.

Pierced by a stab of hunger, Alfie moved nearer to Tommy to kiss him once more. Tommy backed off slightly and murmured: “Enough.”

Caught in his frenzy of Tommy allowing everything he desired, Alfie tried to draw closer again. Tommy stretched his arm holding Alfie’s hand, and kept him at a distance. Both of them strained on their arm. Tommy clenched his jaw to resist Alfie’s strength. 

 “Enough.” Tommy raised his voice.

As if a lightning bolt had struck him, Alfie’s arm loosened and folded on itself. Tommy’s liquefied over it to ensure Alfie couldn’t overpower him if he changed his mind. 

His gaze was one of a desperate wolf, ready to jump to its prey’s neck. This beast, which had learned the hard way to survive men like Alfie, scared him more than any other Tommy carried inside him. 

His stare was a challenge. A mortal one, to ask: who’s the prey now? He had the look of the Fallen Angel brewing a storm with a tear gathering at the corner of his eye.

Alfie pulled back to lie on his back, and Tommy did the same a few instants later. An awkward silence floated in the room. After calming his breath, Tommy suddenly rose to his feet.

*

Water poured forth from the tap of the bathroom. Tommy was scrubbing the dried blood off his face, hands, and under his nails with soap. When he stepped outside the bathroom, he carried two white washcloths and threw a wet one over Alfie’s face. 

“Fucking hell, mate, what was that for?” Alfie dragged the cold towel off his face.

"If we play by the rules of the market, consider this to be the first deposit of the transaction." Tommy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Even if this natural gesture was uncalculated, it still hurt. “For your assistance to this successfully conducted first-degree murder.”

A remarkably high wave of shame engulfed Alfie and churned his guts. He hadn’t been seasick for days, but he wanted to throw up.

“The Irish dockworkers won’t give up their guns easily, though. We still have work to do.” Tommy was drying his face and hands with the washcloth as if nothing he said was abnormal. 

Alfie gave a little impulse to sit up and shake his musings with the damp cloth, but his bloody back snapped again. It would have barely looked like he had a spasm if it didn’t twist his face in agony. He’d live better with it if Tommy’s attentive gaze hadn’t caught it, but the faint smile at the corner of Tommy’s lips suggested it’d been enough. 

Alfie exhaled in defeat. “You heard. I couldn’t get the location out of him.”

"Pier 47. Thursday, 5 AM." 

“How the fuck do you know the pier, mate?” Alfie frowned.

“I reached my informants.” Tommy crossed the room to the wardrobe and picked up his immaculate coat from the hanging rack.

“Well, couldn’t have said that before, eh?”

“I said I didn’t trust you, Alfie.” Tommy slipped into his coat to uncover the carnage that was his shirt. “And wasn’t I right?”

The shame of his betrayal had now no equal to the guilt for his behaviour earlier. Regardless of whether it was unclear which event Tommy was referring to, he couldn’t help thinking Tommy wasn’t only alluding to his foreseeable betrayal. He’d always been the type to sow his seeds between the lines, and Alfie inherited the curse of the skilled harvester. 

“Who are your informants? Convenient you had some on this boat.”

Tommy puffed a mocking laugh through his nose and stepped forward. He hovered over Alfie with his severe, intent gaze. His feet framed Alfie’s face. He squatted to draw close to Alfie’s face: “I also place my eggs in several baskets, Alfie. I made calls before getting on this boat.” Tommy rose back to his feet and left the room.

Alfie had always prided himself on being a man of words. He was cracking smiles on the coldest faces, maintaining a convincing speech or sermon to the most inconvincible and snarking back as a sword cut through the air—vain but excitingly effective—a coquetry crafted for his very own pleasure. 

Yet, he was at a loss for words. The ground crumbled beneath him, and he got sucked up by the ocean. 

He’d been fucked big time.

Tommy had been curious as well. Curious to what extent Alfie was under his spell.

[graves4girls]

☆ boarded up | hobie brown

✩ summary: skate date, moreso he skates and you watch. ✮ word count: 1.06k ⚠︎ warning(s): fem!reader side note: he carries his board the same way anderw garfield's peter parker does cuz i said so also don't clown me on the slang i tried so hard to get it right ✧ be sure to check out my work on ao3 ⇢ gravesforgirls !!

Meeting his skater friends for the first time, and you're so nervous because what if they don't think you're cool enough, or that you're an absolute mess on a board, or that you're just so painfully in the way of everything..? You're anxiously biting at the skin on your bottom lip the entire walk to the skatepark, nearly chewing it raw before he catches your bad habit and reaches an arm out to let his hand catch your chin, thumb gently tugging to pull your lip from between your teeth, scolding you gently for the harmful coping mechanism before pulling you closer to snake his arm around your shoulders. He assures you that it's all in your head, that you're making it out to be worse than it's going to be.

"Need you to cotch, yeah? I promise you'll be fine. You're overthinkin' it."

You struggle to keep up with his long strides despite his hold on you, but you nod wordlessly and continue to let him pull you along, eyeing the rapidly darkening sky. His hand absentmindedly rubs circles into your arm, drawing you closer to bump into his side, and the tension in your shoulders loosens a bit as he rambles on about something you're not quite listening to.

"Hobie! Over here!"

Your head turns to the voice as you step into the small parking lot of the park, gaze falling on the group of guys huddled at one of benches planted in front of the slab of concrete, and you nestle into his side as he follows it. 

"Safe, man. How's it?" He looks around the park, quirking an eyebrow. "Bit dry, innit?"

"It's getting dark. Park's gonna close soon."

He hums, shrugging his shoulders. "Didn't realize how late it was. We still got some time, yeah? Wanna practice a few tricks."

You've yet to introduce yourself, opting to cling to his side as he talks. That is, until one of his friends turns to meet your gaze, and you flush a bit.

"What 'bout you, love? You know any cool tricks?"

You still for a moment before you shake your head a bit, balling the back of his vest in your hand the slightest as he looks down at you. "I'm still learning. Haven't tried anything past ollies and pop shove-its."

"Give yourself some credit, babe. She's mad for a beginner. Stuck a sick ollie in two weeks. Some thanks to her incredible teacher."

You roll your eyes at his gloat, and you hate the way your cheeks burn when he continues to compliment you to his friends, sinking into his side in an attempt to disappear from the embarrassing attention.

You watch him attempt the same trick for the tenth time, groaning when he slips up once again, sending the board flying off the floor and into the path of rocks near the entrance, right beside the bench you're situated on. You stand to fetch the board, giving him a small smile as he approaches you. 

"We have to go soon. If you stay much longer, security's gonna kick you out."

He sucks his teeth, raising his eyebrows with low lids as he looks down at you. "I ain't leaving till I land this. How 'bout a kiss? For good luck."

He leans down to level his face with yours, that stupid smug grin pulling at his lips as you roll your eyes once more, pressing the board to his chest as you move closer to leave a feather-light kiss to his lips. He gives a slight pout as you draw back, big hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, drawing you closer to kiss you properly, and you can't help the way you melt into him, though you curse yourself for being so easily coerced when he pulls back with an even wider grin, straightening and throwing you a wink as he steps back onto the concrete floor. You nearly scurry away in embarrassment when you hear whoops and quips from his friends as he drops the board to the floor.

You settle back onto the cold metal bench, hugging your knees to your chest as you watch him, and your arms shoot up in victory as he finally lands it, the slightest bit of relief at the realization that you can finally go home washing over you as he jogs up to you, dropping a quick kiss to your lips with a smile.

"Told you a kiss would work. You got magic lips."

You scrunch your nose at his words, lazily shoving his face away as he grins. "Don't ever say that again, you weirdo." 

He plops down beside you, catching his breath a bit as he slumps against your side, head resting on your shoulder. "Did it look as cool as it felt?" He tilts his head to look up at you through his lashes, and you want to just absolutely smother him in kisses right then.

"It looked awesome. And it only took…fifteen tries." 

He grumbles quietly at your tease, sneaking an arm around your waist to hug you close, pressing his face into your neck to leave a trail of soft kisses across your throat. You want to let him continue, but the prying eyes of his friends has you pushing him away, cheeks hot to the touch. He follows your gaze, throwing up a half-hearted middle finger.

"Watch, dickheads. Mind your own." He waves them off, leaning into you as he turns back, pressing one more kiss to your lips. "Let's go. 'M done in."

The walk back to his small apartment is short, and cold, but the sting of the cool wind is lessened with the way he's clinging to you, lips never leaving your neck as you pad down the sidewalk, big hands wrapped tight around your waist, fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

"You can't at least wait till we get to the apartment?"

He hums against your cold skin, not once pulling away. "Nope. Ya' just look so pretty." His voice rumbles in his chest, reverberating off your soft skin and giving you goosebumps across your exposed skin, and he chortles quietly at the involuntary reaction. "Don't look like you're too mad about it, innit."

You're thankful he can't really see how flushed you are, god knows he'd tease you to no end. 

[unbindingkerberos]

Companion

Word(s): 1299

Warning(s): Animal death at the end

Tag(s): @scentedcandleibex @shegetsburned @poisonedtruth

The Pitbull pup whines in his arms.

She looks so beautiful with that gray and white coloration. He traces the outline of the small white heart-shaped mark on her forehead. The pup moves her head and sniffs the tip of his thumb. A smile spreads on his face.

The door closes and his sister warily approaches him. "You need to hide her. Now." His face drops completely and he puts the pup on the laundry basket, adding some clothes on top. Before he could ask her what's going on, they both freeze on the sound of large heavy steps making their way to the stairs.

He hides behind his sister whose hand has connected with his.

The door swings open.

--

"Oi Lt. Didn't know ya were a dog person."

A mastiff had been following them for some time now-- or rather specifically had been following Simon. The dog looks up to the skull clad man, tongue lolling out. Despite numerous attempts to shoo it away, the dog would always return. The Ghost had himself a Shadow. The man in question groans, trying his best not to trip over as the mastiff was practically all over him. 

"Have you fed him somethin' or what?" There is an amused and teasing expression in the Scot's face. "I don't know. The mutt started tailing me-- stop that." Simon gently pushes the mastiff's muzzle away from his arm. The mastiff whines and lays its form on top of Simon's foot. Soap snickers to himself as they carry on to their destination.

"Can't believe Lt's a fooking princess now." Simon groans as he withdraws his feet from the dog's laying form and follows John from behind. "You stop it now."

They had received an anonymous tip from an unknown source that details an auction involving arms dealers from various countries and automated rocket launchers. Now this was enough to get Price and Laswell's attention but both stressed out that this could be a trap and urged John and Simon to be on their guards. 

The villa comes into view. Cars are lined outside and multiple armed men are scattered throughout the area. The plan was to pose as potential buyers and--if all went according to plan-- would extract the cargo as soon as possible. 

But the moment they step foot, the guards scramble to their positions. 

"That's them-- OPEN FIRE!" 

In an instant, a barrage of bullets rained down upon John and Simon who took cover behind a wall. "How the fook were they expecting us?!" John grunts, returning fire at the enemy. Simon does the same, taking out a few men in the process. "We've been screwed over, Johnny!" John groans angrily, his bullets taking out three men. "Well thats just fookin wonderful now, innit?!"

His comms crackles alive. 

"Bravo 0-6, this is Bravo 0-7." 

"Come in Bravo-07." 

"We've been compromised. Our cover's blown, sir!" 

Price curses in the background. "Do you have a visual on the cargo?" The shootout intensifies and bullets clatter to the floor. "Negative, sir!" 

The Captain's voice glitches and the radio goes silent. "Captain?" No response. This was a really shitty situation they were in. Outnumber and outgunned, relying on a fucking wall to keep them bulletless was just great and that they had no other way of communicating with the Captain. When he finds the bastard that ratted them out, Simon will make em wish they never did so.

A bark draws their attention to the left. The same mastiff is there on the other side of the wall, completely unfazed by the ongoing chaos. "Oi, git!" John motions for the mastiff to run off. The mastiff tilts its head before sitting comfortably. "If you want that mutt not have a bullet lodge between 'is eyes, then I suggest you make it quick, Johnny!" Simon chimes in. Hearing this, John grits his teeth and his motions now desperate and fast. When the dog stands and begins walking away John sighs on the inside.

That was until the mastiff took a turn and came running towards the danger, biting one of the men in the crotch. The man screams and instinctively fires his gun in all directions. A couple of stray bullets find themselves hitting some poor unfortunate blokes.

"Well that just happened." Simon muses to himself.

Using the enemy's confusion to their advantage, John and Simon advance. A masked man notices them and shifts his gun to Simon's head. He was a bit slow on his reaction when a knife is lodged to his chest and he drops to the ground. The mastiff was quick to help. Pinning down a couple of blokes letting John and Simon finish them off. Silence soon befalls on them. The mastiff happily pads to Simon with an arm in his jaws, dropping it some meters away his feet. 

"Good boy." 

The mastiff sits in contempt, barking. John crouches down and showers the canine with pets. "You were bloody amazing, boy!" Something catches Simon's eye and he realises that the mastiff had a bulletproof vest strapped on. "Check if he has a name tag or somethin'." John palms the vest and shakes his head. "Nothing Lt." 

Simon narrows his eyes. There was more to their little friend than meets the eye. Suddenly, the mastiff stands and runs off towards the villa, following behind were him and John. Perhaps this night of questions will end with answers. Or maybe even meet with the mutt's owner.

The villa is awfully quiet and the mastiff is nowhere to be seen. They scan the interior and find that the villa completely empty until they come across an elevator with a single button going down. Simon and John glance with one another.

"Ladies first."

The trip down was tense. Both men ready themselves in case they recieve another bouquet of bullets for the housewarming party. The elevator pings open and they step out. "Fuck, I can't see nothin'." John whispers. The elevator doors shut and sooner than later the darkness engulfs them.

Suddenly the lights flash on and they are greeted with a sight. They found the arms dealers: bound to their chairs with bloodied plastic bags over their heads circling one of the missile launchers. "What the fuck?" Simon watches John approach one of the bodies and check for a pulse. 

"Whats your verdict, doc?"

"Dead as ice."

How have the men outside not know the fates of their employers? Were they simply told to stay outside and used them as bait to hold em off? That simple? "I think me head's startin' to spin for how confusin' this shit is." John gives a look at Simon. "Watcha think happen 'ere, Lt?" Simon shakes his head. "Not a clue, Johnny." He sighs, eyes landing on each body. "Not a clue." 

Jumbled and glitched words fill their ears. "Cap'n is that you?!" John presses the comms closer. 

"Soap you there?" Price sighs. "What the fuck happened back there? Are you lot alright?" 

"We are," Simon joins, "we got sum good and bad news.."

"Spill."

"We found one of the missile launchers, sir." Simon replies. "The bad news?" Simon looks over to John who fills the rest in: "Well that's the problem, Cap'n." Both find themselves staring at the looming and menacing weapon. "We found one of the missile launchers."

--

He lets the tears fall down his cheeks then unto the limp body of the pup. 

She was just. She just…. Just.

"Its okay, Henry…" His sister lets his head rest on her chest, shushing him quietly. She takes the body off his hands into the stained carpet. "She was a good dog, Henry.." She rocks him back and forth. "She's done her job well."

He moves a bit and glimpses at the body.

Trying to protect me.

[whats-rambled-rambled]

erode

Neil x Reader

summary: this is what happens when you try to cope with immense heat for way too long  plot what plot 

warnings: 18+ and I mean it, nsfw, teasing, temperature play (listen, I don’t even know, blame it on the weather)

author’s note: I wanted to make it short. They had other ideas. Result? Basically 2,9k words.

I started writing with no particular duo in mind. And at some point I stopped and smiled. 

Hello you two, it’s been a while.

(f!Reader)

The song for this fic is TENDER - Erode

Anyway, enjoy!  ...and let me know what you think, please?

---

“This heat is absurd,” you huff as you flip the pillow to the other side, hoping to find even a degree cooler fabric there.

The cold shower you’ve taken half an hour ago feels like a distant dream, and you’re already drenched in sweat, trying to position yourself strategically to get the most of the small fan placed near the bed. With those crazy temperatures, the chance of getting a stiff neck on the next day seems like a risk worth taking.

“I think I was supposed to kick you in the shin for complaining about warmth,” chuckles Neil and puts down a glass of water on the nightstand, the ice cubes clinking softly. “You're lucky it’s too hot to do so.”

You knit your brows together. It takes you a moment to remember, but then it hits you and you groan. Of course, he brings back something you said during that painfully long stakeout on a freezing December night.

“Why can’t it be just pleasantly warm instead of a variation on The Song of Ice and Fire,” you sigh, taking off the t-shirt. “Fuck climate change deniers, there’s nothing temperate about this climate we’re living in anymore.” You fall back on the pillow, limbs in disarray, longing for a shred of comfort.

With the corner of your eye, you see Neil’s gaze flitting through your body, focusing on the only article of clothing for a second longer.

“You’re one sexy creature.”

His words carry an amused smile and you glance at him, scoffing in disbelief.

“Even when I’m spread out like that?”

“Especially when you’re spread out like that,” he says, moving closer. “Giving me all sorts of ideas”

He leans in for a kiss, but you place a hand on his bare chest, stopping him an inch away.

“Too hot.”

Neil stifles a giggle.“Hot damn?” he chokes out, and you glare at him, but your lips twitch in a smile of their own accord.

“When the temperature drops, I’m gonna give you that hallelujah, or so help me-”

“Promises, promises.” He beams. “I thought this might be the perfect opportunity to give that little sauna fantasy a test run.”

The sole thought of a sauna threatens your sanity right now. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am.” A wicked grin creeps on his face. “Or let me just--”

Neil turns away and reaches for the water again, then finishes it with one swig. He nibbles on the bottom lip, clearly excited, as his long fingers fish out a single ice cube from the glass. The blue eyes light up with roguish sparks when he looks at you. Neil quirks a brow in a silent question, and you nod as your pulse picks up the pace.

He closes his hand on the ice for a moment, then slides the cube to his other palm. You sigh with relief as he runs cold and wet fingers across your forehead, then lets them comb your hair, keeping the wild strands away from your face. A soft smile taints his lips as he moves a bit closer, keeping enough distance so the almost feverish warmth of your bodies wouldn’t override everything else. He steals a quick kiss and then he smirks, rolling to the side and propping the head on his knuckles. His darkened gaze glides over your features, taking in the views and inevitably plotting your demise at the same time.

You swallow with effort as the shiver of anticipation runs down your spine.

The ice cube touches the tip of your nose playfully. You are about to huff, but then Neil moves his hand lower and starts slowly tracing the outline of your parted lips, and you can only gasp. Your heat-hazed mind is defenseless, so you close your eyes, allowing yourself to focus solely on the sensation. The dissolving ice trickles down your cheek, the cold droplet tickles and makes you yelp, but when it reaches the neck, Neil shifts and his warmth floods you. You feel his hot breath against your skin as he licks off the wet trail and sucks on that little spot right under your ear. You whine and inhale sharply, ready to protest the sudden closeness, but you hesitate, torn between getting closer to your personal melting point and already craving for more.

Before you can make up your mind, Neil moves away, a smug smile dangling in the corner of his mouth. A tip of his tongue darts through his lips as he catches the exasperation in your stare.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” he purrs and shushes your comeback by simply gliding the ice cube to your chin and down your throat.

Your head arches back and you draw a shaky breath, but the cold point travels lower, skates between your breasts, through your stomach, around your belly button, and moves back up. You glance down, transfixed on the slender fingers holding the glimmering cube.

“All right?”

The husky question commands your attention back to his face. Neil studies your expression closely and a flash of fondness strikes your racing heart.

You smile and your hand flies to cup his cheek, “Yeah, it’s -- oh god,” you groan as the ice flicks your nipple. Neil chuckles and props himself on the elbow so he can pin your hand over your head in one swift move. “Concern as a distraction? How sneaky of you,” you pant, glaring at the self-satisfied grin on his face.

“It worked, innit?” he says and the mischievous lights dance in the blue eyes as they drop back to your chest. You follow them just to see him cruising the ice cube through your breasts, how your nipples harden when it circles them, again and again until you tremble and squeeze your thighs together, biting back a needy moan. “Look at you, squirming already,” he murmurs, amused.

It’s hard to think, let alone form a coherent sentence, so you just glower and grit your teeth. Neil interlocks his fingers with yours, inching closer, and places a small, reassuring kiss on your shoulder. Then, he palms over the cube and carries on. The warmth and pressure of his hand mix with the coldness of the melting ice, and you sigh and lean into his touch, not mindful of the water dribbling down your sides to the sheets.

He traces the curves and flats of your body. Unhurriedly, but persistently moving lower. Grazes the hip bones, then slides along the hem of your panties. You close your eyes as your thighs come together again, trying to control the bucking hips.

He tightens the hold on you as his hand bearing the ice cube moves to your knee.

Neil’s warmth envelops you once again and he whispers into your ear. “Open for me.”

The request wiping any resolve left in your brain and rushing to your pulsing core. You bite your lip to stifle a moan and comply, earning a pleased hum from Neil.

“Good girl,” he rasps as his hand continues its journey upwards.

“Neil--”

Your weak plea only evokes a throaty chuckle, which doesn’t help in the slightest. He knows what he’s doing. What praise like that can do to you. You see it in his predatory gaze, how he enjoys watching you fall apart. And he still is about to touch you where you need him most.

Neil smacks his tongue. “Not so patient today, are we, my love?” he teases, guiding his large hand up and down your inner thighs slowly.

You want to groan in frustration. You want to shut him up with a hungry kiss. You want him. But instead, you muster some of the strength you have left to control yourself, not willing to give him too much satisfaction. Not yet anyway.

He catches the determined look in your eyes and raises a brow. A corner of his mouth curls and you know that the game is on.

Neil hooks his thumb over a band of your underwear. “May I?”

“By all means,” you breathe out and he lets go of your hand so he can pull your panties down and position himself between your legs.

“Christ, how I adore this view.” He flashes his teeth in a brief smile, his features soften when his gaze meets yours. The extent of love and admiration you see there makes your stomach do a somersault. “You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly and the heart sings in your chest. Then, just when you let your guard down, the blue eyes get dark and yearning. “And mine,” he adds as his knuckles resume the caress.

The pure whiplash from his actions shuts your brain down. You whimper and your whole body tenses when the sleek cube glides over your folds. The cold water joins your own wetness. Your head falls back. The heat that is rushing through your veins has nothing to do with the temperature in the room, but it pearls your temple with sweat just the same. A short pause forces you to look down and you catch the wicked grin forming on Neil’s lips. Your end is inescapable.

You watch as Neil puts the ice cube in his mouth and your eyes widen in sudden realization. He dips his head and then swirls his tongue around your clit and you almost cry out, clenching your fists on the sheets. Hot. Cold. Both at the same time. The pulse pounds in your ears as you walk the line, bold strokes and quick flicks driving you to the edge of sanity. His hand moves up your body, partly to hold you in place. But also to add the fuel to the fire that slowly consumes you. You melt into his touch. You moan. And then he slides his finger inside you and reality begins to crumble.

“Oh yes--” you whine, pushing against his hand. “Please.”

You feel him smile against you and the second finger enters you, then they curl slightly and set the rhythm. You roll your hips and reach down to tug at the golden strands, the only praise you’re capable of right now. Neil’s groan vibrates through you, pushing you to the brink of resolution. And then his mouth envelopes you and he sucks on your clit. The pleasure sears your every nerve, tipping you over, and you arch your back and come with a loud moan. You ride out your high, trembling underneath him, digging your fingers into his arms and then pulling on them, driven by a different kind of need. Neil understands and crawls back up to you, licking your wetness off his lips on the way.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing his knuckles against your cheek tenderly and falls on the pillow next to you.

You nod, still incapable of putting words together. Placing the hand on the back of his neck, you urge him closer and kiss him, grunting softly. It’s hard to level your breath like this, making that act of devotion somewhat sloppy. Neil strokes your hair, deepening the kiss just barely. Fixed on bringing you comfort, first and foremost.

And when you pull back, it’s the eyes that betray him. Full of fondness, yes, but also overcast with desire.

How fortunate you already have an idea how to repay him. Not that he expects it - he would never. But he was so rude, teasing you like that.

And you want payback.

You smile and push him back on the mattress to reach over him to his nightstand. You fish out the biggest of the leftover ice cubes from the glass.

Neil shifts upwards slightly, leaning back on his elbows. His mouth parts as he spots your impish grin.

“Oh.”

“Come on, you really thought I’d let that slide?” you say as you straddle him, batting the eyelashes. You look at the glimmering crystal in your hand, then back at him, raising a brow. “Actually--”

You close your fist and move it over Neil’s chest, and he squirms as the cold droplets fall on his skin. You stare at the way his muscles tense when the water trickles down his toned stomach, and a new wave of excitement washes over you.

You lean on to lay a kiss on his lips, this time a more eager one. Neil sighs when your tongue glides against his and you giggle, breaking the contact. Your noses brush together as you exchange greedy looks, barely containing the animalistic need slowly clouding your minds.

“Not so patient, indeed,” you hum, tipping his chin up with your finger so you can suck on his jaw, letting the hand with the cube ghost over the same spot on the other side. Neil shivers and groans in a way that only boosts your confidence. Your mouth travels down his neck, continuing to play a hot-and-cold mirror game with your hand. You pull back as your eyes follow the wet trails again. Your tongue meets the next one halfway and moves up the chest until it lands on the source of the mess. You look up and you see the blue eyes trained on you, so you smirk, hiding the piece of ice in your mouth the same way Neil did not long ago.

The cube pokes from between your lips as they venture across the body you know so well, but rediscover as you learn its reaction to the new sensation. The goosebumps. The way it trembles. The grunts and gasps that follow. You stop just to get rid of the navy boxer briefs on your way.

The sight ever so gratifying.

Neil’s chest heaves as you start stroking him lightly, but it is when you take his tip in your mouth when Neil moans, sending your heart racing again. You taste and tease him until you hear a stifled curse. Then you drop the ice cube into your hand and you rub it up and down slowly, going back to twirling your tongue over him at the same time. Neil jerks, inhaling sharply and lets out a guttural groan.

“How’s that for a payback?” you ask smugly, enjoying how it takes a moment for him to focus his sight on you.

You recognize the predatory gaze a second too late.

Neil shifts and the next thing you know you end up pinned to the bed.

“Wanna play like that?” he rasps, hovering over you with a sinister grin.

You roll your hips against him, eyes lighting up at the sound of a growl building in his throat.

“Just take me already.”

He crashes his lips on yours and it’s your turn to gasp breathlessly. Then, he flips you to your side so you're facing the running fan and he loops his arm around your waist, pressing himself to your back. The moving air against your body helps, but you're way past caring about overheating now.

Neil brushes your hair away so he can kiss the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. Meanwhile, his other hand travels south, and you hook one leg over his, squirming impatiently.

"God, you drive me crazy," he breathes into your ear, but before you can assure him how mutual the feeling is, he thrusts into you and you moan together, melting further into each other.

But instead of setting a pace, the reckless fingertips trail between your legs again to rub small circles against your clit, and soon enough you whimper as you clench around him. More. Neil bites on your shoulder and groans, finally giving you what you need. What he needed, too. You bury your fingers in the blonde mane. Tugs urging a quicker pace. You close your eyes, climbing the peak again. His touch roams through your body, and then his rhythm falters, and you take his hand in yours and press it to your chest, lacing your fingers together.

I’ve got you.

Neil tenses and hides his face in your neck, gasping frantically, pulling you as close as he can. His high pushes you over the edge and you join him in the rhapsodic release, losing yourself in the pleasure. In the strong embrace. In him.

When reality regains its sharpness, you shift in Neil’s arms to face him. The warmth of affection spreads through you when you meet the hazed gaze. You smile softly as your fingers trace his features. Parted lips. Sharp jawline. The brows, still knitted together. Your heart aches from fondness when you fix the golden strands stuck to his forehead. 

Happy lights dance in the blue eyes and Neil chuckles, panting lightly. You kiss him, then hug him tightly, not mindful of the heat. Of the sweat. There’s only a heavy heartbeat against your cheek. His scent, ingrained deeply in your mind. The slow, calming strokes on your back. Bliss.

“At least with a sauna we’d have a barrel with icy water, you know,” Neil points out casually. “Or even better - a pile of snow.”

“Oh my god,” you snort, pulling back to look at him. “Imagine that,” you sigh as the heat suddenly hits your senses twice as hard.

He grins, taking you by the hand, and places a small kiss on your knuckles. “May I interest you in a very cold shower instead?”

The corner of your lips twitch.

“Lead the way.”

[peachesnjamm]

Can Sam Nook take c!Dream's final canon life?

tw//c!Tommy hurt, c!Dream hurt, character death, blood, panic attacks, slight self-harm 

Tommy isn't sure of how long he's been hiding for. Gods, all he knows is that no-one is here with him right now, and that he's going to die. Tommy holds his breath, squeezing his eyes shut to will away the trembles that force their way through his nerves.

Sapnap had told him days before that he had business to attend to in Kinoko. When Tommy had whined and groaned incessantly at Sapnap's "inability to commit to their cause", Sapnap had only grinned, calmly reassuring Tommy that nothing would happen while he was away.

Phil is up in the north, probably sleeping in his cabin. It was early, and Phil isn't much of an early bird. Even if he was awake, he is thousands of blocks away in the overworld, and nether travel isn't exactly possible at the moment for Tommy.

Tommy had even gone through every contact he trusted in his communicator. As soon as he had saw Dream, he had hidden himself away in obsidian, sending message after message of "SOS" and "DREAM IS HWRE" and "PLWASE COMR". The messages only got more unreadable from there, before Tommy had shut his communicator off entirely in case it was too bright or made too much noise.

Tommy clamps his jaw shut, ignoring the pain that shoots up to his temples. Anything to keep himself from crying. He had to be quiet. He could feel tears streaming down his face, but they felt distant and cold; he didn't have the ability to cry like he needed to right now. 

Tommy can hear footsteps tap tap tapping through the house, impossibly light on the wooden floors. He hears the steps getting closer, and bites his cheek hard enough to taste red iron on his teeth. The ladder to the attic creaks softly, and Tommy holds back a sob that threatens to spill by gripping the sleeves of his t-shirt with his shaking fingers.

Quiet. Be quiet. He'll leave, just be quiet. He won't find you. Be quiet-

"Oh, Tommy~" Dream draws his name out with a pen that taints the air, and Tommy wants to sob and cuss him out and hide-

"I know you're in that- this obsidian closet, Tommy. You should know better than to underestimate me. I will always find you." 

Dream sounds almost irritated, but Tommy can picture the way he's smiling; eyes scrunched with sick laughter, hidden behind pale porcelain- 

"I won't hurt you if you get out of there on your own." Dream pauses, before hissing out a small string of chuckles that paint his next words red: "I promise."

Tommy clutches himself closer to the obsidian walls, his vision going splotchy as he holds his breath. Air catches in his throat as terror grips his insides. He feels lightheaded, and oh Gods, he can't see- And he knows he's going to be sick as Dream's gentle footsteps approach his hiding spot-

Dream saunters into the doorway of Tommy's hiding place, his netherite gear glistening in the early morning light that filters through the barred windows. Tommy glares up at Dream through teary, slitted eyes. 

It happens nearly in slow motion; Dream swings his axe up, the sharp blade catching the light in prettiest way, before he suddenly falters. Dream stumbles forward in a mixture of pain and shock, the silent morning being abruptly punctured by Dream's axe clunking heavily to the ground. Wet coughs rip through Dream's crumbling form, red beginning to dribble from the bottom of his mask as he inevitably fails to steady himself. Dream's hands are painted with blood as it catches at his clutching fingers. 

Tommy sits still, quiet sniffles turning into wrenching sobs as Dream finally falls to reveal a tanuki-robot standing in the doorway. Sam Nook twists its sword from the limp body with graceful ease, shoving Dream away with its metallic foot. It wipes its blade clean on the rapidly fading corpse, before it files the weapon away into its inventory. 

Sam Nook finally turns to acknowledge Tommy. 

"YOU ARE SAFE NOW, TOMMY INNIT."

[kurinoot]

[day 9] nine home remedies | kuroo tetsuroo

-> much to your wishes, your boyfriend who happens to be the captain of the boys volleyball team that you’re managing still went to practice despite being sick, so you give him a taste of your own medicine, literally

pairing: kuroo x reader

themes: fluff (with a bit of spice), manager!reader, some humor innit lol

warnings: mature innuendos here and there (and that’s it uwu), mild language (just one curse word lol)

word count: 3,379 words

note: sorry for the late LATE post. School has begun again and this fic is pretty long compared to the past ones :( but here’s the update now hehe I hope you guys like it! Also, thank you so much to @xmyshya, @ssrated1volleyballplayer, @meiansmistress​, and @vanille--kiss for proofreading this one for me! Father Meian would be so proud uwu. And also, to my friend who has been part of this since Day 1, @msmeowski​, I really owe you one!

“How many times do I have to tell you that you should’ve skipped practice today?” You sigh as you accompany your boyfriend with his arm slung over your shoulder to his house, albeit weak and flushed. Kuroo only grunts in response. 

“What, you’re my mom now?” He quips. You glare in his direction, as you have already given him an earful on how his health should be a priority and how he shouldn't choose practice over his well-being. As soon as you enter his house, his grandmother sees the two of you scurrying inside, greeting you with a gentle smile.

“Ah welcome Y/N-chan! Oh! What happened to you, Tekkun?” his grandmother remarks. 

“Baa-chan! It’s Tetsurou!” Kuroo coughs. You could only bow your head at her with respect as you speak on his weakened behalf. 

“Baa-chan! I told this rooster head right here to not go to practice for today because he’s sick, but he still did!”

“Oh, did he really now?” She replies as she instantly glares at her grandson, who is eyeing the sofa, seeking the comfort of its warm, soft surface. His grandmother then pinches hard on her grandson’s cheek. 

“You shouldn't make things harder for Y/N-chan!”

“Baa-chan! Your grandson is sick and you’re still scolding me?” He retorts, earning another pinch and earful from his grandmother before motioning you inside as she prepares the sofa for Kuroo to rest as you follow suit.

“Y/N-chan, will you help brew some tea and make Hachimitsu Daikon for Tetsu-chan?” his grandmother asks as she helps the captain on the couch. You nod before glaring at the sorry state of your boyfriend.

“You better not move from there, mister. I’m gonna brew you some tea.” You order as the captain could only painfully cough in reply, jokingly.

“Yes, ma!”

You quickly set up the kettle, placing it on the stove before preparing the tea. As you wait for the water to boil, you prep the Hachimitsu Daikon mixture, mixing the daikon and honey together before letting it set on the counter. You then hear his grandmother come to the kitchen, and you perk up at her smiling presence, taking two shopping bags with her.

“I’ll be going out to the market, Y/N-chan. Take care of Tekkun for me.” You wave goodbye as she leaves, amused at their cute relationship.

You leave the jar on the table to let the mixture come together as you lift the kettle and pour its contents into the mug with the tea leaves before serving it to your ailing boyfriend. 

“Sit up! Here’s some tea. It’ll help with your cold. Also, I made some Hachimitsu Daikon for you on the table, okay? Baa-chan taught me this one, and said that it was good for your sore throat.”

His hand feebly reaches for the mug in yours, brushing his fingers against yours. He holds your hand for a moment as he looks intently at you. “Manager-chan, I know you’re concerned about me right now,” Kuroo takes the mug from your hands, shifting his focus to the mug on his palms. “But I can take care of myself from here. The younger ones need their pretty manager.”

You quirk an eyebrow, unamused at his statement—huffing as you put your hands on your hips. “As the manager, and as your girlfriend, I’m obligated to take care of the entire team, which also includes my boyfriend. Besides, I’m pretty sure the others are worried about you as well.”

“You never go down without a fight, huh? How annoying,” he obnoxiously says, but thankful nonetheless. He blows into the mug before daintily sipping the tea, sighing in relief as he looks at you. “I didn't know I needed that. Thanks so much, baby girl,” he says with a smile.

Your heart warms at the gesture as you quickly grab your bag, pulling out your first aid pouch and grabbing a sheet of KoolFever, much to your boyfriend’s surprise. You quickly remove the film covering as you gently place it on his sweltering forehead, prompting Kuroo to sigh in contentment as the contrasting cool sheet lays over his spiking hot forehead.

“Ah~ sometimes I wish I could be sick forever...” he places the mug on the coffee table before suddenly pulling you to his lap. “You’d be my cute nurse, baby girl~” He burrows his flustered face to your chest, to which you only spit in disgust. You ruffle his hair as you chuckle in sarcasm. 

“Oh by the way, I’m telling Coach Nekomata to give you 15 more diving drills to make up for today.”

“B-baby, n-no need to be harsh on me,” Kuroo attempts to give you the cutest cat eyes, appealing to your cat-loving side, and although you feel the need to hug your man, you resist his advancements.

“Stop staring at me with those big eyes!” You shove his face away from you as you continue. “Also you’re sweaty, so I’ll get the bath running.”

You manage to untangle yourself from his arms before you enter the bathroom, drawing him a warm bath. Afterwards, you step out of the bathroom with the water running, with tufts of steam leaking out the door ajar.

“Oi, jiisan, bath’s ready!” You pull out a fresh white towel from one of the cabinets as Kuroo slowly stands up at your cue. You go to aid him as he walks on the way to the bathroom, pulling a half-scowl on his face.

“Oi, you do know that I’m not old, right?”

“Hm-hmm. Says the person who says ‘Ah, youth.’”

Kuroo, amused at your clapbacks, chooses to stay silent instead as you help him towards the bathroom. You check the water to see if it’s warm enough as Kuroo lethargically takes off his shirt, fumbling around. You chuckle at his helpless sight, amused at his feeble form, although your eyes keep lingering back to his sweaty torso. Thankfully, his head is stuck in his uniform, so he doesn't have a reason to tease you, and although you need to help him with his uniform, you try not to be tempted to touch his lean, muscular abdominals and his perking pectorals.

“Uhm, ah, I’ll leave you to it!” You shyly mutter as you attempt to scurry out of the bathroom, to no avail as your boyfriend pulls you into a hug, burying his head in your shoulder in the process. You feel his warm breath wantonly brush against the nape of your neck as his ripped torso touches against you, bringing blood on your cheeks in embarrassment. Your heart palpitates as you swallow the lump in your throat in anticipation.

“You perv, you intentionally looked at me while I was naked...” He provokingly whispers in your ear as he gently caresses your hair, leaving you with trails of shivers down your spine. 

“You do know that you need to be punished, right, baby girl?”

You grit your teeth at his underlying pestering as your thoughts are left at the tip of your tongue. Damn, he really knows how to push the right buttons, huh?!

Kuroo smirks at your struggle, more so with the flustered expression on your face, but feels all of his confidence go down the drain almost instantly. 

“I can’t just let an old man pathetically get stuck with his shirt on his head. Now, what would others—especially Lev and Yaku—say if they found out that their cool captain can’t even remove his shirt?”

T-This woman… Kuroo thinks as he feels his mind short circuit at the turn of events. He tries to push more buttons to try and rile you up, which only proves to be futile. 

You then break the ice before going out of the bathroom. “Now I’m gonna go out for a bit and I expect you to be undressed AND in the tub by the time I come back, okay Kuroo-jiisan?”

“Will you stop calling me jiisan already?!”

By the time you return, you are greeted by clouds of steam and you are graced with the view of your boyfriend naked and resting in the filled warm tub.

You then do a quick series of arm stretching, preparing yourself before grabbing the mint-scented shampoo placed in a small cupboard nearby. You squeeze a decent amount of it on your hand, lathering it before you massage the dollop of bubbles onto his scalp. As you massage the shampoo into his hair, you can’t help but feel relaxed in the atmosphere—you shampooing his hair, the calm sloshing sound of the rippling water, the gentle sounds echoing on the bathroom walls, the looming fresh scent of mint, and the almost inaudible sound of his purr.

Oh my gosh, he’s purring like a cat, you think in fascination as you continue threading your fingers onto his hair whilst humming contentedly. Meanwhile, the man in the tub is in complete relaxation mode, feeling satisfied at the sensation of the warm water and your presence. 

He releases a low purr as he simmers himself into the warm tub of sudsy water, closing his eyes at the soothing kneading of your hands in his hair. You then place a quick gentle peck on his shoulder before grabbing the shower head, rinsing his hair with care to avoid splashing water on your dry clothes.

“Ah, that feels really good...” you hear Kuroo unknowingly whisper in relief, which makes you feel warm and fuzzy with contentment. You then grab the soap sitting on the wall side of the tub, lathering it as you rub your way down his body. 

Another wave of soft purrs emanates from his lips as you gently knead the sore muscles of his back, instantly feeling the knots leaving his body. You feel him recline into your touch as he turns to putty in your hands, releasing a deep contented sigh. It doesn't last long as you rinse the trails of suds with water, leaving a final peck on his now clean shoulder.

“I’ll leave you for a minute.”

You make your way to the living room and grab the Salonpas and KoolFever from your bag, and proceed to the kitchen to grab a tray and pour another cup of the herbal tea. Once the Hachimitsu Daikon settles in, you look around for a spoon, carrying it alongside the container of the syrup. You head back to his room only to see Kuroo sitting on the bed, with his hair still wet and a towel hanging on his neck. 

You sigh as you place the tray on his bedside table before giving him a spoonful of the syrup. You grab his towel from his neck gently, shuffling to his back as you drape the towel over his head. Your fingers tenderly graze through his wet locks, which is surprisingly soft compared to his usual bedridden rooster hair. Tempted, you leave soft pecks on his sweltering forehead while continuing to dry his hair. His hazel eyes gaze at the tray before seeing the green onion.

"Y/N-chan, what’s that?" he says as he points to the green onion.

“What? You don’t know the famous home remedy?”

It is actually the opposite. He knows it all too well. It’s just that, Kuroo isn’t sure if you are going to:

A) wrap it around his neck

or worse

B) stick it up in his ass

Knowing you, as the manager and his girlfriend, it would most likely be the latter. He knows he needs to butter you up to avoid the worst choice out of the two.

"You should thank Baa-chan. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't know how to make it specially for you." You hold his warm cheeks in your hands, feeling the sweat forming from his fever. Under your touch, he nuzzles against the cool touch of your touch on his face. Hurriedly, he clasps your hands as he brushes it against his lips, tenderly kissing your wrists.

“Y/N-chan,” he directs his eyes towards you, whilst pecking your wrists. “You’re so warm...”

Your cheeks dye in rose from his sudden affection, pulling away from him before anything could happen. “L-Let me apply some salonpas to you, since you’re done with the s-syrup...” 

Kuroo’s attention keeps going back and forth to you and the green onion on the tray, feeling the slight tension of his heartbeat as time passes by. You then grab the pack of salonpas as you motion for his shirt, but he quickly lays down on the bed, lifting the hem of his shirt for a quick tease as he displays his sweating abdominals. He devilishly fixes his gaze to you with the cutest cat eyes before rolling on his stomach. “Help me, Ms. Manager~”

You feel the need to slap this idiot who unbelievably is the captain of your volleyball team, but quietly sigh ‘another time’. You sigh as your hand glides up to his well-defined back, caressing every touch against his broad back. Your thumb is pressed against his feverish skin before hearing Kuroo's grunts, possibly aching in some parts. Once you've identified the places around his aching rear, you start unpacking the Salonpas.

“Oho? You even have Salonpas with you? Ms. Manager, you're always prepared,” he nonchalantly chuckles, followed by coughing fits as you work on putting on the medicinal patches.

“I'm the manager for a reason. And besides, we work best together, like blood, so if one of you gets sick,” you finish placing the last patch of Salonpas as you start massaging the patches before directing your attention towards him.

"What's the Nekoma team without one another?"

As if taken by surprise by your response, Kuroo gives off a low chuckle that makes you raise an eyebrow in confusion. "Y/N-chan, after this little thing," Kuroo tucks his arms under his pillows as he buries his face, exposing only half as he gazes directly into your eyes. A playful smirk on his lips as he teasingly exposes his neck, his muscles on his back displayed. 

"Let’s go on a date."

Undeniably, you feel the heat rising in your cheeks at his sudden remark. After a brief pause, you clear your throat, evading his statement. “Y-You…! You have the stamina to be this cheesy when you need to rest?” You tell him as you finish massaging his back. He cheekily grins as he suddenly grabs your hand and pulls you into him. He attempts to give you a playful peck on your lips, to no avail as you shove his face back to his pillow. 

“N-no need to be this aggressive, b-babe...” Pouting, he digs his face into his pillows as you notice him eyeing the green onion on your tray. Your eyes light up as your lips grin with a devilish plan in mind.

He eyes you as you retract, with your hand hovering over the tray. His pupils dilate with his heart palpitating in each second. 

Is it A or B?! Will you choke him or shove it in his ass?! 

His particular train of thought is suddenly cut short as you hold the green onion in your hand. His instincts blare up, feeling it as if they were saying ‘run’ over and over, screaming at himself.

“Alright, Tetsurou,” it is the moment of truth. His neck or virginity are at stake as he internally pleads to the gods for a miracle.

“Stick out your neck.” 

A sigh of relief escapes from his lips, just as he feels his desires fulfilled. You then look at him questioningly as you give him a double-edged smile. Much to his lack of knowledge, he gives you a grin, feeling comforted at the decision to choke him rather than deflowering his ass while trying to treat him of his sickness. He hums, closing his eyes, expecting the plant to be wrapped around his neck, only for him to feel the familiar warmth of your lips instead which makes him look down at you. He sees the familiar glint in your eyes, and the way your lips are smirking make his stomach lurch.

Oh no—

“Now you better lay down on your stomach, mister.”

The following morning, the entire Nekoma team goes to check on their captain and on you, worried since you did not reply to their messages last night. Yaku initiates by proceeding to knock on the door, only to be welcomed by the sight of an elderly woman, smiling at them as she welcomes them. “Oh good morning, boys! Tekkun and Y/N-chan are still sleeping upstairs.” She sees the knowing stares between the team as she ushers them inside.

“So this is Kuroo-san’s home...” Lev wanders in fascination as he eyes his surroundings, basking in the environment and its homey atmosphere for the first time. Inuoka seems to feel the same as he smiles, with his eyes sparkling and wandering around the humble abode. Kuroo’s grandmother returns to the kitchen while the rest keep on chattering behind.

Disregarding the banter behind him, Yaku goes on and casually opens the door to the sight of you snuggled with each other, steadily breathing as your hands unconsciously massage Kuroo’s torso, leaving trails of your warm touch on it. The other hand on his shoulder unknowingly massages them reassuringly as the both of you succumb in each other’s presence and comfort.

“Aww look how cute you are, you guys...” Yaku sighs with underlying tease (and perhaps a hint of jealousy) as he walks and checks on you and your boyfriend’s sleeping figure, only to see later, in the captain’s partial state of undress on his lower posterior, a thick stalk of green onion protruding from between his clenching buttcheeks. 

He tries to contain his laughter, failing as a full-out cackle escapes his mouth, only for the rest of the team to enter the room and see their captain’s stalked bare posterior, following suit in Yaku’s failed attempt to hold onto his laughter. Kenma, who usually wears a blank expression, is now snickering at the sight before him, much to the surprise of the rest as the setter even takes a snap of it.

A loud groan from the sleeping captain turns the entire room silent as an awake Kuroo, albeit still fuzzy and tranced, rubs one of his eyes. He unconsciously lets out a yawn before his consciousness becomes more clear, finally registering that his teammates are right in his room.

“Oh you guys! Whaddya doin’ here?” he slurs.

“Ah, the guys wanted to know how you were doing and your grandmother happily told us to come in,” Kai replies with his usual smile as he waves at the freshly awoken captain.

“So L/N-san is also here...” Lev utters as his feline eyes land on your sleeping figure, happily snoring your worries away. The entire team pauses for a while just to look and appreciate you in your seemingly deep slumber.

“Waaah, L/N-san looks so cute!”

“Cute...”

Tetsuroo enjoys the attention showered upon you, prompting him to adjust his position on the bed only for him to realize fully the state of his partial nudity on his now aching posterior. He releases a grunt which only turns all the attention in the entire room back to him. Yaku snorts at the view as Yamamoto follows suit, only louder this time. 

“O-Oi, whaddya lookin at?” Kuroo scowls at everyone.

Lev snickers at the captain’s condition, albeit with pure curiosity, “Kuroo-san, why is there a green onion stuck in your butthole?”

Kuroo looks at him with disdain while trying to hide the embarrassment from within, “E-Eh! You didn’t know? This is an a-ancient remedy for fevers!”

“That sounds like a nice remedy. I should try it sometime!” Lev naively replies as Kenma looks at him in distaste before he looks at your sleeping frame with a calm expression.

“Don’t even try to do it, Lev.”

The rest of the members, even including Fukunaga, are already laughing at the captain’s plight, only increasing in volume as it effectively wakes you up from your slumber.

“Yeah right. You really let me stick an onion up in your ass? Kinky,” you raspily groan as you rub both eyes to consciousness, only leaving the team on their stomachs even more.

Happy Valentine’s Day to him, indeed. 

click here to see where the green onion idea comes from lol

back to the valentines masterlist

[inventors-fair]

Intervening Claws

To the chagrin of my students, my LGS friends, and a few hundred people on the internet, I’ve proudly volunteered now and in the past that my biggest MTG crush of all time is Ajani. Underneath the fur and gruffness and tendency to murder bad things (i.e. me) he’s a swell guy. And he’s like a zillion feet tall. With teeth. Look, the point IS—I’m sure I’m also in a slightly more populated camp of “big cat warriors look cool.” And look above us, too! Jade Avenger, the samurai frog, is a hip-hopping cool guy. But some of the novelty is that he’s a warrior type who’s also a frog, and animal characters are silly, and endearing, and that’s a fact of life.

What makes Jade Avenger a frog? Well, the fact that he’s a frog. The card is much more on the Samurai side of things, so whatever, we’ll deal with that. We’ve had a few races of animals in the past, though:

Leonin! From Alara and Mirrodin and more, these cat-guys are close to my heart, but you knew that already.

Loxodon! Ravnican loxodon are clerics and peacekeepers, and they’re lovely stoic beasts, but they’re also warriors and soldiers on places like Tarkir and Mirrodin, see above.

Ainok! Tarkir’s seen its fair share of survivalist creatures and the Ainok thrive in their states of ruggedness.

Orochi! Kamigawa’s snakefolks are about to get a cyber upgrade, no doubt about it.

Aven! Birds are there and people like them. I think they’re kinda everywhere, aren’t they?

There are tons more, but you get the picture. And I think we can go somewhere with this...

Design a creature card that depicts a race of sapient animal-folk, either brand-new or underrepresented in Magic, based on real-world animals.

A strong card will have a resonant flavor and strong mechanical identity tied to the chosen species. A strong card will show the role of the race in the greater world around it in some way, using recognizable aspects of that animal’s character.

M.E.O.W. is approproate this week, innit.

Mandatory: The race you choose should be a recognizable “race” of animals that would make sense to have on your world. Fantasy animals are not allowed, such as wurms, gryphons, or dragons. The race must be anthropomorphized. -

Encouraged: The card you represent should depict the animal of your choice as part of the world in which is lives. You can do this through flavor text or through mechanics. I think a blend is good, and as usual with these things, your own art helps significantly. Stick figures, even! A general sense does wonders.  -

Optional: Like the Orochi from Kamigawa, you can dip into some aspects of real-world cultures to respectfully draw off of those ideas. Making your own plane here might work out, honestly, if you need a specific setting. But I don’t want a glossary here—remember, tropes help. A little context goes a long way, and basically only the card will be presented and judged, so keep that in mind. Additionally, one approach may be to tie into the animal’s behavior as a mechanical aspect—jumping frogs, hidden snakes, etc. How do an animal’s natural abilities tie into how it plays on the battlefield? -

Warning: Seriously, don’t push the limits of what constitutes animals or sapient races here. It’s not feasible to have a race of, like, warrior amoebas, funny as it may seem at the time. Plants and fungi are excluded. Remember that you must be designing a creature card. I’d look to the best examples of printed races, and pick something that you’d really be excited to see realized. Additionally, you can’t take an established race and put them on another world, like showing a Leonin on Innistrad. Has to be new or noticeably infrequent. It can be more specific, like a race of, say, snow leopards somewhere that have their own name and culture and standards.

The expansion is also an option. See above, the avenger? There are only two (as far as I can tell) truly sapient true frogs in MTG, that buddy and the Burrog Befuddler from Strixhaven. If you can land a solid card expanding upon a race like that, give it a shot. It is more encouraged that you make your own race from an animal that hasn’t been depicted.

I think that’s simple enough, right? I hope that’s simple enough.

Until nyext time! @abelzumi​

>> SUBMOUSIONS >> DISCORGI

[seanfalco]

Not What This Is | Duncan Taylor x Reader

Word count: 2.5k Warnings: smut, rough sex, choking, derogatory language/dirty talk a/n: Watch me take another lesser known Rob character and give him some  character development instead of working on my other fics oops.  Despite Geostorm being a rather mediocre film (hey, I still found it entertaining at least!) and Rob’s character having hardly any screen time and a less than stellar British accent, I was gripped with the need to write this. I might continue writing some drabbles for this character since some plot started to slip in there.

Duncan Taylor was, to put it nicely, a cocky little shit.  A brilliant systems analyst, to be sure, but a complete and total arsehole, and you had the very unfortunate honour of having to work in the same unit as him, day in and day out.  

Your little rivalry had begun from the very beginning.  You’d both been assigned to the O/S division for the Dutch Boy climate control system aboard the International Space Station, when you’d happened to disagree with him on something, calling attention to a fault in one of the programs he was in charge of monitoring. 

Ever since then he’d tried to one up you, undermine you, and overall just get under your skin on a daily basis.  You knew what some of your colleagues whispered behind your back, that your frequent arguments and back and forth banter was only thinly veiled flirting, which was frankly ridiculous. 

Was it?  A tiny voice in your head asked.  Just because you sometimes happened to look forward to these repartees didn’t mean anything.  It was almost enough to drive you mad, so it was peaceful moments like these that you relished when he wasn’t around, his computer chair sitting empty.

“[y/n], you wanna look over that data from yesterday again, please?” Duncan’s smug voice taunted as he ambled into the lab, plopping down at his workstation directly behind yours, letting his computer chair spin slowly to face you.

“Why?  Was there something wrong with it?” you asked, looking up from your monitor warily, your lips twitching into a frown.

Duncan shrugged noncommittally, steepling his fingers as he slouched in his chair.  “Oh, I dunno, just that an entire sector of satellites nearly went offline, due to a missing string of code,” he mused, frowning exaggeratedly, “Luckily I was there to catch your little mistake and fix it before anything untoward happened, but y’know, nothing major.”

Gritting your teeth you forced a smile, more of a grimace really, in his direction.  “Thank you for that, I’m so glad you were able to catch it.”

“Yeah well, you owe me,” he pointed out smugly, his frown turning to a bemused smirk.  “I could’ve easily let slip to Ute about it, but I decided to use some discretion, you know?  Wouldn’t want to call attention to one of my associate’s mistakes.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes.  The thing about it that pissed you off the most was that you were thankful he’d caught it, and you were grateful that the head of your division hadn’t found out or you’d be facing some serious reprimands, but you were still frustrated you’d messed up in the first place, and now he had something to lord over you.

“You know what I’m most confused about, [y/n], is how you could’ve missed somethin’ so glaring as that in the first place,” Duncan continued thoughtfully, studying you with interest and you wanted nothing more than to wipe that stupid smug grin off his face.

Scoffing again under your breath you spun your chair away from him, focusing back on your computer monitor, not rising to his jabs.

“You know what I think it is, [y/n]?  I think you’re so pent up you just can’t think straight.  Maybe if you had a good fuck—“

“You’re a prick, Duncan, that’s what I think,” you shot back, your head whipping toward him.

“Maybe so, but tell me, luv, when’s the last time you got laid, huh?” he continued, waggling his thick eyebrows, a suggestive look in his piercing green eyes that sent a strange thrill through you and for half a moment a thought danced through your consciousness, one that sent heat pooling between your thighs before you quickly banished it.

“Fuck off, Duncan, I don’t have time for your games,” you exclaimed, though you couldn’t quite bring yourself to turn away again.

“Who said I’m playin’?” he asked, though you weren’t sure if he were serious or just teasing you.

“I need to get back to work,” you muttered, tearing your gaze from him, though as you focused on your screen once more you could still feel his eyes on you.

——

Running your hands down your face you sighed as you finally pushed away from your workstation, stretching as you stood and knuckling the small of your back, wanting nothing more than a shower and your bunk.  Luckily at this hour most of the crew was either relaxing in the lounge, asleep, or just starting a fresh shift, leaving the locker room quite empty.  Crossing the room to your locker you nearly jumped out of your skin as Duncan ambled out from around the corner, coming to lean against the lockers next to yours.

“Well well well, fancy running into you here, [y/n],” he drawled, smirking down at you as he leaned closer.  “What a pleasant surprise, and here I thought you were trying to avoid me.”

“If only it were that easy,” you grumbled sarcastically, attempting to nudge him out of the way so you could get to your locker.

“Oh come now, luv, don’t be like that,” Duncan pouted, tilting his head, his springy curls falling across his forehead and you idly wondered what it’d feel like to run your fingers through them.

“Be like what?  Duncan, please get out of my way,” you huffed making a purposeful shooing motion, but he only stepped closer, caging you in with his arms and your breath caught at his proximity.  His eyes found yours and this close you realized you’d never noticed how truly stunning they were before, your thoughts turning unconsciously to your earlier conversation.

He was right, it had been a while, and just the thought of being filled, being touched after so long had arousal gripping you.  For a mouthy fucker why did he have to be so damn attractive?  

Oh fuck it, you thought, making an impulsive decision as he opened his mouth, no doubt to taunt you further, but you moved first, taking him by surprise as you grabbed his t-shirt by the collar and yanked him to you, your lips colliding with an intensity that stunned you as well, but for once you’d managed to shut Duncan Taylor up.

As soon as your mouths met however, he was kissing you back hungrily, pressing you back against the lockers and you slid your hands into his hair, threading your fingers through the curls you so wanted to touch, drawing a low moan from him as you opened your mouth to him, teasing him with your tongue before his found yours eagerly.

“Oh, you don’t know how much I’ve wanted you, luv,” he groaned as your hands moved from his hair to fumble with the knotted sleeves around the waist of his dark jumpsuit, his hips jerking toward you as you worked to untie them.  “Tell me you haven’t thought about me too.”

“I haven’t,” you snapped, but Duncan merely clicked his tongue, amusement flashing across his face. 

“You’re lying, darling, clearly.  You want me.  You want it so bad,” he taunted, grinning down at you, his dark curls falling into his eyes.

“Shut up y’wanker, that’s not what this is,” you exclaimed, but even you knew your argument was feeble.

“Oh really?  And that’s why you’re undressing me right now innit?  Admit it, [y/n], I think the lady doth protest too much.”

You paused, his words striking a nerve, hitting a little too close to home, and you looked up at him defiantly.  “Just shut up and fuck me already,” you growled, “this doesn’t mean anything,” you insisted firmly. 

“Oooh, you’re such a bitch, it’s kind of a turn on.  Does the bitch want my cock?” Duncan drawled as you finally managed to unzip his suit the rest of the way and reach down to grab him through his boxers, feeling how hard he was for you and drawing a sharp gasp from him as you pulled him free.

Before you knew it he was grasping the zipper at your chest and yanking it down, his mouth hot on your neck as he slipped your suit from your shoulders, working it down your hips before fondling you roughly over your tank top and it was your turn to moan, the sound quickly swallowed as his mouth found yours once more, his tongue forcing its way into between your teeth before he finally pulled away to breathe.

“Turn around for me, luv,” he instructed as he spun you, pressing the side of your face up against the locker, “now pull those knickers down,” he continued, and you hated obeying, but your cunt was throbbing harder now and all you wanted was to be filled.  “Now that’s a good girl,” he purred in your ear, a shiver tearing through you as his breath fanned over your cheek and you gasped as he reached around you, slipping his hand between your legs.

“Ohhh,” he sighed, pressing his forehead to the nape of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, “I knew you were lyin’ about wantin’ me, else why would you be so fucking wet, huh darling?” he teased, his fingers circling your clit maddeningly and you let out another shuddering moan as he pushed one digit into you.  “Oh fuck, you’re practically dripping,” he groaned, lust drenching his words.

“Bend over farther,” he commanded hastily and you did, spreading your legs as far as you could with your jumpsuit round your ankles and you pressed your chest to the lockers, sticking your ass out to give him better access to your pussy, hating how needy he made you feel.

“Oh, good girl,” he purred and your breathing hitched as he gave your ass a quick slap and you felt the tip of his cock tease your folds, coating himself with your slick before pressing into you slowly, his moan turning you on even further.  “Oh fuck your fanny’s so tight,” he groaned, thrusting in and out slowly as he held your hips steady.  “God, you feel amazing.”

“Are you always so chatty when you fuck?” you couldn’t help but ask, desperately wanting him to shut up.  “Less talking, more fucking,” you exclaimed, biting your lip to stifle a moan as his hips snapped against your ass.

“Ahh--!” you gasped, rocking against the lockers, unable to kept quiet.  “F-fuck, Duncan.”

“Yeah, like that?  You’re such a little slut, protesting, playing so hard t’get, and then turning around and practically begging for it.  Tell me what you want, [y/n],” he drawled, a command in his voice.

“I want you to fuck me, Duncan,” you hissed, crying out as he thrust into you again hard.

“You’re gunna have to be quiet if you wanna cum, luv,” he grunted as he began to fuck you in earnest, his hips snapping into you with abandon, his cock hitting you just right, the ridge of his head rubbing against your g-spot to send wave after wave of pleasure through you.

Fighting back a series of moans you arched back against him as he rut into you, his hand slipping up your body to caress your neck, squeezing just tight enough for you to feel it, your breaths coming harder.  

“Do you like that, you dirty, kinky girl?” he asked, whispering in your ear, his voice strained with the effort of keeping quiet.  “Do you like when I choke you?”

“Yes,” you sighed involuntarily, finding to your great surprise that you did enjoy it, heat and arousal flooding you the first time he did it and you wanted more.  “Please, Duncan,” you whined and you wondered if he was grinning, picturing that smug smirk just perfectly.

“Oh God, you beg so nicely too,” he groaned as his hand tightened around your throat once more, squeezing tighter til you saw little sunbursts, your knees buckling and you jerked as his other hand slipped to your cunt again, mashing his fingers against your little bundle of nerves and rubbing frantically as he continued to pound into your relentlessly from behind.  

Duncan’s heavy breathing, the lewd slap of skin against skin, and the pounding of your pulse filled your ears and you fleetingly wondered just how far the sounds of your exertions were carrying.  You could feel yourself plateauing, that hovering quivering heat that felt like the calm right before the storm and then suddenly your muscles tensed, your climax gripping you violently, pushing you off that cliff and you fought to keep from crying out, the sweet pain of Duncan’s overstimulation pushing you further as he didn’t stop.

“Oh fuck,” he hissed as you clenched around him and his grip on your throat loosened, though his fingers on your clit didn’t stop and your legs gave a dangerous wobble, nearly giving out beneath you.

“Don’t you dare — cum inside me,” you gasped, twisting in his grip to glare at him over your shoulder and he flashed you a strained smile, the look of pleasure on his face disarming you for a moment.

“Whatever you say, luv,” he groaned, and suddenly he was forcing you forward as he pulled out of you, his cock nestling against your ass before you felt his warm seed spill over your skin, pumping several times before he finally released you.

“Hold on, let me get that for you,” he murmured, his voice slightly hoarse and then you felt a rough cloth wipe the sticky mess from your backside with a surprising gentleness before you quickly pulled your knickers back up along with your jumpsuit and reluctantly turned around to face him.  The strangely tender look you caught on his face surprised you before his usual smarmy grin quickly returned.  

“Now that you’ve had a good fuck d’you think you can finally focus now?” he taunted, rewrapping his jumpsuit sleeves around his waist.  “Or… maybe we’ll need t’make this a reoccurring thing to keep that pretty little head of yours clear,” he said poking his finger to your forehead cheekily.

“Oh, piss off Duncan,” you snapped feebly, brushing his hand away and trying to push past him. 

“Oh, no, I can see it in your eyes, you enjoyed that.  I made you feel good,” he insisted, following you, quickly cutting you off.  “You’re gunna be thinking about my cock for the foreseeable future.”

Despite your internal protests to the contrary your face burned with the knowledge that you wanted to fuck him again, that once was not going to be enough.  

“Don’t flatter yourself, Duncan.  You coulda been anyone and this was just a one time thing.”

“You just keep telling yourself that, luv,” he quipped, completely sure of himself before leaning down to steal a peck to your lips, turning and walking away with a decided pep to his step, whistling cheerily as he went.

Groaning under your breath you nearly collapsed against the lockers, breathing heavily as the gravity of what you’d just done hit you.  It wasn’t exactly like what you were doing could be considered fraternizing, seeing as you couldn’t stand each other.  Right?

Groaning again you opened your locker and quickly undressed, taking a very quick, very cold shower before heading back to your bunk, but it didn’t help.  Tossing and turning, unable to sleep, the pleasant ache between your thighs served as a constant reminder of what happened in the locker room with the smug fellow Englishman who it was getting harder for you to convince yourself you hated.

[augurhound-a]

“You’re serious about this? ‘S a terrible idea, Two, you have no idea what sort of effect it’ll--”

“04, have I ever wanted to hear one of your endless explanations. Ever.”

The hypnotist Lancer stiffened his jaw, and nodded. This was not the reunion he’d hoped for. The reunion he’d hoped for would have involved far more violence and maybe a little bit of retribution for his lost siblings. For himself. For the lives they could have had but now weren’t going to get. Because of the selfish little monster in front of him.

It’d be easy, that little voice in 04 tells him. Just reach into his mind and rip it into tiny little pieces, tear it and him apart and leave him a stuttering wreck.

04 calms himself. He smiles a smile that makes 02 furious and places a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Listen brother, we have a proper duty to do. Besides, I think your big bloke will come and snap my head in two if he finds out what I did to you. No way to prove you wanted it, either, yeah? Doctor-patient ethics and also basic self-preservation tells me I say no to this.” 02′s hand swats the one on his shoulder away, his teeth bared.

“Since when have YOU cared about anything 01 has said. Y--” He doesn’t get far before 04 whirls around and begins walking away, “Where are you going?”

“Away from this useless conversation, Two. You really haven’t--ah--changed much, yeah? Sorry mate, but it’s not my responsibility to make it so you don’t have to wake up in the mornin’ hatin’ yourself.”

“You’re literally a therapist, so.”

“You literally haven’t filled out a consent to treatment form, so.”

02 chews the inside of his cheek so hard he feels metallic synthetic blood fill his mouth. He spits it out onto the floor (earning a wince from 04), and nearly collapses into one of the annoyingly soft seats in the other Lancer’s office. One of the stress toys is plucked from its place in the small bin next to the coffee table, turned over and examined by violet eyes.

He pitches it at the wall and shatters it.

“You gotta pay for that.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“Other than pay for my property damage, no.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Please--!”

“No!”

04 stomped the ground hard enough to make the bobbleheads on his desk feel the tremors. Nothing compared to what the poor office had underwent yesterday. Poor Peggy/Sarah/Diane/whatever his receptionist’s name was. The resolute BANG of the other’s loafer on the hardwood makes 02 shrink back in his seat, knees pulled to his chest and hands knitted in his hair.

“HONESTLY, Two, what did you think was going to happen? You and your siblings are soldiers in a bloody war against GOD. You really thought that now was a good time to be entertaining flights of fancy? To sit there with your head firmly in the clouds and up your arse and not here, where it matters? I’m right sorry that this isn’t workin’ out--I’m sorry you aren’t goin’ to get the happy ending future you wanted for yourself, but boohoo. You’re a Lancer. See the bigger picture like you always tell us to.”

04 sets his jaw tightly while 02 lets out a sound that bears some similarity to a whine of distress. The sight is pitiable but draws no compassion from 04--this is not his responsibility anymore. This is hardly even his family anymore. A long pause before the hypnotist, in a rare moment of compassion, steps closer and takes a seat next to his older brother.

“Look right, you tried your best. I get that--really do, mate. An’ it hurts that now’s not the time for what you want. But you know what you have to do. You also know you’re the only one that can make it happen. But pullin’ that bandage off is gonna hurt and it’s gonna sting for a while afterwards.”

“I hate my life.”

“I know.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“What you know you’ve gotta, mate.”

“Will I ever--”

“You’re the one that can see the future, mate, not me. Can you tell if you’re going to kill the Dark Star too?”

02 is silent, tellingly so.

“That’s what I thought, mate.”

“Stop saying mate.”

“You don’t pay me, you don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“I’m so tired of things going wrong. Of things in my life going wrong. Sometimes I wonder if I’m cursed. If I just destroy everything I touch.”

“Well, there’s one common denominator in all the relationships you’ve destroyed, isn’t there?”

“Not the time.”

“Let me be angry. Two, I’m sorry your circle’s collapsin’. I’m sorry you couldn’t save Mewtwo. I’m sorry you failed your boyfriend and I’m sorry he’s a blitherin’ idiot that has no idea how conflict resolution works. But maybe this’ll be good for you. Time apart. Reflect on yourself. Your priorities. Your life up until now. Get perspective. Go win the war. Let me talk a bit of sense into the lad. When this is all over... we’ll see how things play out. I’m not promisin’ anything nor should you take this as endorsement of that. But I am saying that you picked the worst time to start daydreamin’. It’s time to get your head back in the game.”

“I don’t like this.”

“Nobody does. Deal with it. We all have had to make sacrifices for the rest of the world. This one’s yours. Right now isn’t about you, mate. You, or him, or anything. God’s a bigger priority than your happy bloody ending.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.”

“Yes.”

“Promise me you won’t let anything happen to him.”

“When did you start caring about other bloody people?”

“When I failed you and the others eight years ago. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

04 goes silent, and his lips purse. 02 turns away, and then stares at the door. His legs pick him up and march in lock step towards it, fingers brushing the knob. How much had he missed by being here in 04′s office, hiding from the consequences of his choices? Were they even his to begin with?

“For what it’s worth right back, Two, ‘m sorry your foray into this has ended badly. I really mean what I say. Win the war. Earn that happy endin’ with your family. Then start dreamin’ about distant galaxies and the future, yeah? And after a healthy dose of couple’s counselin’, maybe. And family therapy. Look right--I think you’ve got a real chance at happiness with this, but I think now is not the time for it.”

“No time in my life ever has been. The world’s never been kind to me.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate, innit? Guess you’ll have to go do what Lancers do and make the world do it instead.” 04 cracks a smile, one that’s just distracted enough by his anger to be genuine. One that belays just a bit of family in it.

02 returns it with a nod, and a faint, faint smirk of his own. Lancers--ever impractical, ever clever, and willing to do anything for their own sakes.

“I better not see you on the battlefield, Four.”

“I’m a bloody Lancer, Two. You know damn well you won’t.”

“Good. That’s... yeah. Good.”

02 turns, and walks through the door.

[robinisaghost]

animatic ideas :0 (ramble away, i would love to hear them!!)

mk thank you for enabling me, i will now be yelling

anyway

this is gonna be so obnoxiously long i am so sorry

can you add read more's on asks? eeeekkkk because this got so damn long lmao

mild dsmp spoilers obviously

this is the playlist, by the way

-im sorry boris (wilbur soot)

i think it would work really well with mmm slightly post lmanburg niki. andby slightly i mean. well when she leaves (that is the whole thing of the song gdfjkhgsdf) also side note at like 1 minute 11 on that song theres a discord notification really subtly in the background and it makes me paranoid every time i hear it. anyway god its such a nice song. even for just like. the end of lmanburg. not necesarily paired with a character, just the sense of leaving a place that was so highly populated before it got blown up twice and was like. the main part of the smp. yeah. anyway also the lines "they'll knock down the pubs before helping you...they'll let you jump under trains before helping you" yeah those four lines have big niki vibes but also i think the song could work well with exile tommy or actually even with the finale when tubbo is about to sacrifice himself? mmmmm yeah

-this is home (cavetown)

mmmm got exile tommy vibes innit. a lot of these have exile tommy vibes tbf i just like sad songs and also exile tommy. plus the song has a lot of like. the message is sort of like. changing yourself to appeal to others? like with "ill cut my hair to make you stare" but also the repeated thing of "ill figure out a way to get us out of here" which is clearly the main character of the song trying to help everyone when they are clearly not in a good way themself. yeah thats got big tommy vibes in general tbh but more like. pre finale tommy. i think he got a bit more independant after that.

-soldier poet king (the oh hellos)

ok this is self explanatory and has been done to death already but d a m n its kinda funky. anyway i had thoughts and actually started this but then lost motivation and deleted it all lmaooo. the only proof of its existance is a shitty storyboard in my draw which will hopefully never see the light of day again (unless anyone wants to see it :eyes:) anyway i had the thought of like. sbi? so soldier techno poet wilbur and king tommy. but tbf tommy and techno are kinda interchangeable with that, cos while techno is obviously the better fighter, tommy is used a lot, especially in lmanberg era and also i think he probably will be now that wilburs back

-pyjama pants (cavetown)

ok so i honestly dont remember why this is on the playlist but tbf this could go well with a bunch of characters. thinking like. phil and wilbur? or wil and tommy, or tubbo and ranboo are two that like. i know for a fact that i did not put the song on the playlist specifically for them but god thinking about it now it works so well with them

-boys will be bugs (cavetown)

OH BOY THERES A LOT OF CAVETOWN ON HERE HUH (i feel like that probably says something about me but shhhhhh we dont need to talk about that) ANYWAY

I think this could probably work really well with tommy? because of the whole like. trying really hard to come across as not caring about others, but really being like. very vunerable. but at the same time it could go really well with wilbur for the same reasons. also the song fucks ok cant deny it. to be fair i think it works better with tommy, because he's younger and also he really likes bugs (unless i am mistaken) which is just a cool coincidence but still)

-brother (kodaline)

FUCKKKKKKKKKKK THIS WORKS SO WELL WITH SO MANY CHARACTERS AND IS ALSO ***SO ANGSTY*** WHAT

anyway

i added it because of tommy and tubbo because holy shit, but also it could work very very well with wilbur and tommy, techno and wilbur, probably techno and tommy, and oh my god i just thought of this but this would work so well with phil and techno!!!! but yeah i originally thought tommy and tubbo because i thought it was a funny coincidence with exile tommy waking up underwater, and theres a line that says "if you were drowned at sea, id give you my lungs so you could breathe" and like. just thinking about the compasses especially. me gusta.

-feel better (penelope scott)

fundy. that is all.

no ok this works well with fundy but also probably karl sapnap and quackity, and also very much wilbur, like it works well with both. just mainly fundy idk why its got big fundy vibes tho. very poggers.

-as the world caves in (matt maltese)

ok but like this goes very very well with the explosions of lamberg. either of them. i think probably the first one is better, but i think it goes well with both. probably the first one, because it was way more emotional i think? cos it was the first time that their homes had been destroyed and everything, but also because it was so personal, because wilbur was the one who did it. i think that also it would work well if it was set during the explosion but also focussed on different facets? so like. one bit about wilburs perspective, one bit about tommys, one about phils, one about fundys maybe? idk just a bunch of lmaburg citizens' povs for this. its good. as the world caves in is a song that can be so gender tbh.

-do you hear the people sing? (les mis)

obvious obvious obvious...... but like..... also tbh it goes well with a bunch of things. like, mmmmm wilbur in pogtopia. the butcher army. lmaburg independance war (obviously ghdskj) but yeah. also this song just goes so hard like b r u h

-wolf in sheeps clothing (set it off, william beckett)

SO MANY OF THESE ARE LIKE. PRETTY OBVIOUS IF YOUVE HEARD THE SONG

but yeah. it would go so well with like. well any betrayal basically. so eret, from tommys pov maybe, or about wilbur from nikis pov, or wilbur from anyone pov tbf, or quackity from charlie/purpled/foolish/sams pov, or sam from tommys pov, really it works well with so many people which says a lot about the characters tbh but shhhhhhhhhhhh

-need you here (idkhow)

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

mk mk mk mk FUNDY AND WILBUR THO

like b r u h that works so well with them

also i started this one as well but didnt like it, theres a story board in my draw as well for it because like. oh my god its such a good idea i just am shit at animating and don't have a decent enough program :')

also also

the line "daddy has to go, and that makes me sad, but daddy will always come back, he promised" fuckkkkkk that works so well with like. say for example, idk, when they're celebrating schlatts death and wilbur leaves to press the button? the sheer fucking angst of that is enough to kill any one person istg that is in fact the entire reason why i started the animatic in the first place. just that line. also all the lines sung by the child voice. fuckin angsty as hell. also ust generally a banging song, as is every idkhow song

-green (cavetown)

another cavetown song huh. ok sure.

mk so wilbur and sally and fundy. like. for a start, the imagry of a fish at the start? boom sally.

anyway the lines "you looked so good in green, i hope you're well, and you look so good with him, (schlatt ig?) and I'm proud of you still (wilburrrr and fundyyyy) i miss your perfect teeth, i was too blunt, i hope you feel happy, that's all I want"

FUCKKKK

the whole song is about missing someone you used to love and only hoping the best for them!!!! and wishing that they are happy and safe!!!!!!!!!!! and hoping they still think about you!!!!! but even if they dont its fine because all you want is for them to be happy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

-achilles come down (gang of youths)

OK I THOUGHT IT COULDNT GET ANGSTIER

so like. tw suicide but thats what the entire song is about and bing bang boom i just think it works so so so so so so so well with not only exile tommy (who obviously did try to kill himself) but also wilbur in a slightly more metaphorical way? so like. his self destructive habits leading him to a point where he had no choice other than to kill himself and to take his country down with him. and its all about other characters trying to help them and persuade them not to but also near the end there is a second voice trying to persuade them to go along with it, which im thinking like. if its wilbur, either dream or maybe just himself. his own brain persuading him to continue down the path that would inevitably lead to his and his countries destruction. also it works well with schlatt for the same reasons, except he doesnt want to die. maybe (since the song is so goddamn long) like. one verse for tommy one for wilbur and one for schlatt? dead gang poggg but also like. the verses cover fairly different things which work with one character but not so much the others, for example the first verse would be tommy because its mainly about persuading the person to not kill themself (which tommy did himself but shhh) the second for schlatt because its literally about drinking and smoking away your problems, and the third for wilbur since its more of a fight between the "good" and the "bad" sides, which is obviously what wilbur was experiencing. also obviously i have a soft spot for this song because its string instruments and french, basically my favourite combination ever (also i like his voice idfk lmao)

ANYWAY THATS ALL THE SONGS ON THERE SO FAR

i literally thought of another song while i was in the shower today but i dont remember which it was but a n y w a y the playlist will most definitely be getting longer, especially since there are so many more songs that are good for this but i just havent added them yet lmao. anyway ive been writing this for like an hour gsdfjhgdhfsg but still oh my god this was fun to write

[way-to-the-future]

Purpose

It is morning, and the wind is blowing. That might be a redundant observation; it is always blowing, here, always casting the tops of the great trees into disarray. The quaking leaves provide a comfortable sort of droning over which Castor can work. Like the sea rushing in, and drawing back out. Like rain on city stones. Like quenching steel. He worries over his blade with careful scrutiny, sending the whetstone down its edge in unhurried strokes. The black graphite sheen is no mirror, not truly, but Castor fancies that he can still see something in the metal, in the striations that cut across the surface where it bit into an ancient horror’s magiteknical hide.

“Purpose,” quoth the sphinx, and it resounded like a struck bell in Castor’s head, sending levin sparks skittering up his arms and into his belly, his heart. 

“Well, that’s what it’s all swiving about, innit.”

Castor prides himself on being a purposeful man. A man of commitment; of intention. There is a telos for every step, every harsh word, every time sword or pistol is drawn. If others squirm to see him do so, it’s because they lack the sap, the high-handed potence, the anointed will to look at what life sets before them and say ‘no fucking thank you.’ Let them bow their heads in meek deference if they will - Castor owes it to none.

He sighs and lifts the blade to his examination. Still marked. Still, under the surface, just visible - words graven when the sword was fresh-forged, presented to him with fanfare and honors befitting someone else’s son. He hadn’t meant to erase them - not truly - so it’s fortunate that they remain. Somehow, fortunate.

Father owed it. A blood price. A price set by his blood. It beat in his heart and it gave Castor his name. A man owes all to his people, to his nation, said father, never realizing that by turns, his nation owed him nothing. Still, one ought to strive - one ought to give himself to something. To stand only for oneself leads to dissolution. The whetstone courses along the cutting edge - hones it to --

The trees shift and the sun shines across, continuing its climb from dawn to day. It’s not warm, yet. In the courtyard, it would not yet be seen - not til noon, when it could turn the zellij patterns in the pavement such a distracting array of colors that one might almost miss the crimson red. 

Scowling thought much the same - hadn’t she lived another life? One close to that Castor seemed to live not so long ago? You have to want it, she said. Through the blisters on your hands and the blood on your teeth. You are called to a service greater than yourself; you have to want it. You have to wake up with it on your lips, search for it as a dying man searches for water, feel it in the cadence of the lash. The words will only mean something if you make them mean something.

“My arm is not my arm; I give it to your service, my deeds to your name.” It doesn’t matter if the words still mark the blade; he knows them. They had their run, didn’t they? Almost. Almost. Almost, Castor thought of something greater than himself - but what’s a head wearing a crown? Can it love you the way that you love it? Will it ever hear the praise you shower on it, or are you simply a beast of steel for its beck and call?

The poets might have something to say about that. They might be able to put the right phrase to this bitter feeling, but Castor never enjoyed reading the dirges. He pushes a lock of hair behind his ear. It’s fortunate, too, that the weapon still holds an edge at all - was it ever meant to be put to these ends? Could he have ever dreamt that chamber in a floating ruin when he was just a boy wanting to belong to something? 

Castor can’t deny it. Much as he wants to be steady - much as he wants to wear this expedition like just another cloak, another job, it has brought him sights beyond recounting. There is a gravity about this place, about these people - a greatness, even if it will not make him great too.

You’re a good soldier, Castor. Is that what he is? Is that what he’s doing here, soldiering? Acting with the same terrible poise as those white jackets? The notion is almost laughable. There was something the old samurai said - soldiers don’t question. Whether we like it or not, we’re soldiers. Castor’s jaw sets, and he fancies he feels the wind turning eastward.

It doesn’t work. He’s not a bloody soldier - he’s not fighting for a brotherhood, and he’s certainly not restraining his questions. People are dying around him - colleagues, men of merit, and there will certainly be more. He’s fighting, but these things don’t make him a soldier. He doesn’t flatter himself that the Voyage needs a doubter, either. After all, doesn’t he want the same ends? What purpose does his vitriol serve?

What’s left, then? Look at him; son of no nation, knight with no liege, and not a chance of making himself out like a loyal soldier. Above it all, pulled over him like a patchwork shroud, a scavenger, a rag and bone man, a jackal for once in its blessed, short life wanting for something more than meat. He looks at the sword - its edge repaired - and fancies he sees himself in the blackened steel.

A better man. A fortunate man. Potent, willful, thought not so much as he imagines - and given the chance to do something with it. He’s still breathing; it’s the next morning, and his aim has not changed, only become clearer. Bulwark, fortress, bramble. They lost two, and it makes Castor angry more than it makes him grieve. Castor made oaths, swore his forbearance - he signed a swiving contract. He’s physical fucking security, and the people on this ship are his to protect. They were not the Rovers’ to take. He’ll make them eat their damnable, bloodstained hands before this is through, buggered lot of thieves that they are.

He owes something - he remembers the words, and they mean all the more that he would speak them freely. He feels the weight of the blade in his hand, and he takes a breath. Steady - straight along the blade, the whetstone hones it to its purpose. He looks to the ship - silent. Alive, but morose and disheartened. Castor looks to the Voyage - and maybe he sees something in it, too.

[wolfofwinchester]

♛. THE WOLF OF WINCHESTER

The birth of a title.

WARNING: Contains heavy descriptions of gore.

They’d half a mind to speed for the hills when they found the girl waving her blood-smattered arm along the side of the dirt road, their horses startled by the enormous wolf meeting her hip in height. The entire sight gave the humble folk and their steeds a terrible chill.

“Wait!”‌ The driver’s son grabbed his father’s shoulder, giving him a shake before he could slap the reins. “Pa, wait! That’s The Earl’s daughter, innit? It’s Lady Claudia!”‌

The much older man adjusted his dusty spectacles, then gaped and dropped from the wagon. “My Lady, what are you doin’ out here lookin’ in such a state?‌You poor thing, you–”‌ He stopped, cautiously, nervously, eyeing the beast at her side who seemed strangely docile, but highly aware of the man’s moves. The nerves rattling the farmer’s skin wanted to send him scattering from the beast alone, from its maw to its coat wet with crimson - but, there was white, dirty cloth wrapped around one of its legs. That, too, was red. The wolf was injured.

“I‌ had an unfortunate event occur to my poor self, good sir.”‌‌ Claudia spoke with a hand resting on her chest, teeth red and face a mess with what looked like dirt and mottled bruising, dressed with smears of blood. Someone struck the girl hard, her cheek was swollen. That was the sight that put the old man to ease, drawing out the compassion and the concern. “I‌ need to get home somethin’ terrible. Would ya help a Lady out?” Her hand rested behind Gelert’s head, giving him a good scratch. “He ain’t going to harm ya, I promise.”

The farmer called for the boy on the wagon and he leapt off, scuttling to the back to let the panel down for the weary girl who hitched a burlap sack over her shoulder, the older man’s caging her shoulders to provide some semblance of comfort.

“Let me take that for you, miss,” Spoke the son. “I‌ can-”

“No.”‌ Claudia cut him off short. “I‌ appreciate that, but I‌’ll be carrying this.”

The skies of April 5th, 1947 rumbled, earning the farmer and his son urgency. No Lady of Phantomhive was to be left in the rain.

Her exposure to rain was the least of Hawthorn Phantomhive’s, the father and the man who was almost burning tracks into the carpet he paced in his office, arms crossed behind his back. The man had a face of stone for the most part, never giving way to any emotion and always donning a frown. Only drastic measures made his brow ever so slightly twitch. Right now, there was a terrible twitch that was beyond his control.

“Foolish.” He cursed.

“Now now, M’Lord,”‌ Spoke a voice that made even the stoic Earl’s spine tremble. It creaked like an old door on rusted hinges, cracking with age — you could practically feel the dust tumble off the tongue it belonged to. “the last thing you want to do is let out such grievances while the dear girl has yet to be found. Men have been in your place and came to regret letting their mouth speak without the mind’s leash.”

A look like ice flew in the funeral director’s direction, who merely canted his head, hands that’d been crept close to his chest clicking their talons. That grin of his was absolutely unchanged by the look that made many crumble. Made the few others in the room feel grateful such intensity was not rested on them.

“Keep your penny dreadfuls behind your lips.”‌ The Earl stalked past the giggling man, pouring over his desk and peeling through the files. Photos laid scattered, files laid opened. He swatted aside the uncharacteristically bright green bag, wrapped by silver string and a tag with “do m'iníon milis*” attached. “Woolwich.”

“Not a peep, Lord Phantomhive.”‌ Piped a man with black hair, puffing on his pipe. “The only trading is in tobacco and weaponry from America.”

“Twyford.”

“Nobility’s not been in their stock for some time,”‌ Piped another with blond hair, rested languidly on the deep rich blue couch. “Druitt’s kept me sharply informed.”

“Norwood.”

Again, the funeral director spoke, traipsing to one of the long windows that peered over the front. “M’Lord, have I given you reason to doubt my information?”‌ He could see it, even if the others didn’t. He’d long since grown to recognize the subtle signs in the great Earl — the man was frantic.

“If I‌ find nothing in West Ham, I‌ want to know where to look next. Alternatives.”‌ Lord Hawthorn answered sharp. “Trafficking highborn is fast-paced. If my men can’t find her in the auctions tonight, I‌ will have others stationed elsewhere. Norwood.”

‌Tension laid thick, exchanges of glances between the two quiet nobles. The reports went on as the Earl listed off location after location, shouldering his coat and drawing ‘x’s on some parchment. The funeral director, on the other hand, had grown silent; his attention was quite preoccupied, watching a humble wagon roll up to the Estate.

“Well now,”‌ The Undertaker lilted, pricking every ear in the room. The tapping of a black nail on the glass drew Hawthorn’s eye. “the long lost pup has returned of her own volition.”‌

The mortician was all but shoved by the Earl’s rush to his side, which earned something of a frown that would’ve translated to “rude”. “Are you sure?‌ Are you certain?”‌ Hawthorn eyed, watching as his heir hopped to her feet, joined by that infernal wolf of hers. There was no mistaking it, it was Claudia.

“Good God,”‌ Uttered one of the two stray nobles, joining at the window. “The girl looks like she was dragged through the shambles. What did they do to her?”

“Oh, ‘to her’ you think?”‌

“Look at her, Undertaker.”

“I am. Are you?”

A strange look, but all interjected with the Earl’s quick turn on the heel as he strode from the office, the other three in curious tow. It didn’t take long to come across the girl, who walked clear through a gaggle of maids and footmen keeping their distance due to the growling Gelert.

“Claudia –”‌ Hawthorn barely got to speak, the bloodied progeny bore into him with a fiery leer the second their eyes had met. His heart pierced, looking at the mottled discoloration on her cheek of purple, and the crimson drench on her jaw stained to her neck and soaked deep into her collar. There were remnants of pearls in her curls, but the strings had obviously been busted, leaving wild raven blue flowing free in disarrayed waves. Her emerald dress was soiled in long-dried gore, the leading stench of iron that permeated and baked into her clothing from the Spring sun.

He didn’t see a wound on her, strike aside.

His arms rose, and Claudia silenced him immediately; she flung that burlap sack with enough force to make him grunt when it struck him in the gut, embracing that instead in confusion. He pressed it, and smelled the same whiff of iron; strong. Strong enough to make the two noblemen at his side gag.

It was also Claudia that spoke full and first, and also last. “Stiúradh glan uaim, fear Béarla*.” The Lady snarled, smeared mulberry-painted lips tucking into a snarl to show her teeth, the sharp canines with their white only seen in streaks through the ichor. Gelert in turn gave the same warning with a guttural growl. The two sounded too in-tandem to be comfortable. Made gooseflesh rise.

Locks flew with the storm that was the Bastard of Phantomhive, turned on her heel and surging down the opposite hall. The wolf lingered only a moment, adding to the edge Hawthorn felt cementing his feet to the ground, seeing to the father not following before padding after his mistress.

“— Lord in Heaven.” Came gagging when the burlap was peeled open, heads veering while the mortician peered closer with a coo.

“Might I, M’Lord?”‌ Lilted Undertaker, whom received no verbal permission, but the slow glance from those icy sapphires was all he needed to pry into the sack and draw back the bloodied noggin to cradle delicately in his palms. He rolled it, he examined it, grinning ear-to-ear with fascination of the wounds upon the facial features. Skin ripped from the nasal bone to show off shattered cartilage and strings of torn, and to his sharp eye, missing muscle. Half an eyelid hung over a lifeless grey orb, while the other was clearly ruptured beyond recognition; practically blood yolk.

The gap of freshly missing front teeth, bloodying the pencil mustache of the upper lip. Then the matter of the decapitation itself; how delightfully visceral! Only a bit of spinal cord hung, violently broken.

The Lords grimaced at the sight, and one even uttered a noise of disgust when the Undertaker clenched the bone with two nails and tilted it for closer inspection.

“Alexander Moore.”‌‌ Hawthorn noted, taking a cool moment to study the gored features before putting a name to it. “The Trader from West Ham.”‌ Notorious in the Underworld for his.. requested “stock”, of highborn and those of wealth. His trade knew no restrictions other than those who paid him in advance; he was feared because his men never left a trace when they took someone, and because he himself took part in the act.

He was not a man known for his mistakes, and he wasn’t one to be reckoned with, either. No matter the guard and no matter how high you were in the eyes of society, people died in pursuit of him. He was better off paid than trifled with. Hawthorn Phantomhive, however, did not bend to anyone.

As such, Claudia paid the price.

And then, Alexander.

“Wolf did a number on him. I’ve never seen a lopping like that.”‌ One of the men traced the outline of the broken spinal cord. It wasn’t clean cut at all, and the sharp of an edge pricked the noble’s finger with a hiss and a fast withdraw.

The Undertaker giggled, turning the head upside-down so the men had a better look. His fingers splayed around the neck, tapping a black nail to bone. “Take a closer look, m’lords — do these marks look like the dear Lady’s beasty?” Squints all around, and then the draining of color in two faces, joined by a hardness in the Earl’s. “These are human.”

The quick scuff of shoes as the two lesser nobles cleared from around the macabre viewing. “You’re mad if you think we’re going to believe—”

“Are you suddenly undertaker, Carlyle?”‌ Hawthorn cut, side-leering. There was no response to that. “If I remember correctly, you work as my bloodhound — so fetch:‌ find me Moore’s warehouse.”

The sun set, and would find itself easing into the horizon once the stated warehouse was found. In the middle of nowhere as to be expected, and it was thick with the odor of decay. The door to the place was wide open, and flies had set to buzz and whizz about as three men investigated the sight for themselves; Hawthorn, Undertaker, and of course, Carlyle, who must have been the palest of the trio as they stepped over the death scene.

It was a massacre. The bodies all had signs of mauling, there was not one man laid here that hadn’t been torn into by teeth, or sharp implement. Some were pelted with bullet wounds, and one unfortunate fellow hung strangled by chain with the ceiling. The main event was the office in the building, where a headless corpse laid in a heap upon the floor as the most violent death of them all; his stomach was busted into, and that, by the Undertaker’s inspection, was the work of the wolf, down the half-eaten intestines. His arms were broken, and the leather holster for his gun was empty.

“Think it was quick?”‌ Carlyle inquired, giving a kick to the Trader’s very stiff leg.

“No.”‌‌ Hawthorn answered, examining the wreck of the office. A struggle was evident, and the print of blood on the wall meant the man has his head slammed hard into the concrete, because the wounds on Claudia’s bod were lacking outside of a few bruises. There was no dire injury to be found. “I‌ think it was slow.”

“Very slow, at that.”‌ The Undertaker hummed, examining the neck more closely. “and excruciating! She chewed through his neck, see?‌ The muscles are strong, especially in a man like the late Alexander‌ Moooore. He was a man of fine physique. I’d reckon he lived well until she went for the main artery.”‌ A titter. “How terrible.”

“You don’t need to sound so happy about it, you goddamn madman.”‌ Carlyle muttered, exchanging clashing looks with the chipper funeral director. “That’s a corpse you’re hunched over.”

“Aye, and corpses are my work, Mr. Carlyle.”‌ A tilt of the silver-mopped head. “Don’t you ever feel exhilarated by your field of expertise?”

“I’m not entertaining that with a comment..”‌ The more Carlyle was exposed to this man, the less he felt he’d sleep at night. A shake of the head, and he glanced to the Earl. “What’re you thinking, Phantomhive?” 

The Earl had given the neck a good, long look. One could only imagine what boggled through his mind, knowing this was the work of his heir, his daughter, without doubt. Teeth snapped through the bone. A slow, agonizing death. The girl rejected it so strongly, but there was no doubt in his mind that the cruelty of a Phantomhive was deep in her blood. Their family’s cruelty, after all, was something inherited. “I think I have a wolf from Winchester succeeding me.” Whether that was a very rigid and awkward attempt at humor was anyone’s guess. 

A beat, and he rephrased himself. “I think I have the Wolf of Winchester succeeding me.”

‌--

Irish translations;

*‌ for my sweet daughter. *‌ Steer clear of me, Englishman.

[weeo]

Rum is for fun and fucking

This is my (a bit late) response fic for episode 3. @peakyemergencyresponsefic

Pairing : Tommy Shelby x Alfie Solomons

Summary :  “Well, rum is for fun and fucking” said once a certain Mr Solomons.

Gif Credits : This gif doesn’t belong to me. Credits to the creator @blakelivey​

Warnings/Tags :  NSFW, Alcohol, Drunken Flirting, Drunk Sex, Bar, Smut, Biting, Fluff, Smut and Fluff, Dom/Sub Undertones, Minor Spoilers for Season 5

Notes :  Thank you so much to the lovely @tinypinetrees who still bears my attempts at writing! You have my undying love <3 

AO3 link

The front door of the Garrison slams open, and a cane clicks on the floor, accompanied by quiet grunting noises. 

He might be drunk, but Tommy doesn’t need to look up to know with absolute certainty, who has entered the pub.

“Evening, Alfie.” He says, one elbow leaning on the table as he stares at the golden liquid swirling in his glass. His fingers flutter nervously, shaking the alcohol. 

“Yeah, it is. It is, in fact.” 

“I wasn’t expecting you.” Tommy twisted his head, looking away to avoid eye contact.

“Your telegram was clear though, wasn’t it?” Alfie moves closer, standing next to Tommy’s table. 

“Unlike yours...”

“Well, I’m not fucking surprised, you have no clue how to appreciate the sublime art that is metaphor, mate.” Alfie smiles, amused by his assumption.

Tommy still hasn’t looked up at him, he’s unable to. A strange feeling floats in the air when he ends up alone in a room with Alfie. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was wrong, or if he could, he wouldn’t admit it. Whenever the doors clicked shut behind them, his chair would suddenly become very uncomfortable. So much so that no position was pleasant anymore. As if the creaking chair was mocking his apparent weakness. Sneering at his every move. 

It usually reaches its pitch when Alfie sits opposite of him and watches him intently. 

And today is no exception.

Tommy can’t help but squirm in the chair. His cigarette case sits nearby on the table, begging him to take one. 

“Shall you have a seat?” He snatches up the little metal case, fumbling with it to get a cigarette out, knocking a few onto the floor.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Alfie pulls the chair and sits, throwing his full weight on his cane and grunting slightly. “Metaphor is a really complex thing, mate. It draws unexpected lines between two unlike things.” He stays quiet a few seconds, as if to let Tommy process what he’s said, before continuing. “As far as I can tell, all that booze running through your veins is a great indication that the plants were indeed thirsty. I’m not much of a gardener myself, but I’m pretty sure you’re watering them with the wrong stuff, mate. Well, let’s face it, too much of a good thing drowns plants. Especially the pretty ones. Prevents them from breathing properly. And then, they suddenly start to die from the inside.” He says, stressing the last line with wide eyes and emphasizing every word with a low, quick tone. One filled with far-fetched gravity.

He leans forward slightly, seizing the champagne bottle and dragging it on the table, far enough away that Tommy couldn’t take it back. 

“I thought you said you don’t touch it...” Tommy points out, unable to say anything else as he lights his cigarette.

Alfie stares at him, plainly ignoring his previous sentence as if he didn’t hear, or judged his comment too fucking stupid to deserve an answer. And as always, in his personal way, Alfie prefers to bluntly change of subject.

“I heard that you’re now a socialist. Saviour of the people and all. Funny that.” He stops for a few seconds, waiting to see if Tommy will respond, but keeps going when he doesn’t. “Even now as a socialist, your communist friend didn’t look so happy with you when she left the bar.”

“I guess she doesn’t appreciate metaphors either. Champagne bubbles aren’t socialist enough, apparently.” Tommy says, leaning back on his chair and trying to gain back some composure as he exhales smoke smoothly from his lips. Trying to maintain a confident gaze at Alfie.

“Yeah, socialism can come and go as quick as champagne bubbles.”

Tommy sniffs, well aware that Alfie is bluntly mocking him, and honestly it’s pretty fair. 

“I have to develop different strategies to deal with politicians.” Tommy says, in an attempt to refocus the conversation on something he has control over.

“Well, it had been proven indeed, mate, that it’s harder to negotiate without a fucking grenade in his briefcase, innit?”

Tommy smirks slightly, but can’t help feeling off in the conversation. He can’t tell if it’s the alcohol clouding his mind, or that sensation Alfie causes that he can’t pinpoint the origins of. He has nothing to reply. It shouldn’t be this complicated.

The words won’t align in his head. Unable to find an answer, he downs what’s left in his glass and drops it back on the table, slightly rougher than expected. 

“You really can’t help it, mate, can you?” 

“What?”

“Licking your lips like that after drinking. You can’t keep it in your pretty little mouth, can ya?”

He licks his lips again. He can’t help it. When he’s self-conscious about a habit, his body automatically does it. It’s an odd reaction, one that’s completely out of his control. His body just can’t help itself, as if its mission on Earth is to thwart Tommy at every given occasion. His tongue flickers out again, as an awkward feeling builds below his stomach. 

As if it wasn’t already enough, he notices that his mouth is watering hard. It forces him to swallow thickly. 

The intermittent wet sounds shatter the silence, slowly growing embarrassing. But he didn’t know how to make his body stop, how to prevent his shameful desire dripping from every inch of his skin. Alfie obviously noticed how bothered he was. Sure, he did. It’s discreet, but it’s also not the first time they’ve played these types of games. But usually, Tommy’s mind is more alert to find playful answers. He knows how to play, it’s just been… some time. 

He has to say something. Anything.

“I’d like another drink.”

He can’t look Alfie in the eye. It’s the dullest thing he could have said after a provocation that blunt. But his thoughts float in a hazy cloud tonight and run together in an funny way.

He focuses his attention on crushing his cigarette, unable to look anything else.

Alfie is patiently quiet though, and waiting so long that Tommy thinks he’s made a fool of himself. Finally though, his eyebrows lift and he slowly pours champagne into the flute in front of him. 

“You want it, Tommy?” Alfie asks, staring at him, and lifting the flute in the air. 

He bends over, setting the glass on the floor, halfway between the two of them. Tommy wonders why he went to the trouble, especially given the pain that creases his face when he leans down. Other than his ordinary nature of being a fucking prick, he can’t think of anything. 

“You can have it, but you’ll have to kneel on the floor for it, mate.”

And then Tommy understood. Alfie was really playing that game, again.

Suddenly, Tommy doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s moving. Balancing himself with the help of the table when he stands, heading towards the glass and stumbling as he sinks to his knees. He knows he’ll have bruises there tomorrow, from how hard he fell. He knows it was brutal, but his clouded mind thankfully eases the pain for now.

Surprising as it may seem, he’s truly aware how ridiculous and pitiful he’s looking. Such, at least, is how he’s picturing himself. Alfie’s stare tells another story, making his skin burn where his eyes had ventured. 

“Go on, take a sip. Or is champagne not to your taste anymore? Now you’re too posh for that stuff, eh?”

Tommy takes the glass and sips at it, never leaving his eyes. He then licks the drops of champagne that remained on his lips.

“I would have preferred rum.” Tommy whispers defiantly, not realizing the full extent of his phrasing. 

Alfie stands abruptly and grabs Tommy’s chin in one hand. His thumb brushes over Tommy’s lower lip, parting it at the touch. 

He’s staring intently at Alfie, watching as he towers over him with his dense muscular figure. 

“Careful treacle, you’re saying dangerous things.”

Alfie slowly slithers his thumb inside Tommy’s mouth, trailing it over his tongue. His eyes fixating on what’s happening between his wet lips as he slides his thumb off it. He moistens Tommy’s lower lip first, smearing over his upper lip as his thumb moves.

“I now have to adore dangerous.” Tommy says, looking up with a cheeky look.

As Alfie slides his thumb back in his parted lips, Tommy turns his tongue languidly around it. 

Hastily lifted by his chin, Tommy is forced to his feet. He lurches slightly, but an arm tightens firmly around his waist. Champagne spills down Tommy’s right hand and sleeve, dripping down and covering him at the unexpected rough movement.

The glass follows quickly, shattering into a million little pieces in a crystal clear sound as Tommy’s arms wrap around Alfie’s neck, and before he even realizes, they’re kissing. Roughly. It’s a crash of clashing teeth, slamming foreheads and ungraceful breaths. Alfie’s hands are rubbing down his sides and trail subtly towards his bum. Grabbing him with far less finesse. 

As if he hadn’t embarrassed himself enough already, when Alfie slips his tongue in his mouth, a slight broken moan escapes him. Their tongues caress each other sweetly at first, licking and twisting together. They appreciate the smoothness of their intimacy, as if everything in the world felt in place for once. But it’s not enough for Tommy, his need for release is growing second by second. He’s craving to be touched, elsewhere. These thoughts invade him with heat and urge him to provoke some sort of reaction. 

He does the first thing that comes to mind and harshly bites Alfie’s bottom lip. 

Alfie pulls away. His words are choked in his throat, but the tornado of lust twirls again in his eyes. 

Alfie kisses him again, hot and slick, as their tongues melt together and he pushes him until Tommy’s back crashes onto the counter. Alfie’s coat is discarded along the way, as well as Tommy’s waistcoat. 

Tommy unbuttons his sleeves clumsily as Alfie tackles the middle of the shirt, still kissing sloppily.

Alfie is a man who prefers concentrating on one thing at a time, and unbuttoning a shirt is a bothersome task preventing him from savoring their kiss. Especially because what he wants right now is to trail his hands on the skin below. 

Half-way through, he loses patience and gives up, and pulls on each side of his shirt, ripping the remaining buttoned knobs off their seams.

Fucking bastard, Tommy thinks, listening as the small buttons roll noisily across the wooden floor.

“You don’t need this now anyway” Alfie remarks, pulling away from the kiss.

Alfie pauses, now impossibly obsessed by the idea of destroying Tommy’s neat little look. Wanting nothing but to wreck his posh clothes and ruin the hair he took so long to comb. And as far as he had seen, the opposite is very appealing. He’d choose this dishevelled mess of swollen lips, flushed cheeks and curls falling on his eyes, over that smug, posh little rat he feels like slapping across the face. Which, after reflection, has its merits too… in a way.

Alfie presses himself against Tommy, trapping him between his body and the counter. He pushes his thigh between Tommy’s legs, high enough to make an oppressively hot pitfall in his lover’s tight pants. 

Tommy concentrates hard to avoid doing anything humiliating again, but his mind is fuzzy and it’s hard to keep track. He has no clue, if this annoyance is due to his apparent drunkenness or that frustrating coming from below his stomach and spreading through his whole body. Both, probably.

Already half-hard from the pressure, Tommy arches his hips, grinding on Alfie's thigh. And fuck… it feels good.

Alfie watches him whimper in desperation. An amused grin decorating the corner of his lips.

“How sweet, you’re a needy little thing. Trying to fluster me, are ya?” Alfie asks, grabbing Tommy’s right wrist and dragging his flat palm over his delicious lips. 

“Well now, show me how much you want all of this. Use that nice little tongue you can’t seem to keep in that pretty mouth, alright?”

Tommy hesitates, not sure how much he’s keen on obeying tonight. He isn’t disgusted by the idea. It even sounds appealing. It’s just usually not in his nature to listen. His instincts call for the opposite. To defiantly ignore the order. Just because he can. Just because he wants to see how far he can push Alfie, before he loses it. 

They’re playing that game and he knows it. 

So, he looks at Alfie, puzzled and jaw clenched, as if he didn’t understand what he asked.

“Two seconds ago, you couldn’t keep that pretty little tongue of yours in your fucking mouth and well, now, for no fucking reasons, it magically wants to stay inside.” Fixated on his eyes, Alfie’s look is stern, as his irritation overflows, creasing in his frowning eyebrows. Alfie’s thigh loosens in a subtle punishment and Tommy chokes a frustrated whine.

It’s hard to admit, even to his own conscience, but Tommy’s cock becomes impossibly thicker at the sole idea of Alfie making him do it. Of making him do things. And a hint of it must show on his face, giving it away, because Alfie slides his other hand on the back of his lover’s head and bends it slowly forward, until Tommy can’t get any closer. 

“Use. Your. Fucking. Tongue.” Alfie commands with that sharp tone he purposely uses as a last resort, frustration echoing through his words.

This tone is generally the breaking point. The moment when Tommy gets too worked up to keep fighting his desires and can’t help himself, except to do as he’s told.

So, Tommy succumbs to Alfie’s order. He licks teasingly slowly over the palm of his captive hand. The little curls partly draping Tommy’s defiant stare, make the hot and wet trail even more exciting. 

Alfie’s grip on his wrist tightens, as a spike of arousal hits him and makes his cock twitch in his pants at the delightful sight. He leads Tommy’s hand, soaked and slick, to his neglected cock. 

Tommy shakes the grip off his wrist, shoving his hand in Alfie’s underwear without undoing his pants and encircling his fist around his cock. Alfie’s head falls backwards, and his eyes shut of pleasure as Tommy gently rubs the precome with his thumb. 

Tommy starts to stroke him with torturously restrained moves and quickly accelerates the pace when Alfie eagerly opens his pants.

“You’re doing that so beautifully sweetheart, just as if it was the only thing you do every day, all day long.” Alfie murmurs, leaning to say naughty words in his ear, pushing his thigh onto Tommy’s erection again.

Tommy bends his head forward into Alfie’s neck, strangling a loud, embarrassing groan. He brushes his lips lightly up and back along Alfie’s collar, panting on the skin as he grinds against Alfie’s thigh. Alfie can’t bear the overwhelming heat creeping over his body. He quickly unbuttons his shirt and drops it on the floor.  Tommy occasionally kisses and nibbles the skin on his path, and gently strokes Alfie’s cock with smooth movements, slowly twisting around until he reaches the tip and applying pressure in just the right spot. 

A sudden flash of pleasure arcs through Tommy as Alfie angles his thigh slightly. Tommy bites hard right above the collarbone to stop himself from moaning, clinging on him with the arm that doesn’t soothe Alfie’s cock.

Alfie growls from the back of his throat. He knows he won’t be able to last much longer like that. 

“You silly boy. Do you want to be fucked? That’s what you want, eh?” He slaps Tommy’s hand, grasping his wrist to take it off his cock.

Heat floods through Tommy’s limbs, and he hums something that sounds suspiciously like a whimper. 

“I didn’t hear that, put some effort into it.”

“Yes…”

“Yes, what ?”

“Fuck off.”

The pressure on Tommy’s cock loosens again, though he keeps thrusting into the air, looking for any kind of friction.

“Stop whining like a little girl. Just say it.”

Tommy hesitates, just to see if he can avoid what he knows is his fate. 

“Please” Tommy whispers so softly, that Alfie barely catches it. 

He isn’t entirely satisfied by this answer, but these are troubles for another time. The words were quiet, but no less delicious to hear.

Alfie turns him around suddenly, pressing closer and allowing their skin to touch. 

“You’re not as bad as I thought when it comes to finding a good metaphor. The rum thing, it was nice that one.” Alfie whispers in his ear. 

He lays his palm flat over the small of his back and pushes. 

Tommy stretches his arms on the counter in front of him, starting to bend slowly. Alfie grabs his jaw with his other hand and pushes his head against the counter. He wasn’t rough enough to hurt him, but he wasn’t gentle either.

“You, don’t move an inch.” Alfie says, releasing his jaw and pointing his finger at him, stating with absolute clarity that it’s non-negotiable.

He moves away from Tommy, grabbing his discarded coat and taking out a little bottle of oil. When he bends down to pick up the cloth, he bites down his tongue to stop himself from making any noise. His face creases in agony, his traitorous body making every line stark and pained. There aren’t many things that trouble Alfie Solomons, but being seen as an old man is something he’s not yet ready for. 

Tommy stays still, watchful and curious as Alfie moves. He’s cold. His limbs miss the heat and comforting frame of Alfie’s body.

“You have oil!?” His lips rub against the counter as he talks.

Back behind him, Alfie undoes Tommy’s trousers, tugging them down unceremoniously. Just enough to let his arching ass shows, but not sufficiently to be completely freed. He stops right under his ass to make it slightly uncomfortable when Tommy will want to spread his legs further. Picturing the bastard struggling already arousing Alfie far too much for his own good. 

“Shall I remind you that I’m a fucking sodomite, mate?” Alfie grins, as he’s splaying oil on his fingers. “If it wasn’t you tonight, I would have found someone.” 

Tommy can’t help but feel a bit disappointed to hear the truth, and he knows he shouldn’t because, what was he thinking, really? 

Alfie notices his gaze going blank and bends just above him, lying over his back.

“After meetings with you, I need to clear my head from all these distracting thoughts you put in it.” He whispers in his ear, pushing a finger in at his last words. And, holy fuck… Tommy’s breath hitches at the touch.

Alfie stays still, unmoving. And it lasts, and lasts until Tommy can’t bear the frustration and whines without even trying to hide it.

“You’re so pretty when you whine” Alfie comments, pitching his words as if they were the most normal thing in the world to say.

“I’m not… ‘whining’.” Tommy tries to argue, his usual disdain for anything that could show even the slightest hint of his lack of control.

Tommy attempts to spread his legs, looking for any way to widen them further, even poorly. But he’s restrained by the pants hanging on his thighs. It forces another whine out of him, proving Alfie’s point without trying to. 

“Yeah treacle, just like that. So pretty.” Alfie praises him, petting his sides.

Even if he has his standards and expectations, Alfie is mostly here to please, so he straightens and gets on with it, slowly sliding his finger in and out. The movements force Tommy to gasp against the counter and damn… it’s a lovely view.

“You’re such a sight, Tommy. If only you could see yourself right now…”

Tommy grips the edge of the bar next to his head, choking on his hard pants as his knuckles whiten. Alfie presses between his shoulder blades, shoving him higher onto the counter. He is already falling apart around his finger and Alfie wants to see more. He inserts a second finger inside him in one sitting. Tommy gasps even louder than the first time, probably unconscious of all the noises he’s making. One hand would already reaching to cover his mouth, if he noticed how loud he is right at this fucking instant. 

Tommy lips part, linked by a thin dribble of saliva. Frustrated by all this stillness, he starts to reach for his cock. 

Alfie tuts disapprovingly at the movement. 

“Did you hear me say you could?” Alfie asks, amused by how desperate Tommy is. “I funnily can’t recall.”

He grabs Tommy’s wrist and pins it on the counter. He grips the other in the same hand, holding Tommy down.

“I bet you’ll be more compliant like that, eh?”

Tommy swallows hard, the frustration being more and more bothersome in his tight pants. His cock aches to be touched.

He’s gasping for breath, as Alfie starts to finally move his fingers. Opening him up just the way he wants him to. Thrusting and thrusting until Tommy is embarrassingly loud, and panting so hard that he’s out of breath.

Alfie lets go of his hands and pulls on Tommy’s hair to tilt his head. Eager to see his face twisted by all the pleasure. 

Alfie moves closer to his ear, whispering, “Since you graced my ears with such exquisite noises, moaning so beautifully like the good boy you are, I want you to tell me exactly what you want.”

He adds another finger, feeling that Tommy could take it easily.

Tommy moans, looking away, lost in a storm of contentment.

“Did you hear me?” Alfie asks, shaking him. His grip tightens over his hair, roughly shoving his head as his fingers inside stop moving. 

“We’re too far away…”

“I didn’t ask you to mumble facts, but to tell me what you want, alright?” Alfie replies dryly, pulling his fingers away. 

Tommy’s shifty eyes begin to irritate him. He pulls his hair a bit harsher, making Tommy clench his jaw, and says with a strict tone, “Fucking look me in the eyes when you talk.”

Tommy huffs. He turns his gaze and dives in Alfie’s stare. 

“...I want you, face to face….. and closer.”  Tommy says quietly, forcing himself to keep eye-contact, even though the only thing he feels like doing is looking away with embarrassment.

“Fucking hell. You look even more divine when you comply so willingly, sweetie.” He praises, letting his hand that gripped his hair slide down Tommy’s neck, stroking slowly. 

Alfie pulls him up and turns him around again, kissing him hungrily and tasting the flavors they didn’t take the time to savour earlier. They both grab the others face in two hands, pressing each other even closer. Always closer. As if it wouldn’t hurt at some point. 

Alfie moves backwards, drawing Tommy with him without stopping the kiss. They quickly cross the pub, stepping on broken glass and nearly slipping on their discarded clothes. Alfie turns them around before they reach the bench seat and shoves Tommy on it. They both kick their shoes and socks off in quick moves and Alfie pulls on Tommy’s trousers and underwear to make them glide off his legs. He takes the rest of his own clothes off before lying down over top of him. 

They’re already panting in each other’s mouths, kissing again, tongues swirling together. Both eager for more. Alfie opens the bottle of oil he took care to remove from his trousers and Tommy spreads his legs wider, arching to let Alfie in.

Alfie hums in anticipation, smearing oil on his cock.

“So nice and ready, just for me…” Alfie says, penetrating Tommy slowly. He stays there without moving, letting Tommy become accommodated. But arousal floods through every part of his body and the more time passes, the less he can restrain himself from thrusting slightly inside Tommy. He wants to fuck him until he can’t see straight ever again.

As a reference to the word that he found so hard to say earlier, Tommy stares into Alfie’s eyes and whispers distinctly, “Please.”

Fuck. He can’t resist that. His cock aches from all the pent up desire and he thrusts into Tommy gently, worshipping every noise he makes. 

Tommy pins Alfie to his chest, enclosing him with his arms and snuggling his head in his neck. Alfie tries to detach gently to catch his gaze, but Tommy hugs him tighter against him and wraps his legs around his waist. The feeling of his skin against his, drops him into a state of ecstasy, leveraging the effects of Alfie’s thrusts. 

Alfie doesn’t have the courage to try to move away again. He starts to enjoy being pressed like that, and Tommy’s moans are delightful. It would feel like denying him his orgasm to pull away. And as enjoyable as it would be, right now, the only thing he wants to see is this powerful man crumbling under his touch. This powerful man that just wants to be held. Close.

  His growls mingle with Tommy’s moans at every thrust and Alfie is quickly whipped into an excited frenzy. 

He lays a hand behind Tommy’s neck and pulls him closer against him. The feeling is nearly too much. Tommy’s breathing skips a beat and transforms in short ragged breath, inciting Alfie to pound deeper into him.

He’s so close. Alfie can feel Tommy’s muscles tensing around him and tries to gather every ounce of remaining will to hold his release back. 

“You still want to fuck into your tiny pretty fist, right?” Alfie whispers.

Tommy nods fiercely against his neck.

“Then, go on sweetheart.” 

Tommy trails his right hand down his body, releasing a bit of Alfie’s neck. He wraps his hand around his cock, grasping himself roughly, seeking his release. He’s closer with every thrust, his teeth gritting and sweat pouring down his forehead. It doesn’t take long before he’s hit by an intense wave of pleasure.

Overwhelmed by the orgasm flooding him, Tommy groans deeply as Alfie fucks him through it. He comes all over his stomach, clinging tightly to Alfie, as small whines escaping, and Alfie just needs a few thrusts more before he’s thrown into his own pleasure. 

Alfie collapses onto Tommy’s neck, panting breath puff into each other’s necks. 

Alfie raises his head. The whole place looks like a mess. Less of a mess than Tommy Shelby, who’s shuddering beneath him, it goes without saying, but still. 

He rolls on his side and snuggles against Tommy’s back, embracing his waist. He caresses his skin softly with his face. Tommy takes one of Alfie’s hands on his waist and tucks it in his own. 

Alfie usually loves to talk, but he's learned that, sometimes, it’s better to keep silent and just take the moment offered to you. Especially if one Tommy Shelby finds the courage to hold hands.

But, this doesn’t stop him thinking that all of this happened, because Tommy Shelby couldn’t keep his fucking tongue in his mouth.

[tommyplum]

For Maggie's au ficlet challenge: 16. dystopian bonded for life

…stop before i begin - dystopian au, tommy/alfie                     (sexual content, violence, disturbing imagery)

“I don’t like this one.”

“Yeah, well – what’s new about that, mate?” Alfie grins up at Tommy, and the pain curled into the corner of his mouth, reddening a corner of one plush lip, smears wider to force Alfie’s grin down, make it lopsided. Tommy doesn’t say anything, but Alfie lets the expression fade and just turns his head slightly against the table’s head-rest, silvery-blue eyes going glassy as he allows himself a faint sigh.

Tommy clamps down on the cigarette between his teeth, feeling tobacco shreds squeak and send a shudder down his spine. As if the whine of the hydraulic needle isn’t setting his nerves on edge already. He’s been a Quill for eight years now and still hasn’t managed to learn to block out the sound of the needle enough; he’ll fall into bed tonight with his head feeling like it’s been cracked open like a melon, falling apart into jagged pieces. 

Tommy can never complain all that much, though. It’s far, far worse for the Contracts.

And his particular charge responds with another, weaker smile when Tommy finishes the tattoo and standbys the metallic mosquito of the needle, sponges away blood and ink from Alfie’s side and the newly-carved diamond shape there. “It’s all right, innit,” Alfie murmurs, reaching down to trace a fingertip in a wide arc above where the sting of the blinder ink is pushing blood out of his skin to make room for itself. “We made a good day’s work off this.”

“Yeah.” He lets the needle scream to a stop, a drop of ink trembling on its tip without falling. The Billboys provide all the ink they need, it’s not as if Tommy’s got any need to conserve, but still he stares at that drop as if daring it to blot-kiss Alfie’s side. 

“Tommy,” Alfie says after a moment, and there’s a peculiar tone to his voice that hits Tommy in the hinges of his jaw, water springing hot beneath his tongue at the sudden thick, conjured memory of the taste of Alfie’s cum. They aren’t forbidden to be with each other that way; plenty of other Quills and Contracts end up being lovers. When you were paired and bonded with that blinder ink (crowns for Alfie, a sunburst for Tommy), it changed you both. It made it so it hurt to be apart for long. And what else could you do, then, but burrow even further into each other?

It was only the luck of the draw that determined whether or not you made it as partners. And eight years? That was unprecedented. Tommy knows that they’re talked about in their circles; even if he didn’t, Alfie tells him, gleefully, seeming somehow to be able to discern such things through half-articulated info flimsies from the Cortex that are forbidden to mention names but are, Tommy has to admit, obviously about the two of them. Tommy himself can read the blind articles over a dozen times and never realize it; once Alfie points it out, it’s undeniable. That’s Alfie’s special gift, Tommy thinks. Clarity where you once were blind.

Clarity, where you might find it being gradually eroded away.

Because plenty of Quills also end up going mad, stark raving, as they watch their lovers’ skins fill up with words and symbols belonging to other people. Each one another potential step closer to a violent, messy end. Making a deal with the Billboys is a dicey prospect to begin with and only the very desperate enter into them, choosing their symbols and having them inscribed onto a living breathing Contract. Which means that they sometimes are also desperate enough to try and … obliterate those Contracts. 

The long scar along half Alfie’s face tells that story. It has to, because that’s a story that Alfie, uncharacteristically, won’t ever tell. Tommy had asked; Tommy’d had to ask, since Changretta had knocked him cold and he’d come to with blood gumming his eye shut, brain swelling in his skull, to find Alfie clinging to consciousness with half a Glasgow smile and a fully dead Changretta.

(Tommy had tried, to get it out of him: Tommy had asked, cajoled, demanded, all met with stony silence. He’d finally out of cold clinical desperation asked while Alfie was balls-deep inside him, and Alfie had frozen for only three seconds before he put his hand against Tommy’s throat, turned his face so that scar was livid and prominent, and said, voice so hollow it made Tommy’s stomach roil:

“–why don’t you be quiet, love, and think of dear old dad,” 

and Tommy’d never come so hard in his fucking life. Nobody ever said you had to start out sane to do this job.)

The crow in the middle of this new diamond tattoo is raised and puffy on Alfie’s skin and now Alfie’s touching it, compulsively like he always does, and Tommy makes a soft pettish sound of exasperation. “Leave it alone, Alfie,” he chides softly, and Alfie’s fingers still and then slip away. 

“Always looking out for me, you are,” he says, the words a little crumbly at the edges from his exhausted pain even as he pulls to sitting. You can’t be fragile and be a Contract. Or a Quill, for that matter, because Tommy strips off his gloves and shoves a shoulder against Alfie, wrapping an arm around him. “We made enough off this job so we don’t need another for at least four months,” Tommy says, and Alfie slants an amused look at him.

“Right,” Alfie says, drawing the word out and ending in a groan as he gets to his feet. “Time for us to look into opening that haberdashery we keep talking about.”

“We do look very good in hats,” Tommy says demurely, trying and not succeeding in suppressing a smile. Alfie limps along with him as they head down the long hallway to the room where the owner of the raven-and-diamond tattoo waits, with one of the Billboy lieutenants, to see proof positive that he’s signed a Contract. After that, Tommy hopes to never see that person again.

But he’ll memorize the face anyhow. Just in case. Clarity.

/end

[not-another-archive]

D-Day fic (title undecided)

Storyboard for context (btw I’m calling the guy next to Murdoc on the 4th panel Terry)

“You’re really gonna lug that bloke everywhere, eh?”

“Yes. Required by law.”

“Since when did you start obeying the law?”

“Since I got caught’s when,” Murdoc snapped as he shoved the comatose Stuart into the car. Terry had tagged along, one of his many hooligan friends that seemed to come and go at moment’s notice. Murdoc stared at the one-eyed, blue-haired heap slumped in the back seat. A second passed. Murdoc sat the boy up and daintily placed the limp forearm on the kid’s lap, pleased. Terry scowled. “Get in already, bender,” he muttered. “Bender!?” Murdoc yelped as he slammed the door shut. Once he hopped in the driver’s seat, he pouted and flitted his eyes around, trying to think of a comeback. Suddenly, a smirk crept across his lips. “Say, would a bender be looking to participate in...oh, I dunno, that parking lot with all those loons mucking about, eh? Care to go for a hell of a spin, Terry? Or are you some kind of bender?” Terry’s eyes widened as the greasy animal revved his late father’s jalopy.

“You’re bluffing, now.”

“Nuh-uh!” Murdoc cracked a snaggle-toothed grin, “we’re in Nottingham, mate, we may as well.” He cackled as the beat-up Vauxhall Astra, patched up from the fairly recent crash that bestowed him the unresponsive teen, sputtered its way to the parking lot derby.

By the time they got there it was raining lightly, but that wasn’t stopping anyone. Terry wasn’t too keen on potentially snapping his neck, much to Murdoc’s amusement. He opted to stand and watch while the mop-topped madman tore up the parking lot. Despite Murdoc’s mockery, Terry gave him a big smile and a double thumbs up for luck before stepping out. Murdoc smirked, and a chuckle rolled out of his throat as he fiddled with his cigarette. He tossed it out the window and slammed his foot on the gas. The deafening roar rumbled out of the car, almost drowning out the cheers. He picked up more speed and performed a few donuts, tossing the blue-haired ragdoll, still in the backseat, to-and-fro. Murdoc, however, was having a whale of a time, laughing maniacally and beeping the horn. Eventually, when he’d had his fun, he screeched to a halt next to the crowd, surveying his captive audience, panting and feeling — kind of — alive. They were going wild, waving, whistling, hollering; it’s what he longed for, what he dreamed would meet him onstage one day…

Murdoc was quickly snapped out of his musings with something else that allured him so.

Tits!!! On a lady!!!

A girl had taken her top off to, well, encourage him. And boy, did it ever. Murdoc’s freakishly long tongue lolled out of his maw as he tried to plan his last trick on the spot, the grand finale. He revved the engine once more, to another wave of applause. The speedometer gradually climbed up to around ninety as he spun the car around the lot. With his rearview mirror ravaged with cracks and rendered useless, he turned his head out the window to see if that lady was still offering her “encouragement.”

B-DUM!!!

It hadn’t been so much as two seconds before Murdoc’s car barrelled head-on into a bollard at top speed. There was a deafening crunch of metal twisting, shattered glass, and the smell of rising smoke. The car alarm rang like a cry of agony. Murdoc shrunk in his seat. The impact had left him pretty scraped up, but mostly alright; a bruise or some cuts here and there, but it was nothing he wasn’t used to. The very kid he was supposed to look after would beg to differ. Having not been buckled, Stu careened through the windshield and hit the pavement, skidding on his face for what felt like half a mile before his head made a final impact on the curb. Oops.

Almost on cue, the rain seemed to pick up slightly, and the surroundings grew dreary to match the sky. Stuart lay limp on the road, surrounded by bits of broken glass. Murdoc, hands still latched onto the wheel, craned his neck to get a look at him. Moments passed. Despite the blaring alarm and the rain, it felt just as heavy as silence.

Stuart’s fingers twitched.

He lifted his head off the ground.

Painstakingly slow, the boy who was a crumpled, immobile heap mere seconds ago pushed himself off the road. Disoriented, the spindly teen hoisted himself to a shaky standing position. And there he stood, swaying, but there he stood. Murdoc stared, gobsmacked. Then he finally got a good look at the boy’s face. He was missing teeth, he was all bloodied up, but that was barely noticeable compared to what took center stage.

Stuart had no eyes. In their place were two empty, reddish-black voids. Murdoc had bashed one in before, but what were the chances it would happen again?

Now, this was quite a unique look, Murdoc thought as a smile began to stretch across his face. That kid worked in the Keyboard Emporium, didn’t he? He was fervently plotting now, gleefully hunched over the wheel. This was an opportunity he couldn’t miss.

Murdoc stepped out of the wreckage and trotted over to the bizarre-looking fellow.

“Hey!” He waved as he approached the lost-looking lad.

“...Huh?” The further disfigured Stu turned to squint at the small, grayish, greenish, blackish blob.

“...Erm…” Murdoc scratched the back of his head. Perhaps he didn’t plot as well as he thought. “R’you...ok?” He asked, surveying the damage. The younger bloke didn’t respond, staring blankly in a now quite literal sense until he could figure out it was a person he was looking at. He looked at Murdoc, then back at the wreckage, then back at Murdoc, then the car again. Suddenly, his pitch-black eyes widened and his bleeding jaw dropped. “Oh my god!” He warbled, turning back to Murdoc, “did you crash that car?” Murdoc wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to answer that.

“...Yeah.”

“I coulda been killed!”

“Oh, shut up, you-“

“You saved my life, mister!” Enthused, Stuart leaned closer and began twiddling his fingers.

“...Beg your pardon?”

“Not sure why I was on the ground, but if you hadn’t crashed your car, you woulda run me over n’ killed me for certain!”

Murdoc was at a complete loss. At least this idiocy and/or delirium was in his favor.

“Yeah, let’s go with that.”

“What was that, sir?”

“Nuthin’.”

There was a bit of a pause. Stuart observed his now fuzzy surroundings. Murdoc looked at the ground and whistled for a second or two before clearing his throat. “You play keyboard, right?”

“Yeah!” A big, dopey smile spread across Stu’s scraped up face, “I work at Uncle Norman’s Keyboard Emporium. Ever been?”

“Oh yeah. I don’t think they like me very much over there, though.” They chuckled, but only Murdoc knew why it was funny.

“...Why not?” The boy tilted his head. “Not important,” Murdoc made a dismissive gesture, “anyway, erm, I’m forming a band, actually, and I think you’d be a welcome addition.” Stuart’s new eyes tried their hardest to light up. “You really mean it?”

“Sure, sure. I’m certain those… interesting looks of yours would make good frontman material. Definitely draws attention.” Stuart beamed another jacked grin, overjoyed from the pseudo-complement. “Why, thank you, mister! Sign me up! I owe ya for saving me whole life ‘n such.” Bingo. With some disinfectant and patching up, Murdoc would have the perfect face for the band. Other than his own mug, of course. “I sing too,” Stuart added. With a voice like that? “Doubt it,” Murdoc replied curtly. “Well,” he tutted, “no use standing around in this rain. I’ll nick a car and you can clean yourself up at my place.”

“Ok!”

The new recruit was rather complacent watching Murdoc smash a random car’s window and start it up, and soon enough the budding band was on the road. It felt strange for them to both be conscious. Once they were properly introduced and caught up, small talk was made, but it was dull. As frustratingly dull as the former coma patient himself.

“Er… Murdoc… whose car is this again?”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter!”

Similar conversation plagued the car throughout the ride. All the while, Murdoc found it ridiculous that this moron could look so strange and have a name like Stuart. Not if he had anything to say about it.

“We can’t keep calling you Stuart, man.”

“Then call me Stu!”

“No! It’s boring! You need a stage name, looking like that.”

“...StuPot? That’s what they called me in school.”

Murdoc groaned. “Let me do all the thinking, and you can tell me what you like best. C’mon, man, it’ll be cool.”

Murdoc ran through a list of nicknames he thought of on the spot. As Stu dismissed one after another, Murdoc grew exasperated.

“Well, if you don’t like Denthead, Dentrimental, or Dent, Daft, and Beyond, then what?! Come on, those were good!!!”

The boy shook his head, “Too long for me. I like Stuart. It’s easy to remember and quicker to write.”

“I can’t work with that criteria!”

Stu almost rose his shrill voice. “Just keep it simple, please.”

“Ugh, simple’s what we’re trying to avoid!” Murdoc scowled. “Just Dents, then?”

“Does it have to be about the dents in my skull?” Stu whined. “Well, I mean, yeah,” Murdoc retorted. “You have dents in your skull,” he continued, “that’s fuckin’ metal.” Stu nodded slowly. “It’s just a bit on the nose, innit?”

“Then…” Murdoc was damn near out of ideas. “How about… 2-Dents, then? ‘Cos you’ve got two now, don’t you? It’s not just ‘Dents’ and it could be ‘2-D’ for short, yeah? It doesn’t sound bad, even without the implication of brain damage, so there you go.” Stuart mulled it over, nodding slowly, then picking up speed as his bloody face beamed once more. “I actually really like that! That- That’s quite good, innit?” He went so far as to declare, “from now on, I want everyone to call me 2-D!” Murdoc was pleased. “That’s the spirit!” He hollered. “Right then, 2D, this is it. The big one. We’re on the road to stardom, I can feel it. This is gonna be revolutionary, just you wait.”

“Well, no… we’re on the road to your place, remember? If we’re going to stardom we must’ve taken a wrong turn…”

“Well, you see, my place happens to be where stardom is.”

“Wow! No kiddin’!”

The new duo was jovially cruising to Murdoc’s shitty bedsit in high spirits now that everyone had an appropriate title. Still, likely due to 2-D’s lack of brain functionality, it wasn’t long before conversation dissolved to nothingness.

Suddenly Murdoc cussed and banged his fist on the wheel, wide-eyed.

“What happened, Murdoc?” 2-D chirped, craning his neck at the fellow.

Murdoc had one hand on the wheel, one hand rubbing his temples. “We forgot Terry.”

“Who’s Terry?”

Murdoc hesitated, then he sat up, looking straight ahead. “Eh, you’re right, no one important.”