#just smack in the center its all about the body language the face the lack of physical ability to escape

[clonehub]

thinking about tbb for once in a neutral light and its because i was listening to a podcast where some film buffs/writers analyzed Silence of the Lambs, and I realized I've always had an appreciation where a character is in an interrogation of sorts (without it necessarily explicitly being that) and just watching them squirm. facing uncomfortable truths from a person whom you don't trust and having your understanding of yourself be meticulously torn to shreds by someone who might not even be doing it maliciously.

and in my head whenever these sorts of character interrogations happen, it's always by someone who has like. little to no stake in the interogee (??) changing their minds. for some reason i think of a very calm and calculating woman, one who's curious enough to ask these questions but not enough to be like super? invested in what happens afterwards--only that she's sensing a contradiction and she wants to explore/expose it.

so like w the bad batch. getting tech out of the way first im not gonna focus on him because atm i cant see any flaws in him, uneless he's like really confident to a fault at some point.

with wrecker it'd be rather straight forward and frankly manipulative--does your team respect you? are you the brother or the brawns? you might say "why not both", but what about every time they'd jabbed your intelligence or dismissed your concerns? and some other things

hunter...i think attacking how he views himself as a leader--if he's even a capable leader, if he's even making the right decisions for a child--would help to get under his skin, as well as "why do you keep ignoring the hole in your squad?"

echo wouldn't be so hard to pick apart if only because he already doesn't seem to be enjoying himself w the bad batch. his initial point of conflict is that he doesn't feel theyre doing enough to help others. this new conflict could be about how his skills as an ARC aren't being utilized; how he's often dismissed or ignored or patronized, and wouldn't it be better to both a) leave and be able to help people and b) get the respect he deserves? They dont outright hate him, but they still say "regs", don't they?

Crosshair would be fun, to be honest. He's so reactive to jabs at his pride/ego (like that normie death trooper talking about him being replaced). If he brings up how he's enhanced and he's superior, the lady would ask "how?". He'd give his reason and she would point out that he has one skill--one skill that is not even transferrable. "Jack of all trades, master of none--but better than a master of one". Is being good at one thing really an enhancement? the rest of the batch at least have some other skills/uses that can aid in things like survival. Are you better than anyone else when you can explicitly do less, in some ways, than the people you deride?

And this is something she'd pose to all of the bad batch. Again, roughly one skill each despite the description of "enhancements" and the ego that went with it. Are you really better?

(I wont' do Omega because frankly she's a kid and I don't see the point)

BUT guess what I'm throwing Rex and Ahsoka in here too.

I talk about Rex a lot but what would be great is to really jab his cognitive dissonance. "Is the Republic as good as you say? With the inequality rife on coruscant--let alone the rest of the galaxy?"

and i think she'd really attack his view that he's not a slave, but with a layer of actual concern for him. She wouldn't go about it nicely though--starting out with innocent-sounding questions about his sense of duty, whether or not he's dreamed of a life outside the army. Rex probably has in a neutral-curious way, but I don't think he'd admit that to her.

He'd also pick up on the angle she's getting at and try to preemptively argue, saying things like "we don't get to choose our path in life" and that he has to think beyond himself, outside himself because he has a duty to protect the citizens of coruscant. "Even though they neither protect nor respect you now?" "yes. Regardless. We don't have a choice."

And he doesn't mean it like that, but. She asks him to define a slave. He insists he isn't one. She points out his own words, his own speech--the fact that they're not citizens, they're hardly paid if at all, and they can't leave otherwise they'll be charged as committers of treason against a state that doesn't even register them as citizens. No legal or political protection, surveillance--where is the choice? Who's freedom is he fighting for?

Rex would argue back, especially if this is the younger rex we're talking about. Very much "I'm not a slave" and a Press X to Doubt face from the woman. 'you don't believe me." "I'm not sure you believe you, Rex."

But again, even with the real concern for him, she's not that invested. Her tone and body language throughout all of this is very calm, very chill, like she's asking about the weather.

and ahsoka! Younger ahsoka here, poking at her insecurity over her being too young and padawan to the chosen one. Her inexperience getting more people killed than necessary. I dont think I have much for her outside what was already addressed in the clone wars.

[starlightsearches]

The Supreme Leader’s Wife

18+ Only! Minors will be blocked.

Armitage Hux x Reader (she/her pronouns) x Kylo Ren

Warnings: Smut (18+ only) PIV sex, name calling (very minor), cuckoldry, brief orgasm denial, fingering, masturbation (m), choking (minor), some dom/sub elements (also minor), religious imagery (whoops), language. Please let me know if I missed anything!

Wow, okay, I don’t really know where this came from and I probably won’t write anything like it again. Very loosely inspired by this drabble that I did a few days ago. Shout out to the wonderful @thembohux for their support and encouragement. If you enjoy this, you should definitely check out their Emperess AU.

Let me know what you think! I appreciate any and all thoughts 💖

General Hux stands outside the door, hands clasped behind his back in tight fists, the fingers of one hand circling his other wrist with enough pressure to bruise. The nape of his neck itches, leftover moisture from the shower dripping down the collar of his greatcoat and wetting the back of his uniform. He had spent too long in the refresher, trying to wash the thoughts from his head, trying to decide whether or not he would even come—it had almost made him late.

He’s here, right on time, whether or not he should be. The door opens, and he steps inside the darkened room.

“Come in, General.” It’s Ren who speaks, voice low and quiet. Hux follows the sound, moving carefully in the darkness to the sitting area. Ren lounges arrogantly, sprawled on the couch like a throne, arms bare and stretched casually over the edge of the sofa, regarding Hux with the faintest hint of humor in his eyes. It puts him on edge.

“I didn’t think you’d show.”

“Yet I’m here.” Hux looks away, hoping he appears bored as he takes in his surroundings. He'd been in the Supreme Leader's chambers before—on business—but you had never been around during those meetings. It's strange how habitual it feels to look for you when he enters the space.

“She’s still getting ready," Ren pulls the thought right from Hux's head, responding as if he had spoken aloud, "but I’m sure she’ll join us in a moment.”

“And it's— I mean, she knows that she doesn’t have to . . .” He sighs through his nose, his jaw clenched tight. Ren doesn't bother to finish his sentence this time, sinking further into his seat—enjoying the way the general fumbles.

“Fuck you?" He finally offers, running his tongue over his teeth when a blush spreads over Hux’s cheeks, "this was her idea."

Oh. The general’s knees go weak, the blood rushing from his head, his cock certainly flushed and aching. How many times had he imagined what it would be like—fooled himself into believing that it was your hands, not his own, bringing him his release? How many times had he watched you speak and thought about pulling a moan from those pretty lips?

A part of him trembles, his body on full-alert, trying to bury those thoughts where Ren could not find them—as he had done before—but he manages to brush the fear away with some effort. Ren had certainly already seen them, and, apparently, he didn't mind.

The refresher door opens and you appear at the threshold, hesitant, but when your eyes meet his, you soften. The air is charged between you, hints of your desire evident in the warmth he feels just looking at you, in the way your teeth run softly over your bottom lip.

Ren beckons you to him with an outstretched hand, and, reluctantly, you peel your eyes away from Hux, moving across the room to your husband, the fabric of your robe swishing gently against your thighs.

He doesn't usually let himself stare like this. He can resist the urge, most of the time, when you're dressed for a meeting, or a gala, but he's never seen this much of your skin before. His eyes stay glued to the hem of the robe, the sway of your hips as you make your way to your husband.

You curl into Ren’s lap, and he holds you tightly, one possessive hand splayed wide over your stomach, the other trailing to fingers up and down the inside of your thigh. He presses a kiss to the junction of your shoulder and neck, and you melt, lips parting gently when he grazes the delicate skin with his teeth.

"Sit down, general."

Desire pools in Hux’s stomach, and his palms grow moist in his gloves. He can’t help the shame that floods him, a ruddy heat that spreads through his torso all the way to the tips of his fingers and tells him to look away. His mind can not let go of the idea that this is not something meant for him to see, but he can’t deny the way his heart races when Ren’s hand trails higher, and he spies a hint of black lace at the apex of your thighs.

"I'd prefer to stand."

“Sit down or leave,” Ren’s voice is steady and hard, totally unaffected as you move against him, writhing in his lap. He slips the hand on your stomach under the fabric of your robe, parting it beneath his fingers. He kneads your breast beneath the fabric and you press up into his touch, spine arching, jaw hanging open, your head falling back against Ren’s shoulder. Hux does as he’s told, falling into the chair behind him, holding back the curses that threaten to spill out from his lips.

"If I'm going to let you do this, you have to do as I say," Ren continues, but Hux only half-hears him, infinitely more interested in the way the tendons in your neck flex as Ren slips one hand beneath the waistband of your panties, the fabric distorting with each long, slow stroke of his fingers. A low moan escapes your lips.

“Well, will you?” Ren smirks at him, pulling his hand from between your legs, taking his middle finger into his mouth, letting it linger before he pulls it out with a soft, wet pop. You whine at the lack of contact, the sound cut off by a small cry when he pinches your nipple beneath the fabric.

“Will I what?”

“Do as I say?”  

Hux’s core tightens, his jaw so stiff it’s a wonder it hasn’t snapped. He knows that Ren’s getting off on this—torturing him, making you so desperate and needy. He wants the one thing Hux swore he’d never give him.

“We’re waiting, general,” Ren strokes his hand from the hollow of your throat, between the valley of your breasts as he parts the robe down its center, exposing the barest sliver of skin before he meets the black lace again, stroking three thick fingers over your clothed cunt. Hux presses his lips together so firmly that they turn white.

Unphased by Hux’s stubborn response, Ren changes tactics. Shifting his attention to you, he grips your jaw in one massive hand and forces your eyes to meet his as he whispers, just loud enough for Hux to hear, “So wet already, little slut? Do you need the general to fuck you that desperately? Why don’t you tell him how badly you want his cock?”

“Please,” you’re grinding against nothing now that Ren has removed his hand, the word distorted by the strength of his hold on your face. A sharp pain draws Hux back from the scene before him, and he tastes blood, his teeth digging sharply into the meat of his cheek. He wonders if Ren would refuse your release if he decided to leave right now.

“Alright, fine. I’ll do whatever you want,” Hux can’t stop himself, can’t imagine going back to his quarters alone. His hands ache at the thought, unsure how many times he’d have to fuck his fist raw to stop seeing the image of you begging for him engraved on the back of his eyelids.

“Good. Why don’t you show him to the bed, love?”

Ren releases his grip on your jaw, sliding his hand out from under the robe, propelling you forward with a smack to your ass. Hux forces himself to make eye contact when you offer him your hand.

He follows you through the doors, to the bedroom, the heat of your skin sinking easily through the leather of his gloves and doing nothing to quell the sweat beading against his palms. The sight of the bed, with it's dark, silky sheets makes him light-headed. This is the place you lay every night—the place where Ren has you, the way he’s about to have you. Hux reminds himself to breathe.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Hux whispers as you turn around to face him, pulling him closer with a hand at his waist. Ren hasn't entered the room yet, and although the other man assured him it was fine, he'd never forgive himself if he learned that you had been coerced.

“I’m sure,” your smile is sincere, and you’re close enough now that your bodies brush, the material of your robe slipping gently against his uniform, "I’ve always wanted this. From the moment we met," You stroke your hand up his side, fingers dancing lightly over his ribs before you take the collar of his great coat in your hands, pushing it down off his shoulders.

“You’ve always wanted . . . me?” The edge of the bed dips under his weight as you pull him into a sitting position, and he resists the urge to rub his palms over the tops of his thighs. You smile again, dropping your chin to your chest, suddenly shy.

“You didn’t know? I thought I had been too obvious.” 

Ren enters, chair in hand that he rests at the end of the bed before stretching out across it, his legs spread wide, making no effort at all to hide the considerable tent in his pants. Hux averts his eyes, more than a little flustered. He had passively assumed that Ren was well-endowed, given the man’s stature, but having his assumptions confirmed is an entirely new feeling.

Ren refuses to shy away from the attention, resting his hands behind his head, the picture of self-satisfaction. There’s a suggestive humor in his voice when he speaks.

“What are you waiting for, general? Kiss her.”

Hux collects himself, taking a moment to remember why he’s here before he does as he’s told, cupping your jaw lightly. There’s a soft sheen of moisture coating your lips, but you lick them regardless, darting your tongue over your skin as he pulls you closer. He presses his mouth to yours gently, and you sigh against his skin, sinking into him. He can feel your heartbeat in the tips of your fingers when you brush them over his cheeks.

“Like you mean it.” Ren's voice cuts in, and Hux resists the urge to roll his eyes. He is kissing you like he means it, not that Ren would understand that. He’s not about to argue that point, though. He pulls you closer instead, one hand firm at your waist, slipping his tongue into the warm center of your mouth. You taste sweeter than he had expected.

The room grows warmer, your heat sinking through his uniform, deep into his skin and he's almost able to forget Ren's presence, caught up in the infinitely more pleasurable feeling of your hands and your body on his. Your grip on his uniform is desperate, needy, but never harsh. His stomach lurches when you lay back, letting his weight rest more fully on top of you.

A thin layer of sweat glistens on your neck, and he collects it on his tongue, licking a stripe up the column of your throat, the salt of your skin mixing with the lingering flavor of the leftover perfume that still clings to you.

His fingers find the collar of your robe, pulling it down off your shoulder, lips trailing leisurely over your collar bones. He can feel, more than see, Ren’s irritation at his reluctance to speed up the process—his annoyance permeating the room—but he chooses to ignore Ren more fully. If he only had one chance to experience such long-lived fantasies, he was going to take his time. 

Your fingers card gently through his hair, stroking from the back of his neck up, pulling him closer, the wet heat of your breath soft against his ear. One of your hands finds his, letting him feel the soft lace that covers your breast under his fingers. 

He pulls away slightly, absorbed in the gentle shift in your expression when he runs the pad of his thumb softly over your pebbled nipple, relishing the quiet gasp the move elicits. 

You shrug the robe off your shoulders the rest of the way, leaning back with a coy smile, letting him admire the way the lingerie enhances your frame—the peaks and valleys of your body on display for him.

There’s no need for Ren to order him to continue—he’s back on you before the other man can express any kind of frustration, his lips on yours, clumsy and desperate and so damn eager that he surprises himself. Hux’s fingers tremble against your back as he works to undo the clasp of your bra, a shaky breath of relief leaving his lungs when it gives way without too much trouble.

You slide the garment off your shoulders, letting him look at you, your chest littered with fading bruises—Ren’s marks. The general’s mouth waters, and he leans in closer, ready to taste more of you, but he comes to a halt when you press one hand lightly to his shoulder, stopping his approach. Your tongue traces the top of your teeth before you turn to look at Ren. 

Of course. He needs permission.

Ren’s leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly together, the blood gone from his fingers. Hux is surprised that he had not touched himself yet. He would not have expected Ren to have that kind of restraint.

“You can leave marks of your own, if you’d like,” he says, shifting in his seat. His thinly veiled desperation brings a smile to Hux’s face—Ren didn’t have a monopoly on being difficult.

He turns back to you for confirmation, and you nod, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Just nothing above the collar, general,” you snake your hand over his again, pressing it into the supple flesh of your breast. 

Hux has never believed in the existence of a pleasant afterlife—especially not for someone like him—but he’s sure that if one did exist it would pale in comparison to the way you gasp when he presses a kiss to the valley of your breasts, the hummingbird beat of your heart making itself known against the tip of his nose. 

He wastes no time now, lavishing your body with the press of his lips, occasionally surprising you with a soft bite, the gentle graze of his teeth. Subtly, he lets one hand trace its own path down the curve of your waist and over the swell of your hip before nestling it gently between your thighs. 

“General,” you gasp when he slides one finger past the hem of your panties and into your waiting heat, your cunt giving a preliminary squeeze around the solitary digit. Your hips shift against his hand, body desperate for more, but he refuses to give in, pinning your hips in place with the edge of his own. Hux has always been a patient man. He wouldn’t dream of rushing this.

“So needy, Your Highness,” he whispers, ghosting the pad of his thumb gently against the stiff peak of your clit in slow, languorous circles, “Has your husband not been fucking you the way that he should?”

You moan quietly in response, the sound muffled by the fabric of his uniform as you bury your head the crook of his neck. He keeps his movements slow and methodical, curling his finger against your tender front wall on each stroke, increasing the pressure on your clit with steady precision. A lower, deeper sound joins the steady chorus of your sighs and Hux’s heavy breathing. 

He catches Ren’s eye over the expanse of dark sheets. It seems the Supreme Leader has finally given in, one hand stroking up and down his clothed length with excruciating leisure. The muscles in his jaw tighten, a testament to the restraint it must take to only offer himself this inadequate kind of relief, his dark hair plastered in slick strands against his sweat-soaked skin. There’s an animal, in his features—a carnal and base burning in his eyes that he cannot mask. 

Hux snorts. Ren had spent all this time pretending that this was a favor for the general—bargaining chip, a kind of leverage. But the veil has been lifted. Ren is enjoying himself just as much as you are.

He adds a second finger without warning, savoring the way you shake against him, how exquisite you look with your head against the mattress, eyes shut tight and jaw pressing against the boundaries of your skin in a silent scream of ecstasy.

“General, please,” you manage to whimper, the languid movement of your hips meeting him at every stroke, chasing after the peak of your pleasure. He stills his hand.

“Armitage,” he says brusquely, breathing labored, the sound blocked out by the soft cry that escapes your lungs, tears of frustration pricking the corners of your eyes, “call me Armitage if you want to cum.” 

“Do as he says,” Ren orders with no attempt to mask the tremor in his voice, stilling the pace of his hand to a stop, savoring the pain of his own stolen release. 

“Armitage,” you grip at his uniform with both hands, pulling his mouth to yours, desperation evident in your every movement, “please, gods, please—”

He lets you kiss him, focuses all the attention of his hand on your clit, the movement of his thumb against the sensitive skin quicker and harder but no less steady. 

He feels you break against him, your jaw left slack as he licks into your mouth, your thighs quivering at his sides, cunt clenching around his sopping fingers. He holds you against him until the shaking stops. 

Your kiss finds his cheek first, arms heavy and graceless as they pull him closer, your lips traveling sloppily against his skin until they meet his own. You press your mouth to his, and some part of him thinks that it feels like love. Wishes that it could be love. 

You whisper something to him, breathing too hard for the words to come out clearly, your hand teasing him through the fabric of his trousers. His cock jumps, unfamiliar with this kind of attention; it’s not love, but maybe it’s enough.

Your fingers make quick work of the fastenings on his uniform, pushing it from his shoulders, your hands trailing down his arms, the cold air collecting against his skin for only a moment before you sweep it away with your searing touch. You lift your hips into his, slipping your underwear off with both hands, totally bare for him.

“Enjoying yourself?” You’re not talking to him, Hux knows—his enjoyment is more than obvious as he licks and sucks over the soft flesh of your chest, your voice catching when he takes your nipple into his mouth with a soft bite. You’ve turned your attention to Ren, now, and Hux pauses his ministrations, passively curious. He watches as you pass the sweat and slick-soaked lace in your hand to your husband, who balls them into his tight fist, working the fabric leisurely over the head of his now-uncovered dick.

“I think you’re being spoiled, love” he says, leaning closer, on his knees at the side of the bed. He strokes his thumb across your cheek, sparing a short glance for Hux, “you’ve been letting the general do all the work. Why don’t you show him how good you can be? How good you always are for me?”

Hux’s breath hitches. He likes the sound of that. 

You smile wide at the thought, pressing a soft kiss to Ren’s unsuspecting lips. He stands quickly, turning back the way he came, but not before Hux catches the softest hint of a blush spreading across his temple.

You press against Hux’s torso, guiding him into a sitting position. He rests at the edge of the bed, chest thrumming as you straddle him, your thighs caging his hips against the mattress and your hands on his shoulders. Your fingers slip down his spine until you reach the hem of his undershirt. He stops you from untucking it with a hand on your wrist.

“I’d like to keep it on,” he knows you can feel the trepidation in his shaking hands; he sees the questions in your eyes, and for a moment he’s afraid, wondering if you also have your husband’s talent for picking thoughts from his mind—if you somehow know the way his stomach sinks at the thought of being totally uncovered. 

“Alright,” you say, brushing past the pause, leaning closer to caress the ruddy skin of his chest with your lips, the glide of your tongue over his neck pulling any and every insecurity from his head. When you drag your hips over his, your bare cunt sliding deliciously over his dick, he forgets everything but his own name.

He’s not sure how it happens, whether it’s your hands or his own that finally pull his cock into the open air—he’s gone lightheaded, arms shaking as he grips the sheets in white-knuckled fists, focusing all the energy he can summon on keeping upright.

The head of his cock stutters against your entrance, the slick on your skin coating his own as you shift your hips back and forth with just enough pressure to keep him hard, letting out a delighted gasp when he twitches, the tip of him bumping up against your swollen clit.

“That’s enough teasing.” Ren stands behind you, one hand on your shoulder, the muscles in his other arm flexing as he pumps his cock in his hand more vigorously. You roll your eyes, turning to press a soft kiss to Ren’s chest before seating yourself fully on the general’s stiff cock.

The air punches from Hux’s lungs, his brow furrowed, breathing hard as he adjusts to the feeling. 

Hux had spent plenty of time jealous of Ren, a kind of awed hatred that his greatest rival had so much of what Hux desperately wanted for himself. Power, glory, accolade. It's all dust compared to the way you envelop him on that first and divine thrust.

“Does he feel good, love?” Ren asks, peppering the skin of your shoulders with a few soft kisses before he tucks one finger under his chin, admiration in his eyes as he takes in your pleasure-soaked expression. “Is it everything you wanted?”

“Hmm,” you hum contentedly, circling your hips steadily, getting a feel for his length and size, squeezing him just right, “perfect.” 

You speed up slightly, lengthening your strokes, pulling away from him until only the head remains inside before seating yourself down once again, trembling with each sublime impact, your thighs shaking with each movement. 

“Just— Just like that,” Hux stutters, head lolling back, letting himself enjoy this. He likes it more than he thought he ever would—allowing someone else this kind of control, letting you set the pace. He wants you to feel good. He wants you to use him.

Ren looms over both of you, his chest flush with your back, the pressure from his body only heightening the gratification Hux feels.

You whine, pressing the general into the mattress, laying him flat on his back with your hands on your shoulders before you sit up, the deeper angle pulling cries from your lips like never before.

“Please, my love,” you press one hand back against Ren’s chest, fingers too limp to reach for him, but he already knows what you want. Hux watches as one of Ren’s giant hands encircles your neck, and he kisses you deeply, the tears that coat your cheeks glistening in the low light. It’s a mess of a kiss, all teeth and tongue, Ren so eager to please and you so desperate for pleasure.

“Gods— f-fuck,” Hux reaches his precipice sooner than he might have hoped, the sight of you so thoroughly fucked and writhing against Ren bringing him to a high he had not previously thought possible. You recognize his need, snapping your hips faster.

Ren removes his hand from your neck and slides it down over the damp skin of your stomach, pushing one thick finger to the space where your body meets Hux’s, sliding it between your folds.

“Cum for me,” he commands, working quick hard circles over your clit, “both of you. Cum for me now.”

You let go with one shattered breath, riding him through your release, fracturing over him with a scream. It’s celestial, this divine indulgence. There is no god in this universe but you and your magnificent cunt.

Hux abandons himself, spilling deep within you with a groan, every muscle in his body aching as his own climax finds him and his vision goes white. His heart leaves his chest, no other reason to beat now that he’s had this.

You fall into him, stroking one hand absentmindedly over his hair, your shaking bodies unable to do anything but breathe together. The slap of skin and soft grunts fills the room as Ren chases his own release, breath stuttering in his chest when he finds it, ropes of his thick, white cum painting down your spine and then he collapses, too.

Ren lands in a messy heap, half on top of you and half on the bed, smearing his own spend over his skin. Without warning, Hux finds Ren’s mouth against his own in a fierce, urgent kiss. 

Hux waits for some kind of repulsion to overcome him, waits for the return of the burning hatred that normally occupies his chest whenever Ren is present, but it never comes, a different kind of burning taking his place. More than anything, he’s annoyed. Annoyed how good Ren’s mouth feels against his own. Annoyed that he wouldn’t mind if it happened again.

“There,” Ren says, rolling back on the mattress, relieving you of the weight of his body, “now both of you are mine.”

Hux scoffs, offended at the implication, but he can tell you notice the way his cock twitches inside of you at the thought. You smile knowingly, pressing a soft kiss to his temple as you roll off of him on the other side, the three of you lying together in the rosy-colored afterglow.

Minutes pass, or hours, Hux is unsure how many when he finally decides to move, his muscles stiff and aching.

“I should return to my quarters,” he says, lifting himself to his feet and reassembling the pieces of his uniform. You move to sit up, but Ren holds you in place with a gentle hand.

“Rest, love,” he says quietly, “I’ll show him to the door.”

Hux leaves you with one final kiss, one of longing, and hope and gratitude. Your fingers brush against his just before he leaves.

There’s an uncomfortable silence between the two men as they move through the abandoned living area.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Ren says as Hux stops just before the threshold, turning to look at him. 

“I didn’t expect that it would,” he replies. Both men know that they’re lying to each other. And maybe, at this moment, while their skin is still warm from a shared love and the scent of your perfume lingers on both of their clothes, it’s a form of kindness to keep believing that this wouldn’t change their world. For now, this is enough.

Hux returns to his quarters, alone but not lonely. For the first time he can remember since he boarded the Supremacy, he sleeps through the night. 

[hatterstan-shameblog]

For the headcanon thing

I think Hatter likes to watch bad movies. Like the really bad ones. The ones that make you roll your eyes/laugh/cry at every single thing about it, doesn't matter if it's plot or acting. But you know what he loves more than watching those awful movies alone?

Watching them with someone else.

"hey, Mori, wanna watch a movie?"

"...no."

"c'mon, you'll like this one."

"no, I won't."

"...no, you won't. But I will enjoy your presence. C'mon bro, do it for the sake of bonding time."

"*sigh* fine..."

(inspired by real life events)

💕 Sleepover 💕

Rating: PG13 for language and alcohol consumption

Relationship: Takeru (Hatter)/Aguni

Tags: banter, friendly insults, Just Guys Being Dudes, drinking, swearing, love confessions (sort of), They Talk A Big Game But The Love Is There

Bangbangbangbangbang!

“Mori!”

Bangbangbangbangbang!

“Moooooori, let me iiiiiiiiiin!”

Clunk!

Click!

Creeeeeeaaaaaak!

Aguni opens his apartment door, wincing at the slap of summer heat that greets him as he does.

“C’mon man,” an overheated and impatient Takeru implores, “it’s miserable out here!”

“You bring me samosas,” Aguni asks, crossing his arms across his chest, “Because I’m not letting you in without my samosas.”

Takeru’s face twists into a look of shocked indignation.

“Would you really leave me—your best friend on this beautiful green Earth—to swelter and die on your doorstep in this blazing summer heat…all because I forgot the samosas?”

Aguni considers.

“No. I’d ask you to swelter and die in the parking lot. Neighbors’ll kick up a fuss if you block the stairwell.”

“Well it’s a good thing I got two orders this time,” Takeru shakes the bag enticingly, “so we don’t even have to share.”

“Someone’s splashing out,” Aguni murmurs, taking the bag from Takeru’s outstretched hand and standing aside so the man can enter his home, “Don’t suppose there’s a reason for all this…”

“Maybe I just wanted to be nice,” Takeru says flippantly, toeing off his shoes, “a little ‘thank you’ for welcoming me into your home.”

Aguni carries the bag of food over to his coffee table and sets it down, being careful not to disturb the place settings he had so thoughtfully arranged. Two plates, two spoons, two glasses of water—all neatly placed in the center of his new, sage-green placemats.

Hopefully nobody spills curry on them.

“You brought one of your weird movies again, didn’t you?”

Takeru rolls his eyes. Shoving his arm into his messenger bag, he rummages around its contents for a moment before yanking a dark, thin rectangle and holding it up for Aguni to examine.

“The 1977 horror classic, House,” he explains with an edge of exasperation, “is a critically-acclaimed work of art that has been inspiring both film fanatics and the average man for nearly half a century.”

“Straight from the back of the box,” Aguni mumbles, opening the stapled-shut paper bag and peeking at the containers inside, “Anyways, I thought you didn’t like scary movies.”

Takeru scoffs.

“Not sure what gave you that idea,” Takeru says, shoving his feet into his slippers—yes, his slippers, black velvet with red-and-gold dragons embroidered on the front because ‘I’m here enough to warrant my own damn slippers’ and ‘these are fucking awesome,’ “We saw Hereditary in the theater!”

“And you were scared the whole time,” Aguni points out, gingerly lifting their food out of the bag and arranging the containers on their respective plates, “You had to sleep with the lights on for a week. Screwed up your cat’s sleep schedule and everything.”

Takeru swans his way over to Aguni’s refrigerator and opens it, more or less sticking his whole head inside to examine its (admittedly meager) offerings.

“It’s not my fault that Ziggy is such a smart, beautiful boy who knows what ‘lights out’ means. And besides,” Takeru says while examining the bottle of white wine Aguni had put in to chill, “I’ll be staying here tonight, so it won’t be an issue.”

“So the cat gets to sleep, but I don’t?”

“You, my dear, get a evening of my company, complete with scintillating conversation, cultural enrichment, and—as we have already established—your very own order of samosas,” Takeru calls out from the kitchen, rummaging for a suitable pair of wine glasses, “And besides, I plan on sleeping deeply and comfortably knowing that any and all monsters would no doubt eat you first, giving me ample opportunity to flee the scene…”

Aguni lifts the lid off his curry, admiring the rich yellow hue and inhaling its bold spices. There are even a few extra chilis lying on top, which is a lovely surprise.

Takeru arrives at the table, glasses in one hand and wine in the other. He gives the spread a discerning once-over and then a nod of apparent approval.

“Anyways,” Takeru says, twisting off the top of the wine bottle (not without giving Aguni a look of distaste as he does it), “I’m a bit disappointed in you, Mori-chan. I thought you’d fight me more on this one…”

“It’s a losing battle,” Aguni concedes, sitting himself down in his usual spot and turning on the television, “I have too many brain cells and not enough patience to go through the usual theatrics.”

Takeru hands him a generously-full wine glass—not as full as his own, of course, but still more than what the average person might pour.

“This’ll help the brain cell problem,” he says with an over-enthusiastic smile, “probably the patience, too. Wine makes you sentimental.”

“Hmph.”

“See? It’s already working.”

“Yeah, well,” Aguni grumbles, taking a small sip of his beverage, “better get the movie started before I change my mind.”

Takeru begins his usual indignant grumbling as he fumbles with the DVD player. Aguni could help him, but, frankly, it’s entertaining to watch his friend struggle with the simple electronic setup.

When Takeru manages to get the tray open, he gives a small cheer of victory. Aguni stifles a smirk.

Hopefully the movie is this much fun.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

“Mori. Hey, Mori-chan.”

Aguni rolls his eyes, and then himself onto his side to face Takeru.

“What,” he grumbles, squinting in the dark as he tries to make out the other mans’ shape, “piano thing still got you upset?”

“It ate her fingers, Mori,” Takeru whisper-shouts, “and then it got the rest of her too! That’s enough to upset anyone!”

“It wasn’t even that scary,” Aguni mentions, shimmying his shoulders in order to find a more comfortable spot on his futon, “besides, you don’t even play piano, so you don’t have to worry.”

Takeru is silent for a moment—a blessed, beautiful moment.

“I guess you’re right,” he says after his brief contemplation, “but that’s not the only thing on my mind.”

“I’m guessing ‘sleep’ isn’t one of ‘em?”

Takeru scoffs. There’s a shuffling and fluttering sound from his neighboring futon as he turns to face his disgruntled companion.

“In due time,” Takeru says, “what plagues me now is more of a philosophical question.”

Aguni sighs.

“Remember the part where that guy got turned into a pile of bananas?”

“Yeah,” Aguni responds, “that was weird.”

“What if that happened to me,” Takeru asks, sounding genuinely concerned, “would I turn into a pile of bananas, or would I be a different kind of fruit?”

Oh, you’re different alright, Aguni thinks to himself, but he knows better than to say that out loud. Takeru’s using his ‘this is going to keep me up all night unless you give me a good answer’ voice, so Aguni starts thinking about how best to answer.

“I think you’d be melons,” Takeru concludes, “yeah…definitely melons.”

“Because of my round head and lack of hair?”

“No,” Takeru snaps, “well, that wasn’t my original thinking.”

Aguni subtly checks his phone—half-past one o’clock in the morning, too late to send Takeru home on a train to ask his cat these burning questions instead of him.

“Why,” Aguni asks, “do you think I’d be melons?”

“Well, like you, melons are strong and tough on the outside. Make a nice thud sound when you smack ‘em.”

“So do I,” Aguni mentions, “if you get the right spot. But I also hit back, so that’s not very melon-y, is it?”

“Hm. I suppose not. But,” Takeru says, “where you really start to resemble the melon is on the inside.”

“Inside, huh?”

“Yeah,” Takeru considers for a moment, “underneath all that tough rind, melons are soft. Sweet, too. Nothing fancy, they’re not trying to prove anything, they’re just…good. Like you.”

Aguni hadn’t been expecting something so…sentimental. It’s a touching departure from their usual quips and playful jabs, and it makes something warm and kind of familiar bubble up in Aguni’s heart.

“And also,” Takeru tacks on, “they’re green. And green is your favorite color! So it’s perfect.”

“I think you’d be a strawberry,” Aguni says after a beat.

“A strawberry? You mean only one?”

“Only one,” Aguni confirms, “but one of those fancy designer ones, the kind they grow in those hydroponic farms and sell in department stores for thousands of yen.”

“I heard about a guy who got murdered at one of those places,” Takeru says, “some yakuza guy who was selling weed on the side, someone put a hit out on him and used the body for fertilizer.”

“That’s…disturbing,” Aguni replies, “but that’s beside the point. Don’t you want to know why I think you’d be a single strawberry?”

“Is it because they’re red?”

“Sort of,” Aguni says, “Got a lot of seeds, too. Get stuck in your teeth pretty easily, if you’re not careful.”

“I am rather tenacious.”

“You are.”

Aguni considers his next words carefully. His relationship with Takeru is…complicated, and uncertain, and if anyone ever asked him what they ‘are’ he wouldn’t know how to answer.

“Strawberries are sweet. They’re sour, too. You’d know the flavor anywhere. And you…”

He pauses. Takeru, for once, doesn’t try to fill the silence with his own voice.

“…Well, those designer strawberries are all one-of-a-kind, just like you. So that’s why there’s one one,” he says slowly, “and I like strawberries. Might even, uh…love ‘em.”

“Oh, Mori…”

Something flops onto Aguni’s blanket—once, twice, and ah, it’s Takeru’s hand, and he’s looking for something. Aguni slips his arm from under the covers and covers Takeru’s hand with his own. This is apparently what Takeru had been searching for, because he pulls Aguni’s hand closer to himself.

“You know,” Takeru says, “now that you mention it, I think I might love melon, too.”

Aguni feels lips against the back of his hand—a soft kiss, gentle, a reassurance as much as an act of affection—and he’s glad for the dark of night that hides the blush of his cheeks.

“I feel better now,” Takeru announces, giving Aguni’s hand a light squeeze, “In fact, I think I’m falling asleep as we speak…”

“Hmm,” Aguni hums in agreement.

He’s still holding Takeru’s hand, and Takeru, his—neither seem too keen on letting go, at least, not for now.

[babyybitchhh]

Oh! You are taking requests! That’s awesome! ✨💫 I’d like to request a scenery where the reader lost her sister to Douma (she lacks proof... it’s an strong gut feeling?... she’s right tho) so, she get on his “good side” working in his cult to get a chance to avenge her sibling... her acting convincing and the “betrayal” amuses him to no end, so he decides to play with her before... eating/transforming her? Your choice! I’m a sucker for horror so it could be as dark as your heart allow it! 💜💃

Sorry this took so long cxnvldsnvoen and even though I tweaked the storyline just a wittle bit, I hope you like it! <3

Words: 2639

Rating: Explicit/R-18+

Warnings: Cunnilingus, involuntary urination, cannibalism (sort of, you know the drill with Douma), body horror? Sexual gore? Yandere?? I’ll be honest, I’m not entirely sure how to tag this one.

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24362824/chapters/66015442#workskin

♥♥♥♥

You were easily the most insincere person he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing.

The lie itself was written all across your face in bold, slashing brushstrokes for the whole world to see if only they’d look close enough but so few ever did. He alone was privy to your deceit. Only he saw that dishonest smile for what it was, always so placid and warm even though it just barely concealed the hissing viper within. The unwavering mask of false loyalty you greet him with and the rage waging war behind your eyes every time you look into his face. Everything was right there, completely out in the open as if you couldn’t be bothered with trying to hide it, and Douma loved that aspect of you perhaps most of all.

Just as any good figurehead should, he’d nurtured the darkness within you until it sprouted roots and festered, growing ever larger as your hate for him also grew. Welcomed you and your heavy burden with open arms. Encouraged it even. You were simply too fun to play with and he was ever so curious to see how far into depravity you would ultimately spiral because of him. In some ways it was sad. Pathetic even that you would devote what was left of your miserable life to being a duplicitous little bitch when there were so many alternatives that were far, far more pleasant. But it was also undeniably thrilling at the same time, almost intoxicatingly so.

To think that he had angered you to the point of not only chasing after him like a pitiable stray but to also go so far as joining his congregation just to get close … this was a uniquely exquisite indulgence he wouldn’t soon rush to squander. Particularly not when keeping you around afforded him so many plushy benefits.

“You’re trembling.” A dangerously sharp nail traces its path down the length of your twitching stomach. He pauses at your belly button, toys with the notion of jamming his finger right through it and into your guts, but ultimately decides to save it for another day. Humming faintly, Douma resumes his tauntingly slow descent south. “Are you cold?”

You refuse to look at him and instead push the side of your face deeper into the pillow. It was always like this no matter how often he opened up his chamber doors in welcome. You simply refused to stop playing your part even when he had you spread out like some shameless whore on his bed of silk and that would never cease to amuse him for as long as he allowed you to live. You’d have been quite the accomplished actress if only you hadn’t been going up against the head performer himself. That you were out of your league was, to him at least, painfully obvious but he didn’t have the heart to tell you that just yet. 

No, not yet. There was still more of you to savor.

Bending close, Douma presses a lingering kiss to the center of your stomach. He can taste you on his tongue, blooming notes of stale meat poisoned with bitter fury, and it elicits a quiet groan out of him. You were the finest decadence he’d had in his bed in a very long while.

“Poor thing, that just won’t do. Let me warm you up.”

You squirm against the sheets as he pecks his way lower, issuing expertly timed sighs at the appropriate intervals. He appreciates just how committed you are to the act. Wonders if you found some pathetic young sod to practice with before presenting yourself to him or if you were simply a brazen slut by nature. It’s hard to say which prospect delighted him more, though Douma hardly cares to know the answer, particularly when he presses two fingers to your outer labia and carefully spreads them open.

So soft and fleshy, the petal-like folds make his mouth water. He could imagine no greater joy than nibbling on those puffy little lips and taking nipping bites at the swollen pearl bud that peaks up at him even now until you were bordering on hysterics, fighting him tooth and nail to get away. Only then, only when you were a frenzied animal trying to escape his taloned clutches, would Douma allow himself to sink his teeth in at long last. He was certain your sweet cunt would give way under his jaw without much resistance, if any at all. It would be just like biting into a peach.

But you weren’t quite ripe enough yet. You were almost there -- so, so very close he could just about feel the meat of your womanhood being rendered and chewed between his molars -- but still not there. He would satiate his abominable hunger only when you were blackened, mind, body and soul with your hate.

Eagerly licking his lips, Douma leans down and swipes the tip of his tongue across your clit. The way the meaty nub clings to his taste buds, dragging against the salivating muscle until it pops back into place with a plump jiggle, delights him to no end. It was so swollen that even it’s protective hood did very little in the way of concealing your arousal. If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think you’d had to go months on end without release. Evidently, though, your cunt just enjoyed being on the receiving end of his attention that much even when your brain was most assuredly in total disagreement with that sentiment.

He moans, very faintly, at the thought of your brain. The day of feast couldn’t come quick enough.

“Oh, sweet dove …” Douma coos, nuzzling into your clenching pussy as if he were a cat marking its territory. “Are you really so neglected? I’m not sure how you’ll ever forgive me for making you suffer like this.”

You choke down an unintelligible sound that’s half sob, half moan and bring your hand up to coquettishly hide your mouth from his line of sight. “Douma-sama … please …”

He can hear it in your voice. The lie. The obvious, blatant, belligerent lie and it goes straight to his cock.

Undeniably, you sold the performance with every aspect of your body language right down to the way you shyly spread your legs further apart for him but the lie was still there. It was simply too big to hide. Not the small, pardonable white lie a god could be swayed to forgive with the right offering but a massive, all encompassing falsehood that had long since swallowed up your ego like a gluttonous black hole. You weren’t a person any longer but a container merely housing the selfish urge for vengeance.

You were so damn close.

Nails digging into the plush swell of your thigh, Douma lays himself out flat between your legs and presses his mouth to your slit. For as brief as the gesture is, he still comes away with glistening wet lips and he greedily licks up the evidence just as a carnivore might lick its bloodied chops. Delicious.

“Don’t fret, my dear. I know exactly what you need.” A pause. Another playful kiss to your gushing cunt. The savory smacking of his lips is quickly followed by a dreamy, almost wistful sigh that makes you shudder, though it's impossible to say if that reaction was one of pleasure or abject disgust. Not that it really mattered either way to him. “Just relax. Let me take care of you and then you’ll be free to scurry off back to bed like a good little girl.”

You visibly tense under him and, smothering the cruel laughter that tries to claw its way up his throat, Douma glances at your face.

Still partially obscured by your clenched fist, you continue to hide from him as if you were an untouched maiden being ravaged against your will even though you’d spent countless nights with him in his room like this. Always, always playing your role. The tension in your neck, however, told a different story. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that you were biting your tongue and he derived a great deal of joy in the knowledge that you despised being talked down to so much. It just made him want to do it even more.

“Do you have any idea how good you taste? You’re like the sweetest forbidden fruit to me.” Tilting his head, Douma seals his lips around your pulsing clit and mouths at you. You arch, shoving your bare tits into the air with a quiet hiss but, still, you won’t look down at him. That suits him just fine though and he comes up off you a moment later with an obscenely loud, attention grabbing slurp that makes you twitch. “I could just eat you up, you know that?”

“D - Douma-sama --”

His tongue abruptly darts out, mercilessly lashing your clit.

You outright squeal, jolting at the sudden onslaught of stimulation before catching yourself and forcibly choking back any other sounds you may have been inclined to make. Douma is not so easily deterred though and he laps at you hungrily, attacking the engorged pleasure button from every possible angle until you’re a quaking mess underneath him. He could help himself to your sopping little cunt for hours if given the chance, high as a kite off the very real urge to consume you in the most literal sense, but it doesn’t take long at all to have you writhing uncontrollably. Although unfortunate, it was expected given just how needy and swollen you were -- and just for him at that. Who could have ever guessed?

“Oh, darling,” He pants, groans into the meat of your pussy. His eyes start to roll back in doped out bliss when your wild twisting drags those petal soft folds across his mouth as if you were intentionally teasing him now. Begging him to just take the plunge and take a bite out of you already.

It was almost enough to break his resolve. He wanted nothing more than to gorge himself on your delectably tainted body until he was too stuffed to move but the part of him that knows precisely how satisfying the payoff will be keeps him in check. It’s too soon -- still too soon to indulge -- and he has to make do with simply drooling all over your poor defenseless cunt while it creams around nothing except your hatred of him. Of all the meals Douma has enjoyed in his lifetime, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that you would be the one he’d relish the most.  

So caught up in the ecstasy inducing thought of finally eating you, truly eating you, he doesn’t notice you withdrawing a razor sharp pin from your hair until it’s right in his face. Blinking incandescent eyes at the foreign object, Douma allows himself another lazy lick at your still palpitating cunt and you seeth through gritted teeth, the glinting metal trembling in your hand.

“Get. Off.”

He acquiesces without a fuss.

You don’t even try to hide your surprise as you warily watch him sit up so that he’s kneeling on the futon between your spread legs. Clearly you’d expected a different reaction out of him and that makes Douma smile. You don’t seem to appreciate that though and you jerkily sit up straighter, jabbing the pin at him in warning.  

“Wipe that smirk off your face, demon!”

“Or what?” He asks sweetly. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Yes! I’m going to kill you and take revenge for my sister!”

Brows drawing up in affected pity, Douma pins you with a withering leer. “If you’re going to kill me anyway then I don’t see any reason why I should stop smiling.”

Balking, you sputter indignantly. “You - you horrid fiend --”

He moves too quick for you to react. His arm swings, slamming into your wrist with enough force to send the pin flying. You reel back with a haggard gasp but he grabs your forearm in a pinching grip and yanks you close again. Bringing his opposite hand up, Douma rams his palm into the underside of your outstretched limb. The resulting crack is instantaneous and horrible. Your face crumples in agony.

You scream.

“Now, now,” He purrs, letting your arm fall limp at your side. In a shell shocked panic, you try to reach for it as if to reset the bone yourself but he all too easily catches your shaking hand in his. Cradling it close to his chest just as one might do with a lover, Douma smiles at you as he effortlessly snaps your other arm just as he’d done the first. “Calm down. Everything will be alright.”

He can barely hear himself over your frenzied shrieking. It’s hard not to take pity on you when you’re like this, looking for all the world like nothing more than a wounded animal. Confused and so incredibly scared. Almost out of your mind with pain even as regret and terror flash at him through wide, glossy eyes.

It really was a shame too. You’d been so close to reaching full maturity but, well … this would probably do the trick just as well. Not right away, of course, because the only thing currently running through your mind were baser instincts that served no real purpose other than keeping you alive. You were in no mindset to humor your feelings of resentment and hate for him, or the loss of your sister for that matter.

Was that really what had prompted you to seek him out like this? Douma couldn’t exactly recall but it was a believable explanation. He was certainly willing to accept it, at least.

Deciding that the details didn’t really matter, he reaches out to grab your shoulders and shoves you back down on the bed. You wordlessly stare up at him in wild eyed terror as he rises above you like some sort of beautifully horrific wraith, preternaturally sharp teeth glinting in the low light when he grins at you. The shock must be starting to set in because your mouth moves but nothing comes out. Not so much as a peep, as though your voice box had been stolen.

He can’t help the deranged titter that bursts out of him. You were so damn cute .

“Don’t worry, darling. I won’t kill you. Not yet, anyway.” Contently sighing, Douma leans close to nuzzle his nose against yours in a mockingly affectionate gesture that only makes you shake harder. “You’ll stay here with me until you’re rotting from the inside out. I want you to despise me with every fiber of your being first and then, when you can’t even look at me without being consumed by rage, then I’ll finally eat you. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

You don’t respond - maybe you can’t - but he does feel the moment your bladder finally gives out and seeping wet warmth spreads across the front of his pants. A shudder of revulsion works its way down his spine and he clucks at you, letting his mouth tug into a disappointed frown.

“Such a high maintenance little girl … what should I do with you until then, hmm?” Douma thoughtfully puts his head to one side but quickly perks up at a sudden thought that has him smiling from ear to ear with nothing short of manic glee. “Oh, I know! Maybe I should break your legs too. Then you won’t be able to do anything at all without my help.”

An insignificant, fraying part of your conscience that had managed to cling to its humanity must register what he’d said because you begin shaking your head, still as silent as any mute, and that just makes his grin widen.

“I bet you’ll really start to hate me then, won’t you?”

[feathersandpaintbrushes]

Entye

ENTYE -  “Debt”

— Chapter 3: Partnership

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 4,

Summary: The Mandalorian and Kas learn how to share a ship.

Warnings: mild injury, language, combat (should slow burn be a warning?)

Characters: the Mandalorian (Din Djarin), the child, original character

Disclaimer: Slow burn is an understatement. Don’t worry, it’s worth the wait! Also, I took a long break (almost a year) without posting more of the story. I didn’t stop writing though and have about 15 chapters saved up. Oops.

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Her new life on the Razor Crest wasn’t the most ideal, but it worked more naturally than the solitude of Hoth, despite the many oddities and complications.

There was only one bed, for one.

The first week had passed in a sleep deprived blur for Kas, though she suspected the Mandalorian suffered as much as her.  The fact was that they simply did not trust each other.  Sure, she’d saved his life and he’d offered her a place on his ship, but she was slow to trust anyone anymore.  Especially a masked bounty hunter.  And she couldn’t blame him for not trusting her either.  It had taken days for Kas to not unholter her blaster every time the Mandalorian entered the room, and she was certain this did not encourage him to trust her in return.

But they’d gotten used to each other.  The child was closely attached to the Mandalorian, and for a few days he’d regarded Kas with wide eyes.  But he’d relaxed around her first, crawling onto her lap or chewing on the hilt of her dagger.  And slowly, steadily, she’d gotten more comfortable around the Mandalorian.  Stopped flinching when he reached for something near her.  Stopped freezing with a racing heart as he passed her in the narrow spaces of the ship.  Eventually she’d grown so exhausted by lack of sleep that she’d caved, collapsing on the small bed fully clothed and passed out for hours, not even reaching for her blaster when a gloved hand had shaken her awake.  She’d watched, bemused, as he stumbled headfirst into the bed the second she was out of it, muffled snores coming out all metallic under the helmet he never took off.

Strangely, the single bed was the easiest barrier to hurdle once they got over the fear of being vulnerable while asleep.  The simple fact was that it didn’t make sense for both of them to sleep at the same time anyhow.  One of them had to be up either steering the ship or watching the child.  Kas wasn’t the best pilot; while she was able to keep an eye on things while the ship was in hyperspeed, or man the ship during long stretches of empty space, she was quick to call for the Mandalorian when asteroids or another ship blipped on their radar.

And so their routine became established, sleeping in shifts, spending their waking hours in comfortable silence, slowly learning to speak easily in front of each other.  Their conversations always danced around safe topics – the past, his helmet, personal questions of any kind really – were all subjects they avoided out of respect, and fear that the other might ask similar questions in turn.  But the Mandalorian had a sense of humor that was surprising, and more enjoyable because of it.  Dry sarcasm and gentle teasing were languages they had in common, and when all else failed they could talk to or about the child.  The first morning she found herself humming under her breath as she prepared food for the child was the first morning she realized that she liked it on the ship.  Enjoyed this life, despite the inconveniences and oddities. 

It wasn’t ideal; the bathroom was small and cramped and the sonic shower didn’t always work, forcing her to use the incredibly unreliable real shower; the water sputtered out smelling of sulfur and even gas on one occasion.  But, Kas reflected one particularly annoying morning as the sonic shower refused to turn on even after repeatedly hitting it, and the water pressure left her trying to rinse shampoo out of her hair with a gentle mist, it was better than breaking off chunks of ice to boil in her one small pot and shivering violently while cleaning one small part of her body at a time.

Food was tricky.  The child was nearly always ravenous, and the Mandalorian refused to even sip bone broth in front of her.  This left him crankier than normal and her exasperated to no end until she put a foot down.  A shouting match ended in an uneasy truce that saw her banished to the cockpit with the child for a half hour three times a day so the Mandalorian could hastily gulp down food before the child inevitably escaped her grasp and made its way to the Mandalorian again. 

No, Kas thought to herself as she watched the stars wiz by in hypnotic lines as the ship hurtled through space, the only part about the last month that she couldn’t handle was the feeling that she was trapped.

There really was no escape in a ship this size.  While showering that morning she’d listened sleepily to the muffled shouts and bangs as the Mandalorian tried to stop the child from tearing the ship apart.  She’d eaten her rations on a cramped stool with one hand while gripping the child’s smock in another.  She’d smacked her head so hard on the Mandalorian’s helmet while they both reached for the same fallen tool that her vision had gone black for a moment and she’d gripped to the ship while listening to the Mandalorian’s poorly muffled laughter.  She woke up to the sound of the Mandalorian animatedly discussing the passing stars with the child, despite its inability to speak Basic.  She fell asleep at night to the smell of a stranger on her pillow and the sounds of the Mandalorian fiddling around with the ship’s constantly needed repairs.

Kas missed walking and running and riding the Tuan Tuans.  She missed the stretch and burn in her arms as she climbed a rocky crest in search of something to eat.  It had been three weeks since they’d left the desert planet.  Her arm had ached and itched and burned at intervals, but she’d gently moved it and strengthened it each day, doing pull ups on the ladder or pushups in the narrow hallway, often with the child clambering on her.  Still, she was antsy.  She wished she could work on maintaining and modifying weapons, but still didn’t feel comfortable with the Mandalorian to ask to mess around with his weapon store yet.  She was bored and stir crazy and tired of smelling the same air every day.

“Kas.”

She jumped, fingers automatically reaching for the hilt of her blaster, though she’d long since stopped wearing it around the ship.  The Mandalorian stood next to the captain’s seat, and she cursed him internally for his soft footedness.

“I thought there was another hour left before you got up at least,” she murmured, rubbing a tired hand over her eyes.

“We’re running low on fuel,” the Mandalorian murmured softly; the child must still be asleep then. “I actually came up to see if there was any planet in particular you’d like to stop to refuel at.”

Kas blinked, trying to force her brain into linear thoughts after hours of allowing them to drift aimlessly as she did the monotonous task of “keeping an eye” on things when the ship was on autopilot.

“Somewhere with rain,” she said, surprised at the sudden longing that swept through her.  How long had it been since she’d seen rain? Or something green?

“Rain with cliffs or rain with forests?”

“Cliffs,” Kas said firmly, arms flexing unconsciously as she thought of climbing one until she was higher than the clouds.

---

“Is this what you were hoping for?” Slight skepticism and maybe, if she was right, just a touch of amusement saturated the Mandalorian’s normally crisp words.

“Yes,” Kas breathed, unbuckling her seatbelt quickly and skipping the last few rungs on the ladder in her haste to get to the downpour that was echoing like hail inside the metal ship.

Outside was cold and crisp and clean and Kas stumbled slightly in her eagerness to get out from the sheltering confines of the ship’s entry.

Rain showered against the bare skin of her arms, plastering her thick hair to her neck.  She laughed as she raised her face to the clouds and opened her mouth to let sweet tasting water cover her tongue.  It was elixir.

Opening her eyes she saw the Mandalorian crouching under the safety of the ship’s awning, watching the child splash in a small puddle nearby.

“It’s good for him to be outside like this,” Kas puffed as she jogged over to them.  The Mandalorian lifted his helmet from the child and looked her up and down, taking in her dripping hair and saturated clothes. 

“It seems like he’s not the only one enjoying it.”  The Mandalorian’s voice was as dry as a desert, and she laughed. 

--

They’d parked in a small space port attached to an equally small town.  After paying the alien who owned the port and maintenance shop to refuel and run some minor repairs on the ship, the three of them set out in the rain in search of new supplies and food.

The rain still hadn’t let up, and while Kas and the child delighted in it, the Mandalorian seemed less enthusiastic.  Could a helmet have a sour expression? Kas wondered, smirking as the man’s shoulders rose up high as a stream of water from the roof above splashed against him.

She wasn’t sure how it was possible for a man to look half drowned when he was fully clothed and covered in heavy armor to boot, but she’d never seen someone less enthusiastic about rain before.  The relief coming off the Mandalorian in waves was palpable as they ducked into a small building with a sign out front identifying it as a sort of trade center.

Inside was a maze of spices and ration packs and weapons and medical supplies.  Kas’s fingers twitched and she started towards a particularly lovely display of daggers when a movement around her knee distracted her.  She turned in time to see the child waddling quickly back to the open door and caught up to it in a few quick strides.

“Not so fast you little womp rat,” Kas murmured, snatching him up and settling him on her hips.  “Your dad would never forgive me if you got lost.”

The child’s eyes narrowed and its huge ears drooped, making her smile indulgently at it.

“Want to look at some pretty knives?” she cooed, walking over to the display shelf.  “See this one?”

Kas picked up a slim dagger with an arching cross guard and pommel and offered it to the child, who scrunched his little face up in apparent displeasure.

“You’re right,” she said with a laugh.  “Far too fancy.  And so thin! If you didn’t get it exactly between the ribs it’d snap at the first thrust.  How about this one?”

The continued on for several minutes, Kas handing the little one dagger after dagger to inspect with an intent expression.  After several fairly staunch rejections by them both, they finally came across a promising blade.

It was fairly simple, but elegant despite that.  Deadly sharp, with a horn handle and strong crossguards.  No fancy grooves or patterns marred the blade, but the surface seemed to glow slightly. 

“Careful of this one child,” Kas murmured, cautiously placing the hilt in the reaching hand of the little one in her arms.  The child regarded the blade for a long moment, the slightly iridescent surface reflecting in it’s large eyes.  Then, as if in approval, the child turned the blade over and stuck the rounded pommel in its mouth.

“Your girl chose a good blade there.”

Kas spun around to face the shopkeeper, extracting the blade from the child’s grasp in the same movement.

“Not my girl.” The Mandalorian said firmly, stepping out of the shadows with rations piled in his arms.

“I’m not his girl,” Kas laughed, rolling her eyes.  “I’m my own girl.  What do you know about this blade?”

It was songsteel.  Allegedly.  A valuable, strong weapon if it was true.  Kas frowned at the dagger and then the shopkeeper incredulously.  If it was truly songsteel it was invaluable.  And Kas couldn’t afford invaluable.  Besides, she already had a good dagger. 

Feeling only the slightest pang of regret, Kas handed the songsteel back to the shopkeeper and pulled her own dagger from its customary spot on her waist.

“How about this one, little tauntaun?” she murmured, holding her own old dagger out to him.  The blade was chipped in places, and the handle covered in old blood.  But it was freshly sharpened, and the handle fit her hand like a glove.

The child touched it gently and cooed at her with big eyes.  It was with this dagger she’d save the little one’s life.  She wouldn’t trade it for a new one.

--

The rain had left off slightly, leaving the planet green and feeling so alive Kas imagined it was breathing.  The ship still wasn’t ready so they hiked to a small hill overlooking the port, carrying the child and some of the more spoilable rations they’d picked up.

“You’re good with him.”

Kas turned to see the Mandalorian watching, leaned casually against a tree as she threw her knife at targets, to the child’s obvious delight.

“He just likes the chaos,” she said with a laugh, watching the little one wander excitedly after a frog who’d been unlucky enough to catch its eye.

“Sorry about the shopkeeper.”

Kas blinked and then laughed.  “People see what they want to see.  To him we looked like a nice little nuclear family.  No harm done.  Besides, no one would remember a family stopping in, but a bounty hunter and a little green child and a –” she stopped, and then forced out another laugh.  “It really isn’t a big deal,” she assured him.

“Oh, good.”

“Are you sure?” she teased.  “Because it seems like you’re the one who’s upset by it.”

“I’m not – “ The Mandalorian broke off and she could feel him glare at her from behind the helmet.

“Right.  Got a jealous girlfriend or something? I promise not to tell her we��ve been using the same bed.”

That really riled him, and he stood up straight, posture stiff.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Good,” Kas said, then broke off with a confused laugh.  “Wouldn’t want her to stab me over a little misunderstanding by a shopkeeper.”

Kas turned around and threw her knife back at the target, smiling only slightly when it hit the center again.  She walked to fetch it slowly, feeling confused by the whole interaction.  It was by far the most personal conversation they’d had so far – which was really saying something because in her experience, most men were very keen to tell her how very single they were.  Of course, she thought with more amusement as she wretched the knife out of the log, a Mandalorian was not ‘most men’.  In fact, she still wasn’t convinced he wasn’t a droid.  He stood so stiffly, and a modulator could hide a multitude of sins.

--

They left the planet the next day, to Din’s relief.  They’d spent a little more time in the small town, and Kas had even wrangled the child and himself up a small rock outcrop, passing out fresh bread and meat and some vaguely alcoholic drink when they reached the top, declaring it a ‘fine day for a picnic’ with a wild sort of glee on her face that was only accentuated by the wind that threw her hair around in tangles around her head.  They’d eaten, prevented the child from falling off the cliff, and then climbed back down sore, muddy, and – in Kas and the child’s case – elated.

For Din, watching the planet fade into the distance as he aimed the ship back into space was a relief.  As for Kas…

The woman was in turns solemn, irritated, cheerful, and listless.  She wandered around the ship, moving objects around, poking around in the storage areas, and generally being so distracting that Din ground his teeth behind the privacy of his helmet.

Eventually she’d wandered back into the cockpit and stood over his shoulder until Din thought he might snap.

“Do you want to fight?”

The woman’s voice was… not casual exactly, though it was clear that was the tone she’d been aiming for.  No, Din decided.  It was cautious and a little hopeful.  He looked over his shoulder at her.

Her face was slightly pink, but it was the same look she’d had when examining the knives.  He sighed.

“Sure.”

And so, for several minutes before he got his wits about himself, Din had his ass thoroughly kicked.

Once he got over the initial shock of having a small berserker throwing her entire weight at him, Din got his feet back under himself and started concentrating.

She was small, and very quick, but she lacked armor and therefore really couldn’t afford many direct hits before tiring – her tactic was to get in, get a punch in, and then skitter away.  After noticing this, Din quickly had her back against the side of the ship, his forearm pressed against her throat.

Surprisingly, the woman didn’t look discouraged.  On the contrary, her eyes gleamed and a wide grin split her face.  There was a scar on her lip, he noticed suddenly.

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

And so it was that they began to spar for a half hour or so before they ate their evening meal.  More and more often they found themselves at a draw, a fact which alarmed Din, but also drove him to fight harder.  And Kas had been right.

It was fun.

[robbyrobinson]

CTHULHU MYTHOS X THE OWL HOUSE CROSSOVER: THE GODS AWAKEN (PT. IV): A HISTORY LESSON 

Boscha sat on a log facing a bonfire. In her hands, she was holding a stick that had an impaled rodent-like creature on it. She held it over the fire and casually twirled it around to completely roast it. It was a short, snaggle-toothed creature resembling an Earth rat, but instead of the long, furless tail, it had a lizard tail. Boscha took a bite out of the beast and recoiled at its apparent bad taste.  

“Bleh!”  

Beside her on another log sat the goat man. He held several juice boxes within his mighty hands. He greedily ripped open the boxes and lapped the contents from within, unaware that the juice was collecting on the ends of his lips. There were roughly twenty boxes he was consuming and pitching aside without care.

“I had never tried any sort of sweet nectar such as this.” He tossed another juice box on the ground and went for another. “What do you call this concoction, Boscha?”  

Boscha shrugged. “Apple blood; but I never tried it.”  

The goat man grinned exposing his yellow, rotting teeth. “I wish your people would’ve imprisoned me after I had a chance to try this luxury.”  

Boscha stared down at the fire again not saying a word. The goat man finished up on drinking the apple blood juice boxes and tilted his head. He scanned Boscha over somehow knowing preemptively what she was about to say, but he decided to watch the embers of the fire as well.  

“If you need to inquire something of me, by all means, please do so,” he said.  

Boscha raised her head up so her three eyes could lock onto the goat man’s. “Who are you?”  

“I have already explained it to you, my dear,” he replied, “just an old man who once ruled over this world before being locked away and my name stricken from the records. The usual.”  

“Yes, I know that is what you said, but I just think that if this partnership is going to work, we should know everything about each other.”  

Boscha slammed her mouth shut upon seeing the goat man’s glare become illuminated by the fire within them. She was certain that she had spoken out of turn and was now going to face his wrath. He chuckled in a low mumble amused.  

“I now understand how grandparents must feel whenever their grandchildren egg them on about telling them stories from their pasts.”  

He took the juice boxes and pitched them into the bonfire. It blazed with the new fuel it was given.  

“It may take me a while to fully explain everything to you out of my concern that your mortal mind may not understand them, but strap in for the ride.”  

A village lied in ruins having been scorched with a fire that was akin to seven suns. The identity of the civilization, with a large population in the thousands, was unknown forever lost to the history of the Isles. Almost as if overnight, the village was attacked and laid to waste with no survivors. Due to its condition, no other civilization migrated to the lifeless area and remained that way for the next millennium.  

A hooded figure arrived sometime in the early morning to the former village and began to trek through the ruins. Houses that were made of stone were one of the few pieces of architecture left of the village; the walls of the houses were smothered by the thick smoke and blackened beyond repair. Alongside the walls of the foundations, there were the slight hints of the outlines undoubtably a grim reminder of those villagers who were outside of their homes before their civilization was set ablaze.  

Deeper the mysterious stranger went through the village, more of the cataclysm became apparent: the square of the village was mostly made of wood and as a result, several of the buildings and commerce grounds were reduced to ashes with any scrap of wood that somehow managed to survive barely holding on due to the beams holding them up crumbling. As the stranger was walking, they heard a crunch sound echoing. Looking down, they saw that they had stepped on a skull and it shattered underneath their weight.

Piles of skeletons were tossed in large mounds. From the embers of the village, the skeletons were as dark as tar. From what the stranger could tell, they likely died from looks of horror on their faces. The mounds led the stranger towards one site that appeared seemingly untouched by the flames.

A crude temple was at the center of the ruins, one resembling the pyramids from Ancient Egypt. The stranger tilted their head at seeing the alien geometries. Despite of the unsightly condition the overall village was in, there was no denying that the temple was almost all-inspiring. But despite that beauty, an otherworldly evil radiated from it. The stranger clenched their fists together in anticipation of whatever was inside and steadied their breathing.

Murals of the dark god decorated the windows detailing how he had arrived to the demon realm. Macabre displays of sacrifices also accompanied the illustrations. Children and families were set aside to be sacrifices for their god and in turn, they were bestowed with great blessings not just in the magical sense. After soaking in their surroundings, the stranger walked deeper into the temple. Before them stood a large door with unreadable inscriptions. Traversing that, the mysterious stranger came upon the throne room. A small altar decorated in an ancient language was situated in front of a large throne.  

“Oh, it is a pleasure to see a worshiper of mine pay a visit.”  

The stranger looked up beholding the large frame of a dark figure wearing a headpiece of different materials. It was dressed in shadows and was nearly invisible to the naked eye if it weren’t for the figure leaning forward and revealing its endless rows of sharp, carnivorous teeth. The stranger squinted a few times upon seeing something moving from the corner of his eye. They were at the mighty legs of the demonic entity. Without much probing, they slowly walked out of the darkness making it apparent that they were a few of the dark god’s personal servants.  

“So, have you come to pay tribute to me?” the being asked, “if not, your home will be forfeited.”  

The stranger shook his head. “No, Nyarlathotep, I have come to stop you.”  

The walls of the temple shook violently to their foundation when Nyarlathotep let a darkly chuckle escape from the pit of his stomach. “Many of you have tried and failed.” He leaned in closer. His teeth, being ever so massive and varying in shape and size, prevented him from completely shutting his mouth. “What can you possibly do?”  

The stranger took his finger and drew a circle in the air. From that circle erupted a bright light. The light hurt Nyarlathotep and momentarily stunned him. Purple blood trickled down his temple. He chuckled again. A sizzling, bubbling mass of darkness covered the wound, healing him.

“I love your spirit, kid, but I guess you’ve forced my hand.”  

Nyarlathotep stood up from his throne and towered over the mysterious stranger. At his full size, he stood at a stunning 9 ft. He placed his hands together and slammed them together. The stranger noticed a gem placed in the middle of Nyarlathotep’s headpiece and was shining a crimson red. A vibrant beam shot out of the gem and collided with the ground ripping it apart and forming a widening crack. Fire rose up to consume the stranger, but they managed to dodge just in time.

The dark god grimaced at it and clutched his fist drawing a chunk of the ceiling and flinging it towards the stranger. The stranger quickly drew another circle in the air and summoned a large slum of ice that ricocheted towards the ceiling chunk. An explosion of ceiling and ice rained down on the two fighters. There came a shrill scream that momentarily caught the stranger off guard. Seeing that the servants of Nyarlathotep were about to be crushed by the falling debris, the stranger quickly conjured up a shield to cover them.  

Smack.  

The stranger groaned in pain from the sharp pain. Nyarlathotep had taken the opportunity to send them flying across the temple. They took their head into their hands to balance the pain before sluggishly dragging themselves off the ground. Nyarlathotep held his hands together preparing another strike.  

“Had enough?”  

The stranger got on their feet. “Not yet.”  

Amused, Nyarlathotep withdrew fire from himself and crafted it into a projectile. Despite his seeming lack of eyes, he tosses the projectile towards his opponent. Before it could strike him, the stranger created a mirror that caught the projectile.  

“What is this?” Nyarlathotep replied in shock.

The projectile was cast back towards its dark creator and it stabbed him through his torso. Nyarlathotep collapsed on his colossal knees once again shaking the foundation of the temple. Purple blood was now leaking through the hole made in his body. Nyarlathotep coughed up more of the bizarre alien blood and gritted his teeth.  

“I have to admit that was a pretty brilliant move, but I won’t let this injustice stop me!”  

Nyarlathotep’s wound was once again beginning to close, but it would prove to be a mistake on his end. The stranger drew a ball of light and tossed it at the dark god. Nyarlathotep was hit with it. He screamed once more. This magic, which he withdrew out of himself, was now being used against him and was now injuring him. More and more. Wounds were accumulating on Nyarlathotep’s eldritch body and he was unable to quickly heal.

Nyarlathotep shifted his physical form constantly reverting from his Black Pharaoh form to other monstrous shapes. Regardless of any move he made, the stranger would return it to him tenfold. Purple blood was now pooling onto the floor. No time in his endless life did he ever have any problem with a mere mortal as he could easily topple entire civilizations without as much of a thought; drive people to madness for a laugh even. But now, he was feeling exhausted. An odd mortal feeling?  

He resumed his Black Pharaoh form and weakly got back on his feet. He felt rather drained, but nevertheless wanted to move forward. As he raised his hand, he felt his legs tense up. Looking down, his mouth widened in surprise. The stranger was conjuring up a glass substance that was overtaking his legs and replacing his organic parts with inorganic matter. He tried to shift himself to break the glass to no avail. The glass was now reaching up towards his pelvis ensuring that he was frozen in place.  

Nyarlathotep turned to glare at his servants. “Well, what are you waiting for? Rescue your god!”  

The servants looked at each other for a few moments seriously contemplating what they should do. They then looked at the stranger. Running over, they assisted the stranger with creating the glass.  

Nyarlathotep, shocked at first, chuckled. “Well, this was a fun game; the best I had in thousands of years even!”  

The glass was now around Nyarlathotep’s neck. His grin became wider and more devious than it was initially. He laughed again.  

“What are you laughing about, creature?” the stranger said, “this is the end.”  

“Oh, it may be for now, but I assure you that this isn’t over.” The glass was covering his mouth. “Even if it takes an eternity, I will be back; but there will be someone to represent me.”  

With that, Nyarlathotep was completely encased in glass. The stranger sighed and rest their hands. “It is over.”  

One of the servants started to speak up, a blonde –haired girl with ragged clothing. “I can’t say that is definite.”  

“For what reason?” the stranger asked.

“I could’ve sworn I had seen some dark substance collect from the back of Nyarlathotep’s head and then disappear.”  

The stranger scratched their chin. “Then I shall write down what I want any future descendants to read just in case he does return.”  

The fire started to die down after Boscha finished up eating the weird rodent creature. The goat man sat solemnly watching the fire dwindle.  

“So, how did you escape?” Boscha finally asked.  

The goat man, now wanting to be named Nyarlathotep once more, chuckled. “I sensed that there was a weakness within the glass prison that they had designed for me; I just had to nibble my way through it until I was able to regain some of my lost power.”  

“What is so significant about what that stranger wrote?”  

“Ah, you see, it was done using methods that the original inhabitants of the Boiling Isles first learned magic; before needing to draw meaningless circles in thin air. But I sense that this form of magic is no longer practiced by any witches here?”  

Boscha scratched her head. She did remember that someone was able to perform magic by drawing symbols and then pressing them. That kind of magic was bizarre even for the Isles due to it being done without the using having a magical organ to draw it from. As her mind weighed through her options, an idea struck.  

“Round ears!” she exclaimed.  

Nyarlathotep leaned back. “For goodness’ sake, you startled me.” He chuckled. “Just kidding; it is that Noceda girl you are alluding to?”  

Boscha nods. “Yeah, if we get her to decipher those spells you mentioned, then you can get your power back.”  

Nyarlathotep pat her back. “I knew that I could count on you.” He sat back on the other log. “But we should lie low. I need to gather as much strength as I can; haven’t you any idea?”  

Boscha smirked. “Well, there is a special tree that I know about.”  

Nyarlathotep raised his eyebrow in piqued interest. “Do tell.”  

Shortly after the mysterious stranger had vanquished the now imprisoned Nyarlathotep, like the blonde-woman mentioned, a dark mass that escaped from its fate hovered over the ruins of the temple and uttered a lone hum likely from communicating with its master. Forming a hard outer shell, it fell back on the Isles and burrowed itself deeply into the ground and incubated itself.  

And it would remain that way until years later when another event rocked the Boiling Isles. When the witches and demons indulged in savage acts of wild magic, the Boiling Isles was on the brink of disarray if not for the sudden arrival of a “savior.”  

[amayamiyaki]

The prologue for Home is finally out! So for those of you interested in a wholesome fic about a charming, single father falling in love with his daughter's teacher, this fic is for you!

Title: Home

Characters/Pairing: Genma/Sakura

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Strong language and mature sexual content

Summary: Genma always knew that being a single father meant doing what was best for his daughter, whether it be tea parties in the yard or wiping her tears away. And with his parents and his friends there to help him out every step of the way, he likes to think he's done a good job so far. But in the back of his mind, Genma also knew there was something—or rather, someone—missing. And it makes him realize that maybe, he doesn't have to do it all alone.

In which Genma falls into an unexpected romance with his daughter's teacher, Sakura. He wants a home. Sakura wants a family. And as for his daughter?

"Daddy, I want a mom."

Prologue:

A fire crackles in the center of the yard, projecting elongated shadows along the grass. Sparks pop and float into the air while the flames dance on, fervent with the easy mood.

Its warm tonight, the sweltering heat of summer just beginning to surrender into a colder, more comforting breath, and the skies are alight with all the constellations on bold display. The grass sways despite the lack of wind, whispering their soft goodbyes against Genma's legs as he listens to the cicadas and crickets sing one last song. He looks up at the sky with a relaxed sigh, leans back onto his palms and stretches out his legs, takes in the dazzling eclipse of stars that paint the charcoal night.

He loves nights like this—nights where the many shades of the sky aren't masked by artificial streetlamps and where the crickets' symphony isn't disrupted by the hum of overhead planes. He likes being able to lay back and trace the crystalline embroidery overhead while his friends laugh and joke around him, because it reminds him of summers from decades past and adventures in the woods, bike rides along the train tracks.

Absently, Genma shifts again, closes his eyes as he feels the breath of fatigue graze against his chest. He's exhausted, bleary eyed and a day unshaven; his shoulders ache and all he wants to do is go home and sleep, but part of him isn't quite ready to leave—not when everyone is out tonight.

Iwashi sits to his right, idly plucking chords out of his guitar but not really paying attention, more invested in the stories they all trade over the fire. Kakashi's passed out in the hammock further down, lost to the world while Yamato and Kotetsu listen to every conversation with shaking heads and wholehearted chuckles; Aoba stands watch over the grill and Ebisu cracks open a fresh beer, while Izumo and Asuma argue over whose rendition is closer to the truth.

"Then he tripped, smacked right into Arashi's car!"

"Hold on now," Asuma interrupts with a hint of a laugh, leaning forward so his elbow rests upon his knee. He flashes his palm as he speaks, waving his hand in a way that demands pause, but smiling nonetheless. "That is not how that happened."

izumo mimics his pose. "That's exactly how that happened!"

"No," Asuma insists with the shaking of his head. "You were running your mouth and Zabuza kicked your ass. He straight up threw you into the side of the car." Then, the bearded man huffs and leans back into his chair. "Arashi and my dad beat my ass all up and down Old Road for that dent, by the way."

As Iwashi and Kotetsu snicker, Izumo shoots back, one hand gesturing to himself as he sputters incredulously, "I didn't say anything! It all started because Obito said something about Mangetsu's brother. And I wasn't the one who put the dent in the door."

"Zabuza threw you into the side of the car," Asuma reiterates, sharing an exasperated but amused look with Yamato and Kotetsu. "How is that not your fault?"

"Zabuza just doesn't like me because Mei was into me."

This time, Kotetsu scoffs. "She was not!"

Aloud, Genma snorts and shakes his head, slowly drowning out their bickering with his own thoughts. He remembers that day completely differently than both of them. It was senior year, a surprisingly warm Friday night at the end of September. Homecoming was on the horizon so the excitement of glittery dresses and football, of parades and late night bonfires had the whole town in a tizzy. The first game of the season had been a tense one against their school's most bitter rivals, the Kirigakure Sharks—a game that their school won.

Closing his eyes, Genma can picture it all—the thrum of the marching band, the taste of the cheap beers they coined off the guy at the gas station, the salt on the fries they bought. They had gone to the drive-in diner across the street to celebrate, laughing about something that the beer had wiped away, bodies warm with the haze of mild intoxication. Asuma had begged his older brother, Arashi, for the keys to his Impala for almost a week just so he could impress Kurenai, so he had been overly cautious about anyone so much as breathing on the thing, automatically putting him in a mood. And as his friends, it was his and Kakashi's job to tease the couple into exasperation, which was when Zabuza and his gam had appeared.

They were spouting out insults before they even pulled into the spot beside them, Genma recalls, remembering how they were piled in the bed of Zabuza's honey-striped Chevy. They were grumbling about their loss, throwing dirty looks and bucking their chins in challenge at anyone who bothered to spare them a glance; and while Obito and Izumo and Kotetsu talked their shit, blowing off Kisame and Mangetsu's comments, and Asuma brushed past Raiga, it was Kakashi who had really threw the oil into the fire.

He had moved to throw his trash away, but when Zabuza wouldn't let him by, calling him out with something Genma hadn't been able to catch, Kakashi shrugged and tossed the rest of his plate through the window of Zabuza's truck. Next thing Genma knew, he and Kotetsu were stopping Kisame from climbing over a bench and Asuma had an arm around Raiga's neck while Mangetsu all but tackled Obito. It was three and a half minutes of pure chaos, ending with a winded Izumo, a dent in Arashi's car and a lot of running.

They went all the way up to the park on Old Road after that, trying to hide from their parents for just over a day before Asuma and Kakashi's Pops sniffed them all out and drove them home. His Ma was furious, twisted his ear real good, so he could remember its burn every time he even thought about getting into another fight while his Pop smacked the back of his head with a grumbled, "Idiot."

Man, Genma thought with a quirk to his lips, those were the days.

To this day, no one really knows who put that nasty dent in Arashi's car. They just all assumed and accepted the idea that Izumo had caused it, whether it be because he was caught in the tackle that took Obito down, or because he was thrown into it. And even if they ever did find out, they'd probably stick to blaming Izumo.

Sighing, Genma straightens up from his spot on the ground, his hands working to brush the dirt from the back of his wranglers, bringing all the attention on to him. "You're leaving?" Kotetsu asks, his tone a lot more sober than his posture. "Already?"

Genma readjusts his ball cap with a shrug, tugs on the ends of his jacket, then on the sleeves. "Yeah," He yawns, tilting his head until his spine pops. "Its getting late. I gotta get home to my girl."

They accept that without pause or complaint, patting shoulders and tapping knuckles as they say their goodbyes, and it isn't until he's pulled into his driveway and undid his belt, that Genma really feels the weight of the world on his shoulders. So he sits in the solitude of his truck for a little bit longer, absently listening to the guitar strumming from the radio with his head dropped back against the headrest and his eyes closed. And he waits.

Because even he needs a break sometimes.

Once the song ends, Genma slips out of his seatbelt and steps out of his pickup, then trudges his way up the front steps as quickly but as quietly as possible. The lights are off but he can see the dull indigo light from the television from the window, which make his brows furrow in contemplation. But as he steps inside and sees the little lump on the couch stir, revealing a head of messy braids, he can't help but smile.

"Welcome back," He barely hears from behind the loveseat.

"Hey," Genma murmurs, rounding the coffee table to kneel beside the couch. "What are you doing up so late?"

Hayate doesn't move from his position sprawled across the smaller couch, nor does he move his arm away from its place draped over his eyes. "She wanted to wait up for you," He replies, tiredly, and with a long, drawn out yawn. "Passed out about fifteen minutes ago."

Genma's fingers gently brush the baby hairs away from the young girl's face, then he carefully scoops her into his arms, blankets and all. Glancing back at his cousin, Genma's expression softens. "Thanks for watching her. I appreciate it."

Hayate waves a hand dismissively. "Yeah, any time."

[nympsycho-ao3]

The Art of Tebori: Chapter 1

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What makes tattoos forged from unbearable pain so unique? Why do Yakuza go out of their way to paint their bodies with designs born from sorrow, as detailed and beautiful as they are?

The colors of Tebori tattoos become more vivid over time with love and care, something completely unique to the bearer. Jotaro has certainly earned this individualized distinction for his accomplishments within the organization, a top-level boss known for his ruthlessness.

In the same way Jotaro's tattoos change over time, so do his desires. Something about a redhead foreigner, sold within the organization as a "companion", catches Jotaro's attention wholeheartedly. Maybe with a little time and care, his newfound underling can be shaped into the perfect solution to his bitter loneliness and need for absolute control.

In which Yakuza boss Jotaro Kujo makes a very impulsive purchase at a human-trafficking, black-market showing.

This post contains chapter 1 of this fic. Further updates will be in separate posts.

 He leans back into the suede seat, taking a pensive drag on a cigarette. It’s far-past its best usefulness, smoked almost to a nub, but it’s the last one he’s got. It’s been a long night of all the same shit; they come and they go, it’s loud and largely unpleasant. Why does he even bother anymore? If he hadn’t found what he was looking for by now, who’s to say coming back again and again is evidence of anything short of baseless faith?

 A familiar figure taps his shoulder. He looks back, greeted by the sight of a fresh cigar and his long-term business associate. Taking the cigar involves a forfeiture of his ego, the knock to his stature worth it for the safety of more nicotine.

 “Still here?” his low voice greets, not needing to shout given the breadth of inactivity on stage. “There’s just one more.”

 His hat hides the worst parts of him, he thinks, his expression far too revealing for comfort. More than anything he feels anger; no shit there’s only one more. That fact had bothered him from about halfway through the showing, when he realized he’d more than likely go home alone once again.

 The associate leans back into his chair and takes a flimsy puff on his cigar, not expecting a response. It’s only because he looks so on-edge that he feels he can get away with a bit of banter, after all.

 Finally, the last act of the show begins. The audience knows the drill, waiting patiently as a team of men rolls the subject of attention and ire onto center stage. The heavy-lidded man watches on, already intrigued by the faultless porcelain of its exterior, curved and obviously expensive.

 It had been well taken care of.

 A suspicious lack of noise marks the removal of the black sack over the attraction’s most prized component. The silence makes sense, the sight of a gag stuffed between blood-gorged lips capturing all of the buyer’s attention at once. Getting a gag on the merchandise is always a feat; murmurs of drug use or alcohol flutter around the showing floor.

 The black sack that once covered its face topples to the ground. Its handlers make a point to take a break, allowing its eyes to roll around the room in contemplation. A blush paints its cheeks and the tips of its ears in a delicious sanguine, bright purple eyes making way for light-shocked, pinpoint pupils.

 “Number twenty-eight.”

 The announcer introduces his moniker as casually as he did all the rest, offering no name other than its number. That’s all he knows himself to be, after all, constantly reminded of his status by the large “28” tattooed on his inner forearm.

 The most peculiar member of the audience removes his hat, exposing himself more than he ever had before. It’s a necessity, he justifies, to get a better view of the most promising piece of meat he’s seen all day. They have him straddled mating-style to a rack, one of the more revealing positions, though all of the parts he wants to inspect are pointed opposite to his seat. That doesn’t stop him from leaning forward, trying to be nonchalant in favoring one side to get a better view.

 “New and fresh, but trained just as well,” the announcer continues, its handler circling the bent-over figure to rest his hand against the small of its back. “Obeys with minimal lashback.”

 “Got your attention, Kujo?”

 Jotaro purses his lips, aggravated that he can’t be left to focus in peace. He can’t show any attitude, either, given the charitable cigar dangling from his fingers. A slow nod is enough to convey his desire to be left alone clearly enough. Yakuza often leave the heart of conversations to body language, finding words not nearly as reflective as one’s true intentions.

 It yelps when its handler smacks the roundness of its ass, grabbing the frame of the rack to turn it on its axis. The wheels lock into place when he’s been turned to be viewed sideways like a show dog, arms and legs pinned to the frame. Jotaro swallows hard, watching the stripes of its ribs peek from behind developing musculature with each of its nervous breaths.

 Jotaro nestles his gloved fingers together as its handler begins to demonstrate his merchandise’s useful features. A whimpering scowl marrs its features as it’s penetrated, the handler’s cock buried deep inside him without so much as a hint of resistance. The crowd mutters amongst themselves, impressed with the sight before them.

 Shockingly red hair bounces into the air, its head hanging heavily on its neck. The handler snaps it back into proper position with a nasty grip of its hair, bending its face into full view of the audience.

 Fuck, Jotaro thinks, lost in the panicked shock saturating the young man’s eyes as he’s fucked slowly but without consideration. The pace is just meant to keep the focus on the merchandise, for the audience to be drawn into the tedious rhythm and get them wishing for more. Jotaro rarely gets hard at these events, but he’s simply smitten, entranced by the subtle configurations of the boy’s face as he’s fucked. He hardly cared about the rest of his body.

 Somewhere along the line, Jotaro starts to see this fresh meat as a boy, a man; thoughts of this nature hardly cross Jotaro’s mind, but he can’t will them away as he stares down every twitch of the boy’s muscles.

 “Why’s he gagged?” a voice bordering on rude belts out from somewhere.

 “Glad you asked,” the handler beams. “Observe.”

 Jotaro knows that, logically, the boy can’t see him. The lights of the stage are far too bright, sheathing the audience in an anonymous blur of darkness and shadow. However, he allows himself to indulge in the all-too-believable fantasy that this boy stares right at him, seeing him for everything that he is.

 As soon as the handler unlatches the gag and tugs it roughly from behind his teeth, the boy lets a needy whimper collapse from his lips. From that, he forms words, and Jotaro swears they’re making eye contact. He’d never been comfortable looking someone else in the eye, but now he’s left drowning in the tear-prickled violet of the boy’s irises.

 “Please, sir,” the boy mewls, his voice scratchy almost assuredly from previous abuse of his throat. Jotaro’s brows knit together, his pants uncomfortably binding the hardness of his cock, listening to his words as if he speaks them just for him.

 “More.”

 Jotaro grips his knees with white knuckles, watching the pink wetness of the boy’s mouth disappear behind a scowl of his lips. He decides in that instant that he’d do anything,      anything    , to see that wet heat again.

 The crowd vibrates with excitement. To see such an enthusiastic companion is rare, even if it’s obvious that he’d been thoroughly trained to respond in such a way. He cries, tears cascading down the sharp features of his face, angled with youth and perfection. Jotaro, usually one for indifference, itches to swipe the tears from his cheeks.

 “Where’s he from? He’s white,” another curious onlooker barks. Jotaro wants to smack him. His sloppy Japanese and nordic features were plenty indication that he's foreign. There was no need to ask.

 “He’s thoroughbred,” the handler insists, combing dirty fingers through the boy’s startlingly red hair. “No worries.”

 He could be a back-alley mutt, for all Jotaro cared.

 With a prompt smack of his ass, the boy responds as if he’d been shocked into it.

 “More!” he yelps, brows knitted together, spit dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He looks absolutely terrified, but not in a morbid way-- the more Jotaro stares at him, the more he likens him to a nervous schoolboy. “Please, ah…! Cock…”

 “Hundred thousand,” an excited, breathless onlooker offers, marking the beginning of bidding. Had it been ten minutes already…?

 The boy grimaces with a particularly rough tug of his hair and slap of his hips, his master’s cock stirring his insides as other patrons place their bids. Jotaro remains silent, knowing he had more than enough money to snag this one for himself. Still, after the nightmare that was his last companion, he’d have to be absolutely sure of his decision.

 “Ah! Hnn…” he whimpers, the wooden rack creaking with the pace of his fucking, his eyes never averting from the one stoic, shadowed figure before him. It’s unusual for a patron to sit at the head-facing portion of the stage; most were interested in the other end. And he barely moved at all, definitely breathing and watching, but not much more. He catches him lighting a cigar only because of the flash of the flame.

 “Gonna cum!” he announces with a spattering of confidence. It’s enough to fool the morons endlessly outbidding one another, but it matters not to Jotaro. His hollow salaciousness pisses him off as much as it turns him on, the sheer novelty of it wearing away to reveal the sadistic implications of such a well-trained boy. It does nothing more for him than make him want to see the boy’s genuine nature, untainted.

 Indeed, a string of milky cum splatters against the floor, the source an adorably jostling cock dangling from a wonderfully tight taint. Finally, he looks away, staring ahead at the pinnacle of a stagelight, blinding himself as a Pavlovian-induced orgasm wracks its way through his tired body. He tries to take in air, the noise replaced by a stunned wheeze; the strength of his orgasm is not a coincidence. It’s the result of many days of edging and deprivation, expertly wringing his body’s reactions from his consciousness whether he clung to it or not.

 “Thank-- thank you,” his voice flickers from the tightness, fearing what would become of him if he didn’t obey his well-understood training. It’s horribly ungenuine, and it has Jotaro seeing red.

 The bids climb into the hundreds of millions of yen, numbers that would make a normal man dizzy with a lack of comprehension. It’s nothing to Jotaro, their shouts merely annoying interruptions between the sweet sounds of the boy’s moans.

 “One and a half billion.”

 The handler stops cycling his hips, taking note of the imposing figure from which the astonishing offer radiated from. His blood runs a little cold, knowing plenty of the man’s reputation. He’d known not to mess with his division, the casino districts, since his induction. Kujo was regarded as a fearsome adversary, someone the organization is glad to have on their side. The handler had never heard him speak before, merely presenting himself as a hauntingly-aware, introspective and intelligent leader. He’s certainly someone who would have no problem getting a first-rate wife through more natural means, leaving many questioning why he attended these black market showings.

 “Kujo?” Jotaro’s workmate laughs from behind, the sheer vastness of the offer amusing him. “For a piece of meat?”

 Jotaro pinches his thumbs into his fists. He figures he should stand to face the seriousness of the offer, sighing as he glowers towards the showrunners. The young man hears the tapping of his heavy-soled shoes as he approaches, bound into a position that affords him just barely a glance of the intimidating man standing before him.

 “I’ll give you one and a half billion to get him off that rack,” Jotaro continues without hesitation. Given the fact that it's the highest bid the club had ever seen, it elevates the general sternfulness that Kujo emanated to his colleagues. He cares not that his superiors are looking down at him, literally, approaching the very-interested handler.

 "You serious?" He mutters, letting his hands linger around the curve of the boy's waist. Jotaro can't take his eyes off of the indents his fingers make in the irresistible plushness there, hating him for roughing up his skin into redness.

 Jotaro Kujo had no use for words to convey the absolute seriousness of his offer. All he needs is the ardent, unsettling gaze that so few were unlucky enough to see. It's nearly paralyzing; most who saw that level of anger from the youngest successor of the Joestar clan didn't live to see it again.

 And this time, it's seeped in hunger, his hands stuffed in his pockets so that he keeps them to himself. He stomps out the cigar, disregarding its origin and far too bothered by its presence to consider social obligations.

 "Now?" The handler utters, his smile fading as the realization of the riches at his feet starts to hit hard.

 "Unless you think I'll be out-bid?"

 The handler slides his cock from the boy's hole less than gently, kneeling with urgency to work at the leather straps keeping the boy's ankles situated onto the rack.

 Jotaro waits patiently as the now-crestfallen young man takes the brunt of the manhandling with grace. He’s left to his own devices as soon as the restraints are unattached, his handler more interested in solidifying the cash deal.

 Jotaro scowls and offers him no semblance of attention. He focuses entirely on the young redhead before him as he sloughs onto his knees, rubbing his metal-chaffed wrists.

 “You,” Jotaro calls out. He doesn’t realize that he’s being addressed directly until his handler kicks him in the shin, startling him into attention.

 He fully expects to see anger in the man’s eyes, a mixture of hatred and desire that he’s all too familiar with. Though as he finally musters the strength to meet his purchaser’s gaze, he finds the calm, clear blue to be a pleasant surprise.

 “Did you mean that?” Jotaro finally asks, looking down at him with heavy lids and a stern toughness to his features.

 Silence.

 The handler jostles him from the shoulder with an angry urgency. “Answer him.”

 Jotaro wishes he’d just give the boy some time. Their eyes roll back onto one another’s gazes with a comfortable knowingness, something kind and genuine nestled between violet and aquamarine.

 “Wh-what?” he peeps, his conversational voice much less lewd than before, as expected. The fear, the apprehension, in this young man’s voice hardens Jotaro’s cock to an uncomfortable degree.

 “When you asked for more. Did you mean it?” Jotaro repeats. He’s reminded of how much he hates doing so, and makes a mental note to include that lesson on the long list of expectations he has for this boy.

 “Yes,” he’s quick to respond with a snap of his head.

 Jotaro glowers, gruff and uncertain. He slides his hand from his pocket, fingertips itching.

     Smack.  

 The boy cries and shivers, following the momentum of the brutal slap of his cheek. Several audience members ooh and ahh in concern. Though it’s forbidden to damage the goods, not a single member has the balls to go against Jotaro Kujo.

 “Don’t lie to me,” Jotaro continues, returning his hand to his pocket in a peace offering. This is all necessary, he reminds himself over and over. It’s for the best.

 “Did you want more?” Jotaro asserts again, kneeling down to the redhead’s level. His cheek, reddened and angry, is less painful than knowing that this man is upset with him. His first instinct was wrong, his ingrained response unsuitable. That bothers him more than he thought it would.

 His lip straightens, then quivers. Jotaro gives him time, watching his lips finally part as he gathers the breath to speak. This poor boy, Jotaro thinks, he doesn’t know the first thing about what he’s gotten himself into.

 “No,” he finally admits, a sob wracking his words and sending fresh tears down his face. His handler glares angrily at him, only to be settled by Jotaro’s approving nod.

 “Good,” Jotaro states simply. The boy is almost as surprised by the praise as the other associates in the showroom. “Never again. Don’t lie to me ever again.”

 All he can do is nod, scared stiff in a heap on the ground. Jotaro relents, standing to his full stature to address the shocked handler, cock stuffed back in his pants and barely dressed enough for such an occasion.

 After Jotaro signs, the handler smiles wide.

 “We’ll get it boxed up, and--”

 “Don’t bother.”

 All eyes are on him again, a fact that unsettles Jotaro just enough to irritate him.

 “Just collar him up and I’ll take him as is,” Jotaro clarifies with a turn of his back, his long coat trailing behind his ankles.

 Too busy dealing with the handler, Jotaro doesn’t notice the way his new purchase looks up at him. He’s transfixed, absolutely terrified, and stunned at his use of ‘him’; he’s horribly used to being referred to as an ‘it’, an object. He, of course, notices the way the others regard this man as well. He may not know of his reputation officially, but judging by the actions of those around him, he knows he’s someone to be fearful of. He’s earned that right among serial murderers and rapists, and there’s nothing scarier than not knowing what exactly he did to earn such high prestige. He’s used to getting slapped around, but this man slaps differently; he doesn’t try to draw out the experience, merely whelting him with the flats of his fingers. He’s direct, no-nonsense, not even cracking a satisfied smile like the others. Normally, his handlers would remove their gloves to slap him, yet this man kept his on.

 “Don’t want him cleaned up?” the handler clarifies, tousling his fingers through the red curls at his feet. Jotaro’s hands squeeze into fists at the sight.

 “Unless I speak to you directly, I don’t want to hear another word from you,” Jotaro growls towards the handler, his patience running thin. He wanted to get this boy off of his knees and somewhere more appropriate as soon as possible. Somewhere they could be alone.

 The handler resigns in a panic, seeking other supplies and leaving Jotaro to assess the quality of his purchase. Usually new owners take their exciting new companions for a ride in one of the private rooms, but Jotaro merely stands and studies the exhausted redhead with appreciation.

 “What do you go by?” Jotaro finally asks, breaking the silence in a more meaningful way than the clattering of chains and unnerved communications amongst staff.

 The boy swallows hard. “Twenty-Eight.”

 Jotaro nods shortly. He offers no response, keeping himself close as Twenty-Eight’s handler scoops his neck into a heavy collar. Jotaro takes the key for it and tucks it into a pocket only he knew the purpose for, a leather bag dangling from his belt.

 “Money will hit by tonight,” Jotaro says, holding his hand out in request for the free end of the chain. “If it doesn’t, you know who to call.”

 The handler nods, others deciding to pipe in with their infuriating observations like a petulant stream. Jotaro ignores their small talk, his heart beating out of his chest as he holds the bulky links of the chain within his power.

 “Thank you, Kumichou,” he breathes, bowing long and deep. Jotaro cares not to expend the energy to appeal to niceties, tugging on the collar harder than he’d intended. The young man scrambles towards him on his hands and knees, obviously out of breath from pure adrenaline and fear. Jotaro understands, but that doesn’t mean he has to tolerate it.

 “Get up,” he barks quietly, more like a growl than a command. Yet Twenty-Eight obeys, knees weak and trembling as he ascends the stairs towards his new companion. He’d noticed he was tall, of course, but as he approaches his side he realizes just how easily dwarfed he is. This man’s presence, everything about him, exuded a sense of domineering command.

 Every muscle of his body freezes in a cold snap as the man embraces him with his arm, wrapping it around his shoulders. His breathing comes shallow, doing nothing to alleviate the rush of light-headed exhaustion that spins around his head.

 In truth, Jotaro rushes him into the car not just to get him home quickly, but because he’s tired of all the noise. He hates the incessant brown-nosing and peacocking at these places, so much so that he’s willing to expose his new companion and leave him nude in the passenger’s seat. As if any cop in Morioh would dare pull him over.

 Jotaro cradles the back of Twenty-Eight’s head as he bends him into the car, protecting him just in case he bumped it on the door frame. He’s silent, breathing through harshly parted lips, looking ahead to avoid disrespecting his new master with an improper glance.

 The sound of the door shutting, loud and rattling, scares the boy into a cool grip of the sides of the seat.

 It’s only after Jotaro gets in on the drivers’ side, igniting the car to life, that Twenty-Eight realizes how luxe his surroundings are. He’s never been in such a posh vehicle, panels decorated with lights and indicators that he couldn’t even begin to guess the purpose of. Jotaro stares ahead, hands on the wheel, and Twenty-Eight expects him to accelerate any second.

 He doesn’t.

 Instead, he looks over to the dirty, pitiful young man curled up in his passenger seat. He catches him off-guard into eye contact, the awkward quiet between them never more pronounced than right now. Obviously, Twenty-Eight waits for Jotaro to disturb the beats of silence, trained only to speak when spoken to. Problem is, Jotaro hasn’t the slightest clue what to say.

 He grips the steering wheel with a frustrated tightness in his chest. Interpersonal relationships have never been Jotaro’s concern; now is no exception, even with the ridiculousness of the situation.

 “Think of a different name,” Jotaro finally grunts, the nuances of his voice much more pronounced in the confined space of the car. “Something short.”

 Twenty-Eight can’t take his eyes off of him now that they’re latched on, captivated by the sternness of what features he can see beneath the hat and lapels of his coat. He starts to drive, taking him away to somewhere completely unknown to him. He doesn’t even care, resigned into the bucket of the seat, incapable of looking elsewhere than the jagged edge of Jotaro’s jawline.

 Jotaro can’t say he’s uncomfortable being the sole object of his man’s attention and affection. He watches him from the corner of his eye, his heart fluttering with the thought of his attention dedicated to him.

 They drive for an amount of time that Twenty-Eight is too dazed to be sure of. It felt like hours, but that couldn’t be, given the number of songs that had gone by on the radio. Only two? Three? Fuck, who knows...

 “Something you need to know,” Jotaro says over the ambient tunes, enjoying the way the sound of his voice snaps him out of whatever daze he settled into. The boy’s eyes widen and his posture straightens, ready to hear whatever Jotaro has to say.

 “From now on, I’m the only one who can touch you,” Jotaro continues, making a wide left turn onto a more secluded, less-illuminated side street. “Do you understand?”

 Twenty-Eight is quick to nod.

 “Use your words.”

 Jotaro’s quiet anger spurs a response from his aching chest.

 “I understand,” he says with every modicum of conviction that he can muster.

 Jotaro must be satisfied with his answer, quiet and gentle as he pulls into a long driveway. Is this his home? It’s so secluded, and definitely as elegant as he’d expected. A log cabin nestled into the forest is rather unbecoming housing for a successful Yakuza boss.

 Jotaro collects himself as he pushes the car into park, turning the key from the ignition.

 Total silence fills the cabin, save for their tense breaths. Twenty-Eight knows it’s impolite to stare, but he can’t stop, even as he turns to acknowledge the set of eyes glued onto him. He can only see one of his eyes clearly from behind the brim of his hat, but it’s all he needs to stay planted firmly in his seat.

 Jotaro tilts his jaw upwards, offering Twenty-Eight a rarely-seen vulnerable shade of his expression, as he leans in towards him. The girth of his chest battles with the center console to assert his position close to the young man, one of his hands snapping onto the back of his neck with a clap. Twenty-Eight can’t keep his expectations separate from his fears, Jotaro’s mood shifting so easily and rapidly that he never knows what’s coming next.

 For now, though, he melts into the assertive kiss that Jotaro pressures onto him, the start of stubble along his chin grating against Twenty-Eight’s supple skin. He whimpers unintentionally into Jotaro’s mouth, letting the older man take him however he needs. A warm kiss isn’t the worst thing he’s been trained to endure. Jotaro makes it easy for him to figure out what he wants, asserting his tongue inside his mouth with a grunt and a sigh through his nose.

 Twenty-Eight relaxes into the man’s large hands as one grasps his upper arm, the other squeezing his neck, letting his eyes drift closed. The fabric of his gloves, soft, with the heat of his body behind them intoxicates him. Jotaro clacks their teeth together as he devours him deeper, asserting his presence with a nibble of his lower lip, drinking in the little noises of glorious submission as they seep from his throat.

 Jotaro’s grasp shifts from his upper arm to his wrist, tugging hard enough to shift the boy’s sense of balance considerably. He hisses through his teeth as he settles the boy’s limp hand on the bulging hardness in his pants, startling him into opening his eyes again. He loosens his grip when he realizes his fingers dig into the irritated areas of the boy's wrist, rubbed raw from the shackles.

 Twenty-Eight regrets opening his eyes, met with the undivided focus of Jotaro’s eyes staring him down. Jotaro keeps their bodies connected as he fumbles with his stark-white trousers, eventually tugging them down onto his thighs. Twenty-Eight can feel how he trembles in both the quiver of his breath and the vibration of his fingertips as they rest along his wrist. Something about that arouses him more than the training-induced response he was obligated to endure.

 “Fuck,” Jotaro huffs, wrapping the young man’s fingers around the shaft of his cock. He can’t see it, but the size of it in his grasp is enough to make him anxious; he’s certainly bigger than any of the trainers or handlers he’d had before.

 He gets the hint, starting a slow rhythm of squeezes, much to Jotaro’s appreciation. He’d have to teach him to act only when instructed to later. For now, he’s glad he’s so eager and receptive, his throat collapsed with an intense desire to skip the bullshit and get to what he needs. If it were anyone else, Jotaro would hate how much he stares at him, but something about this young man robs him of the ability to resent it. Instead, he loses himself in the expanse of confusion, fear, and arousal that he’s faced with.

 He squeezes just right, surely cognizant of his technique. Jotaro hates the thought of him utilizing skills that he’d learned with other men. In fact, he hates the idea of another man being with him      period    , rage spurring a new ache through his pelvis.

 Jotaro holds him tight, his fist becoming no more than something warm and tight to fuck. He bucks his hips with his teeth buried in the boy’s lower lip, glaring up from under thick, black lashes. He decides that the next time he sees the boy’s previous handler, he would kill him.

     Like this    , Jotaro thinks.      Not like the others. Like this. Only like this.  

 Twenty-Eight dares not change positions, though his neck and jaw ache. He’s glad he holds firm, rewarded by achieving a quick and thorough orgasm for his master. Breathy, hot, quiet grunts rattle into his mouth, Jotaro’s eyes clenching shut with the force of the orgasm. Sticky ropes of cum slather Twenty-Eight’s knuckles, a few more erratic bucks of his hips milking the last remnants of cum from the base of his balls.

 He can finally breathe when Jotaro breaks the kiss, favoring a heated glare his way. They breathe each other’s air, impossibly close, hot and invested more than they’d been before. With the comfort of silence came the welcoming of solitude, and Jotaro felt open enough to share a part of himself with his new companion. It seems to have paid off, the look in his eyes somehow different than the artificially-doting, puppy-dog eyes he’d deployed before.

 With spit-slicked lips, Jotaro thanks him, something no one had ever done to him before. It doesn’t feel right--      he’s    supposed to be thanking      Jotaro    , not the other way around. What exactly was this guy? Just a simple ‘thanks’, curt and impersonal, is enough to catch Twenty-Eight off guard into a stunned silence. Jotaro doesn’t seem to mind, too focused on the after-orgasm hazy delight to need too much from his companion. They settle, a new sense of comfort and familiarity filling the air along with the lingering scent of sex and sweat. For the first time in a while, Twenty-Eight feels the need to say something without prompt.

 He risks a painful lesson when he blurts it out.

 “Tenmei.”

 Jotaro rolls his focus back over to him.

 “Tenmei?”

 He swallows.

 “My name.”

 Jotaro remembers. Truthfully, he didn’t care at all which name he picked. What he did want to know, though, is why he seems so eager and excited to be called by this name.

 “Fine.”

 Jotaro also wants to know what he’s doing, giddy with the thought of naming him, making him happy. They’re intrigued with one another’s relaxed expressions; they seem out of place given the lewdness of their positions, but it feels so perfect.

 “Tenmei,” Jotaro repeats quietly. “Call me Jotaro.”

 “Yes,” Tenmei nods, remembering to use his words. “Yes, Jotaro.”

 Jotaro lets the good mood linger, utilizing the headrest and hiding himself back under his hat and the cover of his jacket. He admires the long, slender fingers still wrapped around his softening cock, and blocks visions of others taking his place. Whatever words he planned to say fall through into tedious silence.

 He embeds the sound of his name on Tenmei’s lips into his mind with a sigh.

     Yes, Jotaro.  

     Yes, Jotaro.  

 Before his cock hardens again, he decides to make quick work of getting the boy into his house, shutting and locking the door behind them. Tags:

              Alternate Universe - Yakuza

Human Trafficking

Yandere Kujo Jotaro

Slave Kakyoin

Master/Slave

Obsession

Rape/Non-con Elements

Forced Prostitution

Possessive Behavior

Face Slapping

Bondage

Glove Kink

Kakyoin Noriaki is Called Kakyoin Tenmei

Tattoos

Rough Kissing

Hand Jobs

Kujo Jotaro Has a Big Dick

i can't believe that's a tag

Eye Contact

[imnotinclinedtomaturity]

Love Yourself (Chapter 32)

title: Love Yourself summary: A lot of things about Dan’s life are pretty great. He gets to make the music he wants, he’s got a great fanbase, and his manager is his best friend. A few things about his life suck a bit more. He’s currently lacking inspiration, he’s rather lonely, and he’s stuck in a rut. Dan’s been going to the same coffee shop for years. It’s quiet, it’s quaint, it’s near his home. Most importantly: none of the employees give a shit that’s he a world-famous singer. Things change when he meets the new barista. chapter words: 17k story words: 267k (so far) chapter: 32/? rating: m warnings: language, alcohol, sex mentions, some bi/homophobia, eventual explicit smut, some depression, consensual d/s undertones genre: singer!dan, coffee shop au, barista!phil, slow burn [[ao3]] [[first chapter]] [[previous chapter]]

a/n: um so this is like a month overdue... but it's long af. and i've cut down what was going to go in this chapter. i hope it is worth the wait <3 massive thanks as always to @auroraphilealis for being my biffle, beta, and cheerleader. she's been by my side as a beat this chapter to death and listened to a million rambles of why it was important to me to keep it all together (which i only mostly ended up doing) and other pretentious shit. she's wonderful xx

note: this chapter contains more explicit themes than past ones. unlike past chapters, outside of the marked smut, there is risque material. skim at your own discretion if you are uncomfortable, but it wasn't set up in a way i could mark

By the time filming had finally ended, Dan felt emotionally fucking exhausted. Being so open and honest on national television, and having to be so careful with his words, had drained him of just about everything. There wasn’t an ounce of propriety left in him, and at this point, all he wanted was to be taken care of and not have to fucking think for a little bit.

Letting go — whatever that meant — was impossible on set. From the second he’d finished performing his song and had ducked backstage, he’d been craving a hug from Phil — a proper hug, not the one-armed bro-hug Phil had given him. But stagehands were running everywhere, and there didn’t seem to be a bloody centimeter of privacy, so Dan resisted. The minute he got in the uber, he could collapse against Phil.

But for now, resting his foot against Phil’s as he stood behind the stage wall would have to suffice. Dan closed his eyes, replaying his interview in his head as he listened to the loud hum of the audience laughing and applauding and — holy fuck. He’d actually just done that. He’d actually talked about his most personal matters, something he’d taken great lengths to keep secret, in front of all of those people. The studio held what? Two hundred people?

Two hundred people who were now privy to Dan’s rambling thoughts about sexuality and boxes, who now had a whole fountain of knowledge about Dan’s sexual and romantic preferences. Two hundred people who had seen Dan be open and vulnerable and honest.

The gravity of the interview smacked Dan in the face, and that’s when he realized, really truly realized, that those two hundred people were just the beginning. In a few short hours, that interview would play on national American tv, would stream on youtube worldwide. And sure, he had known that while he was filming, but he hadn’t known. Not in the way it was all hitting him now.

Dan swallowed thickly and let his hand brush against Phil’s. He wanted out of here. He wanted a hug. He wanted to think about anything other than this interview, his fate, his audience, just for a little bit anyway.

The twenty minutes it took to get an all clear lasted about five years. Dan was so on edge and ready to leave that he was already ordering a car before a stagehand had even finished dismissing them. Without waiting for proper goodbyes, Dan seized Phil’s wrist and dragged him out of the studio, down the lift, out the back door — and not the back door that fans often waited for celebrities at, either.

Dan felt a wave of relief rush through him when he burst out of the exit and found a black car already stalled next to the curb. Rushing over to the car, Dan wrenched open the back door and ushered Phil inside.

The relief coursing through Dan’s veins ran cold when the driver greeted him though. The way he confirmed Dan’s name, the breathlessness in his voice and the distinct spark in his eye — they were the unmistakable signs that someone recognized him.

Perhaps the ride back to the hotel wouldn’t be as relaxing as Dan had hoped.

Still, Dan shuffled in after Phil, leaving the full space of the middle seat between them. And less than a block later, Dan’s hunch was proven right when the driver asked which show he had been recording for at Rockefeller Center.

Not wanting to actually engage with this stranger, Dan grunted a reply and made a show of putting in his headphones, even though he didn’t actually play any music. It may have been rude, but it worked. The driver didn’t ask any follow up questions.

Of course, that didn’t stop his gaze from flickering into the rear view mirror every other bloody second. Dan felt like an animal in a glass box, on display and on edge. Phil was right there, but Dan didn’t feel like he could reach out, not under such intense observation.

Like Dan had told himself and Phil and Louise a million times, tonight was about talking about bisexuality, about giving that topic all the attention it deserved, not about him and Phil. The last thing Dan wanted was to have their relationship inadvertently outed by a random crew member or uber driver.

So Dan held back. Instead of sinking into his boyfriend’s side and letting himself get lost in Phil, Dan stayed on his side of the backseat and fell prey to one of the most volatile coping strategies he had — the internet.

Dan googled the average number of viewers of The Tonight Show and discovered it was over two million a night — and that wasn’t including the extra views that youtube brought in. And that, naturally, brought Dan to his next google search, where he discovered that The Tonight Show’s youtube channel had a whopping nineteen million subscribers. Subscribers who would undoubtedly have access to Dan’s rants about bisexuality, and his recently failed relationship, in just a few hours time.

Overwhelmed by the sheer significance of everything, Dan spread his legs obnoxiously far apart so that one knee pressed into Phil’s. Phil nudged back deliberately, a silent reassurance of his presence, a subtle demonstration of his support.

It wasn’t the bear hug Dan craved, but it was enough for now. The slight pressure of Phil’s leg against his own helped Dan stay grounded as he switched gears and fell down a wikipedia black hole about most viewed celebrity interviews. Unsurprisingly, videos about famous entertainers coming out were high on the list.

Right. No pressure there.

By the time the car pulled up to the hotel, Dan’s desire for real physical contact had developed into flat out desperation. He just needed this goddamn weight to ease back for a fucking minute.

Without waiting for Phil, Dan hiked his backpack over his shoulder and bolted into the hotel, through the lobby, and straight to the lifts.

It seemed to take bloody forever for a lift to actually arrive, but it took even longer for Phil to catch up. Dan had to pass on two elevators before he finally saw Phil entering the hotel, lumbering awkwardly across the lobby, weighed down with Dan’s guitar.

Oops.

In Dan’s haste to make it to their room, he’d forgotten that his guitar — his favorite guitar — was in the trunk. Eyeing Phil’s lopsided stance, Dan grimaced and took a small step towards him.

“Sorry,” Dan said apologetically as he pressed the up button for the third time. “Lemme take that,” he offered, reaching out for the worn handle of his guitar case.

With absolutely none of the coordination that Dan had developed over the years, Phil switched the guitar to his opposite hand, suddenly making it much harder for Dan to easily swipe it out of his grip.

“Phillll,” Dan whined, reaching across Phil’s body for the handle.

“Dannnnnn,” Phil retaliated as he stuck his tongue out and held the guitar even further out of Dan’s reach. His bicep was quaking, and his body definitely wasn’t used to the extra awkwardly large weight, but Dan couldn’t help appreciating how fucking sexy it was that, for the first time in ages, he had someone that was willing — determined, even — to carry Dan’s shit.

The bell on another lift finally dinged, and the doors opened. Dan’s attention snapped from Phil’s playful face to the empty lift. Relief rushing in just by the sheer presence of the lift, Dan gestured for Phil to take the lead. Luckily, it was that in-between time of night when most people were at dinner or something of the sort, and they had the lift to themselves. Dan took advantage of the brief moment of privacy and stepped in close to Phil, his knuckles gently brushing against Phil’s hand, the loving fingers that were inexpertly wrapped around the handle of Dan’s heavy guitar.

“Thanks,” Dan murmured, the teasingly childish tone suddenly vanishing, and a disgustingly sweet one taking over. In what he hoped wasn’t too cheesy of a move, Dan closed the small distance between them and pressed a chaste kiss to Phil’s cheek.

Brows furrowed, Phil cocked his head at Dan. “Dan, it’s just a guitar, I don’t mind.”

“Mmm,” Dan hummed, stepping back to his place. He watched the numbers climb as they passed floor after floor, observing Phil out of the corner of his eye. Phil was quiet, but shot Dan an odd look, his expression a mix of pointed and sad. It utterly baffled Dan for a second — until he remembered their conversation from yesterday morning, that was.

Phil didn’t have to say a word, Dan could practically hear him pointing out that his reaction was a bit unhealthy. Appreciation was fine, sure, but the amount of surprise he felt at a partner doing something so simplistically nice probably didn’t speak highly of his past relationships.

Wanting out of that moment before Phil could force Dan to properly think about his reaction, Dan darted out of the lift as soon as the doors opened and hurried down the hallway. Behind him, Phil’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, pausing just out of reach when Dan came to a halt outside of their door and fumbled to find his room key.

Maybe nerves or exhilaration or exhaustion was still gripping Dan, or maybe it was the knowledge that he had Phil and a hotel room and a foreign city all to himself tonight, but it took him three tries of swiping their card before the light finally flickered green.

The click of the latch was a wave of relief, and Dan found himself shoving their door open with far more force and enthusiasm than was necessary. Without waiting for Phil, Dan barrelled into their room and crossed the space in three quick strides, coming to a stop in front of their bed and spinning around to stare impatiently at Phil.

Fucking finally, they were alone.

Phil was a few steps behind him, and didn’t seem to have any of the urgency that Dan had. Dan watched anxiously as Phil walked towards him at the pace of an impregnated, fat sloth. Carefully, and ungodly slowly, Phil sat the guitar down in front of the bed and finally, finally his hands were free.

Dan didn’t wait for Phil to straighten up before launching himself into Phil’s arms, physically demanding to be held. The sudden weight of Dan threw Phil off balance, causing him to stumble backwards towards the bed.

“Oi,” Phil gasped as he tumbled to the bed, just barely managing to not fall all the way onto his back under Dan’s momentum. Even as he fell, his hands landed on Dan’s hips and pulled him down to the bed too. Just for a moment, Dan found himself awkwardly leaning into Phil, not quite sitting, not quite standing.

With a flustered giggle, Dan shifted his body so he was straddling Phil’s lap instead. Dan’s hands slid up from Phil’s waist, and looped around his neck, finally pulling him into the private and intimate embrace Dan had been dying for.

“Well hello there,” Phil greeted, his hands dipping under the hem of Dan’s jumper, his fingers thumbing over the jut of Dan’s hipbone. Phil’s voice was low, and his touch was sultry, and Dan couldn’t hold back a shaky sigh. He felt so damn needy, and the soft drag of Phil’s fingers on his bare skin was already quieting his screaming mind some.

Dan shifted back up, just enough so that he could look Phil in the eye. The cheeky and smug look on Phil’s face wasn’t surprising — maybe someday Phil would stop looking so satisfied about the reactions he pulled from Dan, but they clearly weren’t there yet.

“Hi,” Dan responded with a smile, not even bothering to hide the effect Phil was having on him. Dan tipped his head forward, closing the small distance between them, and pressed his lips to Phil’s.

Despite Phil’s teasing tone, he let Dan take what he wanted, matching Dan kiss for kiss and touch for touch. Dan wasn’t sure who licked whose lips first, who opened their mouth for who first. He did, however, realize that it only took a short minute for them to escalate from sweet kisses to proper snogging.

Before they could get too carried away, Dan pulled back, panting slightly. Even though he needed a decent lung capacity for singing, it seemed that kissing Phil for two minutes stole his breath in a way that a long high note never could.

“Where’s — the room service — menu?” Dan asked, his words coming in pants as his gaze drifted to the bedside table and then the desk, searching for a helpful booklet.

Phil fingers slipped down from the middle of Dan’s waist to the low hem of his pants. His brows furrowed and he cocked his head to the side. “Why?” he asked.

Huffing an exaggerated sigh, Dan shot Phil an incredulous look. “Because I’ve had a crazy fucking day and would like to let loose a little…?” After knowing Phil for nearly three full months, Dan was rather surprised to have to point out the obvious to him.

“Well yeah,” Phil huffed and cleared his throat. His pupils were blown wide, and now it was Dan’s turn to feel pleased with himself; he might be a mess from two minutes of kissing Phil, but Phil was just as flustered after two minutes of kissing Dan. “I know that much.” Phil rolled his eyes and slid his hands out of Dan’s trousers to a less scandalous spot, tracing his thumbs lightly Dan’s prominent hip bones. “I just meant, I’m surprised that you don’t want to go out since we only have a few nights here.”

Dan shrugged, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth as he contemplated Phil’s comment. He’d definitely had some great nights in the bars of New York, but they’d all come with the unfortunate price tag of at least half a dozen paparazzi photos. That wasn’t what Dan wanted tonight — tonight he just wanted Phil.

Tentatively, Dan let his hands drift from Phil’s shoulders up to his bare neck, his thumbs softly rubbing along Phi’s pulse points. “I mean… It’s not that I don’t want to enjoy New York, I just…” Dan couldn’t help the way his gaze drifted down from Phil’s, landing instead on his lips. Coyly — or at least he hoped it was coy and sexy — Dan slipped his hands down Phil’s neck and under the collar of his button-up shirt. “I’d rather not be bothered by a fan or the media tonight, ya know?” Just in case the meaning behind his words wasn’t clear enough, Dan dipped his thumb further down Phil’s shirt and grazed his collarbone suggestively.

“Mmm, that’s fair,” Phil murmured. Taking Dan’s lead, Phil’s hands nudged up higher on Dan’s hips, pushing his leather jacket and tight jumper up even higher so Phil’s fingers could brush over the bare skin near the top of Dan’s ribs. “But what if I told you I knew a place where we’d be left alone?”

Cocking an eyebrow, Dan straightened up. He’d been in New York. He’d been to elite clubs, he’d been to dive bars, he’d been to locals only restaurants — and on every occasion, he’d been photographed. In his experience, this was a city of famous people, and in turn, that meant it was a city of photographs and tabloids, a city of journalists searching for their next break.

“What kind of place is this?” Dan asked skeptically.

“Well,” Phil bit his lip, suddenly looking a little hesitant. “Technically it’s a gay club. But the standard cover is high enough to keep out most fans, and they’ve got an absurd amount of security, just in case.”

“How do you know about a place like that?” Dan pried; he’d been to New York half a dozen times and he’d never heard of any exclusive gay clubs. But even as Dan questioned Phil’s knowledge, he could feel the excitement growing in his stomach. He hadn’t been to a proper gay bar since he was seventeen, and never with a partner — at least not someone who wasn’t just a fling. He couldn’t deny that the idea was hotter than hell.

“Oh. Uh, well,” Phil shrugged awkwardly, sounding shifty. His eyes darted away from Dan’s, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Another gay youtuber has a friend who is a bouncer there?” he explained, but he sounded so unsure that it came out as a question.

Dan eyed Phil suspiciously. “How jealous should I be of this guy right now?”

“Of Tyler? Not at all. No way. Never.” Phil shook his head vehemently, his gaze flicking back to Dan.

“And Tyler is…?” Dan prompted slowly, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head.

“He’s just a casual friend who lives in LA. We collaborate when we’re in the same city,” Phil shrugged.

Dan narrowed his eyes skeptically. “And the bouncer?” he pushed, sensing that there was something that Phil wasn’t admitting.

Phil’s gaze shifted to the side again, his cheeks growing red. The grip on Dan’s chest slipped, Phil’s hands dropping down to the base of Dan’s hips.

Dan’s heart followed Phil’s hands, plummeting down into his stomach and then somehow sinking even further. Just from Phil’s reaction, Dan knew he’d figured it out.

“It was one time and really didn’t matter,” Phil admitted, sounding defeated, embarrassed. “But he’ll let us both in for free and there won’t be cameras there.”

Dan was surprised to find that he wasn’t just jealous, he was almost repulsed. His stomach churned as his brain supplied images of Phil and some gorgeous boy tangled in bed together, making him feel nauseous.

“I’m not sure I want to meet a guy you’ve fucked,” Dan said, aiming for teasing and joking, but as soon as he said it, he was sure the insecurity shined through. “I mean, what if he’s cuter than me?” Dan chuckled half-heartedly, doing his best to salvage his dignity. He really didn’t want Phil to think he was a jealous dick or clingy or something else completely annoying. Even if it was kind of true.

Phil laughed — genuinely laughed, not an awkward chuckle like before. “First off,” he started, his voice actually light and humorous, not forced casual like Dan’s. “There’s no way anyone has ever, or could ever, be cuter than you. Not that I'm aiming to find someone else.” As if to prove his point, Phil’s fingers dipped into Dan’s jeans and pointedly hooked under his pants. It wasn’t just a little this time; now Phil’s hands were properly inside of Dan’s pants, his fingers inching towards more intimate parts of Dan’s body. “And second off,” Phil continued, “I suffered through two months of knowing you were sleeping with someone else. I think five seconds of interaction with a random guy I slept with a year ago doesn’t compare.”

“Uh!!” Dan gasped in protest, his voice high pitched and offended. “I didn’t sleep with her for the last month and you know it!”

“Yeah, now I know,” Phil agreed begrudgingly. “But I didn’t then and I was so damn envious.” Phil licked his lips slowly. “Plus,” he added, his voice lower and gruff. “You were sleeping with her in the beginning, and I had to watch you come in with marks all up and down your neck that proved it.” As if to make his point, Phil dragged his fingers along Dan’s sensitive neck possessively, thumbing over the spot where coverup was hiding a hickey on Dan’s pulse point.

Dan’s stomach twisted in reaction, and a shiver ran down his back — whether it was the clear jealous attitude or the cursing that was turning him on, he wasn’t sure. There was a part of him that was willing to forfeit embracing any amount of New York tonight, that wanted to rock his hips forward and show Phil just how little reason he had to be jealous now, to take full advantage of the nice hotel room they had.

“Come on, let me take you out, buy you a few drinks. Maybe a nice dinner first, if you’re hungry,” Phil pleaded.

There was another part of Dan — an unexpectedly bigger part of him — that was itching to go out with Phil, to find a different way to show Phil that Dan was all his, even if it wasn’t the approach he was used to. And besides, after so many months of being dragged out by his ex, something in Dan couldn’t help finding the fact that Phil wanted to take him out, just for the sake of being together, incredibly sexy.

“Alright,” Dan agreed, conceding even as he let his hips suggestively rock against Phil’s just once — he couldn’t resist, not if he wasn’t going to have the chance to do so for a while. “We should definitely have something to eat first, though. I haven’t eaten nearly enough today and I reckon I’ll be drunk after half a cocktail if we don’t get food.”

“Fair enough,” Phil agreed as his hands slipped out of Dan’s pants, lightly gripping Dan’s hips and guiding him backwards. Tilting slightly to the side, Phil fished his phone out of his back pocket. “What kind of food do you want, then?”

“Doesn’t matter. Something with a view of the city might be nice,” Dan suggested with a small shrug. Sliding all the way off Phil’s lap, Dan made his way to the mirror, fluffing at his hair. The makeup from earlier still looked nice; the eyeliner wasn’t smudgy and the color on his cheeks still seemed to accentuate his features. Eyes meeting Phil in the mirror, Dan added, “Nowhere so fancy we can’t wear the clothes we’re wearing to the club, though.”

He knew if they had to come back to the hotel to change there was no way Phil was convincing him to leave again.

“I know just the place,” Phil said decisively, his gaze turning back to his phone.

*******

Less than an hour later, an uber was dropping Dan and Phil just outside of Times Square with an apology that they couldn’t get them any closer to their destination. During what felt like an infinitely-long car ride for Dan’s curious nerves, Phil had refused to tell Dan where he was taking him, and for a split second, Dan had been worried Phil was going to usher him to one of the hot dog or pizza carts littered around the square before leading him to a bench to people watch.

Not that Dan was strictly opposed to street food — he certainly didn’t want Phil to splurge on another fancy meal so soon after their last date. But also, he’d learned from experience what some vendors’ food will do to stomachs, and if they were planning to head to a club later that night, they should at least try to spare themselves diarrhea and food poisoning.

Phil took a hard right before they made it to the throngs of people though, his hand on Dan’s lower back to guide him in the right direction. The sudden turn led them… into the valet entrance to the Marriott?

Dan turned to look at Phil, but his face was perfectly neutral. “Phil, did you bring us halfway across Manhattan to eat at a different hotel’s restaurant?” Dan asked dubiously, letting Phil lead him through the revolving doors and into the hotel lobby.

“Yeah, we’re going to eat at the touristy hotel bar of a place we aren’t even staying,” Phil responded sarcastically. His hand dropped from Dan’s back, something that disappointed Dan until he followed Phil’s gaze to a gaggle of teenagers across the lobby. “Just trust me, Howell,” Phil teased, flashing Dan a coy smile as he pressed the call button for the lift, the doors immediately opening.

“If you insist,” Dan smirked, stepping into the lift after Phil. “You’re on thin ice though, Lester.” Despite the mock-warning in his voice, Dan quickly closed the gap between them when the doors closed and pressed a quick kiss to Phil’s cheek.

The doors parted again just seconds later, letting them out at the third floor. Confidently, Phil led them down the hallway, only to stop in front of another set of lifts. Dan cocked an eyebrow but wordlessly followed Phil as the doors to the next lift opened.

“Those only go to hotel rooms past this floor,” Phil cryptically explained as he pressed the button for the forty-eighth floor. This ride was longer, giving Phil enough time to lean in and kiss Dan on the lips. “I can’t promise this place will be free of photographers, so get it out of your system.”

Despite his giggles, Dan leaned forward and captured Phil’s lips with his own, this time lingering long enough to capture Phil’s lower lip between his teeth, long enough to nip at the soft and sensitive flesh inside Phil’s mouth. Long enough to reach for Phil’s hips and slip his fingers beneath Phil’s clothes, suggestively thumbing across the bare skin of Phil’s waist.

“Mmff!” Phil let out a throaty noise halfway between a moan and a reprimand, as he pulled back from Dan’s kiss.

“What?” Dan asked innocently, even as he let his fingers drift towards Phil’s arse. “You said to get it out of my system.”

“Well I didn’t think you’d feel me up in a lift,” Phil shot back snarkily.

“Mmmm,” Dan hummed. “Maybe I could resist feeling my boyfriend up in a lift if he didn’t look so damn gorgeous.” Dan eyed the denim jacket Phil was wearing, his gaze lingering on the fitted shirt covered with tiny pale flowers that was buttoned up all the way to his Adam’s apple, drawing Dan’s attention to Phil’s neck. The deep, pinot-noir purple stood out starkly against Phil’s pale skin, bringing out his eyes and making him look unfairly quirky and sexy at the same time.

The bell dinged and the doors parted, cutting off Phil’s reply. Dan snapped his mouth shut, but let himself continue eying Phil as he exited the lift — he could only do so much to tamp down his blatant arousal tonight, when Phil looked like that.

Phil didn’t hesitate to stride up to the host stand and give his name — that was something Dan was still getting used to, a partner being willing to take the lead in moments like this. It was proving to be far hotter than Dan had ever expected it to be.

Dan was still processing everything when the hostess started leading them towards a table. The restaurant seemed to form a circle around the lifts, and all of the exterior walls were replaced with grand windows overlooking the New York skyline.

Dan had only gotten one foot on the raised platform before Phil’s hands were softly gripping his shoulders. It was a good thing, too; Dan was fairly certain he would have fallen if Phil hadn’t steadied him. Beneath their feet, the platform was moving.

“What the…?” Dan breathed, baffled by the way the top step was moving but the bottom wasn’t.

“Look outside,” Phil murmured, his voice just centimeters from Dan’s ear. Following Phil’s suggestion, Dan glanced out the nearest window. Now that Dan was looking closer, the city around them seemed to be shifting slightly, and it took him a moment to realize that it was the restaurant that was rotating ever so slowly, not the skyscrapers outside.

“Holy shit,” Dan mumbled quietly, coming to a halt when the hostess gestured to a small table along one of the massive windows.

Dan sat, too captivated by the view of this foreign city to pay attention to the muted conversation Phil was having with the woman. Outside, Dan could see building after building, could see the moon rising over the water. It was a spectacular view, and judging by the slow rotation, it was only a portion of what he was going to see tonight.

It wasn’t until Phil’s knee gently bumped against his that Dan tore his gaze away from the window and turned back to face his boyfriend instead.

“When did you have time to make a reservation?” Dan asked stupidly, his brain still struggling to wrap itself around the amazingly gorgeous restaurant Phil had brought him to.

“While you were primping for tonight,” Phil teased. His hand slid across the table just enough to brush his knuckles across the back of Dan’s hand.

Dan’s hand, the one that wasn’t just barely touching Phil, flew up to self-consciously pat his curly hair.

“Stop,” Phil gently ordered. “You look good. Really good. Primping time was well used.”

Dan’s hand fell back to the table, his thumb immediately tapping out a mindless rhythm. He couldn’t believe Phil had taken the twenty minutes of downtime to book them a window-side table. “You’re amazing,” Dan sighed, awe dripping from his voice. “Seriously amazing.”

Phil tilted his head to the side, shrugging his shoulder as he flashed Dan a cheeky grin. “That is what they call me,” he said playfully.

“Oh fuck off,” Dan huffed, unable to stop the wide smile that spread across his face and the way his hand pressed against Phil’s. Teenage Phil really had picked out the perfect username for himself — amazing was by far the best word to describe him.

Dan’s gaze drifted back to the window. The view was slowly twisting so that they could see more and more of the river. The water was twinkling, reflecting both the moon and the bright lights of the city.

“Wait,” Dan exclaimed suddenly, his head whipping from the window to Phil. “Don’t you get motion sickness?”

Phil shrugged, a soft smile on his face. “Usually. But the restaurant moves so slowly that it won’t bother me as long as I don’t look outside for too long.”

Huffing a small sigh, Dan frowned slightly. “We could have gone to a restaurant where the view wouldn’t make you sick,” Dan pointed out.

“We could have,” Phil agreed easily. “But I knew you’d like this one.”

“Oh,” Dan mumbled quietly, a smile pulling at his lips. He turned his attention to the menu, if for no other reason than an easy excuse for hiding the blush that was flushing his cheeks. Phil ignored his dinner menu in favor of the black, leather-bound drink book on the table.

“Does your hatred for white wine extend to champagne, as well?” Phil asked idly, not looking up from the menu he was studying.

“Definitely not,” Dan denied vehemently, smiling stupidly at the thought of Phil ordering them champagne. “Champagne is its own branch of alcohol and it’s wonderful.”

“Good,” Phil folded the alcohol menu primly, and looked back up at Dan. “Because you were truly exceptional tonight, and deserve to be spoiled.”

“Phi-illlll,” Dan whined, bringing his menu up to hide the redness of his face with such force that it accidentally smacked him in the nose. His stomach tightened at the compliment, a shiver ran down his spine.

“Oh I forgot,” Phil said innocuously, his voice far too knowing to actually be innocent. “Does someone have a bit of a praise kink?” Phil continued with fake-casualness, his voice low and quiet. Husky. Sexy.

Dan dropped his forehead to the table with a resounding thunk, the menu shifting to cover the back of his head as his hands shielded his face from Phil’s view. “You aren’t supposed to take advantage of that in public.”

“Oops!” Phil laughed, actually laughed, as he kicked a foot out to nudge Dan’s. “Sit up and pick out what you want for an appetizer, babe.”

Slightly mortified, and more than a little flustered, Dan rose up again, his gaze steadfastly fixed on his menu. It was a fruitless effort, though — he could feel Phil’s eyes boring into him, which did nothing to calm his pounding heart and swooping stomach.

He realized they’d been handed a prix-fixe menu, meaning they would each get three courses for the flat rate of… holy shit. Eighty nine dollars.

At this rate, it was getting hard to tell if Phil’s tastes in restaurants was just as fancy as Dan’s, or if he was trying far too hard to impress him. In the months that Dan had gotten to know Phil, he’d learned that Phil was generally somewhat frugal — though never to a fault. In his business and personal life, Phil was always conscious about how he earned and spent his money. That hardly seemed in line with the extravagant dinners he was taking Dan to.

“Phil,” Dan started carefully, planning to test the waters and see if Phil would want to switch to the normal menu, one where they could share an appetizer and skip dessert (and shave a few dollars off the bill).

“Hush up and choose your appetizer, Howell,” Phil said without looking up from his own menu.

“Fine, I will, but…” Dan trailed off, his eyes darting out the window to avoid looking at Phil for a second before drifting back.

Phil folded his menu in front of him and looked at Dan with an unreadable stare. “But what?”

“But… you know not every date has to be expensive food and fancy restaurants, right? I’d be fine with Dominos and your sofa.”

“And I’m sure we’ll have our fair share of nights in with too much pizza. But I also like quality food and nice restaurants, and I know you do, too. So order whatever you want and enjoy tonight.”

Dan’s face must have betrayed the small bit of wariness that was still gnawing at his stomach, because Phil continued, “Look, if it makes you feel better, I promise you can pay next time we go somewhere expensive, okay?”

Dan smiled, his heart melting. “I adore you, Phil Lester.”

“And I you, Daniel Howell.”

****

The food was heavenly. Dan opted for lighter, mostly vegan dishes — a salad and a lovely squash roast — because he didn’t want to feel bloated and lethargic if they were going out after dinner. Phil had seafood instead and offered Dan small tastes of it, holding his fork across the table and letting Dan bite off it.

Dinner was lovely, but the company was even better. By the time their waiter was bringing them dessert menus, they were both well on their way to properly tipsy.

Sometime during the main course, Phil had ordered a second bottle of Dom Perignon. The bubbles — and ever growing feelings of infatuation — were going straight to Dan’s head, making him feel giddy in a way he couldn’t ever remember feeling before.

Around them, the restaurant was quietly buzzing with the Friday night crowd, the bar growing slightly more crowded as the night went on. Sometime in the past hour, the overhead lamps had dimmed, the lights of the city outside casting a soft glow over their table. They’d made a full circle, rotating around to see the empire state building and central park, and now they were back to the river.

Still though, Dan only had eyes for Phil.

Under the table, their feet were entwined together, mostly shrouded by the long white table cloth — although the more champagne Dan drank, the less he cared. A few times, when Phil gave him a particularly sweet compliment or an especially sexy look, Dan couldn’t resist brushing his fingertips over Phil’s or letting his toe drag up the inside of Phil’s leg.

In typical Phil fashion, he turned his full attention away from Dan for the first time all night when the dessert menus came, reading over the options with impressively deep intense concentration. Dan didn’t mind — he knew he couldn’t compete with sweet food, but he also knew dessert would come and go, and Phil would be his again.

“Dan!” Phil exclaimed, pointing to the very first item on the menu. “Look, they’ve made cake out of cheese! That shouldn’t get to count as a dessert!”

Dan giggled, his eyes still trained on Phil. “You know, not everyone has the same weird aversion to cheese as you, Philly.”

Phil didn’t respond, too engrossed in the list. “Oooo, look, they have profiteroles and — ew!” Head shooting back up, Phil gave Dan a genuinely horrified expression. His voice was just a hair too loud for inside, especially for the posh and intimate restaurant, but it was fine. “Who orders a cheese plate for dessert!?”

Fuck, Dan was so soft for this boy, this boy who had such bullheaded opinions over what counted as dessert, but was entirely open-minded about anything bigger. “What can I say, the world is full of zanies and fools.”

“Who don’t believe in sensible rules?” Phil quipped back with his brows raised knowingly, not quite singing, but also not exactly just talking either.

“Exactly,” Dan agreed with a nod, letting his eyes linger for just a second before finally flitting down to read his own dessert menu. There was an undefined sappy thought beating at the edge of Dan’s mind, something about how Phil felt like the fairytale impossible thing that happened to him, but he shoved it aside — that was too much even for his champagne-addled heart.

Scanning his menu, Dan’s gaze caught on one of the desserts — not because of the ingredients, but because of the suggestive name.

“I reckon I’ll order the Cherry Explosion,” Dan said, voice low as he looked up at Phil through his darker-than-usual eyelashes. “Hopefully it’ll be a preview of what’s to come later tonight.”

Phil held his gaze for a long second, a slow smirk spreading across his face and a playful twinkle in his eye. “You know,” he started slowly, leaning forward. Beneath the table, a warm hand suddenly landed on Dan’s thigh, fingertips dipping between his legs to rub along the inseam of Dan’s trousers. “I’m not normally a big fan of cherries, but if that’s what gets you there, I can get used to it.”

Dan’s jaw dropped open — both at Phil’s words and at the way his hand was slowly creeping higher and higher up Dan’s leg.

“I don’t — I’m not —” Dan stuttered, trying to defend why he had cherry lube at home, but there wasn’t a restaurant appropriate way to say that he got used to keeping it on hand in hopes that it would entice his ex-boyfriend to eat him out. “I don’t love the taste that much!” Dan finally managed.

Phil’s hand froze on Dan’s leg, his brows shooting up and a knowing smile growing on his lips. “So the flavor isn’t for your benefit, hmm?”

Shrugging, Dan did his best to keep his face neutral and voice steady — but the heat on his cheeks and his quickened breath told him he wasn’t doing a great job of either. “A lad can hope…” Dan muttered weakly.

The knowing smile on Phil’s lips turned positively lewd, his tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip, his eyes darkening with lust. “Hope for what, Daniel?” Phil challenged.

Dan swallowed thickly, squirming beneath Phil’s intense gaze. He fiddled with the edge of his menu, resisting the simultaneous urges to knock Phil’s hand off his leg so he could think straight and pull Phil’s hand a few centimeters higher to where Dan really wanted it. “You know… something besides just… fingers,” Dan murmured, dropping his eyes to the table.

“I think most people don’t need flavors for a simple blowjob,” Phil pointed out, a smug edge to his voice.

“Philllll,” Dan whined, his face growing impossibly redder. “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he grumbled into his flute of champagne, refusing to look Phil in the eye.

“Look at me, babe,” Phil demanded softly. Head still bowed, Dan shifted his eyes to look up at Phil, whose fingers resumed their teasing caress along Dan’s inner thigh. “And tell me what you meant.”

“I didn’t mean there,” Dan whined, praying Phil wouldn’t actually make him confess that he liked being eaten out in the middle of a fancy New York restaurant. That’d he’d settle for the blatant implication.

Phil looked like he might push it, but Dan was saved by the timely appearance of their waiter, back to take their dessert order.

Without taking his eyes off Dan, Phil ordered, his voice returning to its normal volume, a hint of huskiness still laced in. “I’ll have the profiterole, please, and he’ll have the cherry explosion.”

Pointedly, Phil squeezed Dan’s thigh, and Dan felt like he was on the verge of cracking, on the verge of begging Phil to dine and dash, to skip the club, to go back to their hotel — or fuck it, get a room in this one — and fuck him already. The subtle way Phil took charge, the way he challenged Dan in ways none of his past partners ever had, the way he made Dan feel so bloody taken care of — fuck, it was driving Dan insane.

“Bloody hell, Phil. You’re gonna kill me.”

*****************

“We’re here, babe, you have to get out of the car,” Phil insisted with a giggle. He was standing on the curb, holding the car door open and offering Dan his hand.

“I caaaan’t,” Dan whined, his words slurring together thanks to the full bottle of champagne he’d drank at dinner. He petulantly crossed his arms and stayed firmly planted in his seat.

“This nice man has’ta go pick up his next people, though,” Phil pointed out, flashing an apologetic glance towards the front of the car.

“But Phil, if I get out, then e’ryone’ll see,” Dan grumbled. Phil’s eyes followed Dan’s gesture towards his lap, a saucy smirk quickly pulling at his lips.

Dan’d been half-hard since they’d ordered dessert, and his trousers were still pulling tightly across his crotch, a telling tent forming in the center. Phil had been entirely unhelpful during the ride to the club, alternating between teasing Dan about how easily excitable he was and letting his hand wander up and down Dan’s thigh, not giving him the chance to calm down. They’d both had too much champagne to be discreet about it, and Dan hoped the driver wasn’t too scarred — he hadn’t said anything to reprimand them, at least.

“It’s dark out, no one’ll notice,” Phil argued, threading his hand through Dan’s and tugging gently. The awkward reach across the backseat was enough to unsteady Phil, and he braced himself on the doorframe, wobbling just a bit. “C’mon, as soon as we’re inside, you can get us a seat on the sofas and I’ll get us drinks, okay?”

Dan peered around Phil and saw that there wasn’t a line for the club. Maybe they were early — this was New York after all — or maybe this place really was as fancy as Phil had insinuated. Regardless of the reason, that meant Dan would have to interact with minimal people before he could sit down again. Plus, maybe a few minutes away from Phil would help Dan cool down. Lord knew he needed it.

“Here,” Phil let go of Dan’s hand and shrugged out of his denim jacket, offering it to Dan. “You can hold this in front of you in you want.”

“You’ll be cold, though,” Dan said guiltily.

“Not for long if you hurry up and c’mon!” Phil smiled widely, his tongue peeking out more than usual, and shook the jacket at Dan.

Giving in with a disgruntled grumble, Dan gratefully took Phil’s jacket as he climbed out of the uber, only stumbling a little, which he thought was probably a win given that he was definitely both tipsy and turned on. Dan tried to casually sling the jacket over his arm, aiming for a good boyfriend carrying his partner’s coat vibe, and not horny twenty-something hard because of some light pawing.

Phil’s hand landed on Dan’s lower back, guiding Dan towards the entrance. He dropped his hand as they got close, and reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

He started rifling through, for what Dan wasn’t sure, but the brown-haired bouncer suddenly smiled widely, seeming to recognize Phil, and told him not to worry about it.

Shit — the bouncer! Dan’s drunken and infatuated mind had forgotten that the only reason Phil knew about this place was because he’d fucked the bouncer. Or maybe the bouncer had fucked him. At this point, Dan honestly didn’t know which was worse to think about.

“Well, hey there Phil,” the bouncer greeted, his gaze blatantly raking up and down Phil’s form. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Hi, Oliver,” Phil greeted politely, smiling but keeping his eyes fixed on the other boy’s face. Dan couldn’t help but size up this lad who had slept with Phil; he had chocolate brown hair, curls, and deep eyes — just like Dan. In many ways, looking at this guy was like looking in a warped mirror.

Except for in one very important way.

This guy was built in a way Dan never had been, nor would ever be. His biceps were literally bulging against his sleeves, and Dan could see the sharp outline of defined pectoral muscles under the thin material covering his shirt. Jesus, it was March! Shouldn’t this guy be wearing a jacket or something? Not showing his muscles off to the world?

And rubbing them in Phil’s new boyfriend’s face?

Well aware that he was probably glowering, Dan tuned back into the conversation just in time to hear Oliver telling Phil he looked good tonight.

“I’ll be off at one if you’re free tonight,” the bouncer said as he brushed his hand over Phil’s forearm and offered him a saucy wink. Goddamn, Dan was well familiar with that move, and he wasn’t particularly enjoying watching some random bloke pull it on his boyfriend.

The bouncer’s gaze finally drifted away from Phil, landing on Dan for the first time. Understanding seemed to register in his eyes and his hand dropped. “Although, I’m now realizing that might not be an option anymore…” he added, trailing off.

“Oh, uh,” Phil stuttered, sounding strangled and surprised. His hand reached out and wrapped around Dan’s waist. “Yeah. I mean, no! Not’n option, sorry. This is my boyfriend, Dan.”

“Ah, that’s too bad,” Oliver frowned, disappointed, before offering Dan a cheeky smirk. "You’re lucky. From what I remember your boyfriend sure can ride. He's quite the power bottom, in’it he?"

Dan could feel all the color draining out of his face, could feel how tense his entire body was, could feel his nails digging into the palms of his hands. He was practically shaking — with what, he wasn’t sure. Phil said he’d slept with this guy a year ago. It wasn’t like Dan really had the right to be mad or jealous — they hadn’t even met yet.

But still.

Riding was Dan’s favorite position — he wasn’t keen on imagining Phil doing that with some other guy.

“We’re going in now,” Phil said tersely. “You sure you don’t need a cover?” he added with minimal politeness, cutting in before Dan could say anything. Not that Dan had any idea what he’d say in a moment like this. He reckoned it’d probably start with a choice four letter word, though.

“Nah of course not, it’s always free for you gorgeous,” Oliver replied flirtily, and had the nerve to fucking wink at Phil, even after it became clear Phil was taken. “Feel free to call if you’re ever around again!” His gaze shifted to Dan, dragging over his comparatively lanky body. Dan couldn’t help self consciously adjusting the jacket in front of him, squirming under the lewd scrutiny of this built bouncer. “Or are looking for a third,” Oliver added, this time winking at Dan and deliberately licking his lips.

“He won’t be,” Dan snapped, grabbing Phil’s hand tightly and pulling him into the club as soon as they had permission.

Phil followed willingly, not even attempting to pause and apologize to the guy about Dan’s rude behavior. Not that Dan thought his reaction was unjustified — the asshole had ignored Dan, hit on his boyfriend, and asked for a threesome, all within a five minute window.

Inside, Dan paused for a fraction of a second to appraise his surroundings. The club was dim in a seductive, anonymous way. There were guys everywhere, far more than the lineless entrance had suggested. A long bar lined the back wall, and sofas and low tables created narrow aisles, leaving no room for a dance floor — something that was both surprising and disappointing. Dancing would have been an easy way for Dan to release some of his pent up emotions.

Scanning the room for alternate options, Dan’s eyes caught on a deserted hallway. He pulled Phil down it, not stopping until they were passed the glowing coat check window and as far from the crowd as they could be. Dan’s grip was probably still a little too tight on Phil’s hand, but Phil didn’t complain and didn’t question.

As soon as Dan thought they were alone enough, he spun around on his heel, grabbing Phil by the waist and crowding him up against the wall in one smooth motion. Phil’s jacket fell carelessly from Dan’s grip to the floor as Dan planted his feet on either side of Phil’s, his chest and hips pressed in close.

The position left Phil pinned to the wall, and given the unspoken dynamic that they were both exploring, Dan half expected Phil to flip their positions, to switch places so that Phil was the one pinning Dan to the wall.

Much to Dan’s satisfaction, however, Phil’s only movement was to loop his arms around Dan and pull him closer, hands splayed on Dan’s lower back. That prick outside had gotten under Dan’s skin, and he needed to remind himself that Phil wasn’t with that arse. Dan needed to remember that after months of pining and lusting and yearning, Phil was finally with him and no one else.

“Mine,” Dan growled as he surged forward and captured Phil’s lips with his own. Phil chuckled softly into the kiss, his chest rumbling against Dan’s. Dan could feel Phil’s fingers tracing across his back, could feel Phil’s lips quirking up into a smile. The whole thing reeked of fond and cute, but Dan didn’t want fond and cute right now.

He wanted passionate and possessive.

So Dan didn’t pause, didn’t pull back to let Phil laugh. If anything, he kissed harder; his lips moved urgently against Phil’s and his hands slipped up from Phil’s hips, desperately running over any part of Phil’s chest he could reach without having to step back.

Phil’s lips parted, and Dan didn’t hesitate to slip his tongue in, roughly licking the roof of Phil’s mouth. Not quite battling for dominance, but definitely not letting Dan take complete charge of the kiss either, Phil massaged Dan’s tongue with his own, his hands sliding down to firmly grab Dan’s arse.

The dark hallway, the anonymous club, the foreign city — they all felt like a shelter from the real world, and Dan let himself get lost in kissing and touching and groping. Maybe it was the champagne, or maybe it was the red-hot jealousy coursing through his veins, but Dan didn’t even really care if someone noticed them. Hell, he almost hoped that asshat of a bouncer decided to go on a loo break and saw the way Dan had Phil pushed up against the wall, the way Dan had his tongue down Phil’s throat.

Saw that Phil was Dan’s.

When kissing Phil became too much for Dan’s poor lungs to handle, he pulled back roughly only to immediately latch his lips onto Phil’s neck. Needing to feel Phil in every way he could, Dan rocked his hips forward, grinding their crotches together with a force that made them both groan.

“Mine,” Dan grumbled again, the word vibrating against Phil’s pulse point and pulling a deep moan out of him. He nipped at Phil’s neck, just hard enough for Phil to hiss and tighten his grip on Dan’s arse, his fingers deliciously digging into Dan’s cheeks. “Mine, mine, mine,” Dan repeated before licking over the red spot on Phil’s neck and sucking harshly.

“Of course,” Phil replied, his voice surprisingly full of conviction given how ragged his breath was growing. “All yours, baby.”

Dan slid his hands down Phil’s side, rucking his shirt up and grabbing at the soft, bare skin of Phil’s hips. “I don’t wanna share you with anyone,” Dan mumbled into Phil’s neck as his lips kissed and bit and sucked their way up to the sensitive spot beneath Phil’s ear.

“Good,” Phil huffed, this time his voice lower and more affected. One hand left Dan’s arse to tangle in his curls, pulling back forcefully until their gazes met. “Don’t wanna share you, either.”

Dan moaned, probably far too loudly for the coat check hallway of some club, but he couldn’t help it. He’d always preferred monogamy — for a lot of reasons. Something about monogamy with Phil, though. Fuck, it was so damn hot that Dan found himself getting even more riled up. And, sure, maybe it wasn’t an idea that would make many people horny, but it was turning Dan on — he literally didn’t think Phil could say anything sexier.

Hands groping higher up under Phil’s shirt, Dan crashed their lips together again, unable to resist the urge to grind their hips together again. His involuntary moan was drowned out by a loud wolf-whistle.

“Get some, sexy!” A deep, male voice called out, making Dan’s wandering hands come to an abrupt halt on Phil’s ribs and his breath catch in his throat.

“Fuck,” Dan muttered, tearing away from Phil’s lips and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Dan could feel his cheeks growing hot with embarrassment, could feel Phil’s husky laughter as his head tipped back and thunked against the wall.

Dan wasn’t concerned about the whistling stranger recognizing them, not in the dark shadows of a dim hallway in a fancy club. He was, however, mortified — and unexpectedly a little turned on — at being caught feverishly making out with someone in public, even if it was his boyfriend.

Phil tugged lightly on Dan’s hair, this time lacking the command from earlier, and guided Dan to look at him.

“Drinks?” Phil proposed, his voice ragged in a way that made Dan radiate with satisfaction.

“Yeah,” Dan panted in agreement. “That didn’t help my problem at all, though,” he added quietly. Rocking his hips against Phil’s, Dan let Phil feel the full hardness of his cock. Through their trousers, Dan could tell that Phil’s cock was swollen too, at least halfway, and the friction was absolutely heavenly. Dan had to bite back another moan at the relief that Phil’s hips gave.

“Grab my coat and go find us a sofa. I’ll get us drinks.” Phil’s thumb dragged back and forth, back and forth across Dan’s hip, rendering him speechless and incapable of countering with any other plan, even if a part of him did still want to at least try to pay for something tonight.

“Alright,” Dan mumbled, leaning forward to press his lips to Phil’s one more time before pulling back entirely. Bending down, Dan scooped Phil’s jacket up off the floor and slung it over his arm and in front of his crotch in what he hoped was a casual manner.

Dan let Phil lead the way down the hallway, hovering behind him and taking advantage of the extra coverage while he could. When they reached the main room, Phil gave Dan’s free hand a quick squeeze before they parted ways, Phil bee-lining for the back bar and Dan veering right to find some open seats near the edge of the room.

After a minute of winding, Dan found an empty sofa in a corner of the club. The music was quieter over here, no longer so loud that talking would be impossible. He collapsed onto the cushions and spread Phil’s jacket across his lap. The back of the sofa was low, only coming up to his mid-back — probably to stop people from getting too relaxed and not partaking in the whole club thing. Slouching down so his shoulders were supported, Dan pulled his phone out of his pocket to tell Phil where he was.

The first thing he noticed was the time — almost exactly half past eleven. His interview with Jimmy Fallon would be airing any minute now.

The second thing he noticed was about half a dozen text messages from Louise.

Before he opened her messages, Dan shot Phil a quick text, trying to describe the dark corner he was sat in. Switching over to his conversation with Louise, Dan skimmed over her messages. She’d asked how the recording had gone, what his plans were for the evening, cheekily teased that she hoped Dan wasn’t responding because he was getting laid, and promised to tweet about the show for him — bless her, she really was the best friend and manager he could hope for.

Quickly, Dan typed a quick message back, ignoring most of what she’d said and just updating her on things more generally.

Dan [11:28PM]: taping was good i’m happy with it. i’m sure you’ll see soon. phil and i are out. i’ll ring tomorrow xx

Dan was just hitting send when Phil appeared above him. He shuffled back up into a proper sitting position, tucking his phone back into his pocket. Cocking an eyebrow at Dan’s movement, Phil passed Dan a lowball of something dark and on ice.

“Just Louise,” Dan said as an answer to Phil’s silent question and took a sip of his drink. It was some kind of whiskey, something much more bitter than whatever the blue concoction Phil was holding probably was. Dan was grateful that Phil seemed to remember his drink preferences, even though they’d only ordered cocktails together a small handful of times. He didn’t think he could stomach drinking something as colorful and sugary as Phil’s. “Thanks,” Dan said with a smile and a tip of his glass in Phil’s direction.

“You’re welcome,” Phil replied, twisting slightly to face Dan as his free arm came to rest on the back of the sofa behind him. “Sorry about that, by the way.” Phil pointedly nodded his head back towards the door. “I didn’t think he’d hit on me, especially not with you there. Hell, I didn’t even know if he’d be working.”

Dan shrugged, twisting slightly so that he was facing more towards Phil than the rest of the room. “It’s’not your fault,” Dan said genuinely. “Although, you promised me he wasn’t cuter than me.” Petulantly, Dan huffed and sent a glare in the direction of the entrance.

“And?” Phil chuckled, his hand slipping from the sofa, his fingers grazing along Dan’s ribcage. Something about the way Phil was so casually sprawling across the sofa, the sheer manliness of the position, combined with the gentle drag of his fingers on Dan’s side was fucking attractive. “Tha’bloke is nowhere near as stunning as you,” Phil continued, his voice low and sincere.

Dan stuck his bottom lip out, pouting up at Phil. “Are y’kidding?” Dan whined. “He looked like me, but with actual muscles an’ not limp noodle arms.”

Phil’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. His eyes dragged over Dan, lingering on his arms, his chest. Dan squirmed under Phil’s intense gaze, and he was certain his cheeks were growing red. He slouched down again; Phil was taller than him now, and Dan had to tip his head up to look at him. From this angle, Dan had a perfect view of the red marks blossoming on Phil’s neck, and he felt pride swell deep in his stomach.

“I’ll admit I have a bit of a thing for dark hair an’ pretty eyes,” Phil conceded, a small smirk on his face and humor lacing his voice. Elbow still resting on the back of the sofa, Phil bent his arm so he could run his hand through Dan’s hair, petting sweetly. Dan couldn’t resist just slightly leaning his head back into the touch, silently encouraging Phil to continue his ministrations. Jesus christ, he loved his hair being played with, both in and out of the bedroom. “But the muscles don’t really do anything for me.” Phil shrugged casually, his eyes dropping from Dan’s again to salaciously rake over his body.

“In fact,” Phil continued, his voice suddenly lower, huskier. Sexier. “I prefer that you’re a li’le more narrow ‘n me.” The hand in Dan’s hair slid down. Phil’s fingers lightly traced down the side of Dan’s neck, making Dan’s skin feel on fire and his breath catch in his throat. Phil scooched a little more towards Dan, and the close proximity made Dan have to look up even more. “I like being able’ta wrap you up in my arms.”

Arm wrapped around Dan’s shoulder, Phil pulled him in so that Dan’s shoulder was leaning against Phil’s chest, making Dan feel tiny — and not in the bad way he had a minute ago, when he’d been comparing himself to the fit bouncer out front.

This time, Dan was less subtle about the way he settled into Phil’s embrace. He brought the leg closest to Phil up, and let his knee fall into Phil’s lap. Phil seemed to welcome the new position, his other hand shifting to rest his drink on Dan’s thigh.

In sync, they both took a sip of their cocktails, and Dan found himself completely distracted from the bitter taste as he stared heatedly into Phil’s eyes. Pointedly, Dan flicked his gaze down to Phil’s glass with a challenging spark in his eye, and tipped his own drink back further. It wasn’t until the liquid was half gone that Dan stopped. With a small smirk, Phil followed Dan’s lead, lifting his glass higher and chugging.

Dan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way Phil’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and god, he wanted to drag his teeth against it, nip and lick Phil’s neck, add to the marks already there. He wanted to make Phil feel good, wanted to chase the sharpness of the whiskey away with the taste of Phil’s skin.

Overcome with the need to kiss Phil right now, Dan nestled his glass by his hip and tugged on Phil’s wrist. Phil clearly got the hint, his eyes twinkling with mirth and his drink lowering to Dan’s leg.

Pulled together like unstoppable magnets, they both leaned in, their lips meeting with heady passion that was likely too much for a nightclub. Phil tasted fruity and sweet, a perfect contrast to the heavy, bitter flavor of whiskey lingering in Dan’s mouth. Their lips moved against each other, Phil’s tongue almost immediately dragging along Dan’s lower lip, practically demanding entrance. Pliant and desperate for anything Phil would give him, Dan parted his lips and let Phil in. Hot desire rushed through Dan’s veins, his arousal only growing when Phil licked behind his teeth.

Dan let himself be kissed, pushing up, up, up into Phil, chasing the overwhelming feeling of Phil. It was so much, and yet not enough.

A sharp tug of Dan’s hair forced him to tip his head back further — and jesus fuck, that was hot. The new angle gave Phil access to Dan’s neck, and his lips worked their way down from Dan’s mouth to his pulse point. Beneath Phil’s mouth, Dan could feel his blood rushing, his heart pounding, and he never wanted this moment to end. The soft scrape of Phil’s teeth on his skin drew a loud moan out of Dan and caused his muscles to go slack.

Wet, cold liquid splashed onto Dan’s thigh, and he tore himself away from Phil’s lips. He looked down, finding his glass tipped precariously to the side. Oops.

Now that their drinks were emptier and the music was louder, any hope of carrying on a proper conversation had slipped away. That was fine — they’d talked plenty at dinner, and there’d be plenty of time for talking later.

Sitting upright, Dan drained the last sips of his whiskey, motioning for Phil to do the same. There were only a few gulps left in Phil’s, and he obediently knocked it back. As soon as the drink was empty, Dan snatched the glass out of Phil’s hand and hurriedly put them both on the table. His movements were careless and clumsy, resulting in one of the glasses almost immediately tipping over and ice spilling out.

Dan ignored the mess — he didn’t particularly care about anything other than Phil right now. Dan swooped back in and pressed his lips to Phil’s, his leg shifting so that he was nearly straddling Phil. Warm, firm hands gripped Dan’s hips, lifting and pulling until Dan was fully in Phil’s lap.

“Fuck,” Dan moaned against Phil’s lips, painfully turned on by the way Phil was fucking manhandling him. Dan wanted more, needed to be closer, so he tangled his hands in Phil’s quiff, bracing his elbows against Phil’s shoulders so that he could lean up and kiss Phil harder. Phil’s hands crept under Dan’s tight jumper, and his nails dug into Dan’s waist, making Dan hyper aware of every single one of Phil’s fingers.

Phil’s touch on Dan’s bare sides was electrifying, and a surge of pleasure shot up Dan’s spine. Needing to do something with the heat that was radiating from every inch of his body, Dan found himself grinding his hips down into Phil’s.

“Yeah, baby,” Phil slurred, pulling roughly and guiding Dan to rock his hips forward again. Phil felt so fucking good beneath Dan, solid, warm, and — jesus — growing hard.

Dan’s cock had calmed down some while Phil had fetched their drinks, but the friction of Phil’s hips, the tease of Phil’s hard on, made it swell in interest again.

Tearing his lips away from Phil’s, Dan latched onto Phil’s neck and sucked hard, hard enough to surely leave another mark. Those could be tomorrow’s problem to worry about. Dan worked his way higher, leaving a trail of wet, open mouthed kisses up Phil’s neck. Phil’s fingers were digging into Dan’s hips, and it was fucking intoxicating — more so than the champagne and whiskey and whatever else they were going to drink could ever be.

“You —” Phil started, his words cut off by a loud gasp as Dan sucked on what must have been a particularly sensitive spot — Dan made a mental note, because he definitely wanted to make Phil do that again. “You look s’good like this,” Phil mumbled.

“Phhhh—” Dan moaned, unable to even get Phil’s name out. The compliment felt like a physical wave of pleasure rushing through Dan’s body, making him feel hot all over. Phil was so fucking right about that whole praise thing.

Dan caught the lobe of Phil’s ear in his mouth, letting his teeth graze over it and his tongue dart out to flick it. Pushing up just a hair, Dan slid his hands from Phil’s hair, down his neck, over his shoulders, and down to his chest. Dan couldn't resist bunching Phil’s shirt in his fists, massaging over Phil’s nipples with his thumbs.

“Good, because when we get back to the hotel room,” Dan whispered into Phil’s ear, “I wanna ride you.”

“Fuck,” Phil cursed, his hand rucking Dan’s jumper up high enough that his fingers stroked the bottom of Dan’s ribcage. “Yeah, okay.”

Surprised at how easily Phil had agreed, Dan pulled back to look him in the eyes. “Wait, really? You’re cool with that being how we fuck tonight?”

“Dan, Dan, Dan, Dan, Dan,” Phil mumbled, his hands tracing rough lines up and down the naked skin of Dan’s waist. “You have no idea how sexy you look above me. Trust me, I definitely want to see you like this, filled up with my cock.”

Dan’s cock twitched, and he had to restrain himself from rocking forward again. “Jesus, Phil,” Dan panted, his hands gripping Phil’s shoulders tightly as he tried to hold onto some grain of composure. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

“And why’s that?” Phil teased, his thumbs dragging back and forth across Dan’s ribs, the feeling absolutely heavenly. It was somehow hot and tender at the same time, and Dan wanted more more more.

“You know why, you fucking asshole,” Dan grumbled, leaning back down to kiss along Phil’s neck. Dan was beginning to accept that Phil was right, but that didn’t mean he wanted to actually admit it out loud.

“You ‘n your praise kink make this too fucking easy,” Phil murmured, half panting, half chuckling.

“Don’t take ‘vantage of me,” Dan mumbled jokingly into Phil’s neck, lightly nipping at Phil’s shoulder.

Properly laughing this time, Phil slid his hands down to Dan’s hips and used his leverage to push him back. The momentum forced Dan all the way back to Phil’s knees — something Dan was thoroughly disgruntled about. But then one of Phil’s hands left Dan’s waist and thumbed over his cheek, a soft and fond look on his face, and Dan couldn’t help but melt. He might have been horny and hot, but he was so damn enamoured that the tender gesture affected him just as much as the grinding and wandering hands had.

“If we keep down this path, I’m gonna have a hard time keeping m’hands to myself,” Phil teased, a playful smirk toying at his lips. His other hand dipped into Dan’s jeans and stroked the long, prominent bone of his hip, as if to prove his point. Fuck, just Phi’s fingers on his hip was enough to drive Dan fucking mad, he didn’t know how he was going to manage to get through the night and back to their hotel without losing control.

“How ‘bout we dance for a bit?” Phil proposed suddenly. Shocked and unable to process Phil’s suggestion, Dan snapped his head back and stared down at Phil with bleary eyes, blinking slowly. The fuck?

Dancing? Right, okay. Dan could be up for dancing. But...

Dan glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the club, confused. Just like he remembered, there wasn’t exactly room for dancing anywhere. However, Dan noticed that there were several couples that were making out, feeling each other up, grinding hips desperately together.

“Uh, where?” Dan questioned skeptically. From his quick glance around, it seemed like dancing would actually draw more attention to them than snogging in a dark corner.

“Dance floor. Downstairs,” Phil explained, his head nodding toward the opposite corner. Dan followed the direction of Phil’s nod, noticing a dimly lit staircase for the first time. Of course — a lot of clubs separated sitting areas from dancing areas, Dan’s tipsy brain had just been too out of it to process.

“Sounds good,” Dan mumbled in agreement, dipping down to kiss at Phil’s neck one more time before he had to climb out of Phil’s lap. “We should have somethin’ else t’drink first, though. I’m a rubbish dancer,” he chuckled. It wasn’t entirely true, but Phil didn’t have to know that just yet.

The excuse sounded better than I wanna be drunk and free with you. Plus, maybe Dan’s decent dancing would be a pleasant surprise later.

Phil’s hand slipped out from Dan’s shirt, and ran up his chest. “How ‘bout you take our jackets to the coat check an’ I’ll order us something else t’drink, baby?” Phil suggested, his tone not really leaving room for Dan to argue as his hands dipped under Dan’s leather jacket, carefully shrugging it off his shoulders.

Dan’s jacket caught around his biceps, hanging from his arms in the gayest of fashions and he loved it. He wiggled his knees backwards until he was hovering above Phil’s hips and could easily rest his feet on the floor.

“Alright, let’s go then,” Dan agreed, backing off Phil entirely and holding one hand out to help him off the sofa. Dan was excited to dance, it would give him something a little less slutty to do with all his energy. Grabbing Phil’s jacket, Dan nodded once at Phil before heading back down the deserted hallway from earlier — only now it wasn’t as deserted. Dan passed three couples heatedly kissing before he even got to the coat check booth. But then again, surely snogging in public wasn’t that slutty if this many people were doing it.

Smiling at the employee, Dan dropped Phil’s denim jacket onto the small ledge and shrugged out of his own leather one, not bothering to tuck his phone into his pants pocket before he handed it to the guy across the bar. Tonight was about letting go, and the only person who could really need him had Phil’s number now.

Dan took the coat-check number from the worker, tucking it into his back pocket, and made his way back to the bar. Phil was standing at the far end, twisted around and watching for Dan.

And fuck, he looked good. Sometime while Dan had been gone, Phil had loosened up a little bit. The top four buttons of his shirt were undone, and his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, and god help Dan because he was pretty sure he was about to come in his fucking pants. Phil looked so goddamn seductive leaning back against the bar like that, his shirt dipping down, his chest peeking out, his forearms taut.

Phil was gorgeous and sexy and so entirely manly — Dan couldn’t get enough.

It wasn’t until he was standing directly in front of Phil that Dan realized that there were no cocktails — no, instead there were two double shots in front of Phil, plus a small plate of lime wedges and a salt shaker. Tequila, then.

“Get ov’r here, mister,” Phil demanded, a smile on his face as he made grabby hands for Dan. Fucking hell, it should be illegal for someone to be so sexy and so cute at the same time. Dan could only handle so much, and his cock and his heart were competing for blood at this point. “I ordered us shots.”

“Shots, huh?” Dan teased, one hand coming to rest on the bar on the outside of Phil’s hip. “A simple drink wasn’t good enough for you, then?”

“I figured neither of us could manage a drink an’ dancing a’the same time.” Phil shrugged with a smile, turning back toward the bar and letting his arse grind into Dan’s hips as he pulled their shots closer to them.

Fuck. Phil really knew how to play Dan.

“Come here,” Phil murmured as he twisted back around, his hands landing on Dan’s hips. In one smooth movement, Phil spun them around and switched their positions. Before Dan could fully process the change, his waist was pressing into the bar and Phil’s crotch was digging into his arse. “Take a shot with me.”

Phil’s voice was deep and gruff, and the scratchiness of it made Dan’s stomach flip over and over in desire. He bloody adored how Phil was taking care of him tonight, somehow perfectly in charge of all of Dan���s needs, intuitively aware of what Dan would find the sexiest and most fun at any given moment.

Dan reached for a tequila shot with one hand, his other grabbing a lime. Realizing his mistake — it was salt, tequila, lime, after all — Dan dropped his lime in favor of reaching for the salt shaker. Phil beat him to it, though, licking a long stripe up his own hand and shaking two small mounds of salt along the line.

“Here,” Phil murmured into Dan’s ear, bringing his hand level with Dan’s mouth.

Not hesitating to check their surroundings or respond, Dan surged forward and sucked the salt off Phil’s hand. Phil moved quickly, his head dipping forward and licking his hand at the same time as Dan, their cheeks pressing together. Simultaneously, they both lifted their shots to their mouths, tipping the tequila down their throat. Behind him, Dan could feel Phil gulp, could feel his neck and his chest and his stomach move as he swallowed the alcohol.

Phil got to the lime first, holding it in front of Dan’s lips. Leaning forward, Dan sucked the lime into his mouth, taking care to drag his lips along Phil’s fingers as well. Soft vibrations rumbled against Dan’s back, and it took his drunken brain a second to realize that they were from Phil moaning.

Phil dropped the lime to the bar and reached for the other wedge, but Dan knocked his hand out of the way. It was his turn.

Grabbing the second wedge, Dan spun around to face Phil. Dan tried his intoxicated best to arrange his face into a seductive look as he held the wedge up to Phil’s mouth and nudged it against his lips. Maybe it was successful, because Dan glanced up at Phil’s eyes and saw that his pupils were wide and dark. He looked hungry, Dan thought, but it wasn’t for the lime.

Regardless, Phil parted his lips and sucked on it, pulling the tips of Dan’s fingers into the wet heat of his mouth, too.

Fucking hell, no wonder Phil had moaned when Dan had done that. Now that Dan’s fingers were in Phil’s mouth, now that Phil’s tongue was licking along his skin, Dan couldn’t help but imagine something else in Phil’s mouth, and — fuck.

Pulling back off the wedge with a loud pop, Phil smirked at Dan, linking their hands together under the bar. “Let’s go dance.”

“Yeah,” Dan agreed, breathless, carelessly dropping the lime back to the plate and letting Phil tug him along. Together, they weaved through the aisles of sofas to the steep staircase leading to the mystery basement.

When they reached the stairs, Phil dropped Dan’s hand, opting to grab the handrail instead. Rightfully so, too. The steps were steep and winding, and Dan was sure that even Sober Him would struggle. Dan followed, holding tight to the railing and sticking close to Phil.

Less than halfway down, the twisting was already fucking with Dan’s drunken head, nearly making him stumble and fall. Luckily, the staircase was narrow and Phil was directly in front of him, so Dan was able to catch himself before he tumbled out of control.

After what seemed like forever, they rounded the last twist and the stairs opened up to a packed dance floor. The music was a million times louder down here, the lights flashing and moving, subtle fog machines trying to make the whole place scream sexy. Everywhere Dan looked, there were men dancing, grinding, kissing. It was the kind of place he hadn’t gotten to indulge in since his late teens, and he was suddenly incredibly eager to embrace the atmosphere.

Stepping around Phil, Dan grabbed Phil by the hand and drug him out to the dance floor. They weaved passed couple after couple until they were packed into the middle of the crowd, disappearing into plain sight thanks to the drunk dancers surrounding them.

Dan spun around to face Phil, alcohol causing the world to blur around the edges. It took a second for Dan’s eyes to focus again, and when they did, he realized that Phil was blatantly checking him out. The way Phil was looking at him, with wide pupils and parted lips, made Dan feel like the sexiest guy in the room — maybe even in all of New York.

“C’mere,” Phil demanded, nearly shouting to be heard over the music. His message was clear though; there was no mistaking what Phil wanted when he grabbed Dan’s hips and pulled him in close. Dan stumbled forward willingly, and he had a feeling he’d walk straight across the threshold to hell if Phil guided him. On instinct, Dan wrapped his arms around Phil’s neck; they were close — so, so close. Their chests were just centimeters apart, their hands spread wide like they were trying to touch as much of each other as they could. Together, they started to move in time to the thumping bass of the music.

Dan giggled, drunk and horny and maybe just a little bit slap-happy.

What? Phil mouthed with furrowed brows and an amused smile.

Dan smiled and stepped closer so he could try to explain; their chests were touching now and Dan could feel Phil dancing. Dan leaned in so that he could yell directly into Phil’s ear. “I feel like I’m back at my year eight dance.” Dan tugged on the hair at the nape of Phil’s neck and pointedly wiggled his hips, hoping Phil would telepathically understand Dan’s logic.

Phil laughed, loud and shameless, with his tongue poking out and his eyes nearly closed. He looked happy and gorgeous and Dan’s heart was beating in a way that he was pretty sure had nothing to do with the minute amount of physical exercise.

Smile still plastered on his face, Phil pulled Dan impossibly closer, causing their hips to crash together, and god Dan loved how their hips felt when they were pressed together. He could have sworn he could feel the outline of Phil’s cock, and it only made him more excited for later.

“Only if you got kicked out,” Phil teased, his hands dropping down to Dan’s arse and squeezing, as if to prove his point. And yeah, that move was definitely forbidden back in year eight. Maybe it was a good thing too, because thirteen-year-old Dan might’ve fucking cum in his pants if someone did that to him then. Fucking hell, twenty-three-year-old Dan was on the verge of doing so, maybe the club should be a little more regulated.

Maybe a touch too late, Dan vehemently shook his head — grinding at dances wasn’t even remotely his life at thirteen. At thirteen, Dan was sexually confused and his only quality friendship was Louise. (Although, four years later, Dan was much less confused and was actively looking for just about anyone who would pop his cherry.)

Now, though, Dan was entirely comfortable with his sexual preferences, even if he did waiver between labels from time to time. At the very least, Dan could say with complete confidence that he was fucking attracted to the man in front of him, and he was fucking hot for the fact that they were surrounded by other gay couples.

And now that Phil’s hands were on his arse, pulling him closer so that their hips, their cocks, rubbed together, Dan couldn’t think about anything else.

So Dan let go. He let the champagne and the whiskey and the tequila take over, let his inhibitions fade away. The music was so loud that Dan could feel it in his soul, the remixed-nineties music just familiar enough to make Dan feel like he knew what he was doing, the added beats just fast enough to make him feel sexy. Hands still tangled around Phil’s neck, Dan pushed his hips forward and rocked them against Phi’s.

His hips moved on their own accord, swaying and grinding and moving in time with the music. Phil moved with him, their crotches rubbing together over and over as remixed versions of TLC, Christina Aguilera, and Destiny’s Child pulsed around them. It was hot, god it was hot. The dance floor was so packed, so anonymous, and Dan couldn’t hold back from closing the fucking microscopic amount of distance between them, kissing Phil over and over again as the night grew later and later.

At some point, Phil twisted Dan around. It came almost out of nowhere — one minute they were grinding together, and the next, Phil was manhandling Dan, shifting their positions so that Phil’s semi-hard cock was rubbing against Dan’s arse, and fucking hell that was hot. Some bassed-up version of Baby Got Back was playing, so loud that the song was almost all-consuming. The sober recesses of Dan’s mind tried to remind him of that scene from Friends, the one where Ross and Rachel sang this to their infant and offended each other, but the drunk and horny parts of Dan were far too focused on the way Phil was grinding into his arse, the way Phil’s hands were sliding further and further down his hips, to properly process anything about the music. Phil rubbed his hands over and over the front of Dan’s hips, pulling him closer and grazing his cock with every pass. Moaning, Dan let his head fall back onto Phil’s shoulder, and Phil’s neck was right there, so of course Dan mouthed along it. The music was too loud to hear much of anything over it, but Dan could feel Phil’s throat vibrate with a moan, could feel Phil’s fingers dig into his hips the slightest bit harder. They were touching everywhere, flushed together from head to toe and Phil felt like Dan’s whole world tonight.

Dan rocked his hips back, soaking up the heady sensation of Phil’s cock rubbing against him, feeling more and more intoxicated off lust than alcohol by the second. Trying not to overthink it, Dan reached behind himself and wrapped his arm around Phil’s neck, his fingers tangling in the short hair at the back of Phil’s head.

The breath was nearly knocked out of Dan when Phil pushed up Dan’s short shirtsleeve with his mouth, and kissed along his inner bicep as he drug his lips up Dan’s arm. Fucking hell, Dan was definitely about to combust and cum on the spot if Phil kept doing that. Phil’s lips latched onto Dan’s arm, sucking and surely leaving a mark and fuck Dan had never been so glad to have worn a short sleeve shirt as he was right now.

Once again, the music shifted, and the iconic first notes of Britney rung out. Within seconds, Dan recognized the song, and given how Phil’s fingers tightened on his hips, he reckoned Phil did, too. And god, he wanted to look at Phil while they danced to this.

Dan tried to twist around, and Phil’s grip loosened just enough to let him move, his fingers dragging deliciously over Dan’s skin as he turned. They readjusted quickly, Dan’s arms wrapping around Phil’s neck and Phil’s hands lowering to grope Dan’s arse.

“Baby, can’t you see,” Dan murmured huskily into Phil’s ear, his tongue darting out to lick Phil’s earlobe. Slowly, sensually, Dan slipped his arms from Phil’s neck and dragged his hands across Phil’s chest. He moved slowly, his fingernails raking across Phil’s shirt, pausing to rub at Phil’s nipples.

“Jesus, babe,” Phil mumbled, the words barely more than a strangled groan. The fingers on Dan’s arse tightened, forcefully pulling until Dan’s hips were grinding against Phil’s. Their cocks rubbed together, and Dan rocked his hips again, desperate to feel and feel and feel.

Phil was half hard, and so was Dan, and the friction was amazing. Pleasure shot through Dan, his cock twitching and a quiet moan tumbling from his lips. Dan couldn’t resist tangling his fingers in Phil’s hair, dragging him just the slightest bit closer, not that there was really much distance left between them.

The music continued to pound around them, and Dan continued to rock his hips forward in time with the beat. He wanted so much, and the grinding was just a small tease. Through the fabric, Dan could feel Phil growing harder and harder, making Dan want more. Heat and desire and lust were building in the pit of Dan’s stomach, and he just fucking wanted.

He wanted to taste Phil’s cock in his mouth. He wanted to feel Phil’s bare cock throbbing against his own. He wanted to be stretched around Phil, full and satisfied.

This song — this song out of all the late-nineties and early-two-thousands songs — fucking got to Dan. And he didn’t think it was fully his fault, it wasn’t like he had a thing for it three months ago. But then, one of the earliest videos he’d watched on AmazingPhil was Phil dancing half naked to this song — there was really no coming back from that.

Dan kissed up Phil’s neck, coming to a stop just a short centimeter from Phil’s ear. “Ya know,” he started huskily. He could feel Phil’s fingers dig into his arse, could see how Phil’s breath hitched. Mischievously, Dan continued, “I jacked off to this video.”

The effect was immediate — Phil froze and inhaled so sharply that Dan could actually hear the gasp over the music. For a second, the world was frozen; it was just Dan staring at Phil, a smug smirk on his face, and Phil staring back, shocked and wide-eyed.

And then Phil’s lips crashed onto Dan’s, moving insistently, hotly, and the world was moving again.

The kiss was merciless, Phil’s tongue immediately licking at Dan’s lips and demanding entrance — not that Dan was complaining. He opened his mouth and let Phil in, let Phil ravage him. Phil’s hands disappeared from Dan’s arse, only to land on his cheeks, firmly holding his head in place so Phil could kiss him harder.

There was no air in Dan’s lungs, and he didn’t give a single fuck. The shortness of breath only made everything hotter, and jesus that was a kink Dan didn’t think he had, but then again, he might find any kink hot if it was with Phil. Phil was so in control, so hungry, so domineering, and Dan couldn’t get enough of it.

Phil pulled back without warning, leaving Dan a panting mess. They were so, so close, and Phil’s eyes were nothing but black pupils. He looked ready to fucking devour Dan, and Dan really hadn’t expected this strong of a response but he was living for it. It was making him feel wanted and sexy.

“We’re going,” Phil snapped, his hands roughly unwinding Dan’s arms from his neck. “Right. Fucking. Now.”

Phil’s words were sharp, making it clear that this wasn’t a request. He sounded like he was on the verge of losing control, looked like he might shove Dan against the nearest wall, and take him right then and there.

Their fingers tangled together and Phil spun around, dragging Dan behind him as he pushed his way through the dancing crowd. It was a good thing Phil was holding Dan so tightly, because he was moving so fast that Dan might have gotten lost if their hands got separated.

Phil didn’t stop moving until they’d made it up the stairs, all the way past the sofas and down the hallway. They came to an abrupt halt in front of the coat check window and — shit, right. Their jackets.

Dan dug through his pockets, searching for the tiny ticket that he’d shoved somewhere. Phil’s heavy stare wasn’t helping, only making him feel more flustered and rushed and desperate to get the fuck out of there already.

“Dan,” Phil said, a hint of reprimand and urgency in his voice that spurred Dan to move faster. His fingers finally closed around the small slip, and he wrangled it out, holding it up triumphantly. Phil ripped the ticket out of Dan’s hand, his only response a single approving nod. Phil slammed it down on the counter, his eyes never once drifting from Dan’s.

The coat check worker chuckled — it was probably perfectly clear what was going on. But even that wasn’t enough to drag Phil’s eyes away from Dan. Dan swallowed thickly, his mouth dry, as he held Phil’s gaze. He couldn’t fucking think with Phil looking at him like that. Struck dumb, Dan licked his lips as he waited to see what would happen next.

Phil’s grip was still tight, and he tugged on Dan’s hand. Drunk and caught off guard, Dan stumbled forward, colliding with Phil.

“You’re so sexy,” Phil whispered, just barely loud enough to be heard. “I can’t wait t’fuck you.”

Dan whimpered, fucking whimpered. Phil was so much filthier than his new videos made him seem, he was dirty in all the right ways. Although, looking back, Dan could see some of this Phil in the much younger Phil that had filmed the Toxic video.

The rustling of their jackets hitting the counter jolted Dan and Phil out of their bubble. Both of their heads snapped to face the window, and Dan could tell his cheeks were probably flushed red. He’d forgotten that there was someone else nearby, that someone else was probably paying proper attention to them.

Phil reached out to pull the bundle of clothes closer, clearly avoiding looking at the coat check person. “Put this on s’we can leave,” Phil ordered, shoving Dan’s leather jacket into his chest.

Dan didn’t need telling twice; he sprung into action and clumsily shrugged into his jacket, his hands getting caught several times. At this point, he wasn’t sure if it was thanks to the alcohol or lust, but he didn’t care.

Phil slapped a few bills on the counter and grabbed his own coat.

“Thanks boys,” the clerk said cheerfully. “Have a good night! Don’t forget protection!”

Oh god. Dan felt his cheeks grow hot. He didn’t mind people noticing him and Phil were itching to fuck, but christ, he really didn’t expect a random stranger to actually say it.

Phil grumbled something in response, something Dan didn’t quite hear or process, and guided Dan back down the hallway, one hand firmly pressed against Dan’s lower back.

Hot breath washed over Dan’s ear, and he belatedly realized that Phil was close. “I really don’t wanna use a condom,” Phil muttered into his ear. Dan’s breath hitched, and Phil’s fingers curled around to his sides, not giving him a chance to recover before continuing. “Wanna feel you ‘n fill you up.”

“Fuck,” Dan huffed, his mind not able to think about anything other than Phil’s bare cock pressed into him, pumping cum deep into his arse. “Yeah, please. ‘M clean.”

“Good,” Phil said with a note of finality. He opened the club door and ushered Dan through it. Dan stopped just outside the entrance, hovering and waiting for direction from Phil. Phil stood close, head bowed as he tapped on his phone. Dan looked around them, realizing that there was a line now, and the asshole bouncer from earlier was gone. Must have been after one, then.

“Ugh,” Phil groaned. “There’s a twen’y minute wait for’n uber.”

God that was so much longer than Dan wanted to wait. Brows furrowed, Dan glanced up at the street sign.

“We’re only like seven blocks from the hotel, w���can walk faster,” Dan pointed out.

“How’dya know that?” Phil asked, head snapping up, looking surprised.

Dan pointed to the numbered street sign. “Grid system. Let’s go,” Dan suggested, nodding his head in the right direction.

“Perfect,” Phil mumbled. He grabbed Dan’s hand and started walking. His pace wasn’t quite as fast as earlier, something Dan was rather grateful for. He didn’t think he could walk that quickly for seven blocks and not be too out of breath for sex.

The first block, Phil was still walking faster than normal, though. It wasn’t until they reached the first crosswalk and were forced to stop that they both breathed. The break calmed some of the out-of-control desire coursing through Dan’s veins, dulling it down to a pulsing lust. Dan turned to look at Phil, his eyes surely full of fond desire, a smile definitely pulling at his lips.

Phil bounced on his toes for a second, his movements slowing down when the light didn’t immediately change. Phil glanced at Dan, his heady expression melting slightly into something a bit softer, a bit more gentle. The passion and want were still there, but now there was something else, something sweeter, there too.

Now that they were out of the club, free from the throbbing bass of the music and away from the grinding couples, Dan’s mind felt a little clearer. It was chilly out, not quite cold but definitely cool enough that Dan felt justified leaning into Phil a bit, resting his head on Phil’s shoulder and sticking close. Phil smiled down at him fondly as Dan looked up at him through his lashes. The world around seemed to fade away, and there were butterflies fluttering in Dan’s stomach and god how was Phil so sexy and dominate and sweet all in the span of five minutes, this had to be illegal.

Dan’s eyes snapped away when the crosswalk chimed, and suddenly they were walking again. They weren’t the only ones out — if anything, there seemed to be more people on the streets now. As they made their way back to their hotel, they passed club after club, bar after bar, all with lines of drunk twenty-somethings.

Some sober, less reckless part of Dan warned him that all the people meant a higher chance of getting recognized, but he just didn’t care. He wasn’t about to stop and talk to a fan right now. It was Friday night, and the whole city seemed to be intoxicated, and Dan would just have to hope that everyone else was too drunk to notice him.

They came to stop at another intersection, just barely missing the chance to cross. Dan glanced around, taking in the city surrounding them. There was a group of girls nearby, smoking and drinking something out of brown paper bags. There were a few people outside a pizza place, drunkenly eating slices of pizza off white paper plates as they sat on the curb. There was a couple across the way, fighting loudly about something Dan couldn’t make out.

It was late and crowded and everyone was too focused on themselves to take note of anyone else. It was the kind of crowd that made everyone anonymous. The neon city lights were blurry, and made it hard to see the details of anything — although maybe that part was just Dan.

Regardless, he didn't care.

Phil was so close, so warm by Dan’s side and Dan just wanted more.

“Kiss me,” Dan asked, nearly begged, as he looked back at Phil. His voice was high and nearly breathless, so affected that he probably would have been embarrassed by how fucking needy he sounded if the situation had been different. But as it was, this was Phil, Phil who seemed to instinctively understand every single desire Dan had.

Phil smiled at Dan softly, turning so they were face to face. Without hesitation, Phil closed the distance between them, doing as Dan asked. Phil kissed him slowly but thoroughly, his lips moving languidly, his tongue slipping between Dan’s teeth and licking along the roof of his mouth.

“Mmm,” Dan hummed into Phil’s mouth as he wrapped his arms around Phil’s neck, his elbows resting on Phil’s shoulders, wrists crossed behind his head.

Phil’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, but he kept kissing, his arms wrapping around Dan’s waist and pulling him closer.

It was hot — kissing Phil would always be hot — but it was also sweet and maybe even a little romantic. Dan had never kissed someone on the street until Isabella, and in hindsight, everything about those kisses had been for the wrong reasons. This kiss, right now with Phil, wasn’t for pizza eaters or smokers or fighters. This kiss had nothing to do with the audience, and everything to do with the fact that Dan was so fucking head over heels for Phil that Dan couldn’t couldn’t resist kissing him for the two minutes it took for the crosswalk light to change.

At some point, Louise had told him that all of this was so much better when you loved someone, and Dan was realizing how right she was because just kissing had never been this good.

Love.

The word crashed over Dan, suddenly the only thing he could think as he drunkenly kissed his boyfriend in the middle of New York City at two in the morning.

Dan loved Phil.

Dan was one hundred percent, completely and totally in love with the boy kissing him.

Gasping, Dan pulled back from the kiss, his eyes flying open.

“What?” Phil asked breathlessly, a note of urgency in his voice.

“I — nothing.” Dan swallowed thickly, there was no way he could say what he was thinking. Not now, not already. His gaze drifted over Phil’s shoulder and caught on the signal, which was now showing a white walking man. “We can cross now.”

Dan hoped his voice was steady, hoped it wasn’t obvious that his mind was somewhere, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t very subtle. If Phil noticed, though, he didn’t say anything. He just followed Dan into the street, one arm still wrapped around his waist, holding Dan close as they continued walking. Dan leaned into Phil’s side, stumbling slightly and focusing entirely too much on the way Phil’s fingers had dipped under his shirt and were thumbing over his side, and not nearly enough of the sidewalk.

Yeah, Dan was definitely in love with him.

[somuchanemoia]

Another Delix Drabble...

I told myself I wasn’t gonna do another sick!fic so soon! WHY?! 

So, I’ve had a few migraines in the past so many weeks and this came to me. Made me wonder what a sick Felix would be like. The pretense is that Felix gets a migraine at school and then this happened after Dean forced him to go home. 

This is based off @delta-roseblr ‘s OCs from her fic, Normal Lives. I am just the lucky duck who wrote a fic on them. 

Here’s a link to my first Delix drabble.

Warning: Language and mild descriptions of throwing up.

As gentle as Dean tried to be, Felix still winced at the shutting of the driver’s side door. His stomach as beginning to roll and the throbbing in his head was getting more persistent with each passing second. He pulled the hood of the sweatshirt Dean had thrust at him lower over his head as he leaned back in the passenger seat. If he kept his eyes shut and did some of the breathing exercises his stepdad had taught him, his stomach would calm down and he would feel a little better. Even with his eyes shut and his breaths coming and going slowly, his head was throbbing and everything seemed to bright. Even the dark insides of his eyelids made it feel like he was staring directly into the sun. 

“Here,” Dean spoke softly to him trying not to make things worse, “Aunt Naomi gets these sometimes. This might help.” Felix cracked open an eye long enough to see the dark pair of sunglasses resting in Dean’s fingers. He slammed his eyes shut and took the glasses, shoving them onto his face as a new wave of pain began radiating behind his eyes. Opening them hadn’t been a good idea, but the sunglasses sounded fabulous. 

The Honda came to life and made that weird ticking noise that happened when the car idled, each tick making it feel like a nail was being driven through Felix’s head. 

“Sorry...” Dean mumbled when he noticed how Felix’s eyebrows scrunched at the noise, but the brunette waved him off and settled against the warm leather passenger seat, trying to get his stomach to stop spinning and his head to stop pounding. Felix couldn’t tell if the gentle rocking of the car was helping or making things worse. On one hand, the gentle warmth of the leather seats and the comfort from Dean’s hoodie seemed to be easing him, making his relax enough to where sleep was a plausible idea. The thought of a warm place to curl up with Dean and sleep for hours sounded like heaven on earth. 

However, on the other hand, Felix could feel everything in Dean’s car. He didn't know if it was from the throbbing in his skull or the queasiness from his stomach or the fact that he was being forced into focusing on the movement of the car, but Felix could feel every. single. fucking. bump, dip, divet, turn, acceleration and break. Was Dean intentionally hitting every bump and turning the corner particularly fast? Dean wasn’t the best driver Felix had seen so the thought was very plausible, but he didn’t dare open his mouth to ask, afraid that instead of words, puke might come out instead. 

“We’re almost there,” Dean’s fingers trailed along Felix’s knuckles that laid against his thigh like he was asking if he was allowed to hold his hand. 

Felix felt his own nimble fingers grip Dean’s like a lifeline, “So many bumps...”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Dean’s thumb stroked his knuckles soothingly, “I’m trying to get to my place as fast as I can.” Felix nodded, swallowing hard. He couldn’t open his mouth. He was gonna puke if he did and the last thing he needed was for Dean to see him heaving all over himself. In response, he just let out a soft hum of understanding and tossed an arm over his eyes to try and block out the annoyingly bright sun. 

Never before had Felix had a headache that made him feel this shitty. He had been drunk. He had been totally shitfaced before and not once had he felt like his head was going to practically explode just from existing. Ever single noise sounded like a gunshot in Felix’s head. The light felt like it was still searing Felix’s eyeballs even with his eyes shut, sunglasses on and his arm doing its best to block out the light. He had decided that the rocking of the car wasn’t helping him and even with the small comfort the warmth of the seats and Dean was providing, it wasn’t dulling the waves of nausea and dizziness he was feeling. The last time he had felt this horrible had been when he had sat in the ER with appendicitis, waiting to be seen by a doctor. 

Dean flung them around the corner and Felix’s stomach finally reacher his limit. He untangled his fingers from Dean’s and smacked a hand to his mouth, “Pull over!”

“What? Why? We’re almost--”

“PULL OVER!” Felix was fumbling with the seatbelt even before Dean managed to shift lanes and get them onto the shoulder of the road. The passenger side door was flung open before the car came to a stop and soon he was heaving on the side of the road, his head throbbing and his body shivering from the lack of energy. Dean did his best to be supportive. His hand had settled on the small of Felix’s back, rubbing gentle circles on the sweaty skin under the hoodie and trying to mumble comforting words to his boyfriend. Felix missed most of them, but once he was able to get his stomach to let up enough to right himself, he did. 

Each heave had somehow made the pain in his head even worse. He pulled on the seatbelt with a grumbled moan of pain and without thinking about it, leaned over the center console and rested his aching head on Dean’s shoulder, “Let's go.”

“You sure you're feeling okay?” At Felix’s nod, Dean’s foot found the gas pedal again and they were once more dealing with the bumps and dips of the Tennessee roads. 

“Text me when you get up, okay, if I’m not back already?” Dean whispered as quietly as he could manage to try and keep Felix’s head from exploding.

They had managed to get to Dean’s house without anymore puking. As soon as the car was off, Dean had rushed around to help Felix out, who was beginning to doze slightly on his boyfriend’s shoulder but woke up as soon as the sound of the passenger door was being opened. They hobbled inside and up the stairs to Dean’s room where Felix automatically collapsed into the beautiful haven of Dean’s bed. 

He briefly remembered Dean helping him out of the hoodie and jean’s Felix had been wearing and into one of Dean’s old soccer camp shirts to rest in before sliding the blinds shut and pulling the curtains closed, throwing the room into pitch blackness. 

“Where are you...?” 

“Work. Mr. Kalama asked if I could fill in for Rich today since he and his brother are going to Idaho for some reason. I might be home a bit late.” Dean whispered softly as he leaned down to placed a gentle kiss on Felix’s forehead, “There’s a garbage can right there if you feel like your gonna hurl again.”

Felix frowned at that, “Call in sick.” He knew he was being the biggest baby on the face of the earth. He knew he was being a total wuss and he was also clingy as fuck, but he didn’t care. His ability to care was left on the side of the road when Dean pulled over to let him throw up outside of his Honda. His head was being split in two, it hurt to see, it hurt to talk, it hurt to exist. If he was going to suddenly exit existence (was this what dying felt like?), he wanted to spend his last moments wrapped up in the perfectness of Dean Solace. 

“Felix...”

Felix moved the arm that was covering his eyes that still were being protected by Dean’s dark sunglasses. The light in the room still felt like it was searing his eyes even though he knew it was almost pitch black, “Please?” God, even his voice sounded so terribly desperate. In any normal circumstance he would’ve shrugged it off; Dean would be back in a few hours after work to come entertain him. He could survive on his own for a while. But Felix also knew he was a light sleeper, and with his head feeling like it was being pummeled by a gorilla, he knew he’d never fall asleep on his own. Sure he was wrapped up in one of Dean’s shirts he had stolen and pressed between the blankets and sheets of Dean’s bed, but it wasn’t nearly enough. When he was actually with Dean, there was something comforting about being able to curl up next to the blonde, feeling his heat and feeling the soft blonde hair brush the skin that made him dizzyingly drowsy. Dean was a natural born cuddler and Felix could never fully get enough of Dean’s snuggles. 

Felix peeked through his lashes to peer up at his boyfriend before slamming his eyes shut once more as pain radiated through his skull, but he didn’t need to see to feel Dean’s resolve cracking, “You need to sleep...”

“Want you.” 

The soft rustling of Dean toeing off his sneakers and sliding out of his jeans and shirt alerted Felix that he had won, “If we’re gonna cuddle, you’re gonna be little spoon this time.” Felix rolled onto his side and soon felt the warm heaviness of Dean’s arms around his waist. The slight rocking of Dean situating himself on the bed made Felix’s stomach roll but after a few hard swallows, he found his stomach settling down. Dean was as careful as he could be to not touch anything near Felix’s head as he brought Felix closer to him, finding a spot to rest in the plains of Felix’s back. Slightly chapped lips pressed a small kiss between his shoulder blade and fingers swirled a slow soothing pattern on Felix’s uneasy stomach, making the queasiness ease. 

“Get some sleep now.” Dean breathed across his muscled back and it wasn’t long after that, that sleep allowed him to fall into its arms. 

[trexrambling]

Slow Fade (5)

Overview: Being forced out of the only life you want comes with its hardships, but hiding it from the two people you care about the most proves to be the most challenging situation you’ll face.

Characters: Dean, Sam, Reader

Warnings: canonical violence, mild language

Word Count: 1,436

A/N: Let’s shake things up a bit...

Beta’d by my sole sister @wheresthekillswitch: “thank you for this visual”

Masterlist

“A demon family? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dean’s words echoed my own thoughts. I gripped the girl’s arms tighter behind her back, my eyes trained on the edge of the demon blade that Dean had pressed firmly against the skin on her throat.

“Demons follow orders, make deals, they don’t sit down for family dinner and talk politics.” Dean pressed the blade further down. “So I’ll ask one more time; what’s your play here?”

“All you hunters are the same,” she spat. “Kill this, stab that. Bad demon.” She flipped her head to shake the stray hair from her eyes. “I would think you, Dean Winchester, of all people, would understand that we’re not all the same.”

Dean yanked the woman towards him, effectively removing her from my grasp, and quickly turned to thrust her back into the wall, her body smacking against the cheap drywall with a low thud. One arm went firmly against her throat, and the hand holding the knife placed the tip dead center on her torso.

I moved to take a step towards them, but Sam’s hand on my arm stopped me. I glanced back at him, and he gave me a small shake of his head. I watched Dean lean forward, so close that his nose was mere inches from the demon’s. When he spoke, his voice was low, so calm and steady, that it sent shivers up my spine.

“I, of all people, know that you’re all exactly the same.”

Clean linen, a hint of pinewood; these are the scents that I slowly wake up to.

I’m warm, bundled up in a soft blanket and secured by two arms that shift with me as I regain the use of my limbs and slowly stretch them out.

“Hey.”

Sam.

My eyes are still closed as I tuck my feet back under me and snuggle deeper into Sam’s side.  The feeling of him holding me isn’t unfamiliar, but in this moment it feels too blissful to abandon anytime soon. “Did you guys get the son of a bitch?”

His arm tightens around me. “No.”

“Dammit,” I mutter, finally opening my eyes. We’re both crammed into Bobby’s armchair, half of my body practically on top of Sam. I take in his sweatpants and white undershirt, then notice the lack of light in the room. I turn my head slightly to get a glimpse through a window and am surprised when I’m met by darkness. “How long have I been out for?”

His thumb sweeps a short trail up and down my arm. “Dean and I have been taking two hour shifts watching you. This is my third one.”

“You could’a just said close to twelve hours instead of making me do mental math.” My tone falls flat, making the phrase feel judgemental, though I don’t mean it to come off that way at all. “Sorry, I’m not mad. Just… processing.” Despite this being the longest I’ve slept in weeks, I still feel like I could pass out for another decade.

Sam’s thumb slows and starts to trace random paths along my skin. Following the pattern he makes is like mapping his thoughts. He stills his movements altogether and pulls me closer against him. When his words come, I’m not expecting them.

“You’re sick.”

My body doesn’t respond, but my brain kicks up a quick whirl. I’m so tired that it stops after only a few turns. I don’t have the energy to find an excuse, come up with a play, or even navigate the conversation away from his statement. I see the easy route, and I take it.

“Yeah.”

When I don’t give any other information, Sam’s hand travels up to my sternum, where my already colorful bruise has taken on a few new tints of the rainbow. His fingers dance lightly across the damaged skin, and a chill runs down my spine.

“Is this really from the demon?”

“Yes,” I answer, glad I can be truthful.

“But she didn’t hit you hard enough for it to color this badly.”

He’s figured out my game and has taken his role as a player. I’m reminded of when we used to play 20 Questions as kids, how I’d always stump him with edges of the truth to give some satisfaction and keep him from digging deeper. It was fun and games then, a way to kill the time when our parents happened to dump us at Bobby’s around the same time when they picked up a hunt. But now, Sam’s grown up, perfected the ability to pick anyone apart in seconds. Thank goodness I’m not just anyone.

“She hit me pretty good. Could have gotten it just right.”

His fingers leaving my skin and relocating to drum on his leg a few times is the only sign that he’s frustrated. “You’re not eating much.”

“I practically inhaled a sleeve of Oreos yesterday.”

“You’ve dropped at least fifteen pounds.”

“Maybe you should buy me more Oreos.”

I feel his muscles tense and hear his teeth clack together as he clenches his jaw. I stay completely still, and after a few moments I feel the tension slowly leave as he forces himself to relax again. I know I’m pushing buttons, I know I’m being difficult, but I’ve avoided the alternative for such a long time now that it’s practically second nature.

He takes a deep breath, in and out, then starts again. “You’re always tired.”

I shrug. “Pretty sure that’s part of our job description.”

“You get nosebleeds all the time,” Sam pushes.

“You know, I’m starting to think they might be hereditary.”

“You’ve been lying to me.”

I pause for a single heartbeat. “Like you’ve never-”

“Y/N.”

It’s the fact that his fingers find mine, gently encases them like I might break apart in his hands. It’s the tired guilt and the desperate need to want him to know, to fully sit beside me and help hold up the crushing weight. But, above all that, it’s the way he says my name, soft and vulnerable, exposing those cracks that are constantly covered with resolve and strength of will. That’s what does me in.

I swallow. “I don’t know how to… I’m just…I can’t...”

I take a second to breathe, to focus on the feel of his hand on mine, the way his index finger is slowly tracing the edge of my pinky.

“I’m scared, Sam.”

The truth I’ve been pushing down rockets to the surface, raw and naked on display. I feel the tickle of a drop of liquid on my cheek and silently curse my tear ducts. I’m opening my mouth to say something else when Sam’s arm slips under my legs, and before my brain can catch up with his movements he’s scooped me up and repositioned me to where I’m curled up in his lap, completely enveloped by his arms. My mouth snaps shut, and rather than try and hold the dam back I melt into his frame. I forget that I’m supposed to be strong and just let myself exist on the edge of the cliff as tears pour down my face.

“Sam… I need to tell you-”

THUD!

The sound makes us both jump out of our skin.

Both of our heads whip over to the staircase just as Dean tumbles down it, a tangled mess of limbs. He skids across the floor, and friction stops him from smacking into the wall. He rolls onto his back with a low groan, and even in the dim lighting I quickly register the blood flowing freely from a deep gash on his arm.

Sam’s already moving, sliding out from under me and taking a few fast steps towards his brother before pausing. He quickly glances back at me over his shoulder, judging the distance as he calculates if he can defend both of us simultaneously. My hunter instincts instruct me to Get the hell up, so I rise on shaky feet and grab the first weapon I can find within reach; the lamp stand.

There’s a creak on the staircase as heavy feet begin a descent. I see the worker’s boots first, and I already know that the florescent orange is soon to follow before it comes into view. I hurriedly wipe my eyes with the back of my free hand, and the brief thought of Wonder if I’m an ugly cryer crosses my mind before Dean’s assailant comes into view. He ignores Dean, looks right past Sam, and latches his brown eyes onto mine.

“Hey, bud,” I say with a tight lipped smile. “Miss me already?”

-Read Chapter Six-

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[thorne93]

Just My Luck (Part 1)

Prompt: Imagine accidentally walking into the men’s bathroom and seeing this fine specimen (James McAvoy)

Word Count: 1465

Warnings: Language

Notes: Collab fic with my girl @cocosierra94!!! Internal thoughts are in Italics

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ugh. You so did not want to be here. Making appointments, calling people, scheduling things, running errands. All of that was easy. Wearing an expensive dress, high heels, makeup, and a formal updo? No so much.

But Rachel had insisted you come, and since she was your best friend and boss, you had to accompany her tonight at an opening party for some big movie coming out. You were terrible with movies. You watched them, sure, but most of the time, you forgot who played in them and what it was about. Which, sometimes, was good when you worked with celebrities, you didn’t get starstruck as often because you didn’t recognize who they were or what they were from.

You were nursing your second glass of champagne when Rachel bounced up to you.

“I want you to come meet someone,” she said with high energy. There was a reason she was the one in the spotlight and you were just her assistant - your stage presence was lacking.

“Y/n, I’d like you to meet Chris Hemsworth.” She gestured to this god like giant.

“Uh yea, hi.. nice to meet you,” you mutter, fumbling over your words trying not to gawk at how tall this man was.

“haha! Yes, I know I'm tall,” he boasted with a big of a deep laugh, his Australian accent coming out.

“Damn he noticed...” you thought to yourself, almost angrily. Why couldn’t you just be normal? Not awkward, not weird.

“Yeah, sorry, I don't mean to stare it's just I'm not use to people being that much taller than me.” You tried to bring yourself back from this disastrous start, but of course you excel at getting your foot so far down your throat you kick yourself in the bladder.

“If you'll excuse me I have to go to the ladies room.” You slink away hoping to shake that awkward moment off.

“Hopefully that's as bad as it gets tonight, there's no way it could get any worse than that!”

The room was dark,and with dozens of bodies, and swirling lights, and loud music, you finally found the bathroom, but it was a hard feat. You opened the door, hearing a flush, still looking at your feet until you finally looked up, in the too-bright bathroom, and saw a man.

A man!

“Shit, I’m in the men’s bathroom!” you thought, panic gripping its way around your body, as a sweat broke out over you.

“Holy shi--” you started. “I mean. Uh...I’m so sorry. I, uh, I must have the wrong bathroom,” you told the incredibly handsome man in a dashing tux, but you seemed frozen in place.

He laughed as he turned to wash his hands and watch you in the mirror. “Quite the observant one, aren’t we?” His accent threw you for a loop. He was Scottish? You didn’t expect that from him, for some reason.

But you just stood there, frozen, gaping mouth as he reached for paper towels. Why couldn’t you move? What was the matter?

“Or you’re welcome to stay, and continue to stalk the men’s bathroom” he offered with a laugh that made your knees weak and a smile that could bring Aphrodite to her knees.

“No, no! I’m sorry, I’m going!” you said, finally able to move. You pivoted and raced out of the bathroom immediately.

“Well that was quick,” Rachel quipped when she noticed how flushed you looked. “Y/N, hon are you okay?!”

“Not in the slightest!” you admitted , fanning yourself hoping that it would extinguish the heating anxiety in your body.

“Spit it out, girl, what happened?!?” She looked at you with concerned eyes searching for the smallest hint of an answer.

I walked into the men's bathroom..” You confessed hanging your head in defeat.

“REALLY, Y/N! THAT'S IT?! I was worried some creep tried to make a move on you or something!” She playfully smacked you on the shoulder.

“There was a creep, alright, but it wasn’t them,” you told her sheepishly.

“Huh?” she inquired.

“Well, there was a guy in there! A really hot Scottish guy who probably thinks I’m a creeper or something now.” You felt like drowning your humiliation in the champagne waterfall.

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

The next day, you woke up groggy, probably due to consuming about six champagnes. But you were happy to put last night’s embarrassment in the past. You showed up to work a little late, and that’s when Rachel asked you to get her interview questions printed out, water chilled, and asked you to go out for coffee for her and her interviewee.

“Sure, what does he want?” you asked. You knew his name was James, from coordinating with his agent over two weeks ago, but you had forgotten his last name.

“Just bring it back black with sugar and cream on the side,” she told you as she went to fluff her full, brunette hair with lowlights. She looked great in tight jeans, white shirt, blue thin scarf, and a black leather jacket.

“Aye, aye, cap’n,” you said as you saluted and ran out the door.

You ran to the coffee shop that was a block away, impatiently waited for four coffees for you, Rachel, the celeb, and their agent. You grabbed the coffees, extra sugar and cream and stirrers, and hurried back to the office. You jogged into the interview room where cameras, lights, a giant movie banner, chairs, and a snacks table were set up.

“I’m sorry it took so long, Ra--”

Then you saw him. The same Scottish man you accidentally peeped on in the bathroom last night. You almost dropped the coffees. You could even feel your grip slipping as the blood left your face, until you finally snapped back to reality.

Rachel had turned to you by now, grinning widely.

“Oh, Y/N, perfect, I want you to meet our star for the day,” she said with that overly bubbly attitude of hers. “This is James McAvoy,” she introduced as his eyes came up to yours. He was standing off camera, getting makeup put on.

“So much for putting last night behind me,” you thought with chagrin.

“Well if it isn't my favorite peeping tom!” he said with that oh so familiar knee buckling chuckle.

“Kill me now,” you prayed internally, wishing you could just melt into the floor, or vanish into thin air.

Rachel looked at him, a little lost. Not even a second later it clicked, “Wait! This is the hot Scottish guy from the bathroom?!” Her eyes grew wide, amusement flooded her voice. You knew she would NEVER let you live this one down.

“Oh, so you talked about me? Not enough you had to spy on me in the bathroom, you told your boss?” He quirked an eyebrow up at you and you just prayed a freak accident would happen. Lightening? Spontaneous combustion? Meteor shower? Anything?!

“I...uh…”

“Why didn’t you tell me you ran into James?” Rachel asked. “I should’ve known you were talking about him when you said ‘hot’ and ‘Scottish’,” she teased.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

“Uh...Rachel, you’re coffee will get cold,” you tried. You wanted to escape this hell and that’s all you could come up with - cold coffee. You didn’t care though, you just wanted this to end.

“Haha yea she was worried you were gonna think she was some sort of creeper!” She completely ignored your weak attempt to put this moment behind you. “But that's enough torture for now, down to business!” Rachel was more of a big sister than your best friend, she knew when to end your suffering just as well as she knew how to prolong it.

As the interview slowly etched by, you couldn't help squirming under the circumstances. What are the odds that this man, the same man you embarrassed yourself in front of, would end up being the center of your tasks today? You pulled yourself out of your thoughts just long enough to notice him quickly glance your way giving you a small smirk and an almost unnoticeable wink.

You rolled your eyes.

“This is gonna be a looooong day,” you thought to yourself.

How could you even do your job now that you knew he was your sole priority? Your main job was to make sure Rachel and her guest were comfortable. Now you had to ask him if he wanted water, coffee, tea, soda, snacks, towel, fan...And you can’t just be impolite and ask something vague like, “Do you need anything?” No, you had to make sure he was over the moon happy with the service or he could rip his interview and cost your company a lot of money. Sometimes it was rough working for an entertainment magazine….

[burstbombbitch]

don't chase the rabbit >:0

      Don’t chase the rabbit. || ⚜       please do n’t send more right now lmfao

      ❝Step aside.❞

He laughed at his own joke; she couldn’t, could she? Not with her hands around his, desperately prying at the grip he had on her face.

Blinded by the palm pressed against her visage, and ensnared by the digits that dug deeply into her head, Bon’s teeth—ineffectively snapping at what flesh she could try to get at—do nothing more than become a gritted scowl.

Through his fingers, she could see her team being wiped. She could hear her heart plummeting into the depths of her being. This wasn’t anything new, but like this brutish Inkling, it still held her with a cold, harsh grip. The taut grasp on his hand weakens as resolve bleeds out her veins. The shine of the rainmaker advancing garnered a breathy sigh of despair, and the fight in her finally fails, her hands falling to her side.

❝Fuck you,❞ she wheezed. Who knew that those were the magic words for her descent? Contact was relatively rough, and no amount of clenched teeth could withhold the shrill screech of a damaged nose. With his hand now on the back of her head, pressing her face into the edge of Mahi-Mahi’s land, the little pinkling got a bountiful view of her leakage. Oh, oh, that was a lot of ink… Desperate peripherals acknowledged the nasty smile that spread this squid’s lips from ear to ear. Her team wasn’t coming. No one was; they had to defend the pedestal. If one could call their pitiful, three-person beat-down a defense.

      ❝Something tells me you’re too young for that kinda language, brat.❞

      ❝’m here, aren’t I? Old ‘nough. S-So… Play fair!❞

      ❝You just proved my point.❞

He didn’t do her the justice of raising her head from the ground. She’d have to do that for herself while he pulled her tentacles closer to the water-logged edge.

      ❝Let me clean up your act.❞

She held her breath. Rightfully so. Tightly closed eyes still felt the pressure of sifting waters knocking along her cranium. The ink of her running nose faded into obscurity with the liquid’s cleansing properties. Rolling bubbles danced atop the broken surface tension, exacerbated by her inability to retain air. Only when the oxygen pockets would halt did he relent, yanking her out of the wet clutches of her demise. Instinctively, her mouth flies open, gasps sufficing in her desperate gathering of air. Upon seeing her go for gulps, the inkling plummets her back into the shimmering water. ❝Now, now,❞ he laughed. ❝I didn’t say you could do that! What if you were to be nasty to me again? That’d hurt my feelings.❞

His habit of pulling her out right when her struggle relented was tiresome. She would’ve preferred a graceful splat. The next two dips were given significantly less fight, and his boredom was evident when he yanks her out for the second-to-last time.

      ❝You’re pretty quiet now, squiddo.❞

Tired eyes, lacking their usual light, merely gaze through him. The most she can garner is hocking up a glob of her ink, only to spit it directly into his eye. Her quivering, shivering chest and frame couldn’t handle any more liquid. Just splat her already. And judging by the way a new fire illuminated the horizon of his face, it was coming soon.

Whatever he was saying… whatever unremitting castigation she was to endure, she couldn’t comprehend. The only thing blurrier than her eyesight was her ears. Everything sounded… unusually waterlogged. She could hear the liquid still sloshing about, drowning her every thought. Even when he shook her, demanding her attention, she couldn’t relinquish such a waning currency. Wary eyes drifted to a complete close, flickering open every now and then, before clarity rashly smacked her into consciousness for a second longer.

      ❝Guess we’re done here. Don’t let me catch you sneaking in here again, squib.❞

Weightlessly, her body was launched into the shimmering teal liquid of the resort. She hardly put up a fight. Her soul left her easily as the referee ended the match with the fish on the pedestal.

      How many years had it been since that fateful day? It felt all so recent, albeit her brain was the culprit for that. That memory, those feelings, her hatred… it flooded her like the water she had been tossed into.

Amidst the idle conversation of competitors, her brows lower in their eerie tranquility. Out went the lights that defined her pupils. Slowly, her own misery lacerates a small opening betwixt her lips. Nia’s jubilant chuckles preceded a few pats along her shoulder. Speech bounced off her ears, the reminiscent liquid choking their only entry points.

      ❝Oh, you’ve played with Bonbon before?❞

      ❝Holy—yeah, ha ha. I did. She might not remember me; she looked like she just managed her human form then. Woo. She actually S+ now?❞

      ❝Yeah, dude. C'mon! She’s older than that, y'know! Isn’t that right, Bonnie?❞

Laughter was hard to parse, even when the chill of her friend’s chortles usually calmed her. All she could hear was his, and time had hardly molded his pitch into anything more than a turbulent storm. Her smile was motionless. Nia’s face folded tightly in her doubt. Narrowed eyes questioned Bonbon’s stability, but the signal for their dispersal resounded abruptly. Time for them to get ready.

Roll-out was normal. Rush to the center of Kelp Dome, as always. Jump on the Zone. Bonbon and Nia assisted one another, while the fellow twin squad went their separate ways. Once enough lines were made for Nia’s advance, Bon took her leave… into the enemy base. Squints of skepticism tightened the Carbon’s face. Her feelings of dismay didn’t leave her, but she would have to trust that Bon knew what she was doing. It would be strange to fight without her assistance, but… she would make due. Away she went.

The looming threat of a Charger slinking into enemy territory was disregarded with ease. The enemy team’s rationale was sound—if they didn’t see the E-Liter on its perch, it was safe to say they were down. Why would they ever attempt to flank in such a risky map, where the only good perch they could take was always in enemy sight? Accounting for the more unusual cases was more effort than need be.

It was dreadfully unfortunate that, for once, such caution would have been appreciated.

Patience was a virtue she was always proud to harbor, for it always came to fruition no matter the circumstance. Squid after squid, respawn after respawn, her team did efficiently without her. She was not splatting anyone—something that she’d surely have to apologize for in the long run—but Nia was always good with locking people out once she was set up. She knew her darling well.

Self-restraint rewarded itself with a glimpse of her target. As he was falling from the ledge of spawn, she stepped forward. For a moment, he merely batted an eye, mistaking her in his haste for their own charger, but the contact of a gas tank along his cranium was enough to garner second thoughts.

The splash of his collapse into his own ink went unheard, overlapped by the disheveling sound of blunt force trauma. He could feel his skull shivering from the blow. A struggling arm shakily bolstered his weight, legs sprawled out before him as a bowed head underwent fervid rubs.

      ❝H-Hey, man, what’re you—hold up. You’re not—❞

From this angle, her shadow engulfed his slumped person, extended only by the weapon being incorrectly held up high by the barrel.

      ❝I do remember you. Oh, my love, how could I ever forget.❞

Wide eyes took in a gaze that easily beat his through sheer loathing alone. Quickly, he curls into himself, protecting his head from more hits. Thankful was he, if only because her target was more general—she whacked away at the center of his being, further disheveling a queasy stomach. Oh, how melodious his cries were! T’was like the gentle brush of practiced fingers down the keys of a piano. Perhaps, if she could ponder a song, she could align his torment into a harmony. She loved a good hymn, after all.

So then why? Why was her baton stopped prematurely? She was not done conducting, even if the squid she drummed upon had long become quiet and unresponsive.

Her body, rigid and tense, retains its inflexibility as her head nigh creaks to gaze at the interloper.

—Nia.

     ❝Bonbon, what… what are you doing? I’ve been—❞

Narrowed eyes interrogate the flickering stars they gazed into. Black fought against white, aptly appearing like… static. Even the radio silence she received was reminiscent of a screen devoid of broadcast. Furrowed brows lightened up in their shock, similar to her grip on the tank of the E-Liter. In that moment, the beast turned back, preparing another swing on their foe. Nia proved, as always, to be faster to the draw with her Carbon.

Up rose the enemy squid’s soul. He’d be back. Refreshed from his agony, albeit the memory that it accompanied was not one to be displaced. A sigh of relief contrasted deeply with Bon’s guttural growl. Nia would get to her feet, turning to placate her friend, only to gasp as a swing is hastily dodged. Clarification that they were on the same team did nothing—the sniper seemed dead set on taking another blow out on someone else.

Her Carbon becomes, for the first time, a defensive tool. A few swings aimed for her head are deflected by the roller, until the last attempt ends in the charger finally being launched from Bon’s hands. That alone doesn’t seem to hinder the onslaught, for the monster leaps at her with both hands outstretched.

All Nia does is raise her arms defensively, her face scrunching up in anticipation, but no contact is made. Slowly, eyes that clenched in preparation open, watching as two referees pinned the rabid Inkling down by her arms. Nia’s breathing is deep, her chest heaving to its maximum incline compared to Bon’s faster inhalations, accompanied by loud wheezes and hisses. The only thing to describe the display… was animalistic. It was unrefined, a word she’d never think would go in conjunction with the prissy princess. And yet, there she was, baring fangs whilst struggling in their grip with all of her might. A third referee intervenes upon request when it comes to light that even her petite form required another hold on her feet.

Amidst her gurgled screams were choked laughs and sobs. Their pitch was eerily high, unlike her natural titters, and frequently interrupted by more hasty huffs. Streaks of black melted down her ‘mask’, trailing her round cheeks and soiling the static-heavy lights of her bio-luminescence. The ink that coated her gear was not from the way they bodily brought her to the ground, but the actions that she had partook in moments before her demise. Nia’s eyes fell to a close, turning her head away as they escorted the child off the field. Her lip undergoes a light gnawing treatment as the other contestants make their way over to where the incident took place.

Their inquiries go unanswered. It was impossible to convey what she herself hardly understood.