#lack of mouse pad

[theethoslab]

Apparently Etho’s mouse sometimes scrolls when he left clicks?? How does his setup continue to get more cursed

(From False’s ep @ 16:25)

[your-highnessmarvel]

Cantankerous

AN: So some of yall ( namely @jana-jaeynneee @delicateblues @blondegirlie )requested a part two to THIS and I mean, I must oblige the populace. So here's another brain rot of Billy Butcher.

This can be read as a sequel to THIS or as a oneshot either way. Y'all ready for some more madness?

WARNINGS: SMUT SMUT SMUT, breath play, kink size, age-gap if you squint.

MINORS DNI BELOW THE CUT

The safehouse was so quiet you could've heard a mouse walk the entire length of the kitchen. But no one was here. It was just you and the silence and the loudly walking mouse that was meandering across the makeshift living room. Oh and Butcher - Billy - whatever. But he was snoring like a cow in heat on the couch, the tiny TV droning and casting a greyish blue glow onto his sleeping features.

When you'd found him there, you'd almost padded back to your little corner and called it a night. But a growl in your tummy made you ache for something to nibble on. And now that the team was basically under government watch and the FBI's Most Wanted list, it's not like Frenchie was stocking the fridge with nutrient dense foods.

It was mostly bread, peanut butter, bananas or avocados (depending on which ones came on special first), and a few cold cuts he could swipe.

But this time, as you pulled the mini fridge open, you wanted to smack Frenchie on the shaved side of his idiot head. There was nothing but one darkening banana and a Doctor Pepper in there.

"Stupid," you mumbled, grasping onto the banana.

"You should have your head checked out, hun."

You rolled your eyes, groaning inwardly as you turned to the man sitting up on the couch like a revenant. He turned his head, snuggled his chin onto the back of the couch, and pouted at you.

"Why?" you asked, closing the fridge door with a bang.

He lifted one dark brow. "Because you're over there calling a 'fridgerator stupid."

You leaned back against the counter and crossed your ankles. "Who says I called the fridge stupid?"

He shrugged. "Who knows why you women do them things that you do." And just as you were about to tell him where he could shove his opinion, he sighed and asked, "Fancy a midnight nibble, yeah?"

You recoiled, swallowing your retort before showing him the banana from across the room. "There's only one thing left to eat before God knows when."

He made a face, more like a grimace, somewhere between pain and resolution. "Have it," he said, waving you away.

Ever since that night at the Seducer's mansion, it's like everything had changed for you while not the slightest thing had shifted for Butcher - Billy.

It's like he hadn't culled two orgasms from you.

It's like he hadn't told you those things that were absolutely not lies.

He'd barely talked to you since, waltzing into the next month as if you were just a decoration hung on the wall that you caught him looking at once in a while, but otherwise, he resorted to silence with you.

He never asked you anything. He never answered your questions. Even when it was just the two of you at the safehouse, like tonight, he'd knock out on the couch after a few beers and lull you to sleep with the sound of his snoring.

This was the first time in 4 weeks he'd spoken a direct word at you.

"I could split it," you said, gesturing to the banana.

He shook his head, raked a hand over the left side of his face. "Did I ever tell you my series of fun facts?" he asked, looking at the TV so all you could see was the back of his head.

You'd heard him have a shower an hour ago, cursing at the cold water and the lack of proper space for his abnormally large body.

Whenever the boys took a shower, in that cramped, open space beside the kitchen, you made it your mission to count how many cracks there were in the wall. Aside from the safehouse having no proper bathroom utilities, the "shower" had no curtain. It was just a shower head off the wall with a handle to open it.

So when you'd heard the shower head squeal to life an hour ago, you'd turned in your little cot and pretended that you weren't jealous of that water. Of the droplets running between his pecks, gliding down his tummy, running along the small hairs on his arms. Of the water that caressed the planes of his face, that rushed into his hair, that tumbled along the hard ridges of his back.

It had been insanely hard not to get lost in those thoughts. You were trying to forget Billy Butcher, to classify him as your leader instead of as the recipient of your antiquated school-girl crush. You knew Billy didn't think that way of you, you were certain. All those things that he told you while he'd been two knuckles deep in your cunt, even if they weren't lies, had to have been in the heat of the moment.

You thought better of Billy Butcher--higher. There was no way a man of his age, his experience, would be as cliché as to want to fuck his twenty-something coworker.

"Your series of fun facts?" you asked back, throwing those thoughts back into your head, in a drawer so deep, locked away, so forgotten you'd never risk finding it again.

He snorted. "Sounds nerdy, I know, you'll love it." He patted the side of the couch next to him, a dull invitation.

Truth is, even if you had tried to ignore him as well, a part of you had missed being close to him. He was a genuinely nice and funny human being, when he wasn't chopping arms off or punching people in the head.

Sometimes, when it was just the two of you - well, before the whole Seducer incident - he could be wholeheartedly nice to you. He'd made you a sandwich once when a pad fell out of your toiletries bag and he so eloquently yelled to everyone in the room that you were on the rag. He'd cut your hair--surprisingly well--when you had the remains of the mailman's brains gathered in chunks in your hair.

So that pat on the couch was like an old reminder of the relationship you'd had with him before...well before everything.

You padded towards him, bare feet on the cold cement. He looked at you over his shoulder, taking in the long pajama pants, the long t-shirt.

When you sat dow beside him, sinking into the couch, you took a glance at him. He was still dressed in his black jeans but he'd switched his open blouse for a long-sleeve black sweater that hugged onto his shoulders like a glove.

"They say," he started, smiling, raising a finger as if he was in deep thought. "That the same bacteria found in yogurt can be found in a blue whale's vagina."

You glazed your eyes. "I don't know why I expected anything less," you groaned.

He chuckled. "Get this, right," he continued, shuffling on the couch to get more comfortable. "Crocodiles mate by like twisting 'round each other, like some sort of licorice, and then the male uncovers his hidden penis like a gun and shoots up the female."

You leaned your head back onto the couch and groaned again. "Are these fun facts going to serve me in real life?"

He leaned forward, as if to tell you a juicy secret, his weight dipping the couch so your shoulder slid an inch closer to him. "Sometimes, male elephants use their giant dicks as a fifth leg."

That made you smile and burst into giggles. "Why would that be of any service to them at all?" you chuckled, raising your head to meet his eyes.

He shrugged, grimaced at you. "Maybe they can run faster," he offered.

"Doubt it."

"Oi, maybe they use it as a weapon of some sorts."

"What, like a sword?"

"Dunno, I'm not the one with a giant fifth leg."

You started laughing, a real laugh that tore at your gut and made you throw your head back. Of everything Butcher was, he was a walking comedian. Sure, it enclosed a multitude of unhealed trauma, but the things he could pull out of his magic hat could be the difference between a dreadful nightmare or a peaceful sleep. And that's always something you'd appreciated from him.

"I wanna ask you somethin', little Truthteller," he asked, suddenly somber, as if the lights in his head had dimmed all at once.

The little nickname, the pet name, drew the breath from your lungs and swiped the smile off your face, bringing you back the that box beneath the floor. The enclosed space where it was just you and him, and you and his breathing, his kisses, his caresses.

The grip you had on the banana tightened.

"First of all," he sighed, cocking his head to look at you. "Are you going to eat that fucking banana or keep teasing me?"

"Here!" you said, smiling, handing him the fruit. "I said take it if you're hungry."

He swiped it from you, grazing his fingers against your knuckles. "Thanks," he mumbled, peeling it and wolfing it down in three bites.

Well, you thought. There goes my midnight snack.

"Are you..." he trailed off, swallowing the last of his banana before dumping the peel on the coffee table. "Are you angry with me or something or the other?"

You frowned, taken aback. If anything, you'd thought he was mad at you for something or the other.

"Don't tell me you're that boomer who assumes every woman is mad at something," you grumbled, crossing your arms.

His eyes dipped to your chest for a fraction of a second, so quickly that you'd have missed it had you blinked. The action of crossing your arms had pushed your breasts together, making it obvious that you weren't wearing a bra.

Something dark and slow, like molasses, stirred in your belly.

"First thing's first, young lady, I'm not a boomer," he corrected, grabbing your wrist, "and secondly, please don't push up those pretty tits in my face unless you're willing to suffer the consequences," and he dropped your arm.

You gulped, feeling heat spread deep in your belly, across your chest, and into your head.

Your heartbeat picked up, like a tiny little drummer boy was kicking to life inside you.

He leaned back, dropping your wrist like nothing happened, and you hated him for it.

"I'm not angry," you answered decidedly. "I'm just... I just don't know how to behave around you."

He huffed, then turned to you and waved you over, making his chest appear like the most comfortable pillow.

You swallowed.

"Come on," he guffawed, gesturing to you again. "I want to tell you somethin' and I'm afraid that cunt Frenchie bugged up this dump."

You blinked, feeling the heat crawl up your cheeks like slow melting butter. But then you found yourself moving forward, crawling and closing the small space between the both of you until you were kneeling beside him.

He laughed silently, the dimples in his cheeks creasing. From up close, you could see the lines beside his eyes, the deep green of his irises, the way his black hair curled at the tip slightly.

He watched you watching him, following your gaze. You'd never seen each other this close before. The last time you'd been close enough to feel his breath on your cheeks, it had been pitch black.

"If you're refferin' to the last time we went on a mission alone," he said, his voice a few octaves lower, graver, raspier--as if he was straining against himself. "I'm not angry."

You nodded, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. You felt his finger press under your chin, dragging your eyes back to his. They were kind, downturned as if he was concerned. "I didn't mean to force you into anythin'," he murmured, watching as you opened your mouth.

"You didn't," you answered quickly. "It was hurting so bad," you continued, pressing your hands together, held like a prayer against your thighs. "I think I would've died without you."

He smiled, pressing his thumb to your bottom lip, like he'd done under the floor.

"Come," he instructed, grabbing you by the biceps and hauling you over his lap, so your bum was pressed right on his crotch, your shoulder nuzzled against his chest. Even sitting, he was so much bigger and taller than you, that you felt like a tiny rock in his hand.

He was so warm, smelling of something woodsy, something smokey--a scent so unique to him it made the volley of butterflies in your tummy take flight across your chest.

He pressed a big, warm hand against one of your thighs and flattened your knees, his breath hitching over your head. Your heart hammered, a deep throb against your throat.

"Did you like it?" he asked slowly, pressing deep circles into the inside of your left thigh.

You pressed your lips together, feeling his other hand cradle you against his chest. "It was..." you swallowed thickly.

He pinched the sensitive skin that he was caressing, the ache swarming your head, even through the layer of your pajama pants. "Don't be embarrassed," he cooed, leaning his nose against your temple.

"Butcher, I-"

"Billy," he interrupted, grabbing your chin and lifting your head up to meet your gaze. You gasped, meeting his eyes with a sweet-sour feeling in your belly. "Love, it's always Billy for you." He looked at your mouth, trailing his finger down the column of your throat before lacing his fingers around your neck like a pretty little necklace.

"You look so tiny like this," he mumbled and you felt him then, hard and warm against your bum, before he leaned over and ravaged your mouth, kissing you like you were the imaginary oasis in a desert and he was a man parched dry.

He groaned against your mouth, grasping at your throat like a lifeline, pressing until air was taken from you and you keened against him, both of your hands reaching for his arm, digging into the chiseled skin.

"Billy," you said, breathless, your lips bruised from his kisses, his teeth nipping at your mouth like a predator.

"Yes, love?" he mumbled, out of his mind, his fingers closing around your neck like a noose until you choked against his mouth. He swallowed your sounds, groaning against you. "Can't breathe?" he mocked, loosening his fingers ever so slightly and giving you just a sliver of air to suck onto as you closed your eyes. The blood rushed out of your head and back into your body, pounding in your chest, sliding slowly down your tummy and settling into your cunt like a heavy, hard drum beat.

"Billy, I'm-"

He cut you off with a kiss, squeezing your neck, letting you choke against his mouth until he gave you a few licks of air. He enjoyed toying with you and you let him, sucking onto the air he gave you, kissing him, feeling as lightheaded as a balloon.

When your lips were red and swollen, your eyes glazed, and your breath hard and fast, he finally took his hands from your neck, kissing your cheeks and your eyelids. "You did so good f'me," he panted, lazily tracing circles on your neck, watching as you heaved in breath after breath.

Somewhere, you knew your panties were slick.

He kissed your temple. "Breathing when I allow you," he groaned, kissing your cheek. "And now look at ya, pretty head empty, eh?" You knew he was taunting you but all you could do was focus on your breathing, getting as much air in as to not pass out on his lap.

"I'm so...tired," you moaned, reaching up to kiss him, but he grabbed onto your face, dwarfing your head in his big hands, and smiled down at your sleepy little eyes.

"But I've got you right where I want you," he cooed, kissing your other cheek. "Get on your knees for me, yeah?" he whispered, and you would do anything for him in that moment, light-headed, dazed, panties wet, soaked as you fell to your knees before him.

You looked up at him from between his spread thighs. "God," he groaned, pressing his thumb to your fat bottom lip. "Look at you."

You swallowed hard when he unbuttoned his jeans, his eyes like magnets to your every movement. He took himself out of his pants, root and stem, groaning and leaning forward to caress your cheek, his eyes serious all of a sudden. "Take your time, little Truthteller, I want to see every second of this."

You looked up at him, brows upturned, nodding. As he leaned back, you got a good look at him; he was big, just like the rest of him, angry red tip leaking precum already.

Your empty little head just wanted to please him, like he'd done to you beneath the floorboards of the Seducer's mansion, but a nervousness kicked at your belly.

Hesitantly, you scooted closer, wrapping your hand around his length, the skin scorching hot, listening to him sigh and melt into the couch.

You leaned forward, giving his tip little kitten licks until you pressed the entire tip of him against your warm tongue, wrapping your lips around him.

"Fuck," he whispered, one hand gathering your hair, lifting it away from your face so he could see you. "I'm not going to last long, little Truthteller."

You wondered, somewhere where your mind wasn't so empty, if he'd been holding out for you, keeping himself from jerking off because he wanted to do it with you. If he'd been thinking of it for so long that just the warmth and wetness of your tongue was enough to rip him asunder.

You took him passed your lips, wetting him with your tongue, then bobbing back up to suckle on his tip until you'd wet him enough to start a slow rhythm.

He helped you speed things up to his desired rhythm by pulling and pushing slightly on your hair. You used one hand for the rest of him you couldn't take and the other on the inside of his jean-clad leg for support.

"God, you feel so fuckin' good, love," he slurred, his accent even thicker as you sucked him, wet him with your tongue, hollowing in your cheeks to treat him like your own little popsicle. "You can take a bit more love," he cooed, pulling on your hair, sliding himself out of your mouth with a wet pop.

You gasped, swallowing thickly, watching him watch you with hungry, deep eyes. At your slick red lips and your heaving chest and the way your eyes were still glazed over.

He leaned him, pressing a hard kiss to your mouth, his free hand caressing your warm cheek. "Yeah, a bit more?" he taunted, kissing and kissing and kissing you until you were drunk on his lips.

He leaned back and you leaned with him, taking him into your mouth again, feeling that sweet-sour wave wash in your belly when he groaned out your name.

You pressed him further in your throat, squeezing your eyes shut, bobbing him into your mouth further and further until your air supply was cut and you gagged on him slightly. Embarrassed, you slipped him out of your mouth, covering your lips as you breathed in much-needed air.

He smiled, leaned forward, and pressed a kiss on your cheek. "Too big for you, love?" he murmured, his voice laced with thick desire, watching your watery eyes widen. He was merciless. He was enjoying the taunt. He was enjoying the way you were so pliable to his demands. "Go slower, yeah, relax your throat." He mumbled those words against your cheek, inhaling you, before returning to his leaned-back position.

You swallowed determinedly, taking him into your mouth again, the hand in your hair squeezing as you started to bob your head again.

"Right there," he encouraged.

You did as he directed, slowly easing down on him, wetting him, sliding him against your tongue and relaxing your throat until the tip of his cock slid in there easily.

"Yes, right there, little Truthteller," he whispered.

Your eyes watered but you kept going, spurred by his praises until you had him almost all the way in your mouth. You kept sliding him in and out, as far as you could, feeling his tip slide down your throat further and further each time you slid your head back down.

"That's a good girl," he continued, breathless, voice lost. "Further, yeah, baby?" You knew he was spurred on by the moment so you tried, gulping him all down until your eyes blurred with tears and your throat spasmed around him. He squeezed your hair, groaning, holding you there until he was cumming inside your mouth, grunting, his hips spasming up, as if to fuck your mouth.

You slid him out slow, swallowing his release, breathing in deeply, wiping your lips with the back of your hand.

When you looked up, he was panting, head slanted back on the couch, chest heaving.

"Gods, little Truthteller," he groaned, leaning forward to wipe the tears from the corners of your eyes with his thumb. "You did so, so good for me, yeah?"

He kissed your numb lips, caressing your cheeks, pulling you back up on the couch. He tucked himself back into his jeans before bringing you close to him, snuggling your empty little dumb head against his chest.

You were cradled in his arms like a baby and when you looked up, you saw how sated he was, content and happy. He pet your hair, soothed the back of his knuckles on your cheek.

Then he smiled and leaned in, whispered in your ear, "Mine."

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

im being denied these things simply due to a lack of money and hardware stores within a several hundred mile radius but reality still insists on making me aware of the existence of such wonders, so that i might suffer, presumably as punishment for me crimes. arrgh

things i desire but am denied

one of those mouse pad wrist support booby things but it's Gandalf Big Naturals

the "FEAR ME FEAR ME FEAR ME" fucked up fish baseball cap

giant tube. material not specified or important

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Devil Wears Armani 2

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: you’re the CEO’s new PA and you find the work too much to handle. (short!reader)

Characters: Tony Stark, this reader is known as Georgie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

---posting to the correct blog lol---

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

After the week you’ve had, the need for a strong drink is irresistible. You’re almost there. Friday. You just need to make it through the day. There’s only one obstacle in your way. Mr. Stark. 

You bring him his ritualistic cafe au lait just after noon. He has an airpod in his ear, chattering on a call as he clicks around his floating computer screen. You keep your head down, making yourself invisible as you place the cup on a coaster. He leans back in his white leather chair as he speaks, reaching quickly for the coffee. 

“Yeah, Rogers, maybe, I don’t know about you but I’m not looking to invest right now. I got enough eggs to hatch...” Stark sips as he rests his other hand on his thigh.  

Before you can retreat, your eyes flick over and see the moving image on the monitor. You don’t react. You just backpedal and return to your desk, gently closing the door as to not disturb your call. You might commend him for multitasking if it wasn’t so inappropriate. 

You cup your chin and zero in on your screen, fighting the images seared into your eyes. The woman’s ass spread wide as the man... nope. Not today. 

Mr. Stark’s reputation is less than pristine. Everyone knows how he is but he’s the CEO. Who’s going to say anything? Or do anything? Coming into the role, you expected a demanding workload and a finicky boss, but not everything else. Not the blatant disregard for others and brazen lack of shame. 

You glance over at his door before you dare to take out your phone. You lay it next to your keyboard and keep your hand under your chin. You look down as you press to unlock and read the messages from the other girls. Izzie can’t make it, she’s out in the field, but the others are down. Awesome. 

You scroll through the gif catalogue and send a celebratory reaction. Mr. Stark’s door startles you and you slide your phone up under your monitor stand to try to hide it. You put your attention back to the calendar and swoop your mouse around the pad. 

Stark approaches as he slurps loudly over the brim of his cup. You feel the weight of his gaze and meet it shyly, pushing your glasses up your nose as you sit up. You can’t quite smile as your jaw locks up. 

“Sir?” You greet him in confusion. 

“So, Friday,” his brown eyes dip down to consider the depths of the mug, “got any exciting plans?” 

You look left then right and back at him. Your brow twitches in surprised confusion. Mr. Stark never asks about your personal life. He only ever talks about his private jet and high-life getaways to locations you could never dream of. Your cocktails are meagre compared to his elite lifestyle. 

“No, sir,” you say. “How about you?” 

He smirks and tilts his head. He slowly prowls around your desk and you swivel your chair to face him as he nears the corner to your right. You tilt to look up at him. 

“Ah, the usual, there’s this sweet little blonde thing down in Barbados waiting for me,” he chuckles as his eyes rove over your desk, “no dates? No... partying?” 

“Sir, I... just errands.” 

“Uh huh,” he clucks and reaches for your mouse. Nope. He swerves and swipes up your phone as it lights up beneath the stand. Shoot. “Social hour, huh?” 

“No, sir. I just shut off an alarm and forgot--” 

“You’re a bad liar, stop it,” he warns as he brings your phone up and reads the messages popping up, “girls’ night?” He looks at you over the cell, “that sounds like more than errands to me.” 

“Well, sir, I didn’t think... it was important.” 

“Must be if you’re texting at work,” he tosses the phone at you and you catch it as it lands in your lap. “You been to Barbados?” 

“Barbados? No?” You answer dumbly, no expecting the question. 

“Wanna go?” 

You hesitate. Is this some trick? It’s like when he was taunting Walker last week, baiting him into giving answers that made him look stupid.

“Sir, maybe one day, I guess, I never thought--” 

“No thinking. I know you’re not that fucking simple,” he reaches to poke your forehead and your recoil. “Don’t get too fucking crazy tonight, sweetheart, jet takes off at six. In the morning.” 

You frown and shake your head. He can’t mean what you think. 

“Should I have your luggage--” 

“Be there,” he demands and gulps back a mouthful. He slams down the empty mug on your desk and backs up, “if you’re still thirsty, they got cocktails on the plane.” 

He turns and strides away, whistling as he checks his watch. He sighs as he approaches the office door, pausing, “when Odinson gets here, make sure he has everything he needs.” He glances back with a smirk as you peer around your monitor, “and smile, sweetheart, you got nice lips.” 

You stare after him as he closes his office door and you sit back. You chew your thumb and look down at your phone. You sniff as you watch the others messages stream over the screen. Now you know better than to have your phone out at work. Now you get to do overtime. Fun. 

You rub your cheek and roll close to your desk. You’re not going to miss tonight, even if Mr. Stark wants to take away your weekend. You’ve been waiting for this and you need the boost before you face whatever he has planned.  

A message blips up in the corner and you click it, not daring to ignore Mr. Stark’s icon. The window spreads over the screen and the message floats over the reply bar. ‘Don’t forget a bikini’. 

Huh? 

[hbdttg]

Part 1 / tag list below the cut

“I’m quitting,” Eddie declares, “I’m out. Call me a tree, ‘cause I’m leaving. Call me a banana, ‘cause I’m splitting. T-t-t-t-that’s all, folks!” he adds, doing his best impression of Porky Pig’s signature stammering.

Chrissy’s laser focus doesn’t stray from her monitor, even when Eddie bodily throws himself into the chair across her desk with a long, strangled groan. Wordlessly, she raises her left index finger at him in a silencing gesture. With her brows furrowed in concentration, she drags her mouse around on its pad and double-clicks something on her screen before nodding decisively to herself. After another few clicks, she finally lowers her finger, raises her eyes, and meets Eddie’s gaze.

“Would you mind grabbing what I just printed? Please?” she asks, smiling at him imploringly.

Chrissy could ask Eddie to bleach his hair and shave off an eyebrow and he’d do it. She’s actually who he has to thank for landing such a cushy job with HHH—a referral from a trusted associate like her goes a long way in a place like this.

And despite Eddie’s many complaints about becoming a corporate sellout, he can’t deny that it certainly has its perks. The office is only a ten-minute commute from his apartment, the compensation agreement he signed amounted to more money than his last two jobs combined, his benefits package is frankly ridiculous, and he gets to work with one of his best friends in the world. Overall, not a bad gig.

Even so, he makes a show of sighing, loud and longsuffering, before doing as Chrissy asks, leaving her office to grab her job off the printer. Eddie knows she works in HR and some of her stuff can get pretty confidential, so he doesn’t even try to skim the contents of the page as he walks it back over to her.

“Here,” he says, thrusting the paper at Chrissy facedown.

“Thanks!” she says. She makes no moves to take it from him. “That’s for you, actually.”

Curious, Eddie takes the paper back and flips it over. In the center of the page is a graphic of safety sign one might find in a cartoon factory, though Chrissy had edited the original from “[___] Days Since Last Accident” to “[___] Days Since Eddie Last Threatened to Quit His Job”. There’s a big red zero in the counter box.

Eddie tries to glower down at Chrissy, but it’s sort of hard to maintain when she bursts into laughter. It’s been years, but the sound of Chrissy laughing like this, all bright and breathless and unrestrained, never fails to transport him back to his (third) senior year of high school, when they first became friends over a failed drug deal.

“Don’t be cute,” Eddie says with a laughable lack of authority, dropping heavily back down into the chair.

“Do you know who you’re talking to?” Chrissy counters, brow raised archly.

Eddie rolls his eyes, crumpling the page into a ball and lobbing it in between them.

Chrissy lets the ball land harmlessly on her desk before sweeping it into the trashcan by her feet.  “Just so you know, I’ve had that saved on my desktop since Monday—and I haven’t had to edit the days count a single time.”

Eddie scoffs, but it’s hard to defend himself when this current visit marks the fifth day in a row he’s floundered into her office, vainly announcing his resignation. “Yeah, well,” he says weakly, “printing it seems like a gross misuse of company resources.”

“What are you going to do, report me?” Chrissy says with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

“Let me guess: you’re the one who receives those reports?” Eddie says dryly.

“Yep!” she says cheerfully. “Now, go on and tell me about your latest trainwreck of an interaction with Steve Harrington.”

“Christ, Chris!” Eddie hisses, leaping to his feet and immediately spinning around to check if anyone was around to hear her damning words. The coast is clear, luckily, but he still scrambles to shut her office door before falling back into his chair. “You can’t just go around saying his name all willy-nilly.”

“He’s not gonna suddenly appear if you say his name three times, Eddie. See, watch. Steve. Steve. St—”

“Don’t risk it!” Eddie squawks loudly, cutting her off.

“You’re an absolute mess,” she says through a laugh, shaking her head at him.

And well, Chrissy’s not wrong.

Eddie’s been a mess since Monday morning, when he unknowingly produced, directed, and starred in The Roast of Steve Harrington. He blames his shitty memory for forgetting what floor his new office was on—if he’d known he was sharing the elevator with someone he could have potentially worked with (let alone someone whose surname made up a third of the company name), he wouldn’t have opened his big, fat mouth in the first place.

When he finally gathered the courage to make it back down to the fifty-second floor and show his face at the HHH office, he kicked off his onboarding with Chrissy with a strangled, “I know it’s my first day and I technically just started ten minutes ago, but I quit. Thank you for the opportunity and good-bye forever.”

Chrissy, the traitor, spent a full five minutes laughing in his face over his shamefully recounted story before patting him twice on the head and informing him he wasn’t allowed to quit for at least six months. The overly saccharine tone of her voice alone told Eddie there was no room for argument there.

Still, that didn’t stop him from following her into her office after the all-hands meeting on Tuesday, all the while whining in her ear, “I can’t thrive in these conditions, Chrissy. Please, I beg of you—accept my sincere and humble resignation from this cursed hellscape.”

‘These conditions’ consisted of any rooms and/or conversations that contained Steve Harrington. Eddie hadn’t been expecting to see the guy doting over the catering when he walked into the conference room that afternoon, and he certainly wasn’t expecting his supervisor and trainer, Murray, to lead him over to Steve to introduce the two of them (though that was likely just an excuse to head straight for the sandwiches that were laid out for the meeting).

While Eddie choked on his own tongue trying to spit out some generic, inoffensive greeting, Steve merely watched him with an amused smirk before thrusting his hand out and offering a perfectly friendly “It’s nice to meet you, Eddie, I’m Steve”, as if Eddie didn’t have Steve’s name and face (and stupidly fit body—who the fuck looks that good in a pair of khakis?!) burnt into his memory from the day prior.

Afterward, Murray, who most assuredly did not have a filter of any kind, bluntly commented on Eddie’s awkwardness, then spent the next five minutes trying to determine if it was normal, strangers-meeting-for-the-first time awkwardness, or something more sensational. Eddie stubbornly kept his mouth shut until the meeting started.

Wednesday followed a similar pattern, with Eddie flouncing into Chrissy’s office with a dramatic “I choose to break my blood oath. At this point I’d welcome the sweet release of death if it meant I didn’t have to work here anymore.”

Chrissy just corrected him, patiently explaining that he was employed at-will, rather than by blood oath, and that if he left before his sixth month, she’d personally skin him alive. Eddie had to pause and weigh the pros and cons of being skinless. Surely it couldn’t be worse than his latest exchange with Steve—via email this time, mercifully.

He’d just learned how to field helpdesk tickets and received one from Steve Harrington himself. It was a simple enough software request ticket, so he assigned it to himself and replied with next steps, asking Steve for a code so he could remote into his computer and install the program.

Steve replied back, asking where he was supposed to find the code. It was an innocuous enough question, but then Eddie noticed something a little off about his email signature: his last name was bolded.

Eddie ignored it, assuming it was a stylistic choice—nothing to read into, surely—but then Steve sent another email shortly after to let him know to disregard his last email; he’d found the right app and was just waiting for it to generate a code. This time, Harrington was bolded and at least two sizes bigger than his first name.

Then, in Steve’s third email, sent not a minute later with the requested code, Harrington was bolded, two sizes bigger than his first name, and highlighted yellow—a tactic Chrissy found so hilarious that she had to shoo Eddie out of her office with tears in her eyes so that she could compose herself and actually get some work done.

Thursday was a blessed reprieve from Steve’s unique brand of psychological warfare, but Eddie still somehow managed to royally humiliate himself in front of him. After he slunk into her office and silently pushed a scribbled-on napkin across her desk—

Please accept this letter as my formal resignation from my position as Systems Analyst II at HHH, effective immediately. Effective yesterday. In fact, I’ll pay you back the entirety of my wages earned if we just forget I ever worked here.

—Chrissy tutted at him sympathetically before taking the napkin and reaching over to dab it at the large wet stain on his shirt.

He’d been walking back to his desk from the breakroom when he rounded a corner and bumped into Steve in the hallway. Literally bumped into, bodily contact and surprised yelps and everything. And it probably wouldn’t have been such a big deal, really, if not for the fact that he had a newly refilled mug of coffee in his hand.

“Eddie, oh my god, are you okay?”

No, Eddie wasn’t okay, because he just splashed himself with hot fucking coffee and now Steve Harrington was worriedly fussing over him and tentatively trying to mop up the liquid with his own fucking hands for some reason, and he was embarrassed (and a little turned on?) and he had to get the fuck out of there now.

“I’m okay, sorry, it’s fine—” he managed to squeak before whirling around and scurrying to the bathroom.

So yes, Eddie’s been an absolute mess the past few days, and today is no different.

…Actually, scratch that. Today is different. Today is worse.

“Okay, now spill,” Chrissy says. “What happened?”

With another drawn-out, pitiful groan, Eddie sinks down in his seat and lets his neck hang off the backrest, blinking up at the ceiling.

“Talk to me, Eds,” Chrissy says, concern starting to bleed into her voice. “If he’s actually bullying you, you can file a complaint. I have a form here somewhere.”

Eddie hears her open one of her desk drawers and reluctantly sits up. “He’s not bullying me, Mom,” he says with a huff. “We actually…we talked.”

“You talked?” Chrissy asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, about the elevator. Buried the hatchet and everything. I said sorry, we laughed about it, it’s over and done with.” Eddie’s gaze darts around Chrissy’s desk, searching for something to distract him from the warm and fuzzy feeling growing in his stomach at the memory of their conversation.

“That’s great, I’m so proud of you!” Chrissy says cheerfully. “But wait, if you two are good now…”

Eddie doesn’t want her to ask what she’s about to ask, because the answer might be more embarrassing than all of his other Steve stories combined.

“Why are you still going on about quitting?”

Eddie drops his face into his hands, feeling totally and utterly pathetic. “Um, because I think I’m sort of, kind of, just a little bit…in love with him?”

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

tbh I didn’t think I’d be writing a second part, but if strangers on the internet validate me enough, I guess I’ll do anything~

Y’ALL. I’m blown away by the response to part one of this silly lil au. I didn’t reply to any of the lovely comments or tags, but please know if you engaged in any way (or even if you just read the fic and snorted a little through your nose at a bit you found funny) I love you with my entire heart and you’ve made my entire life.

[Now for the tag list, which I’ve never done before. Sorry if you didn’t actually want to be on here! Or, sorry if you’re stumbling upon this post on your own after asking to be tagged and I missed you oops.]

@messrs-weasley @n0-1-important @bornonthesavage @thing-a-ling @eddiemunsonswife @changenamelater @ispyblu @thesuninyaface

@invisibleflame812 @4nemo1egend @ikolanatari @mavernanche @songbird-garden @trashpocket @original-cypher @over7joyed 

@commonxsenss @justdyingontheinside @mojowitchcraft @maya-custodios-dionach @justmiiriam @imzadidragonfly @lillemilly @gay-stranger-things @child-of-cthulhu @bleedingoptimism @lemanzanabizarra @melaniehere91

@iswearitsjustme @silver-snaffles @csinnamon-fox @paint-music-with-me @epicsteddieficrecs @sweetcreaturetm @hxneyfarms @bossyknow-it-all @vecnuthy @stevethehairington @anything-thats-rock-and-roll @nburkhardt

@gayngerthings @patchworkgargoyle @violetsteve @henderdads @2btheanswertothequestion

[siriuslovebot]

˖ ࣪⭑˖ ࣪𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒌𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 ➸ 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒖𝒔 𝒍𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒏˖ ࣪⭑ ˖ ࣪

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: hello my love! ik you’ve already made a couple but i was wondering if you could make another one of those mouse ones, if you’re not up for it that’s completely fine! thank you for taking the time to read this!

𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: we all need more remus x mouse!!!

𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: please write another remus lupin x mouse fluff please. i love your writing style. it's just perfect<33

𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺: injured reader, the nickname 'mouse', some embarrassing (possibly?) moments, nothing else i can think of??

𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀: after convincing the reader to go ice skating, things end up going a bit sideways for the marauders.

𝑨/𝑵: merry christmas (and happy holidays) everyone! here is a bit of a late gift for you all! i was astonished to see the amount of requests for more remus x mouse! i didn't even include all of them here. i'm sorry i've been mia for so long! this one may be a bit rusty, but i hope you all enjoy even if i am a little out of practice! (also this is unedited so if you see any typos/mistakes no you didn't)

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻: 3.3k 𓂃♡₊⭑

·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺

“it’s bloody freezing out here,” mutters sirius, his voice gruff in the early morning air.

you roll your eyes, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. in your peripheral, you can see his mussed hair and dark circles, as well as the scowl that colours his handsome features. 

“you should’ve stayed behind if you’re going to whine, sirius,” you respond, raising your brows.

he wrinkles his nose, looking an awful lot like he’s smelled something foul. “are you mad? i’m not staying cooped up in that castle when you lot are out here having fun. where’s moony?” he looks at you expectantly.

“running late, i suppose,” you glance at your watch, a christmas gift from remus. it’s charmed, the tiny mice printed on the watch frolicking around as you get the time. your face turns pink, embarrassed although you love the little watch. you hope sirius doesn’t see. you’d never hear the end of it. 

“well, it’s half eight. earliest i’ve been up in weeks.” sirius yawns, swiping his sleeve across his face.

you roll your eyes again. you knew the lot of them would be menaces upon returning from the christmas holidays. sirius spent the two weeks of holiday break at james’s house, the two of them likely driving the potters out of their minds. the pair of them had clearly suffered from a lack of sleep, made clear by sirius’s incessant complaining about being up early. 

you wanted to spend the holidays at hogwarts, hoping that remus might convince his parents to let him do the same, with no luck. you suffered a miserable two weeks at home, your parents refusing to let you out of their sight for a second. you hardly even had time to respond to the owls sent by your friends; notably, a muggle christmas card of lily and her family, an odd photo of sirius and james wearing charmed elves’ hats, and a sweet note from remus wishing you a merry christmas and promising you a gift upon your return to school. 

thus, you are excited to spend a few hours having fun with your friends without worrying about lessons. if only you can wrestle sirius out of his grumpy mood. 

there’s a chorus of boots crunching through snow behind you, and you turn to find lily approaching. james and remus trail close behind, with marlene at the back. 

“what’s with the frown?” lily makes a face at sirius, who makes another disgruntled face.

“hasn’t got his beauty sleep,” you warn, a smile playing on your lips.

“you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” sirius says crossly.

you raise your eyebrows at him.

“simmer down, pads,” james says, bright as ever. “don’t mind him. he’s just peeved because of that detention mcgonagall gave him.”

he pats his friend on the back, accompanied only by a grumble from the long-haired boy.

“yes,” says remus, “who knew she would catch him trying to turn marie littletree’s quill into a bowtruckle?” 

“all right,” says sirius. “i get it. i’ll paint a stupid little grin on my face like prongs here. can we get on with it?” he grins at the confused half-smile on james’s face, then nudges his friend in the shoulder. 

“right,” says marlene. “lily’s got an itinerary.”

“yes,” says the redhead. “first hogsmeade weekend back, and i’ve got plans. now, the three broomsticks is going to be absolutely swimming with people.”

“it’s always swimming with people,” james chimes.

“right,” she gives him a sharp look, and he scratches his neck awkwardly. “i was thinking, we should skip the morning crowd, and have a go at ice skating.”

“ice skating!”

“ice skating?”

james and your exclamations mirror one another, as you both gawk at lily. james looks like a child on christmas morning, and you look… well, terrified. 

“oh, godric, i’m going to be so embarrassed. i can hardly walk, lils, much less skate!” you groan, feeling the exasperation sirius has been bleeding all morning. 

“c’mon, y/n!” james gives you a shake around the shoulders, looking excited. “you’ll be fine. a little arresto momentum, and you’re saved.”

“right, and which one of you is going to babysit me to keep me from face planting?” you glare at him.

“sounds like a job for moony, if y’ask me,” says sirius smugly. he’s already strutting towards the pond, james close on his heels. 

marlene grins, and lily looks at you pleadingly. “c’mon, y/n,” she begs, pouting like a child.

“it’ll be fun,” marlene adds.

you huff, not wanting to feel like a buzzkill. 

remus places a gentle hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently. you sigh.

“you’ll be all right,” he urges, voice soft. 

you sigh, but concede. “fine.” 

lily and marlene cheer, taking off behind james and sirius on their way to the pond.

you frown, glancing over at remus as you fall into a slow pace following them.

“do i have to?” you wonder aloud, hooking your arm through his as you crunch through the hardened snow.

remus smiles down at you, a gentle smile finding his lips. his cheeks are pink from the cold already, his honeyed hair sticking out in tufts from beneath his knit hat. your stomach does a flip, and you have to force yourself not to look away.

“don’t tell me you’re scared, mouse,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“scared? pfft, i don’t get scared,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

“oh, really?”

“really. but i know my strengths. and ice-foot coordination is not one of them. i’m preparing to embarrass the wits out of myself.” 

“it can’t possibly be that bad,” he says.

“have you met me, rem? i tripped over the air just last night.”

“i actually think that was a badly timed jinx from sirius.”

“i hope you’re joking.”

“afraid not.”

“oh, he’s got it coming.” you shake your head, remembering the burn of your cheeks as you tumbled in a heap in the common room. remus came over, smiling to himself as he helped pick up your things. you’d wanted to crawl into a hole and hide for the rest of the night.

as you approach the pond, you blink at the sight of a few other students gliding over the frozen water. you blink, not feeling confident in your abilities. you can feel your legs wobbling already, hearing the sound of yourself crashing into the ice. 

“okay,” you stop in your tracks, grabbing remus by his wrists. he faces you, eyes expectant.

“yes?” he humours you, looking as serious as you feel.

“promise you won’t laugh if i fall.”

his features crack into a smile, his head falling as he laughs softly. “c’mon, mouse,” he nudges you, draping an arm over your shoulders. he’s warm, and you lean into him as he leads you closer to the water’s edge, where your friends have already conjured up their ice skates. 

“if you laugh, i’ll never forgive you.”

“i’ll keep an eye on you,” he says, “and i promise i won’t laugh.” 

“holding you to it,” you say, joining marlene and lily by the pond.

“here,” marlene takes half a second and conjures you a pair of skates, untied on your feet. 

james and sirius are already on the ice, flitting around faster than you can keep up with. they’re a pair of blurs, their laughter ringing through the air. 

you make a face, your ears burning just at the thought of how you’re going to look trying to keep your feet beneath yourself. you don’t even notice your untied laces as you wobble towards the ice.

“just a second, mouse,” remus says softly, his large frame stooping to tie your shoes.

your face goes red as you glance down at him, feeling sheepish. “sorry,” you say, “i could have done that.”

“i’ve got it,” remus hums, his scarred hands tying your skate laces with expertise. 

he’s towering over you again in half a second, winking at you as he reaches down to grasp your hand. his skin is warm, even through both pairs of your gloves, and you feel a bit better. 

“y’alright?” remus wonders aloud, guiding you to the edge of the ice. he steps on gracefully, somehow able to keep his feet from sliding beneath him. you stare down at his skates, nervous.

you frown. “i’m scared,” you admit, face darkening with embarrassment.

“don’t be scared,” remus says. 

he tugs your hand, smiling warmly. you hate how persuasive he is; his soft voice and gentle smile have a way of turning you into a gushing mess in the palm of his hands. no one knows how to make you feel better like remus does. 

“you’ll still love me if i make a fool out of myself, right?” you wonder aloud, stepping slowly onto the ice. you tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, focused on keeping yourself upright. 

“i’d love you even if you made a fool out of the whole world, love.”

he’s laughing as you join him on the ice, the velvety deep sound sending butterflies rampaging through your stomach. he grasps your hand, ever so gently, and pulls you to the center of the ice, where fewer of the other students are. your classmates fly by, agile and quick on the ice. you feel somewhat like a baby deer, your legs wobbly beneath you. 

“see, not so bad, is it?” remus encourages, his features now split in a jovial grin. his tawny eyes glitter with amusement, the corners crinkled by his big smile.

“no, i guess not,” you agree, fingers still gripping the sleeve of his coat in a vice.

“d’you want to try on your own?” he inquires. his long fingers loosen their hold on your wrist, but you tighten your own around him.

“no–not yet!” you squeak, moving closer to him and throwing your arms around his middle. he laughs, his chest rumbling against your cheek. you take a deep breath.

“sorry,” he chuckles, smoothing a hand over your hair. “i’ve got you, m’little mouse.” 

you blink, peeking around his frame to see sirius and lily engaged in a race across the pond, their speeding frames silhouetted by the snowy landscape behind them. a grin spreads over your features, watching as james and marlene cheer them on. 

“i don’t know how they do it,” you muse, shaking your head.

“you’ll be racing them in no time,” remus says teasingly, slowly unraveling your death grip around him. 

“if you say so,” you murmur.

remus pulls you along gently, gaining some speed as you become more comfortable at the feeling of being on the ice. after several minutes, you’re no longer as unstable on your feet. you hardly even shriek when james charges at the pair of you at full speed, spraying you with a shower of ice as he stops at the last second.

“you git,” you hiss, sending a snowball his way with a flick of your wand.

he curses loudly, already halfway across the pond when it hits his back. lily and marlene dissolve into a fit of giggles, while remus chuckles gently. 

you don’t even notice that he isn’t holding you steady anymore. distracted, you’ve released your grasp on his sleeve, and are slowly gliding alongside him. you’re closer to the edge of the pond, your feet steady beneath you as you gather confidence. 

“feeling okay?” remus has spun around, facing you as he skates backwards.

what a showoff, you think, but you say nothing. he doesn’t know it, but you adore just how easily he picks up on the things you find to be absolutely mind-boggling. despite his insistence that he’s nothing special, he picks up on skills with ease. he’s a talented wizard, quick-witted and good at solving problems under pressure. it’s precisely why he excels in school, despite being out around each full moon and sometimes struggling to come out of his shell.

“thanks to you,” you say, flushing. “i wouldn’t be out here if it weren’t for you, you know.”

he smiles sheepishly, his wind-chapped face going a deeper shade of pink. “sure you would.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “i’m serious, rem,” you say. “thank you.”

“don’t thank me,” he says, looking more than a little embarrassed. 

you reach for him, wanting to hold his hand, but you see concern flash in his eyes. your eyes widen, but before you can say anything he’s already reaching for you.

“watch out–”

but you’ve both reacted too late. another student slams into your shoulder, knocking you off kilter. you squeal, falling to the ice too quickly for either you or remus to react. the air feels as if you’re caught in slow motion for a second; the ice is approaching your face with extreme speed, glistening in the morning sun. without thinking, you brace with one hand, the other halfway reaching towards remus. 

your arm breaks your fall, and there’s a sickening crack as you hit the ice. it’s harder than you thought. you shriek, a sickening pain rocketing up your wrist and shoulder as you finally collapse completely.

“shit,” remus hisses, crouching as you feel his hands on your shoulders, trying to help you up to a sitting position.

you’re too focused on the excruciating pain in your arm to realize that you’re crying. the tears are hot against your skin, burning your cold cheeks as you sit up. you clutch your arm with your other hand, looking at the horrible purple lump already protruding at your wrist.

“merlin,” you sob, “it’s broken!” the sight of the bone jabbing at the inside of your arm makes your stomach do a turn, and you force yourself to look away. remus crouches in front of you, his worried face swimming in your teary vision. 

you hear your friends shouting, and several nasty words directed at the student who slammed into you. you glance over, seeing marlene dragging sirius away by his scarf as he tries to throttle the poor third-year student. 

lily skates towards you, slowing as she approaches.

“oh, dear,” she says, as she sees your arm.

“it’s bad, isn’t it?” you ask, glancing between remus and lily. you can’t force yourself to look back at the arm, feeling as if you’re going to faint if you have to see the bruises blooming over your arm.

“not so bad,” lily lies, offering a forced smile.

“we’ve got to get some help. you need to see madam pomfrey.” remus says. he’s crouched, one hand coming out to wipe the tears from your face. you breathe in his scent, trying to ground yourself. 

james, sirius, and marlene finally join you, sirius still cursing the student as marlene drags him over. 

“ugh,” james says as he sees your injury. 

sirius peers over remus’ shoulder, his eyes blazing with fury as he sees the extent of your injury. “i’m going to curse the bollocks off of that kid!” he hisses, reaching for his wand, tucked into his coat pocket.

“sirius, stop it!” marlene scolds. “we have to do something about that arm. there’s no way y/n’s making it back to the castle in this state.”

“i’m fine,” you insist, though your stomach is rolling unpleasantly. you think you’d likely vomit if you had to stand. 

“you’re not fine,” remus says, his voice stern. “your arm’s gone sideways. you need to be in the hospital wing.”

“we can’t move her like this,” james says, sounding as sick as you are.

“let lily have a go at it. she put my pinky right when that bludger hit it at practice,” says sirius. 

“your pinky?” remus says incredulously. “i think an arm’s a bit more important than a pinky.”

“rem,” you say, nudging him with your foot. “it’s fine. i trust lily. besides, i think i’ll be sick if we don’t do something now.”

remus sighs, his eyes dark with worry. he places a hand on your knee, shifting slightly to let lily get closer. “fine.” you can tell he’s not happy about it. 

“marlene, go get some help, will you?” you say, your head swimming. you feel closer to fainting by the minute, shock setting in.

“‘course i will.” she’s gone in a flash.

“okay,” you breathe, closing your eyes as you wait for lily to fix your arm. 

“right, then,” she pulls her want out of her pocket, leaning closer. there’s a second of silence before she says, “episkey!”

only, the spell doesn’t go quite right. a blinding hot pain blooms in your arm, and you shriek again. this time, you’re not strong enough to keep from fainting. white spots bloom behind your vision, and you collapse. 

you wake hours later, in the hospital wing. you stir, your throat dry as you turn over in the cot. your vision is blurry as you peel your eyes open, finding your arm wrapped in some kind of sling. madam pomfrey is nowhere in sight, but remus is slumped in a chair at your beside.

his eyes are closed, his breathing steady as he sits. his head rests lazily against the back of the chair. you study his face; his scars shine in the sliver of evening light that spills in from the window behind you. you groan as you move, your entire body aching.

your muscles throb, the fall having taken its toll on you. you watch him for a few minutes, the delicate rise and fall of his chest. his hair falls in golden wisps over his forehead and his ears, tickling the nape of his neck. you smile, glad he’s getting some rest. you’re sure he’s been perched in that uncomfortable chair all day. he’s probably missed all of his meals, crouched by your bed worrying.

you smile to yourself, wondering how you’ve ended up with someone so perfect. 

he stirs finally, his eyes crinkling as he yawns.

“rem,” you say softly, catching his attention as he opens his eyes.

“hey, sleepyhead,” he says, a tired smile painting his features.

you reach for him with your good hand, his long fingers reaching out and enveloping yours with ease. his skin is warm as he brings your hand to his lips, holding it there for a moment. your face heats up. embarrassed, you want to sink down into the cot and disappear, but you can’t run from him. he knows you too well.

“have you been here all day?” you wonder.

“of course,” he says, as if you’d be crazy to think otherwise. 

“you didn’t have to do that.”

“yes i did,” he says, frowning. “it’s my fault you went out there in the first place. you wouldn’t be hurt if i hadn’t convinced you to go skating.”

“hey,” you scold, “don’t say that. it’s not your fault. none of it’s your fault.”

he shakes his head, looking apologetic. you sigh, squeezing his hand.

“i’m serious, rem. i don’t blame you. i had a lot of fun, until that kid ran into me, at least.” you grin, trying to lighten the mood.

he can’t help the smile that creeps onto his features. “poor guy,” he says, “sirius wanted to hunt him down so badly. said he was willing to have detention for the rest of the year, if it meant he got his revenge.”

you roll your eyes. “what a hothead,” you laugh. 

“yeah, think the kid was pretty scared too. he send a card up, and some chocolate frogs.” remus passes you a card. you open it up, and a flock of little birds explodes from the paper, as well as a bright, sparkling message that says get well soon!

you smile, feeling much better already. you squeeze remus’s hand again, closing the card as he passes you a chocolate frog. 

“thank you,” you say in response, though both of you know you’re not just thanking him for the chocolate.

he nods in response, leaning over to press a kiss against your forehead.

tags: @delulu4marauders

[sky-kiss]

A/N: Apparently, there's been a lot of soft!Raphael lately. Allow me to rectify that. Ascended Fiend!Raphael and Haarlep hunt you in the dark. Hiding sin under the gif.

Fiend!R x GN!Reader, H x GN!Reader: Full Dark, No Stars 18 +

The world is absolute blackness. 

Not grayscale, not outlines, just shadow, magically dense. You hold your hand in front of your face; the heat is there, your other senses struggling to compensate for the sudden lack of vision, but everything else is gone. You're left to swallow, arms held before you, fumbling in the dark. 

Something shifts on your right. Only one footstep, as if they want you to hear. Infernal heat registers at your back, hands carding over your hips. Then it's gone. You're left rounding on nothing, breathing hard. 

Time lost so much of its meaning in the dark. You could have been minutes or hours. You know that your feet are sore. There's a dull ache in your feet from padding across the flagstones, an ache in your right arm after Haarlep wrenched you too harshly to the side. And the burn everywhere else from Raphael's insistent touch. 

They're hunting you. 

You shiver, scanning the blackness as if it will help. Both devils are unnaturally quiet. The ascended fiend's prodigious size does not slow it down. It moves with liquid grace, sinuous, on all fours rather than its typical upright posture. The sight makes something clench in your belly, fear finding its mate in arousal. It's Raphael stripped down to his basest essence, feral, infernal, and hungering. 

"Tsk-tsk, little mouse," Haarlep calls. They're somewhere on your left, closer than you'd expect. Something passes in front of you, and you stumble. A hand fists in your hair, yanking to keep you upright. Pain blossoms across your scalp, muted when they tip your head back. You open your mouth to respond, and the fiend takes full advantage, tongue pushing into your mouth. They nip your chin, chuckling, and then push you away. "You're slow, far too slow for a mouse. I'm disappointed." 

You keep very silent, very still, trying to orient yourself. 

Haarleep behind you, tail curling around your thigh. The tip strokes between your legs, pressing, prodding. Their voice dips to little more than a growl. "But, ah, I suppose you have other problems? And sweet Haarlep is the least of them." They jerk you back against their chest, arms a vice across your torso. Haarlep's nose tweaks against your cheek, the caress gentle. It contrasts the rasp of their voice, the erection digging insistently against your ass. "I am not in the habit of being ignored, pet. Just this once…I shall permit it." He groans, rutting against you. "Alas, our time is short. The Master comes. And he is so…" licking your cheek, licking into your mouth again. The sweetness of their saliva overcomes your better senses. "...hungry."

You feel Raphael's heat, a portent of things to come. He could be anywhere in the dark, but he's near, crouched low. You imagine him slinking through the darkness, tail cutting slow arches through the air, claws digging at the stone. 

Haarlep hums, giving you a playful pat on the stomach. "Be good for him, yes? He's waited so patiently. And we both know…the fiend has so little patience."

Their weight is gone again. You take three steps forward; the heat steadily mounts. Raphael howls in the dark. Close, how the hells can he be so close? You haven't heard a damn thing. 

And then there's teeth at your shoulder. Hot breath on your neck. A long tongue teasing the column of your throat. You inhale a stuttering breath, careful to stay very still. The fiend growls, pleased with itself as it scents the air. His senses are much sharper. Raphael hears the thundering of blood in your veins, your heartbeat. Smells your arousal. 

You muster up whatever courage you have left to run. 

You don't make it far. Not even a step. Raphael shrieks, the sound higher than you would have expected, clearly delighted. A hand curls around your midsection, stopping you cold. The claws bite against your skin but don't cut. Even in this form, he knows not to break you. He'll only bend. You squirm as it drags you nearer, bracketing you as it lays you on the cold stone. Its tongue is back on your skin, dragging down your stomach to your sex. 

It borders on too hot, but the wet heat and the pressure are too good to ignore. Raphael laps at you, tip prodding at your hole, pressing, pressure, until it can finally push inside. You're left to pant, thrashing under the weight of its hand as it settles over your chest, caging you.

The hunt is over. Raphael intends to feast.

[spikezonebby]

hi !! saw requests for song fics are open, may I request something angsty with fem!human!reader x megatron (idw) to ‘young and beautiful’ by lana del rey ? 🥹 <3 thank you in advancee

Young and Beautiful (IDW Megatron x Fem!Human!reader)

Word count: 1,070

Eighty years. Humans lived for a measly eighty years.

You change right before Megatron’s optics. Your hair grays, your skin sags, your bones grow thinner. Like the very universe was sapping you away from him. Vector Prime alone could grant him all the time he needed to write a poem about all of the moments he lived with you.

But how could he begin to write when every time he picked up his stylus, you were that much further from him? He longed to capture the feeling of you and immortalize it in a data pad, but then you’d touch your tiny, soft servo along his gray bottom lip plate and take him away. Remind him that you were his moment. Here for a second, gone in a blink.

You flare, you flicker, you fade.

You asked him once, if he’d love you even after you weren’t so soft. You weren’t so pretty. And your mind wasn’t as intact as it once was.

Megatron’s answer was immediate.

“Even once the spark of your life extinguishes, and I won’t stop even for a klik after.”

You may have lamented the way time and age changed you, but Megatron learns to see unique beauty in it. There was something beautiful in a life lived so long that you COULD age, it was a promise of peace and resilience. You lived, you fought, you came back again and again. A force so strong that it took time itself to put you down.

Megatron thought that was romantic. Not in the way of kisses in summer or dancing in the moonlight, but the cosmic way. In the way that atoms and space dust collect together and become new stars, or how he realizes, in the grand scheme of things, so, so many tiny and nearly impossible things had to happen for you to be his.

As you grew older, you grew more rapt by his poetry. You blamed it on growing old and sentimental, he argued you were always sentimental. You had always found it fascinating, but Megatron believed that perhaps you took some comfort in it.

“Do you think, because I love you… I’ll be there in the Afterspark waiting for you?”

You were resting against his neck cables, curled up between his shoulder armor and helm vents like a tiny glitch mouse. The ardent heat of energon pulsing up the lines of his throat felt good and helped soothe some of the arthritis in your hands. He had to rest his chin on his servo, propping his helm up at an angle to keep from squishing you, but he hadn’t the spark to stop you.

It’s a question that he’d pondered many times. For he who often pondered the nature of all things grand, the question of life after death was a philosophist’s energon and mineral tablets. 

“You do not have a spark,” He points out, shifting his helm minutely to a position slightly more comfortable for you to tuck yourself under, “So I would not expect you to be held to the same rules and expectations of Primus.”

“But, your God is real.” You raise as a counterpoint, “Any proof that various human gods are real could be considered dubious at best.”

“That is a point for the high queries of gods, but what of your lack-there-of spark?”

“What is a spark but life?” You offer, gesturing with your hands and making the round shape of a spark before your breast. Megatron loathed to move you from your warm perch, so instead he tips the data pad in his servo so he can see your tiny reflection. You look comfortable, hidden securely in his collar fairings. “Perhaps I DO have a spark, but it’s simply just a different form. After all, energy cannot be destroyed. It merely changes form.”

You chuckle, knocking your knuckles against his neck cables. “Julius Robert Mayer.”

“A human philosopher?” Megatron asks, setting his datapad aside to instead settle for reaching up and touching his digit to your lap. You take the hint immediately, and hold his huge digit between your two itty bitty hands. 

“Founder of the laws of energy conservation. Suppose most of us are philosophers in some way, though.”

You have to be, with lives so short and bright. Megatron keeps that thought private to himself, gently rubbing his thumb against the back of your hand. You were feeling thinner and thinner these days. He hoped you ate well enough.

“So, what have we come to the conclusion of in this conversation?” You prompt, bringing back your point, “That there is no true way to say I do not have a spark, and that it’s ultimately far more likely that Primus and his Afterspark wait for me than say… The Christian or Hebrew concept of God.”

“For there are too many to count.”

“For there are too many to count.” You agree, “But it is the most commonly applicable and the most similar to Primus.”

“But,” Megatron clicks his glossa, a smile coming to his face. He loved it so  when he could have these in-depth conversations with you. “That is also dismissing that humanity is a much younger culture than Cybertron was. Perhaps you will find proof that these things are indeed true, or perhaps something you had not even considered. Perhaps in the afterlife, you will have a veritable plethora of ‘heavens’ to choose from.”

“Then I’d choose to wait for you.” You say, “Or I’d choose some religion where I’d be reborn and I could fall in love with you again.”

“You could live again, redo all of the things you had missed. Unmake all of your mistakes.”

“You talk as if I considered you a mistake.”

He feels your tiny, cool lips press to the pulsing line of energon that is connected directly to his spark chamber. You laugh, giddy and sounding just as young as you were when he first met you. There’s a well of emotion there in his chest and, if not for millions of years of carefully cultivated control, he might have sobbed.

Instead, he settles for curling the whole of his huge, warm servo against your body, and recording this moment for all of time. The moment he writes on his spark that you wanted to be his in any life.

“I suppose it is not a mistake then, if you do not regret it.”

[hexbees]

Dread and Drunk | Draco Malfoy

pairing:: deatheater!draco x f!reader no use of y/n!

summary:: after leaving a party in the slytherin commons, the room of requirement allows you in.

word count:: 1,265

warnings:: consumption of alcohol; drunk actions/talking

You’d never been able to hold firewhiskey well, usually stumbling through the hidden entrance embedded in the dungeon walls to the slytherin common room at the end of the night. Keeping focus on the way your feet rise and fall, you keep a hand firmly planted along the wall. Lord forbid you repeat what happened last term and embarrass yourself again.

The memory of you being woken up by Cedric, having passed out from intoxication barely twenty feet from the door, instilled more motivation within yourself to keep it together. While you tried your hardest it was clear you shouldn't have taken those last two shots before leaving.

The first few minutes passed by you in a blur, having gone up a set of stairs you don't remember. You came to a halt in the middle of the corridor, swiveling your head, not knowing exactly where you were. It wasn't a hall that you recognized. Typically you didn't wander around the castle without a known destination in mind, having heard stories of classmates getting lost.

A door slowly appeared, catching your attention. You watched as it formed from a tiny hole, barely big enough for a mouse, into a door three times your size. Your mouth dropped open, head tilting, you pressed a shaky hand into it.

What the fuck? 

When it creaked open and fell away from your hand, you stumbled. Taking the smallest peek inside, not wanting to enter a room you weren't sure you were allowed in, you remembered the tales Hermione had told you in the library.

The room of requirement. Of course! Gods, I'm a dumbass.

Without even second guessing after your realization, you droopily walked in. The room was filled with stale air and an unbelievable amount of dust. Surely the castle didn't think you needed a respiratory infection.

Your fingers glossed across countless piles of books, the covers having traces of the glide imprinted from sweeping the dust off. You wiped the pads off onto your jeans, not even caring about them appearing dirty as you’d be taking them off as soon as you’d make it to your dorm.

My dorm. I'm going to my dorm.

With a huff and a single pound in your head you decided to turn back around with the intention of leaving to make your way back to your inviting bed.

Just before you stepped over the threshold there was a faint knock, almost like something being closed. It was enough to have you jump slightly, being caught off guard and somewhat alarmed.

In your drunken state you didn't think there was any danger, maybe it had just been from the breeze of the door being open since it seemed like it hadn't been in a while.

“Hello?” The word came out slightly unsure and slurred.

When you didn't get an answer, not that you’d expected one, you huffed.

“Dumbass.”

You retreated again, this time truly stepping out and letting the door slowly come to a shut behind you. Before it fully did, a voice rang out, gruff and annoyed.

“The fuck did you call me?”

Your heart leaped to the bottom of your throat and settled there. Draco malfoy had emerged from the back of the room, barely being visible as his hand caught the door. He was irritated, suffering from a lack of sleep and a heavy heart.

“I-” you stuttered, “I- uh-” again, “I was actually referring to myself.”

He could smell the firewhiskey seeping off your breath, saw the way your eyes were being dragged down, how your feet were restless.

“Oh, you're pissed.” His brows rose, eyes glittering across the gryffindor pride t shirt you were wearing. The maroon of it was just slightly darker than your cheeks, he found it amusing.

“Mm” you hummed, swaying. When you nodded your head along your feet lost their balance, sending you stumbling to the side.

Before you could attempt to regain your footing from your delayed reflexes, one of his pale hands came down and out, grabbing ahold of your own hand. He steadied you back on your feet while suppressing his smile. You were shocked at his hand on yours, staring at it in a daze until your eyes climbed up his forearm where you could see the faintest outline of the dark mark peeking through his white button up.

“Gryffindor commons are quite a ways from here. I assume you were at the Slytherin party?”

You hummed again, not meeting his eyes or attempting to hold a real conversation. You were so tired, maybe sleeping in the hall again wasn't such a bad idea. You’d only need an hour or two before you'd be able to find your way back again.

He kept his head at an angle. He’d been angry at first, ready to throw insults and hexes at whoever was attempting to flee from interrupting his task. But with every sway and every sleepy flutter of your eyes he couldn't help the smile that tugged at how cute you were in that moment.

“Well,” he bent down, looking past the hair that was draped over your eyes to meet them, “I have one more thing to do in here, then I can escort you to your commons.” His hand was still engulfing yours in an attempt to help with your jitter, admittedly not doing much. He pulled on it gently, bidding you to follow him back into the room of requirement.

If you were even the smallest bit sober you yank your hand out of his, crush his foot with yours and bolt in the other direction. But the gentle hold, the minty fan of his breath and the sweet voice he was putting on only made you more willing. He was being nice, which was not unusual to you; to others of course, but not you. He’d bullied Harry and the Weasleys, called Hermione a Mudblood more times than you could count, but had never directed any insults at you. There was speculation against the trio as to why, having caught on fairly quickly in second year. The consensus was that his mother and yours, were friends, god forbid Draco ever upset his dear mother.

“Thank you, Malfoy.” You smiled at his back.

He didn't drop your hand until you were in front of a couch and laying back into it. The soft black velvet felt abnormally good under your fingertips as you pet at it.

Draco let out a laugh, almost being jealous of the inanimate object that got to feel your caress. You see, Draco had always craved it. None of his friends knew, not Blaise or Pansy or even Crabbe or Goyle. The only one who had caught on was his mother. Narcissa had watched him, watch you, at an annual Malfoy ball. She’d rubbed on his shoulder and told him to go for it. Encouraged him to seek you out, say you looked pretty, ask you to dance.

Draco was never one for romantics though, not at that time.

“Should be just a minute” He stood in front of you, smiling down as he swiped a strand of hair that had gotten stuck between your eyelashes.

As he went to finish packing up the vanishing cabinet you let words slip past your lips, meaning to promise it to yourself in your head. 

“I won't tell anyone, Draco.”

He froze with his back to you, straightening out and holding his breath. He had seen you look; he just hoped you were too drunk to notice it.

“I know you won't, mon amour.”

[frostbitebakery]

Love the goo!Obi-Wan au. How did the 501st react when they had to work with Obi-Wan for the first time? Seeing their brothers from the 212th being unaffected by the creepiness

Thank you, Nonny!! 💜💜💜 Sorry this took a bit but I had to pick and choose how I wanted the 501st represented by Rex to react. Enjoy!

“Uhm.”

“Basically,” Boil says. “The rhymes are catchy though.”

Cody nods, lifts his shoulder in Boil’s direction. “They are.”

“Uhm.”

“You get used to it,” Waxer chimes in.

Rex holds up a hand. “No. No, we are going to backtrack a bit. What do you mean I’m standing in General Kenobi.”

“Only technically,” Waxer assures and smiles at the black smoke curling around his foot before wafting off.

“Well then!” Rex hisses out and rounds on Cody. “You stop laughing your ass off!”

Cody’s blank face doesn’t change under the accusing finger. Instead his eyes catch on something down the hallway. “Hm.”

The very last thing Rex wants to do is turn around. Unfortunately, being brave to the point of stupidity is anchored into his bones, so he turns around.

And is almost bowled over by a scream shattering down the hallway, a rush of dense, cold air freezing the blood in his veins. It’s too fast to duck, too consuming to not want to curl into a ball and weep. A clock is ticking down somewhere, taking every second backwards of Rex’s life and leaving him in the unforgiving grave.

“Must’ve dripped in the pudding again,” Cody comments just as his comm goes off.

A small blue version of the General pops up in the holo field, bowing deeply. “I apologize for what just occurred and for any inconveniences my lack of control may have caused.”

The comm cuts off and Rex has trouble blinking the afterimage from his eyes.

“So, anyway,” Waxer says as if this is all just another Taungsday and Rex’s hair didn’t just turn even blonder from shock. “You get used to it, really—“

The pad of a finger slowly strokes down the back of Rex’s neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Under the blacks. He slaps a hand against the sensation.

“Ha, yeah, and one time he made it seem like he was on fire and was intimidating the enemy but then he forgot how to turn it off again—“

Whispers in his ear. Loud and louder and standing right there behind him.

“So Commander Cody just got the fire suppression foam and was like, stop that! It was so funny—“

Hands tugging at his. At his wrists. Arms. Grabbing his jaw and prying his mouth open but nothing moves it’s all in his head.

“Rex,” Cody says and Rex is standing with the others at a T-section on the Negotiator.

He looks up, sees the understanding there in Cody’s eyes, the half-smile. “Don’t be afraid. He’s still General Kenobi.”

.

The General is red with shame and chagrin. “I cannot possibly apologize enough, Captain Rex.”

Which does a lot to alleviate Rex’s fears. Multiple. He’s been walking awake through every nightmare he’s ever had since boarding the Negotiator.

“My control is becoming stronger, overall, though it is certainly lacking in other aspects. I’m very sorry. Especially for the incident with the mouse droid—“

“We’re not talking about that,” Rex rushes out before remembering himself. “Sir.”

“Of course.”

And after that, it’s… easy. Don’t be afraid and there’ll be no loop feeding itself on his fear until he has a heart attack.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Fall Drabbles, Day 7

prompt: flannel

pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader

summary: Frank loves that you wear his clothes but would rather you stay warm when you're not feeling well.

warnings: swearing, brief non-graphic descriptions of illness, fluff

a/n: I keep warning for swearing but I don't even think these all have swearing lol. Anyways, another one in the Lumberjack!Frank AU!

w/c: <1k

Treading up the hill through the snow, Frank hefted the pile of freshly split logs to the top of the existing stack, except for the handful he carried under his arm and into the cabin. Kicking off his boots, he carefully placed two new logs into the dying fire, stirring the embers before replacing the screen as quietly as he could. 

The house was dark, quiet—lacking the life that you usually brought to it. That was what he expected tonight, though. He'd been out later than usual, a cacophony of nightmares and intrusive thoughts plaguing his mind as he hacked into tree after tree.  Combined with the fact that you were feeling under the weather, he was glad to come home to a silent house and a diminishing fire rather than an exhausted, yet awake, girlfriend. 

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he plopped down on the sofa, snatching his current read from the end table as he sat. As he made his way through a few chapters, the growing heat from the flames pushed the chill from his aging bones. Shifting onto his side, a soft padding caught his attention. You shuffled out from his bedroom, rubbing your eyes with a yawn. 

“Hiya, sleepyhead.” Frank murmured, catching you as you collapsed into his lap. “How're ya feelin'?“

Giving a half-hearted shrug, you nestled in against him. ”Little better.“ Your poor voice was scratchy and quiet as a mouse. He was overcome with the urge to whisk you back into the bedroom and bundle you up tightly—especially when he registered that your outfit was only a flannel shirt. 

”Hmm, ya don't sound too good. Ain't ya chilly, sweetheart?“ He wrapped his arms around you, rubbing one hand over your exposed thigh in an attempt to warm you up. 

Nodding against his neck, you shuddered. Frowning, Frank pressed a kiss to your head. “Why don't we get ya somethin' better to wear? Ya look adorable in my shirt, doll, but it ain't the warmest choice.”

Making a mournful noise of protest, you wrapped the soft fabric tightly around yourself. “I like it. It's soft, like you.” 

Frank chuckled at the unique description of himself, hand still stroking your bare leg. “A'right, let's get ya some pants, at least.”

Gently setting you on your feet, Frank's heart swelled with a protective affection when you shyly took his hand as he led you to the bedroom. You looked so small in his massive shirt, arms completely dwarfed by the plaid sleeves

Finding his softest pair of sweats, he held them up. “How 'bout these?” 

At your sleepy yet affirmative nod, he gestured for you to sit before slipping the pants over your legs. Tying the string tightly to prevent the oversized fabric from falling down, Frank perched next to you, holding you upright as a coughing fit bent you at the waist. 

“Christ, doll, you ok?” In lieu of a response, you sighed roughly and let him put an arm around your sagging shoulders. “Why don't I make ya somethin’ hot to drink before we both get some rest?” 

“Yes please.” You whispered, hoarsely. Kissing your cheek tenderly, Frank stood up and made for the door—only to be pulled back by your weak grip.

“Can I come?” Your voice cracked around the request and he winced as his own throat ached in sympathy. 

“If you want to, darlin’,” He nodded, grasping your waist to help you off the bed. 

Once in the kitchen, Frank got to work. Grabbing a lemon, some honey, and a bottle of whiskey from the pantry, he pulled you flush against him as the water started to boil—tucking your unusually warm head under his chin and drawing circles over your back. 

Grimacing at the shrill whistle from the teapot, you withdrew from his comforting embrace, giving an insincere smile when he showed you the silly mug he’d set aside. 

Frank made quick work of the task at hand, whipping up the hot toddy with ease and passing it to you. “Careful, darlin’, it’s hot.” 

Nodding blearily, you gratefully accepted the mug, pulling it to your flannel-covered chest with a small sigh of relief. “Thank you.” You murmured, blowing on the liquid before taking a few small sips. Humming appreciatively, you closed your eyes. 

“Anytime, babydoll.”

[mslanna]

What if Raphael teleported himself to Tav and she is to be completely naked? Like they haven't really begun courting yet, and BAM! Now he is in Tav's home and he is seeing the object of his affections interests in all of their glory when he wasn't expecting to.

Bonus points if Tav is super calm about it - minus any initial surprise - and just sighs and casually goes to start covering up, maybe while saying "So what can I do for you, Raphael?" or mumbling something like "And this kind of thing was why I asked Korrilla to tell me when to expect you. So much for 'that would never happen'... "

You can decide what happens from there.

As usual, I have taken creative liberties. Catcher and Decoy on AO3

Yes, the mouse-sized armour was a trap. A distraction for Tav to occupy their attention while Raphael closed the metaphorical noose around their neck. What the devil did not anticipate was that the human would go straight ahead and try it on.

And Tav went commando.

As the last layer of padding from their own armour dropped to the ground, Raphael was faced with a buck-naked mouse and an ass juicy enough to tempt gods. This was not going as expected. A strangled noise escaped him despite all efforts.

For a moment, Tav froze. Then they turned – slow, deliberate, with the intent of a predator. Cold eyes alighted on the devil's face and narrowed. Tav placed their hands on their hips and tilted their head in challenge. "Have you never heard of privacy?"

"I am familiar with it as much as you are familiar with the concept of not trying on any set of armour standing around." Raphael forced his eyes to stay on Tav's face. They were showing off, though the devil didn't know what they hoped to gain from that. He pressed a canine into his lip to keep his body from betraying his mind.

"The easiest way to steal armour is wearing it." Tav didn't give an inch. "And by the specs and placement of this set, you placed it here for me to take."

"Almost." Raphael tutted. "I do not give away things for free."

"I am leaving my old set which is pretty damn good. And am I not paying you on top of that with the most exquisite view ever?" Tav held out their arms and turned slowly.

"As scrumptious as your mortal form is, its looks are not enough to pay for this exquisite set of helldusk armour."

"Oh?" Tav took a step towards him, then another. Each footfall a hammer on Raphael's heart. "What do you think is equal in payment for it then?" They stopped close enough that the last words bounced off his skin.

Raphael had prepared for this moment – the time Tav finally fell for his offer. With the human taking up all of his personal space, his best laid plans crumbled into nothing. Their skin smelled of sweat, metal, and leather -earthy, human, raw. Images crowded in on him of what would be equal indeed. Unfortunately, none were close to what he had prepared.

Tav chuckled at his lack of reply. "Well. I am certain we can come to an agreement that will be mutually satisfactory." With a grin they stepped close enough to rustle his doublet. Tav slipped a hand around him and placed its palm over the base of his tail, fingertips barely nudged under the fabric of his breeches.

"You assume a lot," the devil grumbled. But he didn't pull away.

"Prove me wrong." Tav looked up with a glint in their eyes, leaving their soft lips parted.

Oh, he would. Determination coursed through Raphael. Two could play this game. And when he had them hanging on the edge of ecstasy, then Tav would promise him everything he desired. All he had to do was keep his wayward cock that pressed against trousers already, in check. A challenge he would not only accept, but win.

"Be careful." He cupped Tav's head with one hand and tilted it into perfect kissing position. "Those who play with fire easily burn themself."

"I hear devils are immune for fire damage." Tav pressed their body against him, the hardening outline of his cock sandwiched between their thighs. "Let's find out if that is true."

Raphael wanted to snort. Of course, it was true as Tav would find out soon enough. But he leant down instead, shutting up the cocky human with a hard kiss. They yielded immediately and Raphael's last coherent thought, as he dipped his tongue deep into their intoxicating taste, was that this was easier than expected.

[anotherdayforchaosfay]

Woke up feeling like my right thigh or hip was dislocated all night. It hurts LIKE HELL. Walking hurts, as does sitting, and the act of getting up from sitting hurts, and going from standing to sitting hurts.

Why? How?

I think it's due to spending so much time at my computer desk yesterday. The chair needs to be replaced, or at least re-upholstered with new padding and fabric. Putting cushions on it has actually made it more uncomfortable because I can barely touch the floor as it is. Cushions result in my feet having nowhere to rest on, and thus less support.

How so? I'm short. Barely over 5' tall. Computer desks are made for average range height, so 5'5" to maybe 6' tall. Same goes for chairs with adjustable height.

My sewing desk has the means of adjusting the height. It's one of the reasons I purchased it.

Hmmm...I'll see about replacing the chair with a near identical of my sewing desk chair. There's a model with arms on it, and I need something to rest my right arm on when using my computer.

Oh, and my lack of height is also why my PC desk has one of those roll out shelves for my keyboard and mouse. Without, I wouldn't be able to use the desk as anything more than a shelf.

Anyway, I'm in pain. Fuck you, hEDS. This isn't the first time I've dealt with my hips/thighs doing this. It usually happens when I spend too much time at my PC, but sometimes from too much time on the couch, or handquilting (I did handquilting when using my recliner, and sometimes woke up with my hip/thigh fucked up like this).

Bleh.

[mychemstat]

just text me- ray toro

summary- you don't expect your tutor to be remotely attractive. you certainly don't expect him to care about anything other than his transcript. but seeing the recipient of the president's scholarship and the name on top of the dean's list shredding electric guitar on stage with his tattooed and pierced band members has you reevaluating your life; did you want to fuck your tutor? author's note and warnings- ray/ftm!reader, cunnilingus, sexual tension, nerd ray, suspicious gerard, pete wentz mention if you squint (comment if you find him), trans allegory, smut. enjoy :)

you stare blankly at the loading webpage, gut coiling at the speed of the buffering dots in the middle of the screen. rubbed, red eyes and undone hair bathing in the fluorescent light of the screen, instant noodles steaming near your keyboard in a cheap plastic cup, you lean back in your chair, the plasticky armrests pricking your skin. the only light source in your room is the laptop you were given last year, especially because the main white tubelight in your ceiling makes you depressed, something about the emptiness it casts over your room, reminding you of hospital lights; the feeling of being on display bothers you deeply. 

the digital clock on your nightstand reads 3:03 am; near the giant text is a small symbol reading the time you set for your alarm, 8:00 am. most days you would get less than four hours of sleep, so this was not surprising for you at all. you toggle your index finger on the mouse, scrolling down to the end of the page, clicking on “see available tutors.” incisors sinking into the plush flesh of your bottom lip, you skim through the math tutors listed on the pdf. 

most tutors were listed under first-year math courses, resulting in an immediate elimination from your shortlist. you word-search “fourth-year data statistics,” meeting with only one result. you pout at the lack of options but click on his profile anyway; not like you have a choice. 

there is no profile picture on his listing, just the words “raymond toro: fourth year, dean’s list.” your eyes flicker to his tutoring times and contact information, fingers reaching for the nearest pen and pad to jot down the information. you have definitely heard his name before in classwide emails about how he received the president’s scholarship. but, fucking hell, you never expected him to tutor people; you figured he was just too busy studying to do anything for others. 

shutting your laptop, you kick away from your study desk, looking over your roommate’s bed behind you to make sure she doesn’t wake up. she stirs slightly and goes back to softly snoring, making you sigh in relief. tiptoeing to your bed, you lift the covers as quietly as possible and climb in, switching your phone on and going over to instagram.

you ignore your inbox and any notifications that pop down from the top of your screen and focus on typing the tutor’s name into the search bar. you click the top result, the one with the most mutual friends. that has to be him you think, hoping his profile was public.

it was, but it didn’t help; his profile picture was an electric guitar, and he had not posted. furrowing your brows, you bite the inside of your lip, pressing on the tagged pictures. 

bingo.

the only picture he was tagged in was posted by the username “gwayyy.” your thumb is quick to scroll through the post,  barely paying attention to the owner of the account, tapping on each slide to see if any of the tagged people in the pictures is this “raymond toro.”

you end up in the last slide, meeting the back profile of a man with shoulder-length curly hair, a broad back, and a slimmer waist than you would expect. 

you pictured a gallon of hair gel slicking his hair to the side and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses; you know, someone who would get a hard-on from every a-plus they get in their classes. 

you switch your phone off, place it on the nightstand and shut your eyes, trying to fall asleep, even though you know you stay up past four in the morning every day. 

your eyes shoot open to stare at your wall, the queen poster staring back at you. the aircon sends a chill down your spine, triggering a pang of anxiety and turning your legs into jelly. you cannot afford to lose your scholarship, and your declining grades only add pressure to every fiber in your body.

you miss the first-year of your undergraduate degree, when you could pass exams without studying too much, get high every few days, and waste time with your friends. it definitely does not help that your family wants you to get a well-paying job right out of college, and you are already in your fourth-year, no clue what you want to do with your life. you barely meet with your friends now, forget about getting high for no reason and spending time at some rando’s dorm party getting tipsy, trying to flirt with the nearest warm body you find. 

the focused, determined student you once aspired to be had died, leaving but a husk of weak motivation. one part of you wants to graduate and leave this place, the other part does not want to enter the workforce that would put you in a cubicle with other mindless drones feeding capitalism’s drooling gluttonous gut. 

or something like that.

plugging in your headphones, you lie on your back, eyelids drooping down. the lulling melody submerging you under a thin layer of unconsciousness. 

you dream about a budding flower that night, a dahlia, it seems. it looks fake, though, almost like it is made of plastic. it grows thorns, roots growing deeper and stronger into the soil. dew drops slide into the center of the flower, swirling into a hurricane-like pattern, revealing a red rose. 

the enticing nature of the flower, the way it swings against the wind like its first breath of fresh air. the flower stands tall, taller than it did when it was a fake, plastic dahlia. rose petals glow against the moonlight, almost smiling. your chest feels warm, you feel your body rise to the air, disintegrate into rose petals. you are happy.

the deafening ringing of your alarm wakes you up, fluorescent rings of pink and yellow emerging from the darkness under your squinted eyes. 

“turn it off, bitch!” you hear your roommate muffle through her pillow, your fingers reaching for the top of the alarm to slam it off. your roommate was never a morning person, exactly like you, so you don’t mind her cussing you out even though she was basically a twenty something year old mother teresa if she were a stoner reincarnated any other time of day.

your phone in one hand and toothbrush in the other, you email the tutor, not putting too much thought into the message before sending it and shoving your phone into your hoodie’s pocket. dark circles curve under your eyes- remnants of last night’s anxiety keeping you up. splashing ice-cold water helps them depuff, you heard.

*

the library is colder than usual, making you bring the cup of coffee to your eyes and warming them one at a time as you walk toward one of the study rooms. the email he almost immediately replied back with, said he would be in room 102, followed by five exclamations. 

way too enthusiastic for a tutoring session. and nine in the morning. and data statistics.

the gray carpet in the building makes you sleepier for some reason, sipping on your drink and knocking on the door labeled ‘102.’ the liquid warms you, soothing your organs as the door creaks open and your head cranes up. 

“hey! nice to see you! i’m ray,” the boy flashes you a toothy smile, curly brown hair like you saw in “gwayyy’s” instagram post. you marvel at how tall he is, almost reaching the doorframe. you don’t know whether to feel inferior or attracted to his height, but you nod, reaching your hand out. 

his hand engulfs yours easily, fingertips clearly calloused by the way they feel against the back of your palm. your cold hands that were once rigid, are now warm and protected, almost making you gasp at the reintroduction of the aircon to your skin when he pulls back. 

he walks in, making way for you as you assess the room. pale eggshell-white walls, destroyed on the edges with water stains, envelop the two of you. it smells like old books and mothballs at first as you drop your back near the foot of the chair nearest to you, and take a seat, adjusting your clothes. 

“thanks for replying so fast, by the way. i kind of needed help with this class.” you state, bending down to fish your notebook out as you feel his footsteps near your chair. 

his backpack was perched on top of the other side of the table, near the whiteboard, so you knew he was coming near you. 

“of course! yeah," raymond speaks. his voice is higher than you expect, masked by a husky filter and you look up at the direction of his voice, surprised by how close he was. 

it isn’t weird, he is there to tutor you after all. all he does is pull out a chair near yours, and place his hand on the table, fingers sprawled across the wooden top. you take a millisecond to see how his hand was basically the size of your notebook before meeting his face, closer to getting a better view.

“you know, i don’t get many students hitting me up to tutor them, so this is refreshing. i was totally just going to rot in my bed all day.” he comments, rolling his eyes playfully, trying to make you warm up to him. you smile, looking down at your notebook and grabbing your pen. your go-to move with anyone, platonic or romantic, is avoiding direct eye-contact for as long as possible. you straighten your back, swearing you watched his eyes flicked to your chest before switching to the whiteboard across the room. 

“so, what do you need help with?” he asks, pushing his chair back against the rough carpet and walking to the other side, watching his tight black shirt bundle up near his waist. your gaze scans his figure, noticing how the flimsy black fabric hugs his back and trails down to the waistband of his jeans that hug his hips tight. you make a mental note to stop staring but where else are you going to look? you’re there to watch him teach. 

nope, you are there to learn, so you don’t fail your classes and lose your scholarship. 

that reminder makes you snap out of the staring contest you had with the small of his back and look back up at him, ready with an answer, “uhh. confidence intervals.” 

it comes out more like a question, spoiling how clueless you are with the subject and you see him smile and nod at your tone before grabbing a dry-erase marker. five pens lie on the thin metal tray across the underside of the white board, and of course, ray doesn’t grab the one that works well the first time. or the fourth time. 

you watch him struggle and cuss through the process, biting back a smile at the way his curls shake at every sigh of disappointment. 

“there we go!” he exclaims, writing down the concept name on the white board, involuntarily flexing the muscles bulging near the ends of his short-sleeves. you see the hint of a tiny tattoo under the sleeve but you decide to save that for later amusement and focus on his words. 

“so, it’s super simple,” he begins, rambling about the definition, something about how it is the range in which you expect your test value to follow, and you soon realize that it, in fact, was not super simple. 

you nod, wanting to let him know that you were listening and alert. your eyes widen, and an unknowing smile spreads on your lips. he talked with his hands. a lot. the more animated he was, the more his hair moved around his face, and the more distracted you were. 

“so basically that is how you end up with the test value, do you know how to figure out if it is a right or left-tailed test?”

fuck, what the hell was that? you look away from him, pretending to think, knowing full well you have no fucking clue what it is. you press your lips together and squint your eyes, “...no.”

“no worries, that’s what i’m here for,” he smiles this time, a toothy grin, almost unexpected from someone of his stature, flashing before he turns around to draw yet another bell-curve on the white board. you watch his shoulder blades move with every letter he writes, how the small of his back stands prominent with the tightness of his shirt. 

he looks back a few times to confirm your attention, his lips pursing before turning back to the board and continuing teaching. he likes to ramble a lot, you notice, but it isn’t unnecessary by any means. if anything, it helps you retain information. 

you ask him questions, pen gliding against the thin notebook paper as you write down what is on the board. he folds his hands, one arm propping up on the other and reaching for his chin like he’s thinking of the answers. 

as more time passes, his shoulders relax, the back and forth between the two of you reaching a comfortable rhythm. you ask a question, he goes on a tangent and you fill out another page with ease, all the pieces of puzzle from different lectures falling into place. 

you let out a couple astonished “ohhhhh”s, like you finally understood the meaning of life and your tutor just smiles at your surprise each time. you bite down on your lip and knit your brows as he asks you if you understand him or not. 

“holy shit, this makes so much sense now.” you drop your head in relief and look back at him screwing the lid of the marker back on. he walks to the chair near you as you pen down the last of the diagram he drew before shutting your notebook close. 

“i wish you taught this class instead of higgins,” you comment, stuffing your belongings in your back, “i swear he hates his students.”

“higgins can be a toughie, but he’s just old, you know? and maybe slightly senile.” 

you chuckle, “thank you, raymond, seriously,” you rise to your feet strapping your bag on and looking down at where he sits. 

“oh, you can just call me ray, raymond is more for the official student records.”

oh, ray toro. has a nice ring to it. 

“okay, cool. do you teach anything else, ray?” you don’t expect your words to come out as flirtatiously as they do, but you can’t swallow them so you go with it, flashing a smile to coat them as platonically as possible. 

“uh… not officially. but if you ever need me to look over essays, or whatever, i’ll do it, i don’t get much traffic nowadays anyway so i’ll probably be free unless i’m at a gig.” 

so that electric guitar in his profile picture wasn’t for show. 

“oh, you perform?” you ask, feeling like a stalker. 

“yeah, i play guitar in this band, you probably haven’t heard of us.” he waves it off, clearly not one to boast about his personal life. 

“i’d love to catch a show,” you blurt out, not expecting your statement to sound as intense as it does. 

he cocks an eyebrow, “oh, for real? let me give you my number then, we have this show tomorrow night.”

already exchanging numbers? you giggle internally, watching his fingers tap the screen before giving you his phone. 

“i’ll just text you the time and address, gerard's still working out the logistics.” ray explains, erasing the whiteboard and pushing all the chairs into place.

you tilt your head in confusion, “gerard…?”

“oh, he’s our lead singer. you’ll see him tomorrow. hard to miss him.”

*

ray is right, of course. the next night, after hours of stewing in excitement to see ray perform, you watch this “gerard” dance and sing around the stage, flicking his tongue at the crowd, glistening in sweat from the stage lights beating down on the band. they are good. 

you aren’t at the very front though, that space was occupied by people who look like they have been waiting all their lives to see ray’s band perform so you sit right off the pit, pulling your jacket taut into yourself. you squint, trying to gauge a feel for each member. there is one on the left, banging his head, his lips spread apart like he’s mid orgasm at any given moment, tattoos spreading up his arms all the way to his neck. there’s one on the bass, seemingly timid, a beanie pulled over his straightened hair swooped to the side, the only one with glasses on and the tightest shirt on the planet. 

then there’s ray whose gaze is fixated down at his guitar, his tongue sticking out like there is nothing more important in the world. his guitar is crystal clear even when the expressive, red-haired frontman screams into the microphone. you feel your heart race at the sight of him shredding on the instrument, bouncing curls and flexing forearms prominent under the yellow lights. 

the overpriced drink in your hand that is seventy percent tequila and ten percent juice has you nodding along to the song, even though rock was never in your top genres on spotify. it may be the alcohol or their talent in general, because they sound good. like, scream your heart out to their songs and want to be their groupie good.

okay, maybe the latter is the alcohol talking. 

mostly girls around you fawn over the band’s frontman, or the one playing the bass, mikey, you gather from their screams. as their set comes to an end, he girls beeline from the pit to the backstage, excited giggles erupting one after the other. you feel like shit. 

ray is probably straight. he probably fucks girls left and right, he’s in a rock band after all. 

the defeatist in you, however, soon fails as you find your fingers fighting the cold and typing out a message to ray. 

-hey, i watched your set. you were great!

a sense of superiority dawns over you. do the others have his number? fuck no, they don’t.

your eyes follow ray as he walks out the stage with his guitar in one hand and the amplifier in the other. fuck, he’s strong. 

the tequila has hit you, you realize, as you rake your eyes over his body from the crowd, a strange sense of jealousy over someone you met only yesterday pricking at your chest. your phone vibrates against your palm in your coat pocket, and you see a text from ray.

-super! you wanna come backstage?” 

bing-fuckin-o.

you send a thumbs up and begin your trail around the venue, budding anxiety popping like bubbles. your eyes scour for the backstage, or any group of girls bunched together. where there’s smoke there’s fire, after all. 

you hear your name through the commotion of screams and giggles and whip your head in the direction, spotting him. he waves from inside a shed, the door open for anyone who wants to meet the band. you flash a smile, feeling giddy that he has the same interest in you as you do after only a few days of meeting him. 

he’s just being nice, you tell yourself.

he wants to fuck you, you argue, immediately knowing which part of you is the drunk one. 

you fight the wind, running toward the shed that has a string of fairy lights wrapped around the inside of the room. the room isn’t huge; enough for about twenty people to stand around and mingle. a sudden warmth embraces you as you blow a tired breath out and approach ray who’s nursing a beer, his eyebrows shooting up.

“you made it! how’d you like us?” ray raises his voice over the slightly loud music playing over somebody’s bluetooth speaker. you look over at the noise and look up at him through your eyelashes, feeling smaller than him. 

it turns you on. 

“you were awesome! the way you shred, it was so fucking cool.” ray hears you curse for the first time and giggles, the same toothy grin flashing across his face. he takes a swig of his beer, bringing the mouth of the glass bottle to his- wow his lips were plump.

the shed is barely lit, a lavender-colored sunset light on the right corner of the floor was the only light source. a strong scent of cigarettes and weed lingers in the air and occasionally clears out as the door opens when someone has to go out to piss, you assume. people huddle in groups, some way larger than the others. but ray stood alone when you walked in.  

he leans down to you, and your heart stops momentarily. his breath fans the shell of your ear. his face was fucking near yours. 

“i didn’t think you would make it.” he says, this time at a regular volume now that his lips were right near your ears. you shiver when his breath hits your skin, failing to compute what he says for a second.

you lean toward his ear, pulling him in by his arms on reflex because he seems too far to your tipsy ass brain, “of course i did. i need to get my grades up!” you joke, hoping to god he sees the humor lacing your voice. 

he chuckles, oh how sweet his voice is, you think, relief fighting the cortisol in your brain. 

“ray! what are you doing all the way over-” you hear his name being called, a blur of red hair knifing through the little crowd around him. you could see girls’ hands drag across his chest and even grab his shirt and he flashes them an obligatory get-the-fuck-off-me smile before catching up to the man in front of you. 

it is gerard, his red hair dripping in sweat making him the most easy to recognize. you watch the shorter guy turn his head towards you, “who’s this, ray?”

ray introduces you, “i tutored him yesterday.”

gerard’s eyes scan you from head to toe, a polite smile appearing, “good to know you’re not trying to rip ray’s clothes off like that crowd back there.”

if only he knew. you chuckle at his comment, looking at ray nervously before turning toward gerard, “you guys were super great, by the way.”

“you’re sweet, aren’t you.” gerard tilts his head, his fingers massaging ray’s biceps. you believe gerard notices the way your eye twitches at his move on ray and the corner of his mouth perks up, “huh, maybe not.” 

the crowd filters out of the shed, leaving the band and a couple of their friends, you assume, to let their hair down and get a couple of drinks in. 

“how long do these,” you look around at people rolling joints and pout, impressed, “...afterparties go on for?” 

ray looks up, trying to come up with an answer, “uh, like a few hours, no one knows really. i live on campus so i leave whenever i want to, sometimes g and frank stay back. sometimes we see mikey come to practice the next day with the same clothes on,” he shrugs, “it’s different every time.”

you aren’t sober by any means, but you aren’t piss-drunk either when you meet frank and mikey, the shorter one with a scorpion tattoo on his neck, with closer inspection, betraying his onstage persona. mikey, who you’re told is gerard’s younger brother, is as quiet as he seems when he plays on stage. you smile at him and make small talk, compliment his neon genesis evangelion shirt and he grins in surprise, revealing his pointy canines. 

ray is across the room, mingling with some people who you assume are from other bands who performed before them. a man with a shorter stature and a fuckton of eyeliner, wearing a zip-up hoodie that barely hid his torso, a tattoo around his collarbone with nothing underneath, sips on a cigarette and talks to ray, looking up at him like you did yesterday.

you don’t realize how long you’re staring until ray finds your stare, downing the beer he holds so casually between his index and middle finger. your gut flips. heat spreads from your chest to your stomach, making you crush your paper cup and throw it away in dismissal. 

you dream of the same flower you did yesterday. an odd sense of belonging tags along the haze you’re merged in. this time with another rose beside it. the roots of the other, pinker rose intertwined with yours, the ends connecting and becoming one. 

you wake up the next morning with a headache you haven’t had in months. you’ve heard of hangover remedies like swallowing a raw egg yolk. but you would never do that, even if it meant you were throwing up in the paper bag near your nightstand. which you do. 

admittedly, throwing up makes you feel better before you realize what you have to do today. 

the stack of papers on your table resembles mount everest as you contemplate the quantity of it all. not only had you forgotten about the project, but it is also due tomorrow night.

grabbing a coffee and a breakfast sandwich from the cafeteria, you sprint back to your dorm, trying not to wake your roommate up who had worked late last night and met you on the way to your shared room after the afterparty with ray’s band. 

ray was offering and insisting that he drop you off since he invited you there, but you politely declined, horny and exhausted out of your mind. 

the way he looked at you last night. his gaze clinging to every inch of you before looking away, had not only given you some interesting dreams that may have involved getting fucked in the lecture hall, but also left a lasting feeling that there was a ball of fire in your ribcage. 

you consider asking ray for help on your project. 

no, you can’t. he has better things to do. 

scanning through the question on the paper only makes you lean into the idea. suddenly forgetting everything ray taught you the day before. time blurs for you, and you don’t realize you have already texted ray and asked him if he can help you, fixing your hair and second-guessing your outfit.

wait, why did you care?

your phone dings. 

-all of the study rooms are booked :( 

you throw your phone on the bed, the pile of papers making your stomach sink lower into your body. fuck, you’re going to fail the class. you’re going to fail all because you went to the show yesterday to look at this fucking boy, who caught your fucking eye, and you wanted to fuc-

-unless you’re okay with me coming over.

you would be lying if you said your heart didn’t pound so hard against your rib cage that your ears started ringing. you send the same thumbs up emoji, pretending to be casual, regular; anything synonymous with normalcy. the coffee in your system kicks into overdrive; you straighten out your room, tell your roommate to get the fuck out once she gets up and receive a bunch of sex jokes in exchange, all of which you blush at. 

“have fun blowing that dude,” she yells, probably loud enough for your neighbors to hear. she closes the door on the way out, missing the paper ball you threw at her. 

*

“oh wow, your room is way cleaner than mine.” ray appears at your dorm in another tight black shirt, this time with the iron maiden logo that has clearly fought the washer and lost the fight multiple times. 

you see him duck through the door frame, fixing his hair back into position, and you try not to feel your heart wrench at the sight of him being adorable. you bring the papers down to the floor, a signal for ray to mirror you. he sits next to the foot of the bed, leaning against the wooden leg. his hands wrap around his knee, neck craning near yours to get a better look at the questions laid out on the fluffy grayish white carpet. 

you don’t realize that the shorts you’re wearing ride up your thighs, almost presenting themselves to the taller figure in the room. your legs lay on top of each other, almost parallel to the direction ray faces. you prop yourself up on the ball of your left palm, the arm that is stretched behind you, leaning into ray. ray begins helping you, talking about the different mistakes you make as you go through the process of solving the questions. his voice rings near your face, and you find yourself adjusting your seat on the carpet, moving the hem of the shorts closer to your pelvis. 

ray begins stuttering, and for a while you wonder what that is about. he strokes his chin like he’s thinking hard but it is clear that he is pretending to do so. the room gets hotter and you turn your head to check the thermostat. 

it’s the same. 

maybe it is the way you meet ray’s eyes, his plump, berry lips curving into a smirk at every joke you crack, or the way he, at least you think, gets distracted by your legs on display. he bends down to the papers, the fabric of the shirt stretching over his back, and you can’t help but think about leaving scratches on his back and trailing your fingers down his spine. 

ray smells like soap and the kind of cologne that a college kid can afford, not too charming, not too repellant. his hair is nearer to you than his face, and you can smell his shampoo that’s kind of coconut-y and beachy, and you try your best not to audibly inhale. 

you go through the papers at the speed of lightning with ray there to coach you through it. you chew and bite your lip, working through the problems with utter concentration. sometimes you don’t realize that ray is talking, and you end up ignoring him and apologizing for spacing out at the project. 

“holy shit, you were focused huh? like shiva at his penance,” ray comments, and you don’t understand. and he figures.

“shiva is a hindu deity. he’s known to be the sage of all sages, nobody would disturb his penance on top of this mountain in india,” he says, like he's almost embarrassed about knowing trivia. 

“wow…” you trail off, “and you just know all this?”

he chuckles, ducking his head and looking back up, “i used to google things a lot as a kid…” you cock an eyebrow, not believing him.

“...and maybe i still do.” he admits, palming his face, hiding that smile of his you love to see. 

“i admire that actually. i used to be obsessed with dinosaurs, google was like my life for a good few years” you comment, not expecting his countenance to be that of enthrallment; almost childlike joy. 

“you’re kidding, right? i did too! if you ever come over, you’ll see dinosaur stickers on my laptop and some of my drawers.” and you try not to think too much about the implication of the statement. 

you sort through the papers to make sure you don’t miss a single page and then turn toward ray, who was closer than before. you see specks of gray and black in his eyes, the way his nose bumps up slightly, freckles adorning his olive-toned skin. you notice he has dimples, appearing with each smile. his toothy grin melts you, and you feel that similar warmth you felt last night blossoming in your ribs. 

your breath hitches in your throat before you realize you’re staring like a madman into his eyes. 

“good job today,” ray says, his hand shaking your shoulder, jolts of electricity branching up the point of contact. you look away, a tight-lipped smile masking the sudden pulse his compliment sent straight between your legs. 

“oh, thanks. i really couldn’t have done this without you.” 

ray waves you off, leaning away, upsetting you slightly, “of course you could have. i just pointed you in the direction, you were the one on the journey.”

“any chance you play dnd?” you question, almost teasing his attempt at being poetic.

“it’s that obvious, huh?”

you both laugh, voices ringing out. you don’t remember laughing like this in a while, especially with someone you admired this much. the laughs settle into a comfortable silence as the two of you look out at the plane passing through the window. 

“you know, you’re super talented.” you say, out of the blue, and immediately regret it, thinking you were giving away too much. he turns to you, you observe through your peripheral vision, almost like he knows you have more to say. 

“i mean. the way you just performed like it was breathing to you, it really is rare to see talent like that, especially in this dump of a town.” you finish, clearing your throat in the end, waiting for him to say something. 

“i don’t know what to say,”

“for starters, a thank you would suffice,” you quip, a humorous tone tagging along. 

he starts to rise from his seat, “thanks, i do appreciate it. it’s difficult for me to take compliments, though, if you haven’t figured it out yet.”

you ignore him, “oh yeah, you probably have to leave, sorry to keep yo-”

“no no! i love helping other students, you weren’t keeping me from anything else. i just have band practice in a few, so i have to get going,” 

you swear you hear regret in his voice but maybe you liked to lie to yourself. 

as you watch him see himself out, you wait for him to turn around, say something. 

come on, don’t leave without giving me something. 

“oh by the way,” ray turns around. you hope he doesn’t notice your eyes gleam at the sudden lightbulb moment of his. 

“there’s a mixer on sunday. the band’s gonna be there. you should come, if you’re not busy.”

you nod, and he leaves with a promise that he’ll text you the address. 

he does, followed by a text that says, “hope 2 c u :)”, and you receive a side eye from your roommate who watches you bury your face in your pillow and kick your feet. something about the way ray had to peel his eyes off your legs subconsciously makes you pick something that shows them off, ending up with fishnets and a short skirt you bought on a whim months ago that collected dust in the back of your closet. 

at this point, you know one thing. ray isn’t straight. you very well know you can imagine and exaggerate situations to fit your narrative, and that very well may be the case, but you don’t care. 

it’s your last year. it doesn’t matter if you’re rejected or if you really are imagining things. senioritis in university makes you hit a special low where you could care less what happened. you borrow a jacket from your roommate, ignoring the comment on how she would be really mad if you got ray’s jizz on it. 

*

sunday rolls in and your stomach does not stop jumping. you had somehow completed all your work ahead of time without having to ask ray for help. anxiety was nowhere to be found, just excitement and a little bit of nervousness to see him after days of texting him. 

he had sent you a picture of the dinosaur sticker on his drawer unprompted, and your heart skipped a beat at the notification before you began having conversations that extended late into the night. 

late night conversations turn into exchanging music recommendations and funny videos you find. he sends you videos of his band playing, and he’s the only one you watch, but of course you say, “you guys are going to make it big someday.”

saturday night before turning in, you text him.

-good luck. can’t wait to see you guys perform.

-you’re sweet.

you keep going back to the text, giggling at it throughout the day, even as you get dressed for the mixer. you keep telling yourself he’s being nice but you are at the event, looking around for ray or gerard, or anyone you know. a rotating light hung low in the middle of the floor, a small podium for people to perform at the mixer. people hover around the bar, clearly no age check involved in the process as they swipe drinks and trail off with a huge smile on their faces. 

you feel a hand on your shoulder, and you swear your heart jumps into your throat. 

“ray! i’ve been trying to find you forever.” you look up at him, a sliver of purple and pink lights from the disco ball light streaks across his face like an illuminated scar. 

“so have i, come on back, this place is just for the general public,” he nods his head toward the other direction, fingers grabbing your wrist and nudging you toward him.

“ooo, i feel like a groupie,” you comment, and you hear him giggle, thanking god he doesn’t take you seriously no matter how much you want your words to be true. 

gerard sips a cigarette indoors, frank tunes his guitar with an ear down to the strings, and mikey is nowhere to be found. gerard looks amused at you as he blows smoke out. ray steps out to grab drinks, and you feel vulnerable. exposed. 

“so…” gerard begins, and you know he’s not about to make small talk, “ray has told me a lot about you.”

“all of us actually,” frank interjects, and you look at both of them, bewildered. 

“oh,” he talks about you? “all good things, i hope.”

“oh yes, overwhelmingly.” gerard ashes the stick between his fingers on the crystal tray near him. you sense mischief in his voice as he gives you the same head-to-toe scan that he did the first time you met him. 

“ray isn’t the outgoing type,” mikey walks in. you turn around in surprise to see him without his beanie and glasses for the first time. you can see how similar his features are to gerard’s. 

“yet, here you are, after what?” gerard tilts his head, “a week of meeting him?”

his tone isn’t malicious, nothing he says could sound malicious because he knew how to talk to people, how to handle them. that’s what made him a good frontman. 

“would you be surprised if i say i don’t gel well with strangers either?” you shrug and straighten your back, trying not to seem so timid around them.

they chuckle with you at the irony of the statement, gerard simply says, “i like you,”

you tilt your head slightly, not sure what to say and gerard offers you his cigarette, “ray doesn’t trust people often. and when he does he’s rarely wrong.”

you wave his offer with a small “no, thanks,” and he continues, “i hope he isn’t wrong.”

*

“are you okay?” ray asks you after the show, a beer in his right hand as he leans back into the wall of the green room. 

“yeah, i’m fine, i think i was just too close to the speakers so my head hurts a bit,” 

you aren’t fine. you’re thinking about what gerard said to you, and you barely paid attention to the performance and focused on distracting yourself with a shot of tequila that burned deliciously down your throat. 

you make eye contact with gerard across the room who is sitting on frank’s lap for some reason, his stare less threatening at this point because ray is there. he can’t be obvious. 

gut slowly burning and the alcohol in your system climbing up to your head, you ask ray if he wants shots and before you know it you’re carrying a small tray of salt and slices of lime with two little vials of tequila. 

“do you know how to do this?” you ask, not knowing what you got yourself into. 

“yeah it's super simple,” you hear, trying your best not to giggle at his go-to phrase, “lick, shoot, and suck.”

you dip the back of your hand in the hill of salt, where the index finger and the thumb meet, you glance at ray once before nodding, and lick up a stripe of your hand. ray does the same and you try not to think about the fact that that is how he would look between your legs. you throw your head back in unison with ray, squinted eyes and sour face, sucking at the bright green slice of fruit before smacking your lips. 

ray sits beside you, thighs pressed up against yours, leaning into you, giggling. a rosy blush rises to his cheeks, and his eyelids lie lower than before. your body is on fire. tipsy words making you stutter and laugh for no reason, forgetting about what gerard said for a while. 

ray walks you to your dorm that night, stumbling on the street and giggling at nothing in particular. you clutch his shirt for support as you burst into a fit of laughter at a joke he makes, not caring if you’re loud. 

the lingering breeze in the air makes your skin feel less hot even though being near ray was enough to make you sweat through a leather jacket. the streetlights shine down on the two of you, slowing down in your path and strolling, kicking pebbles and making a game out of them.

you ask him how he got into playing guitar, he tells you a story about how he got ripped off buying his first guitar that broke in the first fifteen minutes of playing it. you tell him about your university experience, your plans for your career. 

he beams at you with genuine admiration in his eyes, eyes softening. the spirit had weakened its effects on your body; you walked with a straighter back and a higher chin than before. almost like a gateway opening for your anxiety. 

“so, gerard told me something,” you begin, not sure what you want to know from striking this topic up.

“hm? what’d he say?” he asks, kicking the poor pebble on the pavement. 

“he said you don’t make friends that easily.” it sounds bad out loud, but you know that he knows what you mean. 

he chortles, “yeah? what else did he say?”

you raise an eyebrow, as if checking with him if you should continue, “he just… he said he hopes you’re not wrong with me.”

the two of you enter your dorm, shuffling through pockets and keycards. ray stays quiet. you noticed he does that when he isn’t ready to talk just yet because he’s thinking of the most logical and rational answer possible.

“why did he-” he begins, and you listen, ignoring the fact that ray follows you to your actual room, trying to justify his friend’s words. 

“he said something about how you can’t stop talking about me and thinking about me,” you flash a shit-eating grin, his eyes widening immediately. 

“that fucker…” he trails off, his head dropping down in defeat. 

“so it’s true?” you ask, leaning your back against the main door, a foot propped up on the surface. your back is straight, if not arched. you feel the after effects of downing two shots of fireball take over, the haze of the liquor blurs the line between “study buddies.”

he steps closer to you. there’s barely anyone outside in the hallways, they are either out partying or fast asleep. his hand trails up the doorframe, palm against the bumped surface. he’s so big that he casts a shadow over you from the main light. you notice his eyes trace your figure, backed up against a door, at his mercy. 

his left arm trails up your waist and stays there, “do you want it to be?” 

*

your bodies move in the dark, an orchestra of heavy breaths and moans bouncing off your dorm’s walls. the posters in your room are but flies on the wall as ray carries you to your bed, your legs wrapped tight around his waist. you lick into his mouth, his warm and soft lips slick with your saliva engulfing yours. 

you breathe in, the scent of his sweat driving your senses into a frenzy and your grip on his hair tenses up. he pulls away to look at your face under the moonlight beaming through your frosted window. ray tastes like the tequila you downed with him, deliciously bitter and intoxicating, his shiny lips sending waves of lightning to your clit. 

neither of you have spoken a word, fingers and lips grabbing and groping each other like hormonal teenagers away from their families at summer camp. ray places you on your bed, your sheets suddenly feeling foreign to you with him hovering above you, his fingers nosing toward the curve of your ass. 

involuntary whimpers escape your throat as his fingers stroke down the back of your thighs; he hooks one of them to the fishnets and rips them in one go, handling your thighs like he starves for something more than open mouthed kisses over his lips that make his cock stir in his tight jeans. the gasp you let out is more out of pleasure and surprise, and less of you mourning the loss of your clothing. 

“all this time, toro, yo- ah, fuck you- you liked me?” you kiss his neck as he works on peeling the fishnets off your legs, throwing your legs over his shoulders, elbows digging into your mattress, leaving kisses up your inner thighs. your arousal was obvious, ray- even you- could smell it through your underwear. 

ray stops and climbs up to face you, his fingers stroking your happy trail and you buck your hips for more just at his touch at your sensitive waist. he asks you if you’re okay and if you want to stop, you need to tell him. 

you grab him by his collar and pull him in, teeth clashing, skin feeling like a burning matchstick, flame eating away at its wooden body. you blabber nonsense, not able to get enough of his full lips around yours; hands lacing around his waist pulling him so close that if he didn’t pull away you would be crushed by his body weight. he kisses down your stomach, his calloused fingers soothing under your hoodie and to your breasts, tracing under the mounds of flesh before his hands flew to your thighs. 

soft trailing kisses become warm, careful presses down your stomach. you breathe like you don’t want him to hear how bad you need him, but your efforts are soon wasted as he presses his nose against your clit. 

inner thighs pressing into his ears, hips bucking up to the warmth of his mouth over the damp cotton underwear, you look down at him, locks of curls falling beautifully over his eyes. his tongue licks a stripe up through the fabric, the frills of your skirt resembling one of those bell-curves ray drew on the whiteboard the first time you met him, with him underneath it.

skilled tongue that circles on your clit before curling his digits under the hem of your panties, yanking the fabric off your skin, a sudden chill making you feel exposed. ray doesn’t let you feel that way any longer; his tongue licks up the folds of your pussy, tasting you whole and you almost pass out from the sheer euphoria locking down the ends of your spine on your bed, the arch in your back pushing your clit further against his nose. 

you beg and beg and beg him to do something. he simply chuckles and swipes the pad of his thumb on your slit before dipping his middle finger into you, a guttural groan emanating from your throat. your feet move against his crotch and you feel his dick strain against his tight jeans, his tongue replacing his finger and tugging you into his face, delving into you. 

hands thread through his curls, clutching and pulling at him needing to feel a release expeditiously. the hotness of his mouth against your pulsing core has you palming your tits hoodie, playing and pinching at your nipples. 

teeth pulling at the skin on your thighs, making you moan helplessly has him circling your clit with his thumb, wanting to hear more of your voice. you chant his name like a prayer, like he would somehow lift your soul up to the heavens with his tongue. 

his stubble adds delectable friction to your cunt and you gasp like your life depends on him; you forget everything. every word, every person in the world, every fucking thing is wiped clean like patterns in the sand under the foamy waves of the ocean. 

your thighs clench around his head, the honestly fucking corrupt noises of him devouring your pussy muffling under the flesh of your tastefully bruised thighs. he hums lowly, gulping and licking and gorging, the vibrations of his voice (that you didn’t know could get that fuckin low) driving you closer to the white light of orgasm that seems so close. 

his moans crescendo as the heels of your feet grind into his cock, his lips pressing and sucking harder at your clit, his fingers that once moved carefully in your slick walls, now quickening and curling up into you. 

you plead, you beg, you pray to him, hips jerking againsts mouth as his teeth lightly graze over the swollen lips of your cunt, your nails scratch his scalp perfectly, the tip of his tongue licks up your clit perfectly and his fingers, oh his fingers, scratch an itch seated so deep inside you that you swear you see stars before tipping over the edge, bottom lips falling open in a silent plea.

you ride his nose, his tongue, you push his head down, fist his hair, do whatever it takes, to make your orgasm last as long as possible, ankles meeting at the back of his neck. the way your legs shake at his last lap on your swollen clit, moonlight reflecting off of his beautiful brown eyes and your arousal dripping down his chin makes you go dizzier- if it was even fucking possible- and you feel like you’re high on the world’s most euphoric drug. 

you smile down at him, fingers holding his cheeks gently, nudging him up to meet your face; his palms digging into your ruined sheets on either side of you, lowering his wet lips onto yours, wanting you to taste yourself against his tongue. you breathe into his kiss, his hair falling on your face, you feel him smile against your mouth and you suddenly remember. 

“ray, do you want me to-” you start, eyebrows twisting up in concern and he cuts you off with another sweet kiss to your lips.

“you expect me to not cream my pants when you’re splayed out like this in front of me, in this little fucking thing around your waist?” his words sound harsh, but admiration fills his eyes, and you know it’s just an amalgamation of what the both of you have been feeling for the past few days. 

“you fucking-” you sputter, still recovering from incredible high- the type of orgasm that the little toy in your nighstand or your fingers could never give you, “-you fucker.”

he sits back on the bed, pulling down your skirt and helping you up to sit, his hands sturdy as a brick wall holding you up while your legs still solidify. as viciously as he ate you out mere minutes ago, he was back to being himself, sweet, nerdy, kind ray. helpful as ever. 

“can i take you out tomorrow?” he asks, his thumb stroking yours, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. 

you kiss his neck and then his jaw, smiling up at him, “just text me the address.”

[fcble]

PIANO CONCERTO IN A♭ MINOR, PART III: ALLEGRO

In which Andrew thinks, and therefore is. FEATURING: Andrew Han, Lim Byeonghwi WORD COUNT: 2.3k SETTING: August 2024 NOTES: The final third of Andrew's Great Existential Crisis of 2024. You can read part one HERE and part two HERE and accidental part 2.5 HERE. Warnings for smoking (weed).

Andrew repossesses his studio near the end of August. He arrives prepared: a canister of Clorox wipes, a roll of paper towels, no less than three microfiber cloths. To say he doesn't trust Jaesun's producer would be an understatement. He's almost afraid of what he'll see, bracing himself as he inserts his slightly tarnished silver key into the slightly tarnished silver lock and turns.

The door swings open—ominously, he thinks—and the hallway casts a slice of light into the otherwise dark room. He holds his breath and flips the light switch on.

What it illuminates is entirely normal. There's his desk, the monitor perched on top looking untouched, as does the empty laptop stand next to it. The microphone is tucked away on the corner of the desk, right next to his keyboard. The loveseat next to the entrance is nearly pristine. Andrew drops his cleaning supplies on it, letting them bounce and roll until they settle against the back cushions. He places his bag on the floor next to it with a little more caution. Then he shuts and locks the door behind him.

He opens the room's one window, and then examines his side of the small recording booth that connects his studio to Intak's. The music stand is folded neatly inside. None of the foam paneling has fallen or been torn off the walls. Satisfactory, he supposes.

Andrew returns to his desk, dragging his bag along with him, and begins the slow process of setting up his computer again. He crouches on the ground to unlock the only desk drawer that locks, retrieving his keyboard and his mouse pad and his headphone stand and the wires that bring it all together.

Ten minutes later, he wipes the dust off his hands and takes a seat, only to find his desk chair six inches lower than where it usually is. Fucking... Andrew doesn't even know the name of Jaesun's producer. He'd appreciate it if he could put a name to the person he'd like to curse out. He raises the chair, and then takes a Clorox wipe and cleans the surface of the desk. Then he folds it into a neat square, pushing it to the side with only the vaguest mental note to toss it later.

He rolls his chair back a few feet until he hits the loveseat, blindly reaching behind him for the roll of the paper towels. He tears two sheets off before tossing the remainder of the roll back into its place. Back at his desk, Andrew uses them as a tablecloth, laying them flat across the surface of his desk.

With quick, practiced movements, he rolls a joint. His materials lay strewn over the rest of the table, evidence of his crime laid bare for anyone to see: rolling paper, scissors, his extremely stereotypical bag of weed, grinder, lighter. He can only do this when absolutely no one else is around, and lately, he's been lacking in privacy.

He lights the end, watching as the flame of the lighter flickers and jumps, and the smallest wisp of smoke stretches toward the ceiling. He stretches forward and turns on the fan that sits in the corner of his desk, letting it oscillate its artificial breeze around the room.

Then he inhales, filling his lungs with the heady smoke he's come to associate with solitude and isolation, a far cry from the camaraderie and companionship that getting high used to come with.

He wasn't going to work, though he has work to do. He always has work to do. His plan was to sit in silence and think. Which is what he does now, leaning back and spinning in a circle while the fan lazily pushes the air around the room.

He's eight months into his amended contract, and almost nothing has changed. The biggest difference is that he now has another almost three years in Fable, not a year and a half. It's like he's moved backwards and he's halfway through his career again instead of reaching for the end. When he first joined the company, a seven-year contract felt like a lifetime. For fresh out of college, twenty-one-year-old Andrew, seven years was more than enough. To current, not quite thirty-year-old Andrew, seven years can pass in the blink of an eye.

He doesn't get much further in his thoughts before he's interrupted.

“It smells like weed in here.”

Andrew twists around in his seat just in time to see Byeonghwi shut the studio door behind him. "The door was locked."

"I asked Yumi-noona to pick it," is Byeonghwi's only response.

Andrew makes a disgruntled noise. He didn't realize lock picking was part of her clearly extensive list of talents. He also didn't realize Byeonghwi knew her well enough to ask this of her.

Byeonghwi crosses the room in a few strides. There's no question to what Andrew was doing. He knows when he's been caught red-handed. He watches, dispassionately and disconnected, as Byeonghwi picks up and carefully seals the Ziploc bag.

"You could get caught," he says softly, soft enough that Andrew almost doesn't hear him.

"I won't." He has the right to say that. He hasn't been caught yet.

Byeonghwi changes the subject. "Is the album going well?"

The album is not going anywhere at all. The problem, Andrew thinks, might be that he already wrote an album this year, and maybe he's burning out. Fuck the kpop industry, and fuck King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard, just for good measure.

"It's fine."

From Byeonghwi's expression, it's obvious he knows Andrew isn't quite telling the truth.

It will be fine. It has to be fine. He has the majority of a title track, and soon he'll have all of the title track, and then they'll have choreography and schedules and the physical album and in order for that to happen, he has to get over this bump in the road.

"You should take a break," Byeonghwi says, and Andrew has to wonder if he came in here with a plan. The sharp, analytical part of his mind he can never turn off, never relinquish control of, wonders if Jaeseop put Byeonghwi up to that before he left, if he asked Byeonghwi to keep Andrew from destroying himself, because he's the only one who can do that. Jaeseop knows full well that if Byeonghwi is the one doing the asking, then Andrew is at his beck and call.

"I can't. Jaeseop never took any breaks."

"Jaeseop-hyung didn't insist on doing everything himself."

He has a point, no matter how much Andrew would like to pretend otherwise.

"Also, you shouldn't smoke," Byeonghwi continues, and that's when Andrew knows this isn't Byeonghwi talking to him, but rather Jaeseop speaking through him.

"You smoke," Andrew argues. If anything, Byeonghwi is worse, because he begs real cigarettes from Intak from time to time. Andrew is a product of the 2000s American public school system, and he believes nicotine is the Devil incarnate, even if he doesn't necessarily believe in the Devil.

Byeonghwi sighs and tucks his one hand into his pocket. The other dangles uselessly at his side, still clutching Andrew's weed. "I want to help you. Should I ask Intak-hyung?"

"No." Andrew's response is reflexive. This is his album, like the one before it was also his, and Fable's first album and the majority of their early music was Intak's. It's always been that way. One of them, or the other, will write their music, but rarely both. Andrew can count the number of songs they've co-produced on one hand. He is begrudgingly aware of the fact that it might be his fault. Intak is perfectly open and amiable to cooperation. Andrew is the one who shuts it down. Which is all to say the last thing he wants is Byeonghwi running to Intak to ask for help.

"I want that back." He nods at the bag in Byeonghwi's hand. "It's expensive." More than he'd like to pay, anyway.

"Later," Byeonghwi says in an extremely non-committal way. His expression twists into a grimace. "I don't like that you do this."

That's his opinion. Normally, Andrew would value it, or at the very least, entertain it. In this specific situation, he knows better. He isn't even that high to begin with. He knows his limits. He might not pass a drug test, and that would end his career and the rest of Fable's, but he still feels nearly sober. He's capable of holding a coherent conversation.

He shrugs. "I know what I'm doing."

"I never thought you'd be one to risk our careers like this."

That's a low blow. Andrew isn't doing anything of the scale of Mingeun's scandal or Haksu's not-quite-girlfriend. He has privacy here. This is between him and himself, and unfortunately, Byeonghwi.

"So I'm a shitty idol. Everyone knows that already," Andrew says.

"Not everyone. I never thought that." Byeonghwi's response is quiet and hesitant.

More than anything, Andrew feels guilty now, like he's somehow deceived Byeonghwi. That was never his goal. His goal was always to survive, to prove he belonged. It's obvious he was successful. Too successful, given the pressures and expectations that piled upon one another, stacking higher and higher without end. Write Fable's music, carry the choruses of their songs, lead the group in Jaeseop's stead, represent himself and all those who came before him in a culture he still barely understands, represent the culture he grew up in, be book-smart and emotionally intelligent, be better, be perfect, be more. But Andrew has never been enough, and now the cracks are starting to show.

It's an uncomfortable thought, and one that he no longer wants to entertain. He changes the topic to one equally uncomfortable. "I'm thinking about leaving," he admits. "I received an offer I'm not sure I can decline."

Byeonghwi doesn't react immediately. Instead, he gingerly sits in the middle of the loveseat across from Andrew. "When Eunsu-hyung left, I was the first person he told. Sometimes I think about how I might have been able to stop him if I said something different." He stares Andrew in the eye, gaze surprisingly intense. "If you pick yourself over the group, you're just like Mingeun-hyung."

Andrew seethes silently, and his thoughts wander back to the joint wasting away on the table behind him. If he was high, if he gave in fully, it would the conversation that much more palatable. He can't do that in front of Byeonghwi.

He doesn't like being compared to Mingeun, and Byeonghwi knows that. It's the type of under-handed, below-the-belt remark designed to get a rise out of him. He refuses to take the bait.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," he says calmly.

Byeonghwi pierces him with another look. Andrew doesn't know when he perfected that art. "Are you serious, hyung? We both know you hate being compared to him. I don't want you to do something because I'm the one who suggested it to you. I want you to take me seriously."

In the moment, something about his demeanor makes him seem older. He's grown up, Andrew knows. He isn't barely sixteen anymore, like he was when they met. That doesn't stop him from treating Byeonghwi like a kid. To Andrew, he'll be sixteen forever, the young, sheltered teenager Andrew took under his wing and snuck into his work-subsidized apartment so many years ago. He still remembers what it was like to be young and reckless with too much confidence, thrown somewhere completely out of his depth. He couldn’t stop Byeonghwi from signing that Zenith Entertainment contract, but he could protect him to the best of his ability.

He doesn't have anyone to stop him from signing a C Entertainment contract. Perhaps that's what he's missing. Jaeseop would tell him he shouldn't do it, but Jaeseop isn't here.

"This is serious," Andrew says. He doesn't miss the way Byeonghwi's grip on his weed intensifies.

"I'm going to keep this for a while," Byeonghwi says. "You shouldn't make decisions when you're high."

"You'll all tell me I shouldn't leave. I don't need to be sober to know that."

If looks could kill, Andrew would be dead multiple times over in the last fifteen minutes. "The offer can't be that much better. We've always been treated well."

Andrew laughs—actually laughs, tosses his head back and reclines in his seat—at that. That might be true for the majority of the group. For himself, and for Mingeun, because he can finally acknowledge that things were worse for him, it's far from accurate. Andrew moved to a foreign country, learned a new language, surrounded himself with an unfamiliar culture, broke himself into pieces and reforged them into someone Taein could accept, all because he wanted to make music and he couldn't cut it in America. Jinguk offered him an American career, so that must count as something better.

"No," he says again, simple and firm. He refuses to elaborate. "I appreciate your opinion. This is a decision I need to make myself."

Byeonghwi's bottom lip juts out in a pout, and then it wobbles and and trembles like he wants to speak, but doesn't know what to say.

After a moment that feels like an eternity, but can't be more than a few seconds, he says, "Okay."

Andrew relaxes, having bought himself a little more time.

"I'm getting you help for this album. It doesn't have to be Intak-hyung, but I want you to accept it," he continues.

Andrew doesn't care. Byeonghwi can do whatever he wants, because he won't need the help. He'll get it done on his own, like he always does. "Fine," he says reluctantly.

Byeonghwi seems to brighten up at that. "I'm really looking forward to it, hyung."

He leaves not long after that, taking Andrew's weed with him and closing the door carefully.

Andrew locks it right behind him, before sinking back into his seat and dropping his forehead onto his desk, the pressures and the expectations and the work no less than they were before Byeonghwi's arrival.

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] A Deal in Three Acts: Act I

Title: A Deal in Three Acts Summary: Weeks since Raphael took temporary residence at Sharess' Caress, Haarlep is bored. Still waiting for Tav to take him up on his offer, Raphael is frustrated. Tav chooses an interesting evening to show up with a counter-offer. Characters: Raphael, Haarlep, Tav. Rating: Explicit Status: Complete

Also on AO3

***

There is something vaguely resembling a kind of attempt at plot relevance if you squint but I mostly wanted an excuse to write porn.

***

When Haarlep snuck in Raphael’s room at Sharess’ Caress - Devil’s Den, really? Did he have that plaque installed? - they did so quietly, wearing the likeness of some poor imbecile who’d given his body and soul to them a few centuries earlier.

A useless precaution, as it turned out: the owners of that fine establishment were perfectly happy with having devils on the premises, as long as rent was paid. A high rent, probably, for the luxury of the suite: of course Raphael would settle for nothing less, even though he probably had not expected a weeks long stay. 

When he’d departed from Baldur’s gate, after sharing yet more details of his plan with Haarlep in a grandiose and entirely unprompted monologue, Raphael had been certain this little mouse and her companions would fall over themselves to accept his generous offer and sign his contract. 

“They may ask for time to think it over, of course. They may still believe they will find a solution on their own, outsmarting a devil. Mortals are prone to delusions of grandeur,” Raphael had said, with an astounding lack of self-awareness Haarlep could almost admire.  “But they will not. They will take my deal in a matter of days.”

The days had turned into a week, two weeks, and then three weeks. Raphael was still in Baldur’s Gate, still waiting for a signature and, from what Korrilla had told Haarlep during a brief visit at the House of Hope, in an increasingly foul mood.

“He rants and raves worse than usual if you give him a chance,” she’d warned them. “I’d keep avoiding him, if I were you. Don’t give him that chance.”

At first, Harrlep had no intention to go see him in the Material Plane. They had taken his prolonged absence as a vacation of sorts for the first week - two weeks, maybe - but soon enough, that too had grown old. There was no power in the Nine Hells of Baator that could compel Haarlep to say they missed Raphael’s presence, but they were bored. Getting under Raphael’s skin was, after all, their favorite pastime.

Well. The second favorite. But still.

Haarlep shifted back into their mimicry of Raphael, briefly stretched their wings, and padded into the next room. Sure enough, Raphael was there. He was fully clothed, sitting at a desk and writing something into that golden book he often had with him. Haarlep grinned, walked up behind him, and placed both hands on Raphael’s shoulders. 

“Who--?” Raphael looked up, startled, and scowled when he saw them. “What are you doing here?” he snapped, closing the book despite the still fresh ink on it. “I don’t recall giving you any instructions to follow me here.”

“Oh, I could ask the same. What are you doing, little brat?” Haarlep sing-sang in turn. “I thought you came to this plane for the most important infernal contract of all time, and yet here you are, writing your little fictions.”

“It is a verse epic, you ignorant thing,” Raphael bit back, and Haarlep’s smile widened. There were plenty of things that ruffled his feathers - they had spent long long centuries figuring each of them out, so they could put them to good use - but few things got to him as hearing his literary endeavors described as ‘his little fictions’. 

“How curious it is,” Haarlep said, still resting both hands on Raphael’s shoulders, “that a devil of your stature doesn’t have a small army of scribes to write verse epics. It seems unfair, leaving you to write up imaginary deeds all by yourself.”

Only the slightest tensing of Raphael’s back betrayed his annoyance. Still, he made a commendable effort not to let it show. 

“With questionable results, I’d wager. I have no need for such cheap flattery,” he replied, like he and Haarlep both didn’t know full well he’d happily take in all flattery, cheap or otherwise. He craved it nearly as much as he craved power, or even more. What was power, what was all his ambition, if not the ultimate bid to be admired? Haarlep knew Raphael well enough to know he had no true inclination to rule, much less any taste for duty. 

He wanted Asmodeus’ throne the way he’d always wanted a pedestal, nothing more. Lifetimes since they’d been sworn to him, when he was a young cambion vying for any sort of relevance at his father’s court alongside more half-siblings than anyone could bother counting - some more powerful than him, some more cunning, all looked upon with some scorn by full devils and now mostly dead - he had not changed all that much.

“How odd. I’ve always found you to take in mediocre praise as eagerly as you take me.” Haarlep’s hands went down Raphael’s chest, and they spoke the next words in his ear. “Which you haven’t in a while. You’ve been here waiting for weeks for this little mouse of yours and her companions to come back and take your deal. You must be so very bored.”

There was a shudder Raphael was quick to disguise with a scoff, but not quite quick enough. “They’ll be back crawling,” he growled. “When they realize there is no other way out other than trusting an Illithid. They’ll be begging to take my deal.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sure they will. But now, you’re the one acting like a beggar.”

Raphael bristled, and tilted back his head to glare at them. Haarlep would never not enjoy seeing him look up at them. “What do you think you know? You’re naught more than a glorified bedwarmer. I am not sitting here in wait. I have been making deals, every single day--”

“But not the one you really want.” They leaned over, and spoke only a scant inch from Raphael’s lips. They felt his breathing quicken, dark brown eyes already clouded with want. Raphael had never coped well with frustration, with having his desires denied. When it all got to be too much, well. Either someone unfortunate enough to cross his path in the House of Hope would suffer, or Haarlep would find more pleasant ways for him to release that pent up emotion.

“Maybe they will be back crawling. I’m sure you’d love to see that.” Their hand went down his stomach, stopped barely above his groin. “I for one have missed seeing you crawl. I have half a mind to make you beg before I agree to fuck you.”

A breath, shakier than Raphael probably intended. “Half a mind,” he bit, “is all you have in that skull of yours. You may want to avoid straining it too much.”

Ah, Raphael. Sometimes he made it almost too easy. “You would know, my little brat. I am, after all, fashioned in your image.”

“You insolent--”

Whatever word he meant to utter next - wretch, probably - only came out as a muffled noise as Haarlep closed up the space between their lips, a hand grasping Raphael’s face, fingers pressing firmly onto his cheeks. It was not enough pressure to make him open his mouth, but it was a clear invitation and firm enough that Raphael could later claim, if so he wished, that he hadn’t opened his mouth voluntarily. But he did, he always did. They both knew the truth.

Haarlep pushed their tongue into his mouth as soon as his lips parted, and that was that. He heard Raphael’s low groan, felt the shudder that ran through him as their saliva took effect. They smiled against his lips and grabbed the front of Raphael’s doublet, pulling him up on his feet before pushing him back against the desk. The chair topped and ink spilled on the floor, but their master was already well beyond caring, if the way he grasped the straps of Haarlep’s harness was anything to go by. Oh yes, he had missed this exactly as much as Haarlep thought. That was good. They had very much missed pushing him around.

“Have you gone without all this time, Raphael?” Haarlep’s hand went down to unlace his trousers. Raphael’s thighs parted, offering no resistance. “And to think you’ve taken residence in a brothel. But none here can get you like this.” A light, teasing grip on his cock, already hardening. “None of them has your face, mmh?”

“You’re not here-- to speak,” Raphael ground out. “So keep that tongue of yours still, unless it’s to-- ah!” 

“Oh, apologies. I should have warned.” Haarlep grinned, not apologetic in the slightest, and adjusted the ring they’d conjured at the base of Raphael’s half-erect cock. “But after such a long time apart, I plan on making you last, my pet.”

A glare, all indignant outrage. “I did not give you permission--”

“No, you did not. Say the word, and I’ll take it off.” Another kiss, deep, devouring, chipping away at Raphael’s weak show of resistance. “But you won’t.”

A snarl, even as his fingers gripped the leather straps holding Haarlep’s harness in place, even as he tried to cant up his hips to press himself against Haarlep’s thigh. “I despise you.”

“You despise how right I am.”

“You’re not. I am indulging you - you’d do well to remember.”

“Indulging your incubus? My, what a generous master,” Haarlep said, unable to keep the barest hint of mockery out of the word. “Or maybe I’m to be the master tonight. And you’re mine to indulge in. Is that how you want it to be, Raphael?”

“You ought to know what I want. That’s all you’re meant to think about,” was the response, only slightly ruined by the groan he failed to bite back towards the end, when Haarlep gripped his hair and forced his head back, nipping at his throat. 

They’d heard that response, many times. After centuries upon centuries as his personal incubus, there was hardly a combination of words Haarlep had not heard fall out of his mouth. And they knew precisely what this one meant. 

Yes, it’s how I want it.

A smile against his neck, and they pulled back, still holding onto Raphael’s hair. The skin on his throat was already reddened; so thin and delicate, nothing like the thick, leathery one of his cambion form, when Raphael was only figuratively thin-skinned. Haarlep ran a claw from beneath his chin down his throat, slowly, and felt Raphael swallow. 

“It would be so easy to make you bleed when you’re like this, my little brat. Sometimes I wonder which form is really you and which one is the disguise.”

A snarl. “I told you to be--”

“Silence.”

The grip on Raphael’s hair tightened, and he again trailed off with a groan. Satisfied, Haarlep nipped at his throat again before pushing Raphael easily across the room, onto the large bed only a few steps away. 

Raphael stumbled against the mattress gracelessly, hair tousled, entirely clothed aside for the open trousers revealing how hard he already was. “Undress,” Haarlep said, the harsh tone already giving way to sheer glee. Raphael glared, teeth clenched, but they spoke again before he could make a noise. “One word of protest, my pet, and I’ll find someone else to satisfy tonight. We’re in a brothel. I’ll find no shortage of willing customers.”

“I haven’t given you permission-- ”

“You have five minutes,” Haarlep cut him off, sweetly, leaning against the desk. “To undress and get yourself ready. Then I’ll fuck you, little duke, regardless how slick or open you are. I wouldn’t waste precious time arguing, if I were you.”

Of all monikers Haarlep had called him over the centuries, that was still the one Raphael hated most. He was no real duke and, although for a time he’d fancied himself an unofficial ambassador of Cania to Avernus, he held no official position whatsoever in any of the Nine Hells. Little dukes had been how some in Mephistar referred to the spawn of Mephistopheles sired upon mortals, or at least the ones who survived long enough in the Material Plane to be taken to their father’s court - where most lasted very little time indeed. It was meant as a jape, of course, the mockery barely even concealed.

Raphael had hated it then, and he hated it now. He hated Haarlep for it, and he still held his tongue, he still went to undress with practiced ease that barely concealed the tremor in his hands. Haarlep smiled, tilting their head, as he reached into a drawer to take a very convenient vial of oil. 

“Would you like me to be the Archduchess tonight?” they asked, and were only slightly disappointed when Raphael shook his head no. It wasn’t surprising: Raphael only had them take the form of the Archduchess when he wanted to be utterly ruined, brought as low as one could get. The Archduchess was for when he needed to be ground into the floor, made to crawl and bruise and bleed, reduced to a raw sobbing thing in their hands. It wasn’t a common occurrence, and not an overly rare one either. 

But Raphael would never surrender so much control outside the safety of his boudoir, where he was still the master of the house and where, at the end, Haarlep could take him into the restoration pool to heal what could be healed, soothe what could be soothed. Unless directly told to take the form of the Archduchess, there were boundaries Haarlep knew not to cross. Few and far in-between, but there nonetheless.

But that was all right. There were plenty of ways to make him beg in their current form, too.

In an uncharacteristically merciful mood - and perhaps just a little entertained by the sight of Raphael kneeling on the bed, working himself open with oiled fingers, eyes shut and teeth clenched to hold back moans - Haarlep let a little more than just five minutes pass before they strode to the bed, discarding their harness on the way. It fell on the floor in a clink of chains, and it was the only warning Raphael got before Haarlep knelt on the mattress and grasped his face, forcing him to turn for another kiss.

Usually, there would be some resistance - at least the show of it, much of what Raphael did was for show - but oh, their time apart must have taken its toll, because this time there was none. He just groaned and parted his lips for another kiss, sucking on Haarlep’s tongue, and the shudder that went through his body was impossible to ignore. 

Raphael’s hands grasped Haarlep’s shoulders; his grip was demanding, the whine that left him sounded like a plea, and Haarlep smiled against his lips. Whether he’d demand or plead, it didn’t matter: what he was, what he’d always be under their touch, was needy and desperate.

That was how Haarlep liked him best. The only way they truly liked him, perhaps, needy and desperate and so very small compared to them. For someone so dismissive of his human heritage, so desperate to be seen as nothing but a devil of the highest order, he used that human form of his remarkably often.

A smile against his lips and they pulled back, still gripping Raphael’s face, claws sinking into his cheeks almost enough to break the skin. Raphael’s eyes found theirs, clouded with want even as he scowled at them. There he was, the son of the Archdevil of Contradictions, the hellfire burning hot beneath the façade of Cania’s Cold Lord. How funny to see that resemblance now, with Raphael in his human form, naked and open and desperate to be fucked. 

They almost wanted to point it out, but Raphael would be furious at the comparison and that might just be a little out of line, so they kept the thought to themself. Instead, they gestured to their own cock, still soft between their tights. They willed it so, of course: they had the sort of complete control over their body that Raphael could never hope to have on his own.

“Ah, would you look at that. You might just have to work for it this once.”

A huff. “You’re more than capable--” Raphael began, oh so predictable and wonderfully haughty, before Haarlep squeezed his cock and his voice broke into a cry. If not for the ring, he’d have come there and then.

“On the floor, pet,” Haarlep said, voice sweet as it could get, and shifted to sit on the edge of the bed. “Kneel.”

If looks could kill, Haarlep would have keeled over and died countless times in the past several centuries - but they could not, even coming from a devil. So they remained alive and well, and delighted, as Raphael finally knelt on the floor between their thighs. He glared at their dick - his dick, technically - and liked his lips before looking up.

“You’ll pay for this,” he growled, only to be met with a grin.

“Oh, do you promise, little duke?” Their fingers combed through Raphael’s hair in what was almost a caress before gripping it loosely. He hissed, cheeks flushed, and the scowl wavered. “Don’t make me set the pace, Raphael. You wouldn’t like that. Or would you? Do you want me to choke you again? You feel everything I feel, after all.”

A shudder, then Raphael lowered his gaze, and took them in his mouth at long last. He was not particularly skilled, but the fact alone it was him to do this more than made up for the lack of finesse. A better use of that mouth and tongue, surely, than the endless prattle he’d usually spout. Raphael enjoyed the sound of his own voice far too much, although Haarlep had to admit that it was a lovely voice.

But they liked it best when it was used to moan their name, and nothing else.

“Good boy,” they sighed, and Raphael shuddered again, a whine in the back of his throat. When they casually moved their leg, pressing their shin against Raphael’s groin, he immediately pressed his cock against it, hard and hot and leaking. He couldn’t come with the ring on, but any friction was better than just the phantom feeling of his own sucking. 

He knew better than to try and touch himself without Haarlep’s permission. Last time he did Haarlep had been the Archduchess, and it had taken several hours in the restoration pool for Raphael’s fingers to heal.

They wouldn’t go that far now, but they didn’t have to make it too easy either. Haarlep could make it last as long as they wished, leaving him to suck desperately on a limp dick for hours, rutting against their leg like an animal, empty, desperate to come and unable to. They considered it as they tilted up his chin, just enough to make him look at them, lips still around their cock. 

“Look at me, sweetling,” they said, a lilt in their voice. “Look at your face.”

He did, eyes half-lidded, looking every bit as desperate as he must feel. He loved nothing more than this, seeing himself sneering and haughty, in command and in full control, even as he was the one being so thoroughly debased.

The best of both worlds, Haarlep thought; who could blame him?

A whine, hands gripping their thighs, and Haarlep decided they wouldn't draw this out too long after all. They allowed themself to harden, and the noise of relief that got out of Raphael was such a sweet, sweet sound. Haarlep laughed, elated, and gripped his hair to pull his head back, to get a good look at him. He was perfect like this, face flushed and jaw slack, eyes dark with lust. Haarlep’s hand let go of his hair, and cupped his face before leaning in and kissing him, slow, languorous.

“Beg,” they whispered against Raphael’s lips.

A shiver, and a last attempt at resistance. “You said you’d fuck me--”

“I signed no contract in regards to fucking you tonight. Beg, or I’ll find someone else and make sure they scream loud enough you’ll hear--”

“Please.”

Ah, yes, that was what they were hoping to hear. Haarlep smiled, brushing a thumb over Raphael’s cheek. “Please what, my little brat?”

A pause, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He could never quite meet their eyes - his own eyes -  when he gave in and finally pleaded. “Please, fuck me.”

“Why should I?”

A long, long time ago, Raphael might have answered ‘because I own you’, and he wouldn’t have been wrong. Haarlep was bound to him, and he could enforce his will upon them; it was supposed to be a simple, clear-cut matter of ownership. 

Except that things had never quite been that clear cut. Raphael’s boudoir had become Haarlep’s boudoir; Raphael could hide little from them, could deny them next to nothing, while Haarlep could indeed deny Raphael his desires if they wished - and live to tell the tale.

Of course Raphael loathed being denied. He hated Haarlep for denying him. Yet he came back, again and again, because in the end Haarlep knew him better than anyone else, they knew what he needed and how often the two things - his wants and his needs - did not coincide. Devils were never shy about letting others know about their wants, but their needs were a far more closely guarded secret. A need was something that could and would be used against them, after all. 

There was no place for trust anywhere in Baator; everyone was suspicious of everybody else, and Raphael had been especially wary of the incubus his father and liege lord had gifted him. He’d questioned them immediately, demanding to know if they were meant to spy on him. He’d hoped that was the case, perhaps, if anything because it would mean Mephistopheles had a high enough consideration of him to think him worth keeping an eye on. But Haarlep was bound to speak the truth to him if asked directly, and that was not the answer they’d given.

“Don’t flatter yourself, little duke,” Haarlep had told him, smiling sweetly over the deed of ownership Raphael had been reading over and over, looking for loopholes that would allow Haarlep to lie to him and finding none. “One spies on a threat, and distracts an annoyance. I was sent to keep you busy, not to spy on you and much less to report. Make of that what you will.”

Raphael had raged over it, of course, because he’d known it to be true. Mephistopheles never saw him as any kind of threat: only an uppity half-fiend, a naughty whelp to keep out of his hair. He’d gifted him an incubus the way a mortal may gift crayons to a toddler, and turned to other matters without a second thought. It had been the most grievous slight, the final insult, and Raphael had departed Mephistar for Avernus shortly afterwards. 

But he had taken Haarlep with him. Whatever it was that kept Raphael tied to them - and not the other way around, as it was supposed to be - Haarlep could not say. All things considered, they had landed themself a rather cushy job. Raphael rarely even tried to return any of the pleasure he was given, but selfishness was in his nature and Haarlep had learned how to take that pleasure from him regardless.

They were in the process of doing so right now, after all.

“Answer me, little brat.” Haarlep bit his lower lip, almost hard enough to draw blood but not quite. “Why should I fuck you, when you’re never so kind to fuck me in turn?”

A shudder, but this time there was defiance in the look Raphael gave them. “I’m your--” he began, only to trail off when Haarlep bit his earlobe, breath catching. 

“Careful, Raphael,” they murmured in his ear. “Remember who’s the master tonight.”

A shaky breath, a frown. “It’s not as though you ever ask for it,” he muttered, trying to move closer but held back by Haarlep’s grip around his neck. He shifted on his knees, painfully hard, when Haarlep laughed.

“The fact it’s hardly worth asking for doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be good form of you to offer. But that’s not where you belong, is it? You only find pleasure beneath me, looking up at me. Yes, exactly like this.” Haarlep sneered, meeting Raphael’s gaze, and could easily feel the rush of arousal, so intense it bordered on pain. They could smell it, taste it on their tongue, the need and the yearning while he looked at his own face.

“It gets a little tedious, I must say, using no other form of those I collected. Raphael only loves Raphael,” Haarlep had once told Korrilla, and she’d let out a thoughtful hum, sipping from a goblet of wine, looking out of the window at the sunless sky of Avernus.

“Well,” she’d said, no trace of humor in her voice, “I suppose someone has to.”

“Please,” Raphael choked out, and snapped Haarlep from their thoughts. He had squeezed his eyes shut, failing to hide tears of frustration. “Please, Haarlep.”

… Well. Since he was being so polite about it, it seemed only fair to give him what he wanted. Haarlep clicked their tongue, and finally pulled Raphael up, holding that fragile human body against their chest. They felt his cock press against their hip, and chuckled. How pent up he was, from all those days spent waiting for this little mouse to come sign the contract! No other mortal soul’s refusal to bend to his demands had ever worked him up like this - but then again, Haarlep knew there was much more at stake than the usual soul.

“You poor thing,” they cooed. “What would the little mouse say if she saw you like this?”

It was meant as a jest, and they were entirely unprepared for the shudder that rolled through Raphael’s body, the noise in the back of his throat, the way his hands clenched on Haarlep’s shoulders. They blinked.

Oh. Ooooh, this was new and very, very interesting . Haarlep laughed, delighted. They could not recall the last time Raphael had managed to surprise them. “Oh, have we found another body you may be willing to try? You only had to say so, Raphael. I could add it to my--”

“No,” Raphael snarled, pulling back to glare. It was almost convincing, even with the wet cheeks and not-quite-firm voice. “You’ll do no such thing, wretch. She’s vital to my plans.”

“Just the body.”

“I know you. You’d try to take her soul--”

“Surely, she’d know better than surrendering--”

“She holds the key to my future kingdom, and I forbid you to interfere!”

No one stupid enough to pledge their soul to an incubus was likely to hold any key to any kingdom, future or past, but Haarlep knew when to let a matter drop. So they claimed Raphael’s mouth in another kiss, ran a hand down his chest and stomach, and gripped his cock. They swallowed his cry, and smiled. Let him keep trying to come across as someone who belonged on a hellish throne; they knew the truth, what he was, what he needed. Perhaps he would rule the Hells one day - for all their mockery, Haarlep knew Raphael was a more than capable devil - but he would always submit to them. It was a gratifying thought. 

“I’ll content myself with your body, then. Turn, little duke, and I’ll make you whole.”

He did turn on shaky legs, but didn’t have to stand much longer. Still sitting on the edge of the bed, Haarlep grasped Raphael’s hips and pulled him down on their lap, down on their - his - cock. He was slick and open, but not quite open enough , and he let out a groan when Haarlep stretched him further. The sensation of fucking himself always drew him to near madness, or at the very least to utter incoherence, and Haarlep always took full advantage of it. 

They saw no reason to make an exception now.

“There. It’s the only throne you need,” Haarlep whispered in his ear, canting up their hips and savoring Raphael’s moan like a fine vintage. They latched an arm around his neck, pulling his back flush against their chest. The other hand stroked slowly down his trembling stomach, claws scraping against skin. 

“Is it not your proper place? The only thing you wish to be seated on?”

A shudder, but he refused to answer. His hands grasped the arm around his neck, but made no attempt to pull it away. He whined in frustration when Haarlep immediately stilled. 

“Haarlep--”

“Say it,” they crooned, fingers barely brushing against Raphael’s cock, and he buckled against the touch, a whine in the back of his throat. Haarlep pulled the hand away, laughing, leaving him to buckle into nothing. “Say that it is, sweetling, and I’ll fuck you as hard as you wish.”

Raphael let out a noise that was halfway between a snarl and a moan, head rolling back against Haarlep’s shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut, panting. “I… yes. Yes, it is, now move-- ”

“Oh no, my pet. Say it properly.” Haarlep’s claws grazed Raphael's chest, and they watched him writhe, biting his lower lip. His features twisted into something that looked a lot like pain, but he did speak, voice hoarse.

“Yes-- yes this is what I want,” he panted, flushed red, trembling. His fingers clenched on Haarlep’s arm while he uttered words he had never, and would never, let anybody else hear. “This is the throne I need-- please…! ”

The plea turned into a moan, because Haarlep was nothing if not generous. They rewarded his obedience with a sharp upward thrust of their hips; Raphael cried out, tossing back his head against their shoulder, pressing desperately down with all the weight of his human form. Which, to a devil’s strength and size, was not much. 

Haarlep fucked him in earnest, easily bouncing him on his lap. Moans filled the room and oh, it was sweet music indeed, the best possible use for that lovely voice of his; they only subsided when Raphael grew breathless, a boneless little doll in their hands, eyes rolling back a little. Haarlep grinned and nibbled at his ear, inhaling that scent of cherries and musk through the ever-present hint of sulfur. 

With the ring on, they could keep him like this for hours, fuck him through the night and the next morning. They could keep him like this for days if so they wished, on the edge of madness and unable to come. Maybe they would. After all, what was the rush--

A strangled noise snapped Haarlep from their thoughts. It sounded something like a startled squeak, and it had not come from Raphael. They looked up, a little startled, to see that they were not alone. 

Oh, this was delicious. The little mouse had certainly chosen an interesting moment to visit.

“Ah, good evening, little mouse,” Haarlep, who despite Raphael’s claims of the contrary never forgot their manners, greeted her. They were vaguely aware of the fact Raphael had let out an undignified noise and shuddered at the sight of her, but if anything his arousal had spiked and Haarlep saw no reason to stop fucking him. They only slowed the tilt of their hips, and took a better look at this mortal whose troubles Raphael had been following so keenly.

Truth be told, they had imagined something more impressive than the small, skinny thing standing before them in a frankly unflattering leather armor. Tiefling horns were often relatively unimpressive, but those adorning her head were little more than nubs, and something must have cut her right cheek quite badly to leave such an unsightly scar. Yet, this was one of the adventurers Raphael feared, in his nonsensical dreams, could somehow best him in his own game. Interesting; never judge a book by its cover and all that.

As someone who could take many forms, Haarlep probably shouldn’t have needed such reminders. They smiled, tilting their hips in a circular movement that made Raphael whine, too far gone to truly react or maybe unable, for once, to think of something to do or say. It seemed they would have to do the talking for both of them until he recovered. If he recovered. 

“Tav, I presume?” Haarlep smiled, and the tiefling startled a moment before nodding. Her eyes were wide and kept moving from Haarlep to Raphael and back, but she stayed where she was. “Oh, a pleasure to meet you, truly. I am Haarlep, Raphael’s personal incubus. Our Raphael here…” A sharp thrust, a shuddering gasp. “... Has been talking quite a lot about you, although he seems to have misplaced his voice at the moment.” 

As it turned out, this Tav had misplaced her own voice as well. 

“I…” was all she managed before she fell silent again, staring at Raphael. What a difference from how she must have seen him before, oozing misplaced confidence and all the charm of a used carriage salesman, probably subjecting her to some of his questionable poetry at every chance he got! Haarlep breathed in deep and there it was, a change to the taste and the smell of him - shame, curling in his stomach yet hardening his cock, heightening his arousal until it drove him half mad.

And, unless Haarlep was getting rusty - which they were not - someone else in the room was now giving out the very distinct taste and scent of arousal.

This was going to be their most interesting night in a long, long time.

“I assume you’re here to discuss a contract?” Haarlep spoke, and Tav swallowed before giving a quick nod, a nervous jerk of her head.

“... The thing,” she managed. 

Haarlep raised an eyebrow, still balls deep in Raphael, who yet again failed to muster up his voice to say anything, or even to move. They grinned and leaned their chin on Raphael’s shoulder, tilting their hips just enough to get yet another broken noise out of him. “You may want to be more specific. There’s a great many things in this place you may have come here to discuss. Interesting outfits, even more interesting toys, a somewhat concerning amount of riding crops…”

“The-- thing to-- I mean, the hammer to-- break the-- things,” was the stammering reply, and that caused Raphael to make a valiant attempt at straightening himself, and pushing himself off Haarlep’s lap, even though their arm was more than enough to keep him in place.

“The crown,” he rasped, face red and voice shaky despite his best efforts. “Leave-- leave, incubus, I have to-- we ought to--”

“Discuss? But of course,” Haarlep crooned, the grin so wide their cheeks almost hurt. “Why don’t you join us, little mouse? Get up close and discuss to your heart’s content. I won’t interrupt. I’ll just be doing my thing.”

“Haarlep--” Raphael groaned, any attempt at sounding threatening fading into another shudder, into mindless lust at their next thrust. Haarlep ignored him and focused on the little mouse, watched the look in her eyes change into something different, more calculating - the gaze of someone looking to exploit a moment's weakness. 

She ran her gaze over Raphael’s body, bit her lower lip, and then looked back up to meet his eyes. 

“May I, Raphael?” she asked, voice low, and Raphael gave a wordless groan, a wordless plea. She stepped closer, and Haarlep leaned their chin on top of Raphael’s head. They felt him tremble as she approached, watched his chest shudder when she lay a hand over it, and they thanked their lucky star they had chosen that evening to pay Raphael a visit.

This was going to be a very interesting negotiation indeed, and they wouldn’t miss it for the world.

*** [On to Act II]