#like they are kind kids and want to help others but like never at the expense of their friends??

[gay-dorito-dust]

Gentle Jason my beloved, I love you so.

Jason was imposing in so many ways but gentle nonetheless.

You remembered watching him interact with children and find yourself smiling and your heart aching when he’s letting them climb all over him, or try to pull him this way and that way as though he wasn’t built the way that he was.

You loved how he’d play along with them as they grip his calloused hands, smiling softly when they talk his ear off about everything that interests them, showing genuine interest and asking questions just to see the kids smile knowing that an adult actually cared about their thoughts and interests.

You loved how he’d let them know how to get in touch with him if they were ever in trouble, never disclosing what level of trouble because you knew that it didn’t matter as Jason was naturally protective over children and the vulnerable, two specific groups that were often targeted by criminals and crime lords far too often for his liking.

You loved how Jason would stop in his steps to pet and love on the stray, malnourished animals that he comes across on the dirty streets of Gotham, his pockets filled with treats for them as he didn’t care about where they came from when he runs his fingers through their fur. Those strays will only get to experience kindness when it’s given and that’s rarely which only made you love Jason more when you saw just how big his heart is, he cares for those whom he sees himself in the most, and it made a few tears left your eyes as you watched the man you love show love that many had to you he didn’t posses.

Jason was the sweetest, most loving man you’ve ever met, a man with a heart too big for his rib cage and you loved him dearly for how he talks to children in a manner that doesn’t ignore the fact that they were smart in their own way, or how he spoke to animals with warmth and promises of affection as it rained down on the both of you.

You loved how Jason acted gentle towards you as well, how he’d gently guide you to bed when he seen that you’ve been up for far too long, or how he’d take care of you when your ill and would bury you under fluffy blankets; all the while making sure that you were taking your much needed medicine and helping you eat if you couldn’t find the energy to do so yourself.

You loved how his hold on you was strong but gentle at the same time, not in the way where he’s scared to hurt you, but more so in the way where he wanted to reassure himself as well as you that he was here for you and wasn’t going anywhere. He held you against his strong chest as you listened to his beautiful heart beat against your ear and smile, knowing that you were lucky enough to have a man as wonderful and as kind as Jason.

You just loved Jason Todd and you always would if he was this gentle and genuine all the time, your sweet angel who made himself look terrifying to keep others safe for their own sake rather then his own.

[yujateaandpi]

So imagine that you’re on a beach hanging with your brother and saving the world like always then suddenly there’s another version of you— and he just came out of nowhere and you live in a world filled with dangerous magical creatures so of course this must be some kind of shapeshifter trying to get the better of you. Of course, you attack it and he attacks you and both of you keep claiming to be the real version of you. Classic.

So you laugh it off and you ask your brother for help except he keeps saying that the other you is the real one. And the two of them are ganging up and attacking you so you have no choice but to turn around and go back home until this blows over cause let’s face it, your brother isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed and hasn’t always been the best judge of character on your adventures.

So you go home and everything’s just as you left it and it’s a bit of a relief honestly cause the incident on the beach freaked you out. Except your little sibling won’t stop screaming every time they see you. And you can’t taste your favorite foods. And your voice sounds different. And your sense of touch is off. Plus there was a period where you couldn’t hear or speak well on the beach, and all this is starting to accumulate and scare you. And you’re a kid.

So you freak out. You break furniture and you throw around your brother’s good breakfast syrup (cause you’re still angry about him turning against you) and when your brother comes home with the other version of you, still insisting that you’re the monster (which can’t possibly be true. It can’t.) you won’t look him in the eye no matter how angry he gets. But the other you is chill and wants to be your friend or something, which is fine but would be better if he would just give you your bed and your pajamas and your brother back.

So time passes and you begin to accept that you really are the monster after all, because you can’t really deny the fact that you don’t look quite the same. And that you don’t have a digestive tract. And that murder just seems a little more okay than it used to.

So you call yourself by a different name. But it’s still not fair, because before the beach you had a brother and a home and favorite foods and now you don’t have anything. Your brother is more chill now but he’s clearly uncomfortable with you and your little sibling is still scared of you and everybody you’re ever known thinks you’re a stranger. Meanwhile the other you is celebrated as a hero. He’s receiving the love you used to receive and on top of that he’s just better than you at everything. Which is unfair because he is you! And a part of you can’t really let go of the doubt— that maybe you’re the hero and he’s the monster. That maybe he doesn’t deserve all the things he’s taken from you.

So when he lovingly calls you his twin brother, you don’t know how to respond because he’s really a good guy (because YOU’RE a good guy!), and he has your face but you can’t help but hate him deeply, down to the dark depths within you. Those depths tell you to do many many things you would never have done before.

So you trick your other self and seal him in a tomb which feels so so good because you’ve finally gotten the better of him. And you tell him you’ll be back (but you won’t) and you change your voice and your skin so you look even more like him (more like you, this is you) and you start going back home so your brother will FINALLY give you a hug. But he escapes (and isn’t that infuriating cause he really did get the best of you after all) and, worst of all, he kills you. It doesn’t matter that it was an accident. It doesn’t matter that you were going to put your hands around his throat and squeeze and squeeze until he gave everything back. He grinds you to shreds like you were nothing.

So when you’re given a second chance— when a madman revives you and makes you a living weapon, you decide to let the world go to shit. So long as you’re better than your other self, so long as you’re strong enough to make him hurt, really hurt, nothing else matters. You look at him trying to save the world over and over (his voice has changed, he’s grown taller) and you ignore the pain of watching this better version of you who still believes all the things you used to believe before the stupid beach. Your other self tells you he shares the same torment, that you’re two sides of the same coin, but that’s not right because then why does he have everything you want? Why are you the only one who’s so achingly lonely?

And then. He gently walks with you down to your dark depths. And he helps you kill your demon. And you’re you again, finally, all that rage and desire stripped away, and you see that ah, you two really are the same after all. That there never was any monster (except for the demon) and there never was a hero either, you’re both only human. Then you die again. And when your other self cries over you, as you disappear for good, the only thing you ask him is to take you home. You haven’t been back in such a long time.

Anyways if you can imagine all that, then congrats, you know how it feels like to be Fern Adventuretime.

[deadinthefanfics]

Housewardens x a reader who has selective mutism (platonic)

A/n: Hello this is my first time doing this I will try my best the reader is gender neutral in these headcanons ^_^

Riddle Rosehearts

☆) Riddle was honestly surprised on first meeting you. He was expecting to get someone on the immature side or likely the calm yet still manages to get themselves into chaos no matter what.

☆) When he tries to have an interaction with you seeing that you either whisper or mutter and he asks you to speak up you feel like shrinking away into a black hole. He never understood why it was so hard for you to not talk. Yeah speaking is such a simple action but he didn't know the reasoning behind you.

☆) After the overblot and realizing that it's really hard for you to talk no matter how much you try it's hard for you to do. He became more empathetic for you. But since you were out of trouble he liked you.

☆) He would likely help you when you are called on he would say the answer for you so you wouldn't have to say it.

☆) He also likes to walk and talk with you during passing periods and you get to listen along to him, even if you didn't say it in your words he could tell you didn't mind him by your facial expressions and your hand gestures. ☆) He also probably sets up your own formal language when it comes to unbirthday parties as such tapping your cup for more tea or tapping a certain part of your plate saying that you want more of a sweet.

Leona Kingscholar

☆) He honest didn't mind when you didn't speak that much. But if you are in any situation where you need help, he's here for you when you absolutely need it.

☆) He will maybe also lay on you or let you sit next to him since you are quiet and not bothering him when he sleeps.

☆) He will tease you when you are comfortable with him jabbing snarky jokes at you most common one he will use on you was "cat's got your tongue?"

☆) He will feel accomplished when you make a slight giggle or chuckle at his jokes when he makes them

☆) Will make anyone shut up if they try to bother you to speak or force you out of your comfort zone.

Azul Ashengrotto

☆) When he first met you he thought you were a spy since you stood awkwardly and it stood out from everyone else speaking so loudly. Or plotting against his schemes of forming contracts.

☆) When he found out you were nonverbal he formed more ideas for the monstro lounge since if they catered to regular people why not the quiet people? Or the introverts?

☆) Gives you a special pass so you can go into the quieter places when you needed to. While also gets advice from you on how to cater to the quieter people in which now they have to pay for the pass.

☆) Business is getting bigger since now they accommodate to the quiet side of NRC.

☆) When you do actually speak to him he feels a sense of pride that he build up a good relationship to speak.

Kalim Al-Asim

☆) When he first met you he was a bit surprised when you literally almost ran away when he spotted you. But you didn't and tried to be brave and you stayed and let him talk to you.

☆) When he found out you had trouble speaking he asks Jamil for help on how to talk to people like you.. In which now he knows how to talk to the shy people without scaring them away!

☆) Will buy your favorite things use that to your advantage since he is very nice.../j

☆) Passes you notes when he is bored and wants to have a conversation with you.

☆) He would be excited when you finally talk to him like as if a kid got the gift they wanted on their birthday and makes it KNOWN he is proud of you for finally talking.

Vil Schoenheit

☆) When at first Vil met you by just you accidentally bumping into each other and he apologizes in a bit of a mean way for bumping into you. But when he noticed that you were trying to form an apology he saw you now as "Idia Shroud 2.0"

☆) Does the same thing as Riddle asking you to speak up but to be more confident in yourself. But also does kind of understand why you were to be quiet but he doesn't really force you to do anything much.

☆) Vil will definitely provide you communication cards he custom designed at hand for you to communicate with the others.

☆) He would also likely make you his mannequin make you try on clothes for him. Since you are as silent as one so you would at least make a good acquaintance for him. ☆) When you finally talk to him he gets very proud like a father when you speak for the first time to him. Even if it were a little it still meant a lot to him.

Idia Shroud

☆) Idia would honestly not care that much he is just glad you are nice to him and you manage to surprisingly get him to open up about his interests and everything.

☆) I feel like whenever you actually talk even if its like muttering or the smallest whisper when he is like paying attention to a game he would get jumpy thinking it is someone else is in the room when its just you.

☆) Idia would allow you to borrow his tablet on rare ocassions when you do need to give out presentations or public speaking so you wouldn't feel the anxiety so much when speaking.

☆) Idia would allow you to be in his room as well and just let you watch him game and probably allow you to mess around with a few of his stuff.

☆) Idia would just allow you in his close circle in general as close as Ortho because of how awkward you are around people and seeing he is the same level as you he would be more delight talking to you.

Malleus Draconia

☆) He finds you very interesting. A child of man that has anxiety of speaking? He never seen one before let alone in person.

☆) He does like to be around you and try to ask you questions by giving you something to write on so that you can answer his questions.

☆) Would probably pat your head or rub your back when you feel anxious, or even more so hug you and would maybe never let go.

☆) Will smite down anyone who bothers you or makes you anxious. ☆) He will find it comforting since he also doesn't speak and someone of same nature could lead to good bonding.

Psst hey! My requests are open (^o^)

[georgiapeach30513]

Daddy's Pride and Joy

Summary: Andy wanted you. He wanted things right. But your dad refused. What other choice did he have?

Pairings: Andy Barber X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  explicit language, explicit sexual content, narrow views of sex due to the time period, slut shaming, unprotected sex, breeding kink, PIV sex, first time, creampie, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 3.9K

Andy Barber Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

Your mom fiddles around with a bouquet of roses and daisies, refusing to meet your eyes. You’ve heard her talk about how you made a mistake for weeks now. How you put yourself in this position. That you should consider yourself lucky that things are going the way they are. And still you feel her judgemental gaze as she peeks at you over the bouquet.

“Marge?” your grandmother questions your mother. Picking up your dress, she then turns to look at you. “What did you do, you stupid girl?” You hold your head high as your sister starts to zip the dress up. Grunting when she reaches a snag. Well…it is now too tight.

“How far along are you?” You play dumb. The dress wasn’t supposed to be a give away. Your grandmother walks behind you to help your sister. “You could have gone with a bigger dress.”

“It fit last week,” your sister is much too young, and does not understand the adult conversation happening between you and the women who are ashamed of you.

“That far along, huh? Are we going to have to bribe someone to lie about the date on the marriage certificate?”

“No,” Andy told you everything would be okay. And it would be. Everything would be just fine.

“Marge?” Your dad peeks out the front window, watching as the little boy from down the street pushes you in the swing. “Marge!”

“Yes, dear,” your mother responds. She wipes her hands on her apron as she walks into the living room.

“Who is that boy?” He points to the little boy with the bright blue eyes that had captured your heart the moment he and his mother moved down the street. “Hmm?”

“The kid from the old house up the street,” it isn’t like your father didn’t know this already. He asked about him every time you played with him. The problem was your father didn’t like him. Didn’t think the son of a single mother was good enough for his precious angel.

“The one whose father is in jail?”

“That would be the one. She fancies him.”

“I think he just sees an access to money,” your mother rolls his eyes, as she starts to step back into the kitchen to prepare lunch. “You laugh at me, but kids younger and younger are being taught by their parents the best way to money is finding some stupid girl that has a rich family to marry. He sees an in. A respectable man that owns a magazine, like myself. The heir…”

“We’re not royalty. His mother says he wants to be a lawyer.”

“Bah. That kid is a loser.”

“Sir,” your father attempts to close the door in Andy’s face, but the younger man places a foot there first. “I would like to take your daughter out on a date.”

“No,” he deadpans. “Is that all?”

“Why can’t I take her on a proper date?” He looks the man up and down. The scrawny little kid has filled out. But the reputation of a son raised by a single mom still lingered. A son who had to get a job far too young to make sure that he and his mother could survive. A son that was accepted into college, and now about to graduate Harvard law. And still he isn’t good enough for you. He is no good. And never would be.

“What do you mean by proper?”

“Oh, umm…I didn’t mean anything by it,” he meant he didn’t want to wait below your window as you snuck out with him. In order to not be spotted, he’d just take you on long walks at night, where eventually the two of you would lay looking at the stars. It was kind of infuriating to have you all alone. But you are a respectable woman. And clothes always stayed on.

“You know, Dwayne down the street mentioned something about you and her. Now, I thought it was a bit crazy to suggest that my daughter was riding in a car with the likes of you after midnight,” Andy stands up straighter. Nothing had ever crossed a line. But he has every intention of marrying you, and would prefer it be done the right way. “I want you to stay away.”

“I want to marry your daughter.”

“Over my dead fucking body,” Andy’s cheerful face turns sour, and he glares at your father. “You know nothing about my daughter.”

“I know that she prefers the moon over the sun. I know that her favorite flower is a lily, but your wife thinks her room looks better with roses and daisies. I know that she wants a big family, and wants to live just out of the city. I know she wants a dog, a golden retriever, and name her Bagel,” your dad stumbles back on that. You said you never would tell anyone that unless you knew they loved you. “I know she loves baking, and she loves to read. I know that you taught her to type.”

“You’re not marrying my daughter. Do you know why?” Andy shakes his head. He has done everything a man should do. He even has a job lined up. He has a home he is going to buy, just for the two of you, and eventually your children, and Bagel. He has a car. He will provide for you. “You’re a piece of shit, born from a piece of shit. Do you not think I know about your bastard father rotting in prison? Do you not think I don’t know about how your mom was making some extra money? You’ll never be good enough for my daughter. Never.”

—

You lean outside of your window, smiling when you see Andy on the lawn. Throwing your legs out of the window, you shimmy towards the tree branch, and make your way towards the most perfect man you have ever met. Getting down to his arms, where he gives you a bruising kiss. His hand is holding onto you a bit too high on your rib cage, and his thumb grazes over your breast before you jump away from him. He shouldn’t touch you there while at your parents’ home.

“Where are we going tonight?” your voice is so soft as he grips your hand, and leads you down the road and to his parked car. You are so proud of Andy and all that he has earned.

“Did you talk to my dad?” Andy opens the door of the car for you, and closes it before he crosses over to the other side. “Andy, did you talk to him?” He has to let you date Andy now. He is a lawyer. And you weren’t some shy little girl anymore. You wanted to become his wife, and have cute babies with him. And the sooner that this was public, the sooner you can have that, “Andy?”

“He said no,” your arms cross over your chest as you look out the window of the car. “It’s not stopping me.”

“Why is he like this?” it upsets you that your father can’t see the Andy that you see. He is perfect. And he will give you a perfect life.

“Because you’re his oldest daughter. His pride and joy, and he just doesn’t want you to be married off to some boy.”

“Except you’re not some boy,” you give him a smile, scooting over on the seat towards him. Your dainty hand rubs up and down his chest as you snuggle in, “You’re all man.”

“You have no idea,” he gets the most devious plan. It’s not as evil as it may sound. Andy plans on marrying you anyways. Currently he doesn’t have your father’s blessing, and this way wouldn’t exactly be a blessing. But at least he couldn’t say no. You are just like every other girl, and would only get the proper talk until you were engaged. You didn’t fully understand how babies are made, or the ways that Andy could love you, and evour you.

They’d tell you how a woman has wifely duties. But sex with you isn’t a duty. Sex with you almost seems like a life force for him. It is proper to wait for marriage, but this marriage doesn’t seem like it’s going to be approved by your father. And he’d hate to see you leave Andy behind because you needed that.

But…if you were to accidentally fall pregnant how could he say no? You would need to have a man to marry you. What man would marry a sullied woman? Leaving him with no choice but to approve the marriage. Demand it.

It’s not evil. It’s just changing up the way he would like things to go. He doesn’t want you to be looked down upon in the community. He wants you. He doesn’t want to wait. He wants his future wife properly. He’d taken way too many cold showers after leaving you. Relieved himself way too much.

His car turns in a different direction. The house was supposed to be a surprise. But he was also supposed to be given your dad’s blessing. It’s empty, and a bit bleak right now. But if he’s going to have your properly, he wants it to be in your future home with him. You would no longer be a lady, and sex didn’t automatically mean pregnancy, but he wasn’t going to stop until you became pregnant.

Andy has always played the long game with you. He knew the moment he saw this sweet little girl rocking in her saddle shoes as you stood there holding out a coloring book and crayons for him, and told him that you have a swing that he was in love. He fell instantly and even told his mom that he was going to marry you. And he will. Even if you have to get pregnant out of wedlock for it to happen.

“Andy, where are we going? We’ve never been here before?” You ask after a while of silence. You are perfectly content rubbing on your boyfriend as he drives. He gets all fidgety and squirrelly when you do. It makes you feel better knowing his heart is racing just like yours always does around him.

“I bought us something.”

“Oh?” You look up at him with doe eyes, and kiss him on his neck. Giggling when he makes that sound. Kissing on his neck always makes him squirm. You love watching him adjust how he’s sitting and even how he pulls you closer to him. Letting his hands roam where they want to roam. You don't mind as long as you are alone.

“It might not be much. But this is just a starter,” he says, slowing down as he turns onto a road. You squeal as you look forward. Your hand lays on his upper thigh, and he clears his throat. Andy is such a funny man when you touch him in certain areas.

“Andy, it’s perfect!” It truly is. The cutest little white house with a white picket fence. A perfect starter home. “Can we go look?”

“That’s why we’re here,” you don’t even wait for him to open the door before you spring to the house. Having to wait a bit too long for him to come to your side and unlock the door before you're running through the empty house.

Home.

Yours and Andy’s home.

The kitchen is bigger than your mom’s, and a few modern appliances. The living room is huge, but maybe that’s because there was no furniture. Running down the hall you see the perfect room for a nursery. Can already envision the crib.

“Honey,” Andy pulls your hand down the hallway, leading you towards the biggest room in the house. It is mostly empty, sans a bed. “This will be ours.”

“Ours?” You sigh, turning towards him, and run both hands up his chest. “And we’ll get to sleep in the bed together,” your mother hadn’t quite taught you anything concerning marriage. And you’d heard your friends gossip a bit about their husbands, but it just made you queasy. You didn’t want to think about another man. You just want him. You want those conversations with Andy or nobody.

“We can do more than sleep,” he says with a sly quirk of his mouth.

“What else does one do in the bed with their husband?”

“Well,” he says softly, pulling you into his body. His meaty hands run up your sides before they’re high enough for his thumbs to caress over your breasts, and you sigh leaning into him. You were in private, and there’s nothing you wouldn’t let Andy do. Or touch.

Your body heats up with ministrations, and you stare up at him with your eye lids at half mast. “It’s something I’ve always wanted to try with you.”

“And what’s that?”

“I want to make love with you,” your tongue flicks out of your mouth, and you pull your bottom lip in. Biting on your perfect pout as you look up at him. “Do you know what that is?”

You shake your head no as Andy’s hands go to your back, and he grips tight to your zipper as he pulls it down. You gulp, allowing him to undo your dress. It feels right. And you love Andy, so making love sounds right. “When two people love each other, they give each other their bodies.”

“And then what,” you release a wanton mewl when he fully unzips your dress. Placing his hands back on your shoulders, he pulls the dress down, and you watch with bated breath as it pulls at your feet. Andy’s hungry eyes roam over your body before he reaches back behind you, undoing your bustier, and you’re the one pulling it off.

He stands there, taking your nearly nude body in. “Then what, Andy?”

“I taste you,” you gulp. “You taste me,” you shudder. “I enter inside of you,” you whimper. “I come inside of you.”

“Inside where?” Andy’s finger taps between your legs, and your knees start to buckle. Leaning more into him for support, and you shyly pull at his jacket, and fumble with the buttons on his shirt. “Have you ever came inside someone?”

“No,” it isn’t a lie. He’s had sex, and only because he wanted to be the best for you. But that part of him…it is only for you. “Can — I touch you?” You nod your head enthusiastically, and he leans forward. Both hands cupping your breasts before he sucks one into his mouth.

“Oh, god,” the other breast he squeezes and pulls until he reaches your swollen bud, and gives it a little pinch. You pant as you stare down at him. Sucking on your nipple before he pulls off with a pop, and moves to the other one. “Andy…I can’t breathe.”

“We’re just getting started,” he practically growls. He grabs your hand, and places it on his crotch, while you moan. Slick heat races to your core, and your mind goes all fuzzy. Andy always has this innate ability to make butterflies race to your belly.

Feeling Andy like this doesn’t even feel criminal. He’s showing you exactly why he adjusts his pants, “This is what you do to me.”

“And this,” you take a deep breath, trying to collect your thoughts. You can feel his pulse under your fingers. He’s so hot and heavy under your palms. Yours. This is all yours. “This goes inside me?”

“It does.”

“Show me,” Andy steps away from you before sinking to his knees. He starts to slowly peel away your panties and stockings down your body. Assisting you in kicking off your shoes, and stepping out of your confines while you stand completely bare in front of him.

“Andy,” you coo before he kisses you over your naked mound. “Andy,” you start to melt as he coaxes your legs apart, and he licks through your slit. “Oh dear,” Andy is getting a part of you that no man has. Open and so ready for him. Whatever it means. Is this what people are talking about when they mention the wedding bed?

Wedding be damned. You can’t stop this now. You want to feel him inside of you. “Andy, I want you in there,” he glances up at you with an almost evil smirk. “Will you show me what that means?” He will marry you. He will make an honest woman out of you. Your father drove him to do things this way.

Lifting you up, he lets your legs wrap around his body, while he moves you to grind over his enlarged bulge. Your eyes blow wide open with curious lust and the simpering sounds of your needy voice make his movements so much quicker. He could just about come looking at you like this alone. Laying you down on the bed, he spreads your legs so wide to stare at your weeping cunt. Perfect. And all his.

“Andy,” you whine, wiggling around. You feel so exposed, and want him so bad. You want him all over you. You want him to feel a part of you that no one has.

“Shh,” he whispers as he starts removing his clothes. You gasp as his cock springs free. Scooting back in the bed, suddenly scared of where he says he’s going to have you. “You can take it. You’ll take it all, and if it doesn’t fit, we’ll make it fit.”

Andy clamors onto the bed, using his wide berth to keep your legs parted as he lines himself up with your center. Pushing just the tip of him in you and quickly pulling back out, and you yip. “Honey, you can take it, huh?”

“Y-y-yeah,” you take a deep swallow as he goes deep, but doesn’t pull out. “Oh, golly,” he slowly sinks his girth deeper. Letting your body adjust to the intrusion inch by inch. “Oh…oh!” Panting when he fully sheaths his steel rod all the way inside of you, and into the depths of your soul.

Both of your bodies hum with the throbbing intensity that is the two of you becoming one. It’s overwhelming and lovely all at the same time. All these years have led you here. Spread wide open for him. Taking him. Loving him.

“There’s a good girl. There is my sweet good girl,” it is overwhelming having Andy inside of you. Stretching you out deliciously. You want him always there. It just feels right. How dare your father try and take this from you. You belong with Andy with him inside of you.

“Andy, I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I want a baby with you,” fuck yes. Yes. Just what he was wanting to hear. “I want to marry you, and live here with you, and have you inside me every single night. I want to take care of our sweet babies, and —“ he pulls himself out of you again, causing you to pout, but then he pushes back in with a jolt. “Oh, Lordy be!”

“You like me fucking you?”

“Uh huh,” such terrible language, but right here, right now, it feels wrong not to be saying that. “Fuck me harder. I like that,” he snaps his hips, barreling back into you. Again. Again. And again. And tears spring to your eyes, but he kisses them away. Pistoning into your body with such force you cry out.

The fullness of him. It makes it hard to breathe. Even the sting of the stretch doesn’t hurt all that much.

“Good girl. You sound so pretty crying for me,” you just cling on for dear life as Andy’s movements make the bed slap against the wall. “You were made for me, Sugar. Nobody can ever take this away from us. I won’t stop fucking you until I plant a baby in your belly.”

You’re too far gone to truly understand the implications in that statement. You just nod your sweet little head, opening your legs wider. Andy leans back, pinning both legs to the bed as he watches himself impale you. Your tight little cunt clings to his cock. Even your body didn’t want him to leave you. It was begging for him to stay buried deep inside you.

And he would be. He’ll keep fucking you, and planting his seed until it takes. What is your dad going to say when you’re swelling with Andy’s pride and joy? He wouldn’t want to ruin your good name, therefore the family’s. He’ll be forced to allow you to marry. And he’ll have you exactly how he wants you.

On your back, taking him every night, while every day he gets to worship you. The dream.

“Sugar,” Andy pants, his movements stiffening up. “I’m gonna give us a baby.”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Fuck,” he crows, keeping himself lodged deep in your body. “Fuck!” Warmth blooms in your belly, and your mouth goes slack as you stare up at him. “This will be our little secret, okay?”

Until your belly is so round that everyone knows that he’s fucked you good and hard enough to get a baby. Men will stare jealously knowing that Andy has had you with no inhibitions. There will come a day that he will get to tell people that the two of you are trying for a baby. Meaning they’ll know he’s fucking his come inside of you every night.

It will come. But for now, he’s going to keep coming inside of you. Creating a life in secrecy. In hopes that your father will approve this union. He won’t have another choice.

“Beige,” your grandmother huffs as your sister pulls the veil over your head. “You seriously think people won’t notice you’re wearing beige? You spread your legs for the first man that whispered how much he loves you in your ear. You will ruin this family!” your sister looks back and forth between you and your grandmother, but you keep your head held high. Today you become his wife.

“You were supposed to marry the astronaut.”

“Guess he wouldn’t want to marry some whore, huh, Nana?” You let your hand drift down your stomach, rubbing over the barely there bump. “Andy did ask daddy for his permission to marry me. He said no, but all I’ve ever wanted was to be Mrs. Barber.”

“He trapped you,” your mother gasps, holding her hand over her mouth, while the other fans her face. “Sweetheart.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me. I wanted this. I begged for him to give us a baby. And now he’s giving me his last name. We have a home, and he has a job, and will move up at the firm. Let me have this happiness. He kept his promise. So let me keep mine.”

Let your mom continue to pray that nobody sees the weight you’ve put on. Four months, and six weeks, it is becoming harder to hide. There wouldn’t be a honeymoon. There would only be you going home to your husband. Sleeping in the bed right beside him where you belong. No more sneaking around, and leaving before sunlight. Everyone may know that you didn’t wait, and you don’t even care. Because he still kept his promise.

There would be no more lies. Only the truth, and that’s what has always been known. You love Andy Barber.

Andy Barber loves you.

And Andy is yours.

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai

@smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989

@pandaxnienke @donutloverxo @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @bambamwolf87 @musingsfromthemitten

@theinheriteddutchess @buckybarnesisdaddy @distractingbeth

[valiwrites]

reincarnation ✧.* formula 1

part 2

: ̗̀➛ pairing: formula 1 x senna!reincarnation!male!oc (nico santos) : ̗̀➛ warnings: strong language, people shipping drivers but nothing serious, bromance, hate comments : ̗̀➛ author’s note: i wrote this before and got a lot of hate for it. if it’s not your thing, just scroll past—no need to spread negativity. i didn’t write this just to read mean comments.

: ̗̀➛ smau

danielricciardo ✔︎

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, nicosantos and 1.3m others

danielricciardo the funniest part was... i had to held him back so he didn't murder anyone yesterday

view all 345k comments

user1 reason 727390 why daniel and nico are my fav duo

user2 showed my dad a picture of nico and he said he hasn't seen anything of senna in years i had to explain to him that this is not senna 😭

user3 my mom said that too!! but nico hates being called senna

charles_leclerc i haven't seen nico that mad ever

user4 why is the first picture so wholesome tho omg

user5 because danny is wholesome

user6 nico was ready to commit a whole crime and daniel said ✨no✨

maxverstappen1 i was lowkey scared for my life not gonna lie

user7 danny out here being the emotional support human for a guy who could probably fight god

user8 nah but the way nico looks at daniel in the vid… y’all seeing this or am i delulu

user3 the way his eyes soften when he looks at daniel is so cute

user5 y'all are so delusional he didn't even look at daniel 😭

lando nico was pacing like a dad whose kid just crashed his car 💀

user9 why does every chaotic duo have one guy who keeps the other from getting arrested

user10 danny being the only thing between nico and a felony is so on brand

nicosantos ✔︎

liked by danielricciardo, mickschumacher, lando and 3.2m others

nicosantos mood after yesterday

view all 743k comments

user1 help nico really wanted to throw hands 😭😭

nicosantos you know it

user2 nico has a cat???

user3 it's max's cat lmaoo

user4 he kinda fine

user5 i have been saying that but no one listens to me

user6 the way he just crouched by daniel’s car like it’s some kind of secret mission 💀

user7 lowkey nico should’ve been in the movie ‘mad man on the edge'

user8 no way you can look at them and not see the chemistry. it's so obvious

user9 nah, the way nico looks at daniel in that video is giving ‘you’re mine’ vibes

user10 no wtf don't say that...

user11 why do i feel like nico is totally in love with daniel and he just doesn’t know it yet?

user12 why is everyone suddently shipping them hello

user13 bc daniel hugged nico at the press conference 😭

nicosantos ✔︎

liked by lando, danielricciardo, maxverstappen1 and 2.5m others

nicosantos ok, so we look alike. i get it. but let’s be real, i’m not him. just because we share a lot similarities doesn’t mean we’re the same person. i’ve been getting a lot of hate in my DMs, and honestly, it’s getting old. so, can we all just chill and let me live my own life? respect is all i’m asking for

view all 954k comments

user1 literally, it’s just a resemblance, relax people

user2 the hate is so uncalled for. nico deserves respect not this mess

user3 people acting like he’s actually senna’s clone, chill out

user4 he's trying really hard to be 🙄

user5 the fact that nico has to explain this is crazy. let him breathe

user6 you can’t just deny the resemblance though, it’s a little weird you’re acting like it’s nothing

nicosantos i’m not denying it, but i’m also not claiming to be someone i’m not. it’s not that complicated

user7 he’s just salty because people keep bringing up senna. get over it

user8 he doesn’t owe anyone an apology for looking like someone. leave him alone

niconews ✔︎

liked by 47k users

niconews eyes never lie... this was nico just a day after all the hate he’s been facing recently. in a raw moment during an interview, when asked, "you seem pretty pissed at the situation," he didn’t hold back. nico responded, "well, people stick their noses in everyone’s business without thinking about feelings. i didn’t ask to be born the way i am, i’m just trying to live my life." his voice cracked, and despite trying to hold it together, tears started to form. it was a moment that showed just how much this constant pressure has been affecting him. in a world where we all expect people to be perfect or fit into certain molds, nico's vulnerability spoke volumes.

view all 9k comments

user1 it's heartbreaking to see someone so kind and real get treated like this

user2 the pressure he must be under is insane. we forget these are real people

user3 this is so unfair, just let the guy breathe for once

user4 he’s literally milking the whole senna comparison for attention. stop pretending like it’s all ‘the haters’

niconews if you think that’s what this is about, you clearly missed the point

user4 he’s literally crying over people pointing out how much he looks like senna? get over it niconews it’s not about looks, it’s about respect. maybe try understanding that

nicosantos ✔︎

liked by lando, carlossainz55, danielricciardo and 4.1m others

nicosantos bromance is real

tagged: lando

view all 1.4m comments

user1 aww the senna cap

user2 i love nico he's adorable

user3 lando 😭😭

user4 lando is always the funniest person in the group

user5 nico with the senna cap is a whole vibe. love the respect for the legend

user6 this is the kind of bromance we all need in our lives

user7 nico wearing the senna cap but being his own person? love that for him

nicosantos see now i can't tell if you're being sarcastic or fr 💀

user7 i was being fr 😭😭

user8 someone tell lando to stop being this extra, i can’t keep up

[ultimate-marysue]

How I feel my Batfam ships may or may not have children (please don't take me seriously I just need wholesomeness):

Dickkory: multiple bio kids, I'm pretty sure this is canon in some future/alternative universes. I think DC should set Kori free on a PTA meeting with no one explain to her the absurd social rules Karens set. The shitty mothers would hate her because she's over here, playing dumb on purpose until they're forced to admit they're just being annoying/egocentric and not actually asking to better their kid's education. Also, career day would be crazy considering Dick changes jobs every few months to get involved into whatever business he's investigating. Like, one year he's a cop, next he's a super model, next he's a college professor somehow. Kori thinks it's really funny so she insists on Dick being the one to go.

Dickbabs: they either don't have kids (just adopt a bunch of rescues) or maybe have one adoptive kid. Other than Cass who is Babs daughter I don't care what anyone thinks. Just Dick, Barbara and Barbara's daughter who is also Dick's sister. Also, Babs got lucky with Cass being homeschooled, the second she has to deal with the school system she's on the phone with the president blackmailing him to fix it. Easy to say, Dick deals with school exclusively from them on.

BabsDinah: they're the lesbian aunts (that end up doing a lot of the parenting because they can't help themselves). Like, neither of them would really want to have kids of their own, but the second a young vigilante with a shit ton of issues gets dropped in their doorstep it's on. Like, officially they'd be mentors, but they all see each other as family.

Stephcass: Cass is a ticking bomb, she's going to find an ex-murderer kid in need of guidance and just bring them home. Steph is not thrilled at first because they're so young still until she realizes "oh wait no, we're like, adult adults now" and then she has a crisis (unrelated to the child). Also Steph would love love to prove she's better than her father (but would be terrified of messing up). At first they're really chill but soon enough they turn it into a competition with the other Bats. Not a competition between their kids, mind you ("no Cass, that's bad parenting") but a competition of who's the best parent. Jason is terrified of them, but the rest are absolutely down.

Jayroy: asides from our beautiful wonderful and just overall fantastic Lian Harper, I think they might end up adopting some kids. What can I say? I think Jason should have Bruce's adoption gene, but specially for kids in dangerous/hard situations. I'm talking the older kids that never get adopted or younger kids with some sort of disability that need extra accomodations. I think Jason would try very hard to avoid them being vigilantes at least until they're 18. Roy is more chill with vigilantism because well, Lian turned out fine, but he respects Jason's opinion. Most important, no child of his is going to be a Robin to Bruce fucking Wayne. Also, everyone in the PTA would love them, they'd be super involved and Jason would make sure to bribe the appropriate people with muffins.

TimKon: test tube baby, not on purpose though. Like, I don't see Tim as someone actively wanting kids (especially not biological ones) and Kon wouldn't want his kid having to face the problems he did. But like, if Cadmus pulls some weird shit and there's a super baby for the taking, they would both want to make sure they give him the most loving upbringing possible. Another option is Tim accidentally creating their baby while trying to clone Kon while he was dead. That one's plausible and has a lot of angst hurt/comfort potential. Also, Teen Dad Tim after being extremely parentified during his early teens taking care of Bruce (while grieving everyone!) is evil , but a compelling kind of evil. Like a trainwreck you can't look away from.

TimBer: dual income no kids kinda queers. They're over here taking their various nephews to Olive Garden and Disneyland only to drop them off and go live their lovely stress free lives. They may adopt a kid, but that would be only when they really settled down. Let Tim enjoy his 20s (if he ever gets there) my boy has been through enough.

Dukeizzy: again, maybe it's because Duke's still pretty young so he hasn't showed much interest or inclination toward parenting, but I don't have a lot of info to go with. Personally either Dual income "take the kids to do airsoft" kinda uncle/aunt, I can see both of them being really good at giving advice to younger vigilantes (the whole situation of We Are Robin gives you a lot of insight in the power of child vigilantes separated from any mentors, so they're in a particular good spot to mediate between the kids and adults). In the case of them having kids, I think they should inherit Dukes autism (I love that headcanon) and both he and Izzy would be those parents making damn sure their kids get the accommodations they need specially at school. If their kids choose to become vigilantes you bet they're gonna be unionized.

Also, I don't have any particular ship for Damian but you bet that if that boy ever becomes a parent they'd be the softest, sweetest father in the world.

[cherry-coffees]

Labyrinth, Chapter 2: Never Trust It if It Rises Fast

Premise: In your first few days of staying with Vander, he announces the raid of a topside ship. After Vi teaches you how to fight, feelings continue to rise during the mission.

cw: 1.9K words | childhood crush!Vi, teens now but will be adults in later chapters, mentions of sparring (punching, shoving, pinning), both Vi and reader are in DEEP denial, fluff <3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

You blink your eyes open, glancing around the room hazily. For a moment, you forget where you are. But when your gaze lands on Vi’s sleeping form across the small room, the events of the past few days come back to you. You’re here, in the upstairs of Vander’s place, living with Vi and Powder and Mylo and Claggor. Right.

You slip out of your blankets as quietly as you can, stretching out your limbs when you stand. Grabbing some casual clothes from your bag, you can’t help but linger in the door frame as you turn to leave, your gaze drawn to a sleeping Vi once again. 

You’ve learned more about everyone in the past few days you’ve been at Vander’s. Powder’s an energetic kid, constantly underestimated in her abilities. Claggor’s strong, though ultimately kind at heart. Mylo, true to form, is snarky and teasing.

And Vi. Well. Vi’s about a year older than you, you’ve learned. She’s the oldest and therefore the leader of all the other teenagers. She’s strong, and though it goes unspoken, you can see it in her eyes: she’s guarded. She doesn’t trust easily. The times you’ve seen it falter are when she looks at Powder, evident care for her sister in her expression. And now, as your gaze falls on her, she looks so peaceful asleep.

Enough.

You shake your head slightly, blinking your thoughts away. You shouldn’t be dwelling on Vi like this. So, you slip into the bathroom to change, before you make your way downstairs — avoiding the one step that creaks at the bottom of the staircase.

Upon entering the main room downstairs, you’re immediately met with the sight of Powder wobbling on a stepstool. She reaches for the faucet of the kitchen sink, her arms not quite long enough to turn it on. She huffs in frustration, grey eyes narrowing as she grips the counter.

“Hey,” you make your presence known, quickly moving to Powder’s side and steadying her gently. “Do you need help?”

“Yeah,” Powder’s expression fills with relief. She grabs a box from the counter next to her, holding it up to you in slight shyness. “I stole some pancake mix earlier, but I can’t add the water.”

You smile reassuringly at her, taking hold of the box and dumping some of the mix into a bowl. “I’ve got it. Do you want to grab a pan so we can make them together?”

Powder’s smile is brighter than the sun, eyes curving up into half-moons. “Okay!” She exclaims, dashing off to grab a pan while you turn on the faucet to add some water into the bowl. She’s back in an instant, and you warm up the pan on the old stove.

“You stole this, huh?” You ask lightly, putting a palm over the pan to feel how hot it’s gotten.

Powder nods quickly, watching the pan sizzle as you pour circles of batter onto it. “Usually we don’t have breakfast. Only after we have a good job and get a lot of stuff to sell,” she explains. “But I was out this morning and the guy selling these wasn’t paying attention, so…”

You flip the pancakes with a fork, unable to find a spatula in the small kitchen. “That’s great! I’m sure everyone will be happy to wake up to these.”

Powder leans against your side, still standing on her stool. “Mylo doesn’t think so. Everyone always thinks I don’t help at all.”

You puff out a sigh, gently squeezing her in a side hug. “Well, you’ve got me. And you’ll definitely be better at jobs than me, so Mylo will just complain about me now.”

As you make more pancakes under Powder’s watchful eye, Mylo, Claggor, and Vander come into the room one by one. Mylo and Claggor whoop at the sight of pancakes cooking, eagerly sitting at the table as they converse in slightly better moods. Vander, to his credit, gives you both a warm smile of acknowledgement before sitting with the other two.

Vi stumbles down the stairs a few minutes later, rubbing her eyes sleepily. She’s never been one for mornings: something else you’ve been quick to learn about her. The sleep clears from her face when the smell of the pancakes hits her nose. “Pancakes?” She asks in surprise, voice rough from just waking up.

“Yeah,” you respond simply, motioning for Powder to hop down from her stool before you hand her a plate of pancakes to put on the table. The second she does, Mylo and Claggor immediately make grabs for them. 

You sit next to Powder, across from Mylo and Claggor. Vander sits at the head of the table and Vi drops down in the empty chair across from him, next to you. Her eyes are still wide with disbelief, it having been a while since she’s had a nice breakfast. “Uh, thanks,” she runs a hand through her hair, glancing at you sheepishly.

“Yeah, thanks,” Claggor mumbles between bites, Vander seconding and Mylo grunting in agreement. 

You glance at Powder next to you and smile, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Actually, Powder stole the pancake mix and did all the work. I just helped her with the stove. So we should all be thanking her.”

Mylo gives a look of almost disbelief, but reluctantly mutters a “thank you,” as does everyone else.

But Vi notices the look between you and Powder, how Powder’s smile is shy and how yours is reassuring. She knows: knows you made the pancakes, but that you gave Powder the credit because you knew she needed it. And Vi feels her own smile, hers one of soft admiration that’s directed at you.

She’s only ever smiled at Powder like that.

Vander clears his throat, catching everyone’s attention. “So,” his voice is gruff. “I have a new job for you all. A topside ship will dock in the ports tonight. It holds a lot of jewelry, which means high prices if we get it. It should be relatively safe since the crew isn’t on board, you just have to get past the guards. Are you up for it?”

Vi nods, expression morphing into one of determination. “We’ve got it.”

“Good,” Vander stands, casting a glance at Vi. “Don’t be reckless, Vi. Grab what you can and be safe about it.”

“Yeah yeah,” Vi mumbles under her breath as Vander nods his head in parting and leaves the room. As soon as he’s gone, she immediately turns to everyone else. “Okay. Topside ship raid tonight. We’ll leave at 10, when all the crew’s gone.”

Vi turns to you, her gaze running over you in consideration. “And you’ll need some training. You can come with me when the others go off to train by themselves, and I’ll teach you, yeah?”

You nod, your eyes meeting the powder-blue of hers. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Vi’s features soften just a fraction before she breaks her stare, standing up and motioning to the door. “Let’s get on it, guys.”

|------» ~~~ «------|

You and Vi stand opposite each other in an abandoned warehouse nearby that she evidently uses for practice. It’s dark with a few makeshift punching bags, a few windows providing some sort of light.

“‘Kay” Vi starts when the others have moved to another area of the warehouse. Her stance is unguarded as she faces you. “So. I want you to punch me as hard as you can.”

You just blink at her. “Um…”

“What?” Her eyebrows furrow at your hesitance. “You’ve never punched someone before?”

“…No?”

Vi sighs, but she steps closer to you nonetheless. “Okay, let’s start with something else to ease you into it.” Before you can even register what’s happening, she suddenly moves both hands to your shoulders and shoves you lightly. “Try to stop me.”

You stumble backwards, having not expected her shove. “Um, okay,” you watch her arms carefully, so when she moves to push you again, you clasp both hands around her wrists in an attempt to hold them. 

Vi grins, but she doesn’t let up, easily shaking off your grip and shoving you a little harder. “Try harder. That won’t stop anyone.”

You huff at this, though your annoyance only benefits you. When she moves forward again, you only grab one of her arms this time, quickly ducking under it and moving behind her. It’s your turn to push her forward, albeit not that hard. That’s not your fault, though: Vi is way too strong for you to do much damage to.

She still stumbles even slightly, but her grin only widens as she turns to face you again. “Not bad. You’re learning.”

“It’s just instinct,” you shrug it off, not thinking much of your avoidance.

“Still counts, doesn’t it?” 

When Vi makes another grab for you, this time in an attempted tackle, you just barely manage to avoid her. She grunts a little at the fail, but then a small smirk spreads across your face, and you have no time to dodge before she sweeps her leg behind your own. You fall immediately, wincing as you hit the hard warehouse floor. Vi kneels beside you, one hand keeping your shoulder pinned to the ground.

You huff at her again. “That hurt.”

“Please,” Vi rolls her eyes. “It’s good you’re getting some practice for what could actually happen.” She removes her hand from your shoulder and stands, extending an arm to pull you up. You take it, and she lifts you easily.

If your cheeks warm when she pulls you up with your faces a little too close to each other, that’s nobody’s business.

“So,” Vi tilts her head toward the punching bags, smoothing out her own expression to be professional again. “Let me teach you how to throw a real punch.”

|------» ~~~ «------|

Just hours later, you’re following Mylo, Claggor, and Powder as Vi leads you all to creep through the docks until you reach the ship from Piltover. As you all duck behind a few barrels, Vi narrows her eyes, scanning the area for a blind spot the guards haven’t paid much attention to. It only takes her a minute to find one. Bingo.

She makes a silent motion, and everyone trails behind her, keeping to the shadows of the ship. When Vi finds one of the ladders at the furthest side of the boat, she climbs up first. After listening for a moment to ensure all of the crew has left, she glances down at the others and makes another motion to signal that the coast is clear.

Mylo hops up first, finding his way over to the trapdoor of the storage compartment to pick the lock. Claggor helps Powder up, and the two of them slip inside after Mylo.

You’re the last to climb the ladder, and you’re surprised to see Vi still standing beside the edge, making sure you get up unscathed. There’s something almost caring in her eyes as she watches you. “You good?” She whispers, near silently.

You swing your legs over the edge of the boat and onto the main deck, nodding at her check in. 

Vi guides you to the now open trapdoor, following in right after you. Once you’re both inside the storage compartment, she lets out another whisper, her breath hot against your ear. “This is your first job. Just stick close to me and you’ll be fine.”

Admittedly, as you join the others in grabbing whatever jewelry you can find to stick in your bag, you do stick closer to Vi. Even though you feel uneasy since it’s your first time literally robbing a ship, Vi makes you feel…safe, in some inexplicable way. Like, when you’re next to her, she’s got you.

When your bags are all full a few minutes later, Vi commands attention with a pointed whisper. “We’ve got a good haul. Let’s go.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument, so everyone falls into step. Like on the way up, Vi is the first to drop down the ladder in near-silence before doing a full scan of the area and motioning the others down. The same order follows: Mylo then Claggor then Powder. Those three slip off the ship, and you can see Vi motion them back to a sheltered, shadowy area of the docks where they can wait safely. 

You climb down the ladder last, clinging onto the rungs and trying not to look down. Your movements are slower, more inexperienced. But Vi waits patiently, and this is another thing you notice about her: she fits being the leader so naturally. She cares, and this care ensures everyone comes back okay.

You’re on your last few rungs when you hear footsteps nearing. Not quiet footsteps; heavy ones that sound like they’re from some sort of boot. A guard. Fuck.

You have no time to panic, because at the sound, Vi doesn’t hesitate to sweep you off the ladder and into her arms. Her palm clasps over your mouth to muffle your gasp of surprise. Quick and practiced, she darts behind a nearby barrel in a matter of seconds.

You can barely breathe as the guard rounds the corner, afraid that even your breath is making too much noise. And, as you hear the guard walk past the barrel, your fear overtakes you. You’re still cradled in Vi’s arms princess-style, and it makes it all too easy for you to pull yourself tighter against her chest, your face in her shoulder.

You wonder if her sharp intake of breath you feel is just your imagination.

The guard’s footsteps don’t falter, rounding the other corner without stopping. Once the sound has ceased for over a minute, Vi peers above the tops of the barrels, ensuring that no one else is around. With that, she stands, still cradling you as she dashes off in the direction of where the others are waiting. Gods, her stamina is insane.

When you rejoin Mylo, Claggor, and Powder, Vi gently sets you down, steadying you on your feet before her leader's professionalism returns. “C’mon, let’s get the hell out of here,” she whispers, and it doesn’t take another word for you and the others to slip through the shadows of the docks on the way back to Vander’s place. 

You could have sworn Mylo had given Vi a smug look when he had seen Vi carrying you, but oh well. Maybe that was also your imagination.

[afurtivecake]

ok I'm going to have to defend Abby here. I know there is an argument that Abby should have known better than to say something like "My Foxes fight back," to Jean, a victim of recent brutality. It definitely comes across as tactless from Jean's POV and you would expect the nurse of a team of traumatized students to know what to say. But I don't think Abby actually knows what to say in these situations - and I don't think it's her fault.

This line from Wymack's bonus chapter suggests that Abby really doesn't have the same sort of background as Wymack and their players:

"David had sworn years ago not to interfere with his kids' fixes so long as they didn't get caught or end up hospitalized. It had led to more fights than he could count between him and Abby in the early days. She'd given in eventually, though she'd probably never forgive him for taking such a stance when he should be setting a better example. Maybe she was right, or maybe she didn't have enough nightmares to understand."

While Abby has agreed to back Wymack up on the issue of allowing players to take drugs, Wymack still believes that Abby privately disagrees. Wymack insists upon it because of his personal experiences in life and guesses that Abby doesn't have those same experiences to understand why he insists upon it.

It's easy to forget because of the POV the story is in, but Abby's reaction is the "normal" one. Most people do not support giving students alcohol and see it as their responsibility to stop students from taking drugs if they find out about it. Wymack only takes the harm reduction approach (i.e. allowing/giving recovering addicts the substance they are addicted to safely, instead of forcing them to be cut off immediately. A divisive approach, even nowadays.) because of his own experiences, not because he has formal training in addictions counselling/treatment. All Abby is doing, is sticking with what she knows and believes will help these young people.

Abby is very "by-the-book" in comparison to Wymack or even Betsy. She argues against taking Andrew off his medication and putting him in rehab immediately because she believes it goes against the recommended procedure of these situations. She argues against it out of genuine concern for Andrew, because she believes going against the recommended procedures will do him more harm than good.

It makes me think back to Abby's interactions with Neil back in AFTG, where Abby says, "Sometimes I think this job is going to kill me, seeing what people have done, what people continue to do, to my Foxes," right after Neil's been through hell at Evermore. This always rubbed me the wrong way because Neil's just been put through the wringer and all Abby can talk about it how much it's affecting her? She can give up this job at any time and walk away but Neil can't just walk away from being in his situation. But this is a really common sentiment among people who work with vulnerable populations. It's called "vicarious trauma" and it can happen when working with and empathizing with survivors of trauma. It can lead to lingering feelings of anger, sadness, guilt and burnout. Those feelings are no more Abby's fault that the feelings experienced in response to direct trauma.

The way I read it, Abby isn't trying to blame Jean or shame him for his victimhood. What Abby sees is a kid who acts like he's already given up on life, a kid who doesn't want others' kindness. It's not an unreasonable assumption to make; even Kevin and Neil have said that Jean "isn't a fighter." My interpretation is that Abby's "My Foxes fight back," is her attempt at copying Wymack's gruff support. I think she's hoping that a direct challenge will spark pride or defiance, or at least enough anger, to stop Jean from giving up. She's seen Wymack and Neil strong-arm Kevin into being brave all year, and I think she thought that that's what Jean needed to hear too. After all, it really seems to work when Wymack does it. But the difference between her and Wymack is that Wymack's understanding of what their players need comes from personal experience. He knows when the right time to say certain things are. Andrew tells Neil first thing, "Coach always knows what to say." And that's not because Wymack is a better person than Abby; it's just because Wymack knows from experience what they need to hear.

It's not Abby's fault that she doesn't understand them the way that Wymack does and that she can't help them the way that Wymack can. She doesn't have Wymack's lived experience. What's she's been doing this entire time is trying to understand what these kids need and trying to do the best she can for them with what she knows. She genuinely cares and she's trying, but she's making all the mistakes a normal person would make. And that's perfectly realistic and fine! It doesn't mean she doesn't care about the students she works with. It doesn't make her a horrible person. It just means that she's just kind of painfully normal. In fact, her painfully normal responses have helped too. Like when she hugs Neil and though Neil's not used to hugs (like, at all), it's new and comforting and something only she would have and could have given him at the time. And yes, she's going to fuck up from time to time and not be able to give people what they need, but that's part of caring for anyone.

[crazylittlejester]

I hope you are doing better cause your posts make me so happy!

I don't know if anyone has said this or not but I think Wars isn't actually that great at taking care of himself! Like he definitely knows how and knows the best tricks but he just would rather take care of the other people around him first/instead. He's the mom friend after all.

He was a Captain so he probably had a lot of younger soldiers under his command and I think he would really try to take them under his wing and help teach them how to take care of themselves properly. That definitely only increased when Mask came around (except Mask actually made sure he took care of himself too)

With the chain I think they've all kind of caught onto this so when Wars is stressed that each has something they go to him for 'help'. Like Wild asks if he can help brush his hair, Legend will ask for sewing/embroidery tips and Wind will lets him ramble about how to get out different stains from his clothes. It gets his mind focused on something else and it actually calms him down a lot oddly enough!

Sorry i definitely rambled a bit but that's my little head canon!

HELL YEAH I 100% agree with this, I have basically the same hc!!

To me it is the act of taking care of someone else that calms Warriors down, like he cannot do it to himself he cannot self care because he stresses he’s doing it wrong, but if he’s taking care of someone else he ends up taking care of himself in the process. I hc he’s a middle child (and the only boy, rip) so to me he’s got a handful of younger sisters and if he ever tried to take care of them by making sure they got extra food, they’d be like “well you have to have some too” and he’d end up being forced to go “okay alright”. Because an older sibling telling him to do something like take care of himself was just going to make him Not Want To Do That, but his little sisters guilt tripping him into it absolutely works

Mask did similar things whenever Warriors would be like “okay bedtime, you have an early morning” by pointing out Warriors ALSO had an early morning. I also hc Mask would get all into his personal space (carefully, ofc) and flop on him and get all cozy and fall asleep in such a way that made it LITERALLY impossible for Warriors to get any more work done so he would HAVE to stop and take a break and put the kid to bed, which made him put HIMSELF to bed. Also the idea that Mask would have a nightmare and be able to comfort himself and get over it and he COULD just go back to sleep, but he’ll go to Warriors anyway because he needs the hug and he knows WARRIORS needs a cuddle and will never ever ask for one, so Mask has to go over there claiming HE needs it

and i agree one billion percent with the idea that the chain will ask his assistance for easy little tasks Warriors absolutely knows how to do that are simple enough to be soothing because he cares for himself by caring for others partly because he needs to feel useful and wanted in order to ever truly relax

does he know HOW self care works? yes. he’s just PHYSICALLY incapable of it because Trauma

[oh-no-its-bird]

KAVEH BEING MISTAKEN FOR A SENJU IS SO GOOD YESSS I LOVE THAT, THERES SO MUCH POTENTIAL THERE!!!

They think he has the mokuton because of his dendro vision ,, he's so fucked. Konoha has major dibs, they want his ass locked down and in their pocket.

Congrats Kaveh, you're no longer going to be killed for taking Naruto!!! But only because Konoha wants to chain you to them. Don't let them catch you or else it's a short trip to T&I for you and a few months of being mind fucked till you're loyal!!

Does the timeline line up right with Tsunade to make her a potential (suspected) mother to Kaveh? I think it might, since she left after the 2nd war.

Kaveh, obviously, knows better and can and will deny it. But meanwhile, Tsunade spent most of the years after the war in a near permanant state of being blackout drunk. She has very, very little memories of the time, and got into a lot of shit she kind of willfully repressed

That is to say: Tsunade... can't 100% say she's never had a child...? She's suddenly so nervous, actually

Someone mentioned Kaveh's dendro vision maybe helping him hide from trackers, somehow covering his chakra in a sort of natural nature chakra-- also helping hide Gaara and Naruto, since they're close at his side

I love that so we're going with that explanation of how he's hiding so well without even knowing it. His dendro vision is just projecting this aura of "natural chakra" around him, masking their signatures. Rip to those who are trying to find him

Alhaitham is here now !! I think he'd be worried for Kaveh but also mostly "Kaveh knows how to take care of himself and stay out of (most) trouble"

Though I think the more he realizes how hostile this world can be towards genuinely kind people, the more he might worry for Kaveh. But also like, he has to have faith Kaveh can take care of himself— at least till he finds him

Alhaitham does not get to clear up the misunderstanding in my world bc I love misunderstandings and need to see Kaveh hunted for sport (and for my amusement)

Maybe he can try tho but like, I do truly doubt he'd be believed fully.

Like, ok, ur jinchuriki is stolen by a strange foreign stranger. You go on the hunt and find him to be incredibly evasive, top tier stealth skills here. Then as you're hunting him, he goes and steals another child jinchuriki

Suddenly, this other strange foreign man (who admits himself that he is friends with the first!!) shows up and tries to explain a "misunderstanding" that he himself doesn't even have the full context for

Maybe they could have at least tried to believe him if it were just Naruto, but w him taking Gaara also like. Nah they'd toss Alhaitham's ass in a cell to give to a Yamanaka for some mind fuck jutsus. Which Alhaitham probably isnt going to just sit around and let happen to him, rip

Alhaitham is going, "This is somehow Kaveh's fault, I just know it," as he actively bashes his way out of a prison. Jail break arc !!!!

Anyways thinking about just. Kaveh treating Naruto and Gaara like the children they are. Showing them genuine care and concern and motherly love. Gaara especially tbh— obviously they've both suffered but I'd like to believe Naruto got one or two good or semi normal interactions in his life before, or at least has been in the position to witness that sort of thing

But Gaara has just kind of been trapped in an absoloute nonstop torture freak show from day one.

Kaveh will show them motherly love and worry and Naruto will go "woah... so this is what it's like..."

but Gaara will full shut down "I dont understand what is happening. Why does my entire body feel warm? Why is he look at me like that? Why does it make me want to cry? What is happening to me? What is this? Am I broken? Have I been poisoned?"

The three of them get into some sort of fight and Kaveh puts himself in front to defend his kids. Naruto is all bluster "let me protect you!" Without any of the skill but Gaara is fully "idiot, I can protect you" *massacre noises*

Afterwards Gaara is bracing for the usual screams of terror and inevitable abandonment, but when Kaveh starts to yell it isnt about Gaara being a monster but instead about how could you put yourself in that sort of situation? I'm here to protect you, Gaara!

And he like wipes away the blood from Gaara's face, looking like he's about to burst into tears. And Gaara is so, so confused because this is not how it's supposed to go— its never gone like this, ever

I think Kaveh would lose his mind a little bit over the violence but also like, not as much as he could, for several reasons

He isnt a stranger to fighting, obviously. The desert is dangerous, and he's run into his fair share of scuffles— and obviously yk, has been on some adventures with the traveler.

He does exist in proximity with Collei, and while I don't think it's ever directly stated that he's aware of her circumstances, I'd like to believe he knows at least a little. So he isn't a stranger to the terrible circumstances of some children, which can lead them to have skills beyond their age

Also just: these are kids. These are kids and he cares about them. It would take a lot to get mr bleeding heart over here to genuinley disavow someone he's already imprinted on, especially a whole child

So yeah, just, Kaveh caring for Gaara even as he is faced with the inherent violence he is built on and filled with. Kaveh showing Gaara he can be loved, even through all the blood and bone. Kaveh seeing the carnage and running past it all to hug Gaara tight and asking if he's ok

Naruto is also there going :O in the background

He's like. 6. And also Naruto. So the fear is kind of overrided by "WOAH HOW DID YOU DO THAT???? THAT WAS SO COOL YOU BEAT THEM ALL SO FAST!!!!!"

They are friends first now (best friends, Naruto insists) so Gaara himself is a priority now, and even if it was kind of scary, they're still friends!!

also @sanska :

SO REAL HE'S SO FUCKING PRETTY ITS KIND OF INSANE !!!!

There are so many artists who do him so well, most beautiful man in Tevat fr, my favorite blond. Not to mention the fansong for him FUCKS, Writing on the Wall changed my life forever

I love when people draw and write him as wearing makeup ,,, my pretty princess ,, he lines his eyes in kohl every morning and has a whole skin care routine to protect his skin from the desert sun, pass it on. It's just canon to me.

I want to think about Kaveh (genshin impact) in Naruto but I haven't touched Genshin for longer than an hour in over a year now. I never even officially met Kaveh, I never hit his quests. So Idk if I can do him justice

But like, ,,, ough,,, Kaveh in Naruto ,,,, my babygirl most ever,,,

[brucewaynehater101]

I got you something. In the tim is bruce's dad hc/au. Tim is the reincarnation of Thomas Wayne.

Shit happens and tim revert to his last life form, being thomas before diying.

I just want to traumatize bruce.

You got me angst? 🥺 And it traumatizes Bruce???? Gods, it's perfect. Thank you ^^

~~~

Tw: Death, blood, shit ton of angst

Tim feels a nudge sometimes. A little pull, a small urge, an inclination. Just a gut feeling of what to do, to say, to think.

When he was younger, it rarely happened. It popped up here and there, most notably when others needed medical aid or other kids needed help, but it wasn't a feeling Tim noticed. He chalked it up to nerves or luck or something he read previously. It wasn't noteworthy or concerning.

But then he meets Bruce Wayne.

Tim is ten the first time he remembers meeting Bruce. Tim recalls the way his shoes pinched his feet, the stiff collar of his shirt pressing into his throat, his mother's perfume and father's cologne, the stern way his parents told him to be on his best behavior, and the kind elderly man who greeted him at the door. Wayne Manor shone vividly in his memories with dazzling chandeliers, an impeccably maintained ballroom, and a scrumptious spread of food. The event, as all Wayne hosted events are, was spectacular.

It all paled in comparison to Bruce Wayne.

When the man meandered over to the Drakes to say hello, Tim was hit by a dizzying wave of fondness, nostalgia, bereavement, and parental pride. He looked upon this man, this adult with children older than Tim, and felt the compulsion to scold him for his rumpled appearance while praising him for the man he's grown into.

Suffice to say, ten year old Tim did not handle this very well. To his parents' bemusement, he promptly started to bawl.

It was another three years before Tim saw Bruce again (though he did keep tabs on the older man).

This time, though, the butler who greeted him was weary and exhausted. The Bruce that Tim found was harsh, cold, and drowning in his grief.

Tim was thirteen. He didn't know how to help Bruce, to save him from himself.

But there were those little urges, those impulses and nudges. The ones that indicated to Tim when he should force Bruce to shower or relent with a disappointed sigh. The clues on when to push the matter, when to lecture Bruce, and when to provide solace. They weren't always correct, they weren't perfect, but they helped. It seems they also learned and were wrong less and less.

The pushes and inclinations aided his quest to be there for Bruce, but they also increased his fatherly tendencies. He found himself tucking the Bruce into bed, calling him nicknames like "sport," and ruffling his hair. The older man would send him a confused glance when Tim did this but eventually got used to the eccentricities. It became routine and common for them.

Tim would never, ever admit it out loud, but he saw Bruce as a son of his.

As Tim got older, his instincts got louder and clearer. They became more frequent to the point that he almost saw memories associated with the feelings. Memories Tim never lived.

He tried to push down his fears and confusion at the escalating symptoms. He ignored the information he suddenly knew about Gotham, Alfred, and Bruce. He pretended nothing was amiss the first time he saw Martha's face clearly after getting an urge.

Most of all, he kept all of this from everyone else.

It was hard to hide some of his symptoms, though. The way he paused too long when called "Tim," the increased fatherly behavior to Bruce, the treatment of Alfred to that of an old friend, and the familiar, almost instinctive movement of his hands when performing medical treatment. His family didn't understand what was happening to him, they didn't have enough pieces, but they knew something was happening to Tim. Something the teen refused to elaborate on.

It was causing tension and fights borne of worry. Arguments constantly occurred as Tim kept the information to himself while drowning over the realization and suspicions he had.

It boiled over one night on patrol. Bruce, in a desperate measure to figure out what was wrong with Tim, placed them on patrol together. He swapped routes and rearranged partners with others to ensure this would happen.

Bruce tried to reach out to Tim. He tried to approach him and reassure him and ask him to just fucking talk to him.

But Tim refused to explain and Bruce was tired of waiting.

Batman was angry and short with Red Robin, the two of them mid-dispute, when the sound of a scream interrupted them. The vigilantes are professionals, they've been at this for years, and they know how to navigate their emotions in the field. Being deflected shouldn't have posed an issue.

But Tim's been off lately. His body felt small, it didn't fit right, and his appearance freaked him out. He keeps glancing at mirrors and expecting a different, older, taller reflection.

It's a combination of shitty variables, a mirror in an unexpected place, that distract Red. Usually, this wouldn't have the consequences of Tim acquiring a gaping hole in his stomach. Usually, he wouldn't be faltering mid-fight.

Red, as the professional he is, quickly neutralizes his target. He's making his way back to Batman when he stumbles to his knees. He hadn't realized just how much he was bleeding.

Batman hears Tim's pained gasp from the other room. He was checking on the victim, but he immediately sprints towards Red at the sound.

When he arrives, Tim is laying in a pool of blood staring at the ceiling. For a long moment, Bruce fears that he's dead. At the sound of a wheezy, wet gasp, the man drops to his knees next to Red.

"Red? Red Robin!"

Bruce frantically applies pressure to Tim's wound, ignoring the pained groan at this action.

"Come on, Red. Keep your eyes open."

Tim's form... flickers beneath Bruce's hands. Bruce can almost swear that he sees his father, sees Thomas Wayne, in Tim's place.

Bruce has made that connection before, the one of his parents' death reminding him of the tragedies his children have faced. It's never been this vivid before.

Red Robin's costume, smeared with the blood gushing from Tim's stomach wound, wavers out of focus with the image of a bespoke suit marred by bullet holes and blood. The depiction is so tangible that Bruce can't help when he calls out, "D-dad?"

Tim's Thomas's face splits into a pained grin at the call. A pale hand rises to cup Bruce's face.

"Hey there, bud. It's alright. You're going to be okay."

Bruce chokes on a sob, two of his loved ones staring up at him. He leans into the touch, tears freely falling down. Tim Thomas wipes the tears as best he can.

"I need you to be brave for me, son. Can you do that?"

Biting his trembling lips, Bruce shakes his head.

"I know, chum. I know." At the anguished whine from Bruce, Tim's Thomas's face is sympathetic and desolate. "I know, son. I know, but I need you to be real brave for me."

Bruce's eyes slide shut with a shaky exhale.

"It's okay, bubs. You're going to be okay. Can you be brave for me?"

Bruce nods.

"I need you to promise me that you won't push your family away, that you'll let them help you. I need you to be brave and continue loving them."

"Okay."

The dying man clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Look at me, son." Only when Bruce's eyes meet his does he continue. "Promise me."

"I promise, Dad."

A relieved smile appears on Tim's Thomas's face. "That's my boy."

[alevolpe]

If Makoto and Ami are a baker and her doctor wife, what jobs do the other sailor scouts have?

Also what medical specialty is Dr. Mizuno in? (Dr. Kino? Who took whose last name?)

Oh, good question!

I see Usagi becoming a mangaka assistant! We've seen Usagi being quite the talented artist in canon, and she obviously loves reading manga, so I can pretty easily see her turning that into a career. That said, she might dip her toes a few times on making her own manga, but given the extremely strenous work hours, I don't see her publishing anything more than a pretty popular short series and a few one shots. She decides to stick mostly with assistant jobs.

I can easily see Rei just sticking to being a priestess at Hikawa Shrine. There's ups and downs about it, but I do believe she genuinely cares for the temple and keeping up its legacy after her grandfather's passing. Will it be her forever goal? Maybe not. Maybe later in life, she chooses to embark on a different path, perhaps being the singer she always dreamed of becoming.

Mina is all over the freaking place. This might be a bit of a controversial take, but I never really see her blowing up, as to say. She never becomes the biggest idol ever, like she always dreamed of, and that's not even from lack of trying. Some of her songs do go viral, but I just don't believe she's really cut for it at the end. She branches out and becomes a bit of a niche micro celebrity, mostly online, but makes the occasional radio and TV appearances. She mostly writes and performs her own songs and participates in popular radio broadcasts and podcasts. Still pays the bills, but won't cause her to get swarmed from just walking out in public.

Michiru has enough wealth and affluence to be able to live in luxury her whole life and the next 10+ generations to come without moving a single finger, but that's not what she wants. She just keeps on creating. Music, art, you name it. She just has an endless passion and appreciation for it. It makes her money, yes, but that's not her job really. She does it because she loves it.

Haruka.. I mean, Haruka lives in luxury as well. I think I said this before, but I see Haruka coming from an incredibly poor upbringing. She's basically as rich as she is because of Michiru and she's always very grateful and humble for her position. She doesn't become a race car driver (idk if people know how much you have to put into that career, it basically becomes your whole life and takes YEARS AND YEARS of training). I simply see her helping out her local garage shop regularly. When you're that rich, you can kind of do whatever you want, but Haruka's no slacker. She loves feeling useful and helping others.

Now, if you ask me personally, I see Ami being either a trauma surgeon or a brain surgeon. I know canonically she wants to be a pediatrician, but my Ami is a bit different. She's not nearly as apt with kids as her canon counterpart. Saeko before her being one of the most influential and renowned neurosurgeons in Japan.

Answering your last question.. I genuinely could swing either way. On one hand, Ami keeping her mother's last name (yes, it's her mother's, not her father's, idc) is very important, not only to her as her mother's daughter, but also as a form of respect and tradition to her family before her. Saeko, having kept her last name from her own father. It has become a bit of a status symbol in the medical and scientific fields, which Ami would only work to strengthen even further.

On the other hand, Kino has endless value to Makoto. In many ways, it's the most meaningful and everlasting memento left by her parents. It's a promise. A promise to stay true to herself, to be kind and to be brave, like her parents always taught her. It would be hard for her to let go of it, but it's a struggle that would die at her lips forever. She would never voice it to Ami. There's some problems that Mako will always just choose to deal with by herself.

All that said, I personally tend to default to Ami keeping her last name, Dr. Mizuno.

[deluluass]

It's all over now, baby blue (3/12)

Ushijima Wakatoshi/Female Reader/Oikawa Tooru

Multi-chapter sequel to "Red, like Blood. Blue, like Love."

General Warnings:  rape/noncon; nsfw; depictions of post traumatic stress disorder; a lot of negative self-talk (reader pov) Chapter warnings: internalized misogyny (reader pov); recreational drug use (by other characters); sexual content

“Do… you have a soulmate…?”

It was an inane question. You knew that, even before you uttered it. Ask the lady that called soulmates bullshit if she had a soulmate, why don’t you? However, as of this very moment, this woman was no longer just the same one that Hana Misaki had to impress; the one with the important title that went on for forever. 

To you, she was now the one to whom you’d committed every single social blunder that featured in your worst nightmares against– stuttering, throwing up, cursing, etcetera. You checked your pants to make sure that they’re still dry. You sighed.

Thank all that is merciful that you haven’t done that yet. 

Chief of everything, humiliation and stupidity included, was the current reality that she was now that woman whom you’re sharing a makeshift seat with, your thighs sharing warmth and shoulders leaning against each other– the only thing keeping the other’s unbearable weight from crashing. 

“Me? A soulmate?” she muttered. 

“A soulmate, yeah.”

“Nope.” The woman turned to you, smiled, before pointing to her eyes. “What would be the point anyway? These old things up here could never be trusted with blues. And other colors.”

Your heart seized. She was still amused, like she was waiting for you to laugh. You didn’t.

“I’m- I’m sorry–” Your hand, in want of other things to do, reached for hers. “That was so insensitive– I mean– I shouldn’t have just assumed that you’re–”

Her smile stretched, eyes becoming more luminous, until all of her teeth showed. This close you could see a chipped front tooth. At the confusion that must have spilled across your face, the woman threw her head back, and then laughter—the kind exhumed from the belly, bounced across the parking lot.

“God forgive me, kid,” she chortled, wiping away tears. “You’re just so easy— look at your face— I’m so sorry—”

You closed your eyes. A deep breath. Patience incarnate.

“Was that a joke?” you sought clarity.

“Yes.”

“Was that a fucking joke?”

“Yes!” she yelped, with a gasp that quickly devolved into sucked in guffaws.

You faced her, your knees knocking together. “Well, it wasn’t funny…!”

“Holy shit, kid! Live a little!” A light slap on your shoulder. “I swear, children these days would get their panties twisted about every fucking thing—”

“That was really not funny! There are people who live with color blindness or- or deficiency and their lives have been very difficult for—”

“Oh my God! Spare me, okay! Stop whining—”

“I’m not whining! Some cultures even go as far as to treat them like outcasts! It’s really not that hard not to make light of their struggles and not to be- to be- a- a dick about it!”

The woman sighed, reigning in her laughter (struggling to, you marked with a frown), then patted the back of your hand. “Alright, alright, let’s cool it?”

You grumbled.

“If it helps your… delicate—“

You rolled your eyes.

“—sensibilities,” she continued, “My cousin from my dad’s side couldn’t tell red and- what was it- green- to save his life.”

“It’s always a cousin,” you scoffed.

“No, it’s true…!” the woman exclaimed, sitting up. She clasped her hands over her knee and pulled it over the other. “Of course, this was back then, you know, people were a lot meaner—”

“More ignorant, you mean.”

“Sure was. There was the usual stuff. Some name calling. Teachers being a cunt. I knew. I grew up with the guy. Got held back when we were eight. Then, when we were fifteen, there was some kid in school who had a retired colonel for a dad— so that made him believe he was hot shit, pulled a prank on dear old cousin. After a game of baseball, while they were changing out of their uniforms, I guess he must’ve grabbed his arm or something. Then, you know… Everyone in that room saw it, but nobody said anything. ‘We’re soulmates,’ the kid told him. He must’ve thought it was funny, ‘cause they were both boys and my cousin was that kid. And then— “

Laughing, she resumed, “The funniest thing happened. Do you know what my cousin said?”

You shook your head.

“Cow dung, he said. Ever the country boy, my cousin. Y’see, he never had any trouble telling blues. Purples were a different story, but not blues. But nobody ever believed him. And red, to him, looked like—”

“Cow dung,” you snickered.

“Cow dung.”

“And then what happened?”

“He punched that little fucker. Got detention, but life was fine. Went as usual. He left when he was twenty. The country, I mean. But it wasn’t just leaving that made him realize…. Growing old made him realize too….” 

She looked at you, still smiling, but softer and less like she’s pulling a prank.

“He had his soul glow, contrary to all the assholes who said otherwise. He was— lemme see, about twenty-seven? He got married, too. But not to the same man. Different one. I asked him once, at a family function, why him? You know, not the other one. I even asked him if it was hard, making that choice. He looked at me like I was crazy. And then he said, ‘But it’s common sense! You choose the one who won’t put a pillow over your head when you snore!’ She shook her head. “I don’t know a funnier guy.”

There was a lady bug climbing up your leg. A beautiful, fragile thing; one that could fly off at any moment. You didn’t dare move.

With a gentle nudge, the woman then whispered, like she was consoling you, wiping what’s left of your tears despite having barely raised a hand:

“People live, don’t they, kid?”

Splinters came out of the shower head. It ran down your back as you pressed your head against the wall, sloughing off all debris and muck from this morning’s service. You reached for the knob and turned it higher.

A thousand frozen knives cut through every pore, every wart, every bit of tiny pimple that grew out of the sweat and follicles and dirt. 

Any moment now and even your bones would disintegrate and create a whirl pool around the drain.

The bar of soap in your hand diffused into the wet towel as you scrubbed them together. Bar of soap wrapped in towel—like baguette wrapping around fat blocks of ham. Squeeze between two hands and perhaps it would also be good enough to eat. The soap was just as pink as the ham fresh from the walk-in, too.

That’d been what you served the last customer in your shift. His hair was the same color as the imitation mahogany tables. They were actually made of plastic, just varnished to look like genuine wood. Anyway, his hair blended in too well with those tables that you even had the idea of slamming the tray over it.

You didn’t do that, of course. You went to his table and showed him the menu as usual. And when he’d smiled tightly and told you what he’d wanted, you even expected him to tell you, “Thanks, kitten.”

Weird.

His eyes weren’t as brown.

Suds and bubbles dribbled from your torso down to your toes. It slid off your chest, circulating around your breasts, and sinking into the crevices between the folds of your stomach as you scrubbed, slinking the towel around your neck, then pulling both ends together, its junction like a stone against the middle of your throat. You pulled to the point of drowning.

The pressure only eased when you let go, bleary eyed and lashes sopping, and began scouring between your legs. Your fingers clawed at the towel as you used it to get around the fatty thighs, like vultures orbiting above carrion. Each digit was wrinkly and as warm as a corpse’s. They brushed and stabbed and pierced through. You muffled a scream, and then it felt like falling off into a ravine.

Your belly was a cold, hollow pit. You parted your thighs and it salivated like a sick bitch that needed to be put down. You scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed at each pit and crack.

Bits of scabs flaked off where your thighs pulled inward, making way for new ones.

Your skin split open. The soap soaked through. It stung. Maybe it disinfected everything it touched and bleached your bones along the way.   

Good.

The shower floor looked like you’d knocked over cranberry juice all over it. Fifty percent fresh fruit, fifty percent sugar. Beloved by the senior regulars.

That’s how you knew, then, that you were clean.

You got off the shower and promptly stormed through your closet. The nicest thing you owned was something from five years ago. Misaki-san told you they had their own make-up people, but you walked into a job interview once with nothing but a lip balm and was then shown the door.

Settling for the wrap-around dress, you sat on your bed and pulled out your work lipstick and blush.

Make-up looked nice on other women, but you looked at the mirror and, with that dress on, saw someone who habitually got on her knees for attention instead.

You pulled out wet wipes from your tote and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed.

The sun was just beginning to set in the horizon, cranberry juice spilling all over the neighborhood, when you finally left your apartment. Your face was bare and the insides of your thighs bit into each other.

And you felt right, going on your way, because you knew then that you were clean.

It took you half a month to sign the contract. It took Wakatoshi a day.

When you finally got together in one room, his legal counsel on one side and yours, provided by the company, on the other, all that you had asked for was to make it clear— in bold, legible print— that you “will not be required to attend or make an appearance at any game involving, or of the interest of Ushijima Wakatoshi and other affiliated organizations, for public viewing or otherwise.”

Much talk went on for another week, or so Misaki-san had informed him. The contract was only granted your signature when that condition had been included in it.

Practice went on as usual. The Schweiden Adlers won a couple more games at the tail end of the season. Misaki-san had told him then, quite randomly, that you worked for a popular family restaurant, and that perhaps you would not mind a message or two, but it wasn’t anywhere within Wakatoshi’s inclination either to disrupt the day-to-day living of a person who had a far more demanding job than he did.

Neither one of you heard from the other, nor seen hide nor hair. Not until today.

“Excited?” Brandon’s voice popped in his ear. “You lovebirds haven’t seen each other in a while. Don’t get emotional. ‘Kay, big guy?”

His manager patted his chest before he went away.

From inside the café, he saw you descend out of the large van where you, according to Misaki-san, had gone to have your make-up and wardrobe fixed. They changed you out of the dress you came in with to another that stopped an inch above your knees.

The afternoon sun traced a blinding outline around you as you walked in. Your entrance disturbed the chimes above the door— tiny bells tied to ruby strings giggled lightly.

You greeted the staff with a soft ‘hello’, and your lips glittered as you gave Wakatoshi a faint, cautious smile.

The place was something out of a fairy tale book. The ones with boards for pages and watercolor illustrations of cottages hidden in forests. It was tucked somewhere along a cobbled path miles away from the main road.

Barely anyone walked by.

Misaki-san had only known about it because she was acquainted with its owner, or at least familiar enough to ask about the well-being of her sister without much preamble or niceties.  You hadn’t even been aware that a place like this existed in the city. One look and one might think that it’s one of those spots that drove up the price of the buildings within its vicinity. If not that then the product of it.

But, no. Its quaint novelty did not conceal anything calculated. It just was.   

The stones that made up its roof was overgrown with moss. Its chimney was in the same state. The brick walls showed signs of wear and tear. And being in it was like staying for far too long inside a dream, or a memory that you knew at the very back of your brain had never existed.

You were seated by the window. Purple wisterias flowed along the café’s gutter and cascaded against the glass like waterfalls. Everything about this place conveyed that it was, among other things, an heirloom, passed down with an unapologetically haphazard sort of care typically found among large families. There wasn’t a corner not occupied by black and white portraits, or colored ones taken in water and amusement parks, and bookshelves with mangas and novels that had creased spines. A place that had seen one too many daughters for it to be mistaken as some pastiche of a café designed to be a selfie studio— exactly how your group treated it at the very moment.

In front of you, Ushijima was being directed by the photographer, while the owner herself set a glass of matcha latte beside the cheese cake platter. With that, the tableaux of sweet coziness were complete.

“Then— cover your face with the phone— not too close—"

They didn’t have any problems making you do that pose. You’ve seen it countless times among the young couples at the restaurant. One holds the phone over their face, taking a picture of their sweetheart. The other mimics it, taking a picture of their sweetheart. Their cameras are pointed towards each other, so when they finally share it for everyone to see, it would have been as if they’d said, “I’ve been found. How about you?”

Ushijima, however, must not have gotten the memo for the past…six years. He seemed to not understand that the phone had to be far enough to create an illusion that it’s blocking his entire face, but that he also had to position his body in a way that made the whole thing look like he wasn’t trying at all, and not like some old man struggling to decipher what’s on his screen.

The goal today was to tease: post images that whispered coquettishly, rather than ones that proclaimed with its whole chest. 

“I think ‘soft launching’ is what people call it these days,” Misaki-san said.

The photographer, with silent permission, took Ushijima’s wrist— the one with the phone, one last time to communicate to him exactly where his hands should be, like a store manager posing a tall, overly tall, and flawless mannequin. Then, he draped his elbow over the edge of the table, as he was instructed to splay his long, muscular legs a tad. “Right! You got it, Ushiwaka! Hold that for me, please!” the photographer remarked.

You couldn’t help but wonder, as you watched him, if it was possible that Ushijima Wakatoshi was as much of a stranger to… dating, as you were. What you knew, you learned via osmosis. How much did he know? His breadth of knowledge seemed like a narrow one.

That conjecture, however, was immediately chucked away.

I mean. Just look at the guy.

With just a simple, brown-ish gray long-sleeved polo shirt hanging slackly over his broad frame, the buttons on top come undone, along with loose-fitting jeans, and his hair parted cleanly, artlessly in the middle— he was lethal enough to stop a busy street; or an oncoming traffic to a screeching halt.

You know. It was happening now.

People went on their merry way when it was you doing that. You were merely another beating flesh doing its job by the side, but with him, the mundane act of putting a phone over one’s face seemed more like a once in a decade astronomical event.

Everyone in the café had to drop whatever they were doing just to…see. Even when some of them had the view of the phone blocking his face.

It couldn’t be possible. Not him.

If he were like you, then what a tragedy, isn’t it? Someone as beautiful and desirable and accomplished as him deserved an equal on his first foray into intimacy. What sin did he commit in his previous life to be destined to a basket case?

What a relief that none of this was real.

“Ushiwaka, please, don’t move!”

The giant apologized under his breath because, apparently, you realized as you blinked, that he had turned his head to look at you.

Oh, no. Hold on. Not just look, actually.

He was watching, too.

You snatched the latte off the table and sipped, averting your eyes as they carried on. It was nice. Not too sweet. And once that was over, the photographer proceeded to capture the ensemble of caffeine and pastries between the two of you. He and Misaki-chan moved fleetly yet assiduously, like a ship captain and her second mate, discussing angles, lightings, and intent. “Do they look good here?” “I think this one looks busy” “Let’s stick to the mood board for now” etc. etc.

On the other hand, you and Ushijima were more akin to the ship’s bow and stern, as far away as you could get from one another. Not physically, though. You remained sharing the same table: Ushijima taking a bite out of a tart and you, sipping— as chatty and familiar as strangers forced by chance to breathe in the same lift. The two of you only got up to move, and acknowledge each other’s presence after the past couple of hours, when you’d been told to go to the café’s powder room, captain and second following behind.

Ushijima let you in first, opening the door for you. He had to duck to get inside that nook of a space. In there, the wallpaper was a muted shade of peach, doodles of rabbits in frilly dresses scattered about. The shelves surrounding the vanity were stacked with tchotchkes: porcelain kittens licking their paws, wicker baskets filled with buttons and marbles, and enamel portraits of beautiful women in gowns and ceremonial garbs and feathered hats.

It would’ve all been very comforting, a perfect, warmly lit spot for a prey animal to hide in, had it not been for the fact that you could practically feel Ushijima right against your back.

“For this one, we’d like to ask you to recreate—” From outside the room, they showed you an image of a couple in front of a bathroom mirror. The man was behind her, chin resting on her head and arms wrapped around her waist, while the woman held the phone. Again, both of their faces were obstructed. “Easy, right?”

It was your task to take the picture for the both of you. Maybe that’s why they thought that this’d be a breeze. You took the phone with a damp hand. He stepped closer and your heart sprinted. You wanted to close your eyes, but that wouldn’t be helpful. Some of the tiny kittens had fracture on their eyes, likely the result of being dropped by tiny, grubby hands. They smiled at you. ‘See,’ they tee-heed, ‘even broken things can manage to be cute.’ Then—

“Would it be alright to skip this?” Ushijima’s voice came rumbling.

Misaki-san, who leaned against the door frame, stood up in alarm. “O-Of course…!”

“Yeah, this does feel a bit…much,” the photographer agreed. “We can do this one some other time, Misaki-san.”

They decided to move on to the next and final location.

Ushijima waited for you to walk out first, his large hand propped above the door and keeping it from shutting on its own. You passed through with a quiet thank you, and as you did, the smell of fresh laundry and yuzu lemons wafted from above you. Bright and sparkly like a summer’s day. Dandelion fluffs waltzing with the wind.

Your fingers ached for calloused warmth.

You needed to peel off your skin.

The way to the flower shop that Misaki-san had called ahead for this shoot was just as whimsical as the café, another cobbled hill with steps made for teacup dogs, or, perhaps, elves. You couldn’t help but drag your feet climbing up, admiring the way tufts of Bermuda and wildflowers bloomed through the cracks, at the back of the trail with Ushijima behind you. A small, man-made creek ran down the side.

For just this one day, just this moment, the world felt light on your shoulders. You haven’t had one of these in a while. You would have hopped if it did not make you look all the more insane. Giggled, too. All that sugar must have finally rushed through your system.  

The photographer turned around. Although you were losing daylight, with a perky tone, he suddenly yelled, “Wait, miss!”

He pointed his camera at you. “This is a great shot! Can you look down a bit? Yes, thank you. This’ll make a beautiful candid photo, Misaki-san! Something her soulmate would’ve taken of her while they’re— uh…”

The man laughed. “Please, can you move out of the frame, er, Ushiwaka?” he requested, grinning impishly.

You looked back.

It took Ushijima a second to understand that he was being spoken to. Those sharp, penetrating eyes were— and maybe you were seeing things— soft, like dewy leaves after a heavy rain. And they were turned right at—

He’s tired. That must be it. He’d just won a game, too.

“Ah,” the giant muttered. “Apologies.” He climbed ahead of you.

The rest of the afternoon flew by.

By the end of it, Misaki-san’s team had accumulated photos that ranged from delectable to charming. The shot of the food was your favorite. The photographer had done an incredible job. You hoped, with the amount of attention that you were told this’d receive, that the café would garner the same. Maybe more. All of this would have been worthwhile then, you thought.

You were to upload most of the pictures from the café (at Misaki-san’s behest, of course) using your old account (the only one you had), which you mostly (only) opened to promote the restaurant’s special holiday group meals. Misaki-san didn’t see the problem with that. She said it would help make your pictures look organic.

The ones taken outside were to be posted on Ushijima’s account (that, upon seeing, you didn’t think the man even knew the password to). Your pictures would be a shock among still life images of volleyballs, courts, trophies, shoes, and products, for sure. The rare, sedate photos of other human beings: teammates, coaches, Ushijima flying in the air, Ushijima receiving an award, will be disturbed by you—

On the hill, looking at flowers like you couldn’t do any wrong.

Crouched down to the pavement, beckoning a stray cat to come to you.

Holding a bouquet of red tulips— “Symbols of passion, loyalty, and everlasting love,” the florist had said— their lush buds smothering half of your face.

It wasn’t until late in the evening when the company started showing signs of inebriation.

Brandon came to the izakaya after the shoot, as it was only a block away from where he had his appointment early in the afternoon. He, too, was drunk. And if the way Misaki-san didn’t mind playing bekuhai with him, then that meant, maybe, that so was she.

Her entire team, after all, was celebrating the successful first phase of their project. Even the ones who couldn’t come with them earlier showed up just for this party. They earned it, Wakatoshi thought, as he watched their group clap and sing, “The drunken god is an honest god! Please point out the beautiful one! Hey, point it out!”

The spinning top on the table stopped, pointing towards Misaki-san. The table erupted in fists and cackles.

“Ah, Tengu, Tengu! You’re so unlucky, Misaki-chan!”

They poured sake into the ceramic goblin cup, the largest one of the three, and cheered as she tossed it back. And even with all that whooping and yowling, Wakatoshi could still hear you chuckle behind your hand.

The two of you were at the edge of the long table, once again, facing each other. Your glass of mocktail was half-full and what little food you’d asked for was already gone. Ushijima had only one glass of beer and no more. He ordered another plate of gyoza.

“Hey, everyone!” Misaki-san’s assistant, if his memory served him right, shouted from the hallway. “The karaoke upstairs is empty!”

The group got on their feet like the floor had caught up in flames. “C’mon!” Misaki-san exclaimed his way, just as she did when they’d put down the bekuhai set on the table.

He chewed, then swallowed to say, “No, thank you—”

“—I’m okay right here...!”

He looked at you. You looked at him. Misaki-san looked at the both of you, then, with her whole face aflush, beamed.

“Okie-dokie!” Misaki-san’s thumb and index formed an O, three fingers up. From behind her, Brandon wiggled his brows at Wakatoshi as he slid out of the room. “We’ll leave you to it! Have fun!”

It got quiet, then. The TV by the bar droned on with its weather report. The few patrons around their table ate alone, or in pairs, conversing in mutters. Or not at all.

“Ushijima-san,”

You spoke.

To him.

Wakatoshi’s chopsticks paused from picking, as he shifted his attention to you.

“You can go anytime if you want to,” you muttered.

He dipped the gyoza in sauce. “I don’t want to,” he replied, admittedly puzzled.

“O-Oh. I didn’t mean, like, go go. I meant, go, join the karaoke upstairs, with Misaki-san and the others. Y-you can just go…if ever…you feel like it.”

“I understand.” He blinked. “So should you.”

“R-right.”

A beat. You finally plucked one gyoza from the plate.

Somebody did tell Wakatoshi once that conversations one does not wish to have are best buffered by food. One would have no recourse but to eat, just to avoid speaking. He watched, at ease, as your face brightened, humming discreetly when you nibbled.

“You don’t have to talk to me.”

You covered your mouth. “I’m sorry?” you chewed.

“I meant to say,” he said, “you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to.”

“I- I see. Um.” You gulped, then smacked your lips. “You also don’t have to. If you don’t want to.”

Your eyes were everywhere but on him as you told him that. You took another morsel as his phone piped up.

A text. “Takl 2 he rr !!!1!!!            111111 she looks LONELEY USHWAIKA,” it said.

“Many people beg me to,” Wakatoshi huffed, closing his phone. That was not necessary.

“Brandon-san?” you glanced to his phone, then winced. “Sorry.”

Wakatoshi placed his chopsticks to the side. This way, with nobody and nothing else demanding you to listen, he had all the freedom to study you as you were. All his own. It called to mind the turtle that their classroom once had, back in kindergarten. He’d forgotten what they’d named it, but it retreated to its shell every time he got close too.

He wondered what the difference was, between then and now. You did not have this reaction to him the first time you’d met. You hadn’t known who he was at that time. Perhaps it was the knowing that induced this. Besides, it wasn’t his place to compare. Then and now held minute differences for Wakatoshi too: before he’d learned your name and what you could possibly mean, and after.

Things seemed… muddled now, somehow. Like the point where colors are mixing together before they can transform into another hue.

“Do you mean that?” Wakatoshi crossed his arms together. He leaned back into the chair.

The bead of sweat that’d gathered on your forehead went to the shell of your ear. You stared back up at him, mouth agape. “Excuse…me…?”

“Why are you sorry?”

“N-no, no, I was just—” You dropped your chopsticks. “It was just an expression. I was only—"

You swallowed, then dropped your gaze. You sighed. “I am. Sorry. I do feel that I’ve been…Look, dude, can we talk about something else?”

His brow lifted. You’d raised your tone. That was new. “We don’t have to,” he reminded you. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“Right. Sorry.”

There it was again. Wakatoshi frowned, but before he could say something back, the news that had been a white noise in the background became one that his ears could recognize in his sleep.

Shrill whistle, followed by a vociferous crowd. He turned to the screen. The Sendai Frogs were playing against the Tamaden Elephants. Wakatoshi tried to recall the date today. He must’ve forgotten. The camera panned to a blonde player wiping his glasses. “Folks, we have just entered the second set and the game is already this tense!” the commentator boomed. “No one is letting up! Especially Tsukishima over there! Talk about drive, eh, Miyake-san?”

Wakatoshi could hear Tendou cackling somewhere.

No doubt he’s joyous to see the blocker in a pinch, all the while impatient to see him overcome.

“Do you know them?”

He almost didn’t hear. Not just because Wakatoshi had been too engrossed, but also that you’d asked so bashfully. Again, you barely met his gaze when he looked at you. Nevertheless, at the very least, Wakatoshi was no longer confounded. Not as he’d been before.

So you did want to speak to him.  

“Yes,” Wakatoshi said.

“Like, personally?”

“Yes.”

“Th-That was stupid of me, of course you do, sorry—"

“Stop apologizing.”

“So- I just thought…I might as well talk to you about this.” You gave him a smile that didn’t reach your cheeks, eyes downcast. “Volleyball, you know. It being our common interest and all—"

“It’s not.” Wakatoshi felt the words deep in his throat. That was untrue. You did not care for it. Perhaps even averse to it. There wasn’t a need to lie for something as hollow and flimsy as keeping the conversation going. “And we don’t have to talk about it.”

You stared, face dimming. “Got it,” you mumbled, before taking the last gyoza on the plate.

It seemed that the more he talked to you, the easier it was getting for Wakatoshi to recognize the tells: the way your features sink, lashes flickering as if trying to get dirt out, the inflection in your voice breaking like fine china. He knew then that his response had brought about a sort of dejection. The last thing that he liked seeing on your face, he realized. Wakatoshi inched closer to the table.

He could watch a recording of the game tomorrow.

Shearing the edges off of his tone, Wakatoshi began, “Please forgive me. I wanted to say that I’m more than capable of conversing about other things. Not just volleyball.”

Wakatoshi had expected that that would soothe you, having expressed that he’s not being hostile as people often thought he was. It usually did the job in his experience. After explaining himself, he’d learned that most people can be quite forgiving.

What he did not expect was for you to laugh.

After that pause that looked to Wakatoshi like you’re trying to work out what he said, you suddenly broke into a snort, then slapped your hands over your mouth, then laughed.

“What?” Wakatoshi demanded.

“S-sorry-“ You snickered, coughing and shaking your head. He pushed a glass of water towards you. “T-Thank you- it’s just you- dude, you looked like you were having the worst time of your life saying that.”

 He should start getting used to surprises when he’s with you, Wakatoshi noted.

You looked like you were having the worst time of your life saying that.

Did he really? He hadn’t noticed. Nor did he feel like it. He couldn’t help but touch his face.

“I’m sorry,” Wakatoshi murmured.

“Stop apologizing,” you grinned.

His brows furrowed. He hadn’t known you were this…puckish.

“I think I get it, though,” you sighed, slumping on your chair. “Maybe. I could be wrong, but you love it, don’t you?”

You looked up at the screen. He followed you. The Sendai Frogs had won the second set. “More than anything in this world,” you continued. “Everything else must be very boring to you.”

Love.

Many people had called what he’d felt towards volleyball in a myriad of ways. “Ma’am, volleyball makes Wakatoshi happy,” his father had supplicated to his grandmother when he was young. “You only enjoy playing volleyball!” the girl he’d tried dating when he was fourteen had cried. From then on it generally oscillated between dedicated and obsessed.

But never loved.

It wasn’t a word that he— nor other people in his life, really— would ever throw around so casually, either. It had never even crossed his mind. You weren’t just throwing it around, though, weren’t you?

You’d meant that.

Not like earlier. This time you’d looked at him in the eye, and you smiled at him like you’d been there with him when he’s alone, on the rare occasions after a lost game, pondering methodically how he could make it up to his team in the next.

Wakatoshi could only nod.

“I’m saying you don’t have to force yourself.” You picked up your neglected mocktail. “I’m not completely ignorant about volleyball. I don’t know much, but I know some things. Like, that—” Gesturing towards the game, “Was their libero doing an underhand serve.”

He glanced at the screen, then to you. “That was an overhead serve.”

“Was it?” You pursed your lips.

“Yes.”

“And was he their libero?”

“No.”

“I see. Not their libero, huh.”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure. Liberos wear a different jersey from their teammates.”

“Right, I remember tha— Ouh! The ball was in!”

“It was out,” he informed.

“But the referee went…” You put both arms forward.

Wakatoshi mimicked and raised his hands to his face, palm inwards. “It was out.”

“Hm.” You suddenly perked up. “That one, I know. That’s their setter.”

Sure enough, it was Hirabayashi, Sendai’s setter, that had tossed the ball to Koganegawa. A rally ensued. 

“That was a dump!”

The crowd roared as Tamaden’s blockers dove to the floor. Wakatoshi almost rankled at the sight, if not only for…

“What a powerful jump serve,” you said, almost to yourself. But, then, your commentary halted completely when the camera zoomed in on Sendai’s opposite hitter.

It’s as if all your interest in the game had died, and with it all the light and mirth that had set you aglow in the past couple of minutes.

“Another player that’s been the talk of the town,” the commentator supplied. “A dark horse, one might even say. Not as illustrious as his teammate Tsukishima, whose had an impressive high school career, but don’t you underestimate this guy! Kyotani Kentaro is one tough nut!”

Wakatoshi hadn’t had the opportunity to play against him, but he could recognize the hitter from Aoba Johsai’s game against Karasuno, all those years ago.

You looked back down at the table, but having nothing to distract you with, settled for feeding your teeth with the blunt nail on your thumb. You gnashed and tore. Wakatoshi tempered the instinct to pull your hand away.

That would be impolite, Wakatoshi reminded himself.

He contented himself with observing you.  

A lack of rudimentary knowledge about volleyball, as if all that you’d been made aware of were things that had to do with the roles and skills of the setter. There’s also that reaction.

The muddled colors swirled, melting into each other, once a muddied shade now becoming more distinct— something so unlike what it was, but unequivocally itself.

But not yet.

“Do you dislike volleyball?” he asked, jolting you back to him.

You discarded your nails back to your lap, before looking at Wakatoshi like you’d been scandalized by your behavior. He could make out the beginnings of an apology on your face, which you wrangled back with a grimace. How could he have ever thought you to be a mystery?

Everything is right there for him to see, isn’t it?

“Not- Not really… I don’t give off that impression, do I? Oh, God. It’s okay,” you prattled. “It’s okay. Really. I can’t judge. Clearly, I still have a lot to learn.” A frail chuckle.

“Do you want to?”

Your forehead creased. “Learn? To play? From you? As in, learn how to play? From you?”

Wakatoshi nodded through it all.

You barked, all smiles. 

“That is so generous, Mister Olympic MVP, but no! Are you insane?!” you giggled.

He shrugged. He tried.

“Why not?”

You swallowed. The light snuffed out. In a blink.

“…Got hit by a ball in high school,” you lied. “Square in the face. Brings back bad memories. I wouldn’t wanna embarrass myself like that…again. Especially not in front of you.”

The thousand-yard stare returned with vengeance.

Where do you go when you do that? And how do you do it so easily? Are you subjected to this capricious maelstrom that comes to pull you away without your consent? Or is it just that you’ve always been there— in that place that even Wakatoshi cannot reach?

Something like this happened to him once, when he’d finally been prepared enough to hike Orla Perć. He was halfway to climbing the peak, but then what was once a placidly sunny day became abruptly beset by a storm that had engulfed the trail, strong enough to knock him off where he’d been hanging. Worse, it had stolen the few slants of light that guided Wakatoshi to his destination.

Below him was a steep drop, and behind him only darkness.

Wakatoshi had not known the cold in that way before.

All he could think then, with his hands gripping the metal rungs, was that regardless if the storm had been there to stay, regardless if the few drops of sun had disappeared forever, Wakatoshi had no other choice but to drag himself out of there, and into the light— bleeding, if he had to.

And so, he thought the same now, looking at you. 

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

The shutters blew open. “I- Ushijima-san- I don’t…follow- I…”

Neither of you said anything more after that. However:

“…You make me nervous,” you whispered.

Wakatoshi breathed in, then nodded. “Many people have said the same thing.”

You huffed, smirking. “I believe that.”

“I’ve heard our opposite hitter from my last team once say about me that—” Wakatoshi tipped his head back in an effort to conjure the words front of his mind. You waited patiently, hanging on. “He said, ‘Pan Ushijima may not be the anti-Christ—”

Both your eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“—But I would not hang out with him willingly.”

You pressed your eyes shut, looking as if you’re about to sneeze. “Oh my God?”

“And not even with a gun to my head,” he continued, even when you’re already reduced to convulsions on the table. “Apparently I always made him feel like he’s never left the court.” Which, to this day, Wakatoshi still did not find the problem with.

That was lost on you, however, as it seemed that you’d been robbed of the ability to form a coherent sentence. Your shaking back was accompanied by shrill cackling that soon became a soundless, breathless thing. It made Wakatoshi fear that you might be on the verge of a cardiac event, but rather than asking if you were okay, or if you needed help, or water (again), he found himself smiling along instead.

Wakatoshi did not have the heart nor the desire to interrupt the sound. Although neither melodious nor the kind his grandmother would call appropriate for a lady, it was pleasant all the same.

It meant that you were here, with him.

“S-sorry, that was just so mean!” you gasped. “Why would he say that oh my god,” you snorted. Wakatoshi nodded. Indeed. “For what it’s worth, I- I think I’d hang out with you willingly, Ushijima-san, oh my god that was still so mean though!”

You laughed. Wakatoshi tilted his head slightly, pensively, looking at you. Watching.

“You think?” he pushed.

You stopped. Your mouth closed and opened like a fish. “Oh, um- yeah- you know what I mean-“ You touched both of your cheeks. He’d bet that if he held your face in his hands that it’d feel like a fresh cup of coffee. Wouldn’t that be something?

“I just think- now, you know, that we’ve- that we are speaking- like this- not like before- sor- I think that maybe- you’re cool? I don’t know. I think. Which is not to say that you’re not, Ushijima-san. All I’m saying is I’d do this again even if Misaki-san didn’t ask us to…”

You were already panting. “…I think.”

Wakatoshi smiled. “I would too. I would like to hang out with you again, please.”

For a second, he’d thought he’d said the wrong thing. You just stared at him as if he weren’t real. Then, your expression crumpled, a misty film over your eyes, and it was like your toes had been stepped on and the person who’d done it didn’t bother apologizing.

He felt the pain shoot up to his chest like it’d been his own.

“That—” you snarled, grinning ruefully, “is something I have not heard in a very long time.”

You grabbed your mocktail and chugged, finishing it, before swiping away its traces with the back of your hand. You looked up, keeping your tears unshed, then exhaled.

“Thank you, Ushijima-san, for saying that,” you croaked.

Simple honesty did not warrant such a reaction, but Wakatoshi chose not to say that. As such:

“I’ve been hit on the face too,” Wakatoshi told you at length. “Only that one time. In the middle of a game.”

You sat up, blinking. “No way?”

“Yes. I was ten. I bled and I had to run to the infirmary right after.”

Your eyes narrowed. “After you bled or after the game?”

“After the game,” he clarified. “I had to make the point.”

“What?!”

The couple nearest to the table turned to you, to whom both of you regretfully bowed your heads to. You leaned towards him. Wakatoshi did the same.

“What?” you continued, hushed this time. “So you played while bleeding?”

He nodded. He could see all the blemishes this close.

“That’s crazy!”

“I suppose,” he muttered. “It wasn’t a smart decision. I made a mess on the court.”

You gawked as if Wakatoshi had beheaded a man in front of you.

“Of course you did!” you cried.

“My mother had the same reaction,” Wakatoshi recalled. That was the first time he’d seen his mother yell at someone other than his father. He still owed a great deal to his coach for bearing it. “She was deeply cross with me.”

“I would be too! I can’t believe your coach forced you to play in that state! That’s very irresponsible.”

You shook your head and Wakatoshi wanted to pinch your cheeks.

“No one can force me to do anything,” he said. “I refused to leave the court.”

“What…” Your smile hung on your lips. “You were still a kid, you know?”

That was true. However, “I was also team captain.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” You nodded emphatically.

“But,” Wakatoshi conceded. “You’re right. That was irresponsible. And it wouldn’t happen now. I wouldn’t be allowed to.” It was reasonable. It was also, in Wakatoshi’s heart of hearts, quite annoying.

You chuckled, gazing at him knowingly. “Of course.”

Silence dawned, but not the kind that you didn’t know what to do with. Silence shared between the two of you, Wakatoshi had realized, was cushy enough to lean into.

“Were you close with your mom?” you asked after a beat.

He considered the question for a minute. “No,” he finally answered. “She didn’t like me very much. Although I believe she tolerates me now.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, delicate yet firm.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m sorry anyway.”

“How about you?” Wakatoshi asked this time, and was rewarded for it with a sure and even a tiny bit defiant smile, as if you were daring him to oppose you. He came to the conclusion that he liked you best like this.

“Yes,” you avowed. “Well, I like to think we are. She cares for me even after all the trouble I’ve brought her, so there’s that at least.”

Wakatoshi would’ve been more than happy to ask some more— Are you an only child? Yes, he would assume by the way your eyes lingered at the family pictures back at the café; Do you like your father? He couldn’t be sure, but he’d readily say that he does; Doesn’t alcohol suck? Yes, absolutely, he’d agree with you; Would you like to have a family of your own? — but the clambering return of Misaki-san’s party had taken the opportunity from him.

Both of you left to catch those who’d almost tripped on their way to the table. Brandon was being carried by two men whom Wakatoshi had never met before. They handed him to Wakatoshi with a winded thank you.

“Maaaaaan! You kiddies shoulda been there!” Misaki-san hiccuped as she tackled you into a hug. “We sang our hearts out! You are always gonna be my love! Itsuka-” Her assistant pulled her away from you, followed by an outburst of apologies. Hamasaki-san, who was tasked to drive the large team van, seemed to be the only one who’d stayed sober. The man only shook his head and laughed as he lugged his traipsing co-workers out of the restaurant. 

The entire company made a trail of drunken, rambunctious Utada Hikaru songs towards the parking lot.

With Brandon in his arms, Wakatoshi quickly retrieved his manager’s car keys in his (slightly moist) back pocket. He laid him at the back of his car and started the engine. You knelt to the floor to pick up some dropped wallets and makeup bottles, while Hamasaki-san set the team to rights inside the van. Wakatoshi went to you to help.

He picked up a watch, then another. You faced each other as you closed some loose caps, before placing them inside a bag that had his sponsor’s logo on it. He slipped his finds there.

“Being soulmates with me must be overwhelming.”

You paused, staring at him. “Not…really…” you lied, again.

But you just looked at each other and exchanged stifled chuckles.

“May I ask you something?” he then murmured.

“Hm?”

A few coins fell from your hands.

Wakatoshi retrieved them for you.

“Why did you run?”

He was looming over you, even as both of you were on your knees. This was how it must’ve been, that first time, but you’d just been too out of it to even be conscious of that. But his presence wasn’t as it was, wasn’t it? A mystery, how far a brief conversation can take two strangers.

It was no longer as fleeting and dream-like as the first, nor as daunting as the second and third.

Wakatoshi Ushijima felt more…tangible now.

There was a distance between the two of you, but you feel every one of his breaths like you’re the one catching them, wrapped in a blanket of yuzu lemons.

Why did you run?

Ushijima waited for your answer.

You knew you shouldn’t have done that earlier, opened a conversation like that. Dumb dummy. Was his smile, watching that game, really that striking? Like you were looking at a different person?

Really? Really, little girl?

Now look at what you’ve done. What will you tell him, huh? Not even the answer closest to the truth would sound believable from your mouth.

Dummy.

“You don’t have to answer,” he said as he put another a compact powder in the bag.

“No…!” Your hand trembled when you pulled at his sleeve. “S-sorry.” You let go.

You didn’t answer, in the end. Instead, you asked, “What did it feel like for you, the first time it happened? When our palms…”

Unlike you, it didn’t take him a meltdown to give a reply. “Weird,” he answered. “I’d long believed that it was impossible for me. So it was a shock when it finally happened. You?”

You looked up at him.

He wasn’t so bad: you’d thought that earlier. You were still thinking it now.

Wakatoshi Ushijima was an unscalable a tower as ever, perhaps not even years of acquaintanceship would change that for folks such as yourself. But you’d accepted now that he was also the type to pull a woman whom he didn’t know from a can of paint out of the hell residing in her mind; the one to say “You did well” and the one to give a forthright sort of kindness without asking for anything in return.

This unscalable tower, who’d bled from his nose when he was ten because he couldn’t leave his volleyball team without winning first.

So, would it be so bad?

“I was…” you choked. “I felt…” You breathed in. “…scared.”

You kept your head down as you got up, dusting off your dress, before pulling at the bag’s drawstrings. When you met his eyes, he had already been there expecting you, still on his knees. You haven’t watched any of his games yet, had never seen him play, but this must be how he looks at his opponents when he does.

It’s a wonder how anybody can survive this.

Wakatoshi stood, gazing down at you, as he handed you something with a closed fist. Something pink and translucent peeked through his thumb; it was the shimmery gloss they’d used on you.

You opened your palm for him. His warm, calloused fingers brushed forked and dashed lines and you’d felt like crying again. You almost caught them with your own.

He stepped forward, not too close, but he leaned just enough for you to hear.

“You don’t have to be scared anymore,” he told you as he took the hefty bag from your hand.

Ushijima walked with you to the van, then bowed and thanked the team, leaving the bag inside the compartment. You watched him through the rearview mirror, watching the car leave, as you mulled over what he’d said.

Did he mean that you didn’t have to be scared anymore because he’s really not as scary as he seems? Or was it that you didn’t have to be anymore now that he’s here?

Was it a promise? Or a threat?

The line between the two seemed to blur with someone like Ushijima.

As soon as you got home, you’d called your mother to share about the things that’d happened at the shoot, how the people treated you (They were all very nice, mama!), how Ushijima had been (He was…nice, too!), what you’d done (We just took some pictures, then had a dinner party), and other gossip here and there (Did you know they have people in their teams who are dating but they’re not allowed to be public about it?). Finally, she asked you if you had fun.

You said yes, meaning it.

She also asked how you felt now that this wonderful and romantic thing was finally happening to you, as she’d always hoped it would. And you’d only said that you felt happy, keeping the other bit to yourself for fear that she might worry about you again.

Although you really did want to say it, that something much more miraculous than a soul glow had occurred, because it'd felt that, after all these years, like you had finally made a friend.

The sweltering heat melted Wakatoshi’s skin and clung to his shirt. Bass imploded under his feet, thumping an unending rhythm as he weaved his way out of the pack of swaying bodies.

Ahead, Nikola-san had already reached the couch where Matias Ruiz and his teammates were waiting. They embraced and clapped each other’s backs. A stark contrast to two days ago when they had been at each other’s throats on the court, crying foul and cursing at the referee.

The two had played together in an international league when Wakatoshi was still an amateur, and he could see them calling each other brother even through the pulsating kaleidoscope that engulfed the spacious room.

He picked up his pace, gingerly pushing the ones who’d knocked into him out of his way, apologizing even though Wakatoshi knew he couldn’t be heard among the din.

“Hey! Asshole!” An American accent. Wakatoshi looked down to see a woman. “Watch where you’re go—”

The woman seemed to have forgotten what she was about to say, gaping at him. He didn’t have the time to wait for it. The renowned outside hitter called out his name, and Wakatoshi speedily escaped the labyrinthine crowd.

Matias and Nikola-san flanked him, shaking him by the shoulders.

“Fédération Internationale de Volleyball’s Most Valuable Player of the Year!” they declared.

The men whistled, raising their glasses. “Salud!”

Andrzej, Janek, and Daniel were already sprawled on the couch. Their youngest grinned, yelling.

“…flacha!” he caught from Janek.

Nikola-san ruffled the boy’s hair, to the entire couch’s amusement, before offering a shot to Wakatoshi. He shook his head.

“Co tam?” the older man asked, scrunching his face when Wakatoshi answered.

“Git,” Wakatoshi repeated. Nikola-san nodded, then shoved the tiny glass to their middle blocker. Daniel accepted it gleefully.

Beside his teammates were Valentin Paez and Martin Cufré. The rest of them stood up to join the dance floor, while the others were engaged in arm wrestling. The only one missing was—

“Chabón!” Wakatoshi stooped under the sudden onslaught of Federico Muñoz’s arm. “Buenos Aires ni irasshaimase!”

Wakatoshi bowed slightly.

“The fool is drunk, please excuse him, Ushijima-san!” Matias hooted with laughter.

“Tomé bocha…birra….!" he caught from the intoxicated libero, who’d grinned at the men on the couch. Then, to him, “You gave us hell out there, brother! You are a… How do you say… tensai!”

He patted Wakatoshi’s chest and proceeded to slump on the low glass table in the middle.

Just behind the couch was a fire exit. Wakatoshi was filled with gratitude seeing it. He excused himself from his team.

The night air welcomed him in its cool bosom. He welcomed the sound of the muted honking of cars below, inhaling, but a trace of musk and a familiar burning smell prompted Wakatoshi to halt, and turn around.

Aleksander, a fellow opposite hitter, was there, leaning against the railing, head to the starless sky. Standing next to him was Klemens, who had something pinched between his fingers. Its end glowed and emitted smoke.

“Pan Ushijima,” Aleksander sing-songed, blowing out a cloud.

Klemens followed, smiling dazedly. "Zioło?” He extended the thin roll to Ushijima.

It was snatched by Aleksander, who’d then spat, “The MVP is too good for smoking. Winner like him, does not do things… such as this.”  

Yet another thing he’d gotten wrong about him.

“I have,” Wakatoshi explained. During his stay in America. His roommate had a habit, and he was quite adamant that Wakatoshi would take well to it, but, “It only made me hungry and unproductive.”

Aleksander sneered. “Idiota.” Klemens, red eyes drooping, glanced to Wakatoshi, and was about to reprimand the taller blonde, but:

“Excuse me, señor.” They all turned back to the door. “What a mean thing to say to your teammate.”

Nahuel Caneo addressed them with a smile, a bottle in each hand. He bowed briefly to Wakatoshi.

Wakatoshi bowed back.

His teammates, clearly perturbed by his presence, left in haste. Aleksander, however, grumbled along the way. Wakatoshi had never seen an angrier man who’d indulged in the purportedly calming drug. Fascinating.

“You must forgive him,” Nahuel told Wakatoshi as the door shut close.

He looked at him. “They haven’t harmed me.”

Nahuel laughed. “You’re just as they say, Ushijima-san.”

A frosty, unopened bottle was handed to Wakatoshi.

“Felicidades.” The setter beamed. “That was one of the most delightful games of my career.”

Wakatoshi felt his chest expand. “It’s an honor, Nahuel-san.” He bowed once more.

“I hope it’s to your liking. I heard from Nikola that you would only partake in beer.”

The one given to him had low alcohol content. He’s had it before. Andrzej must have told him. A quiet thank you, then Wakatoshi borrowed a discarded bottle cap and used it to break his open. Tangy sweet ginger refreshed his parched throat.

They rested their arms against the railing, drinking in silence as they watched over the traffic.

“Getting benched is one thing. Staying benched is another. A sort of death,” Nahuel suddenly uttered. “Sometimes death is better. Less shame to it.”

“Aleksander has not died. He’s just not good. Not right now. He is blinded by expectations of his potential.”

Nahuel paused from drinking. “Aren’t we all, at that young age? Aren’t you?”

“No,” he replied, sipping. “I only see what I can do and what I will. What others expect of it is none of my business.”

The older man shook his head, chuckling. “Spoken like a champion. That one only had his eyes on you, you know. You two— truly something else. You do acknowledge that it was a very close call?”

Wakatoshi huffed, smiling. “I do.” It was the best game of Wakatoshi’s career, too.

“A pair of prodigal sons,” Nahuel muttered around the lip of the bottle. “Your motherland must be weeping for the loss of you two.”

“Japan doesn’t hold a grudge against us.”

Nahuel laughed kindly. “No, no. Please excuse me. I mean to say…they must want for the both of you to come home and play there.”

He considered this. “Perhaps. But they can’t be wanting that much. We’ve no lack of competent players.”

A flash of pride in Nahuel’s eyes. He offered his bottle for a toast. Wakatoshi accepted.

“There are rumors of Romero…”

“A land of beasts.” Nahuel frowned, shivering. “Please, I take back what I said. Do not ever come home.”

Wakatoshi chuckled lowly.  

“But do you plan on going back?” Nahuel asked.

“…In a few years,” he answered.

After emptying the bottle, Nahuel patted his back to say goodbye. “I must get going. Matias might be undressing as we speak.”

Wakatoshi nodded, then, “Do you happen to know where the toilet is?”

“Take those stairs.” He gestured behind Wakatoshi. “The one for the customers smell. Use the one for employees. It’s okay. They’re fans too. They know you know us. And we know the guy who runs the place. Good guy. Wife and four kids.”

Wakatoshi bowed, thanking Nahuel.

Then, just as he was turning to leave, Nahuel called his name. He spoke, but Wakatoshi did not recognize the words. It must be his native language.

“It’s something my grandmother used to tell me,” he elucidated with a gentle, patient expression. “I hope everything that occurs to you will be as joyful as a dream.”

“You too, Nahuel-san,” Wakatoshi said.

Nahuel smiled, waving as he turned back.

What a man.

He followed the older setter’s instructions. The men’s room was unoccupied and, although dimly lit, was as clean as Nahuel had said. Wakatoshi washed his hands after having done his business. He was about to go, send a message to his teammates and retire for the night, when a loud thud alerted him to the cubicle at the farthest corner of the room. It was the largest one, painted a deep maroon like the others.

Another thud, then a groan.

“Hello?” His voice echoed back to him. “Is everything alright?”

A strangled cry prompted Wakatoshi to march to the cubicle and force his way inside. The door unhinged partly at the top. It hung open.

A man in a black shirt, with the club’s logo stitched on the chest, stared back at Wakatoshi.

He’s shoved against the wall, his wrists pinned above his head. His eyes were blown wide open, grinning blankly, as a large, veined hand smothered his mouth into muffled keening. The other taller man who’s got him there is on his throat, a thick head of brown hair facing Wakatoshi, as his hips thrusted in wild abandon into the smaller one.

“Oikawa,” Wakatoshi growled.

The hand left his mouth, and the man let out a sharp howl, his entire body caught in trembles. Oikawa whispered something to him, pulling an absent, empty giggle out of him, before he fixed his pants and stumbled out of the cubicle, then out of the room. Wakatoshi glanced at the sopping pile of rubber beside the toilet. 

Oikawa slumped to the floor; belt still unbuckled around his waist. A sheen of sweat glistened against his pale face. He looked up at Wakatoshi, who then knelt next to him without another word.

His pupils were massive, shining black marbles. He should’ve brought a bottle of water with him, Wakatoshi thought.

“What did you take?”

Oikawa bared his teeth to grin at Wakatoshi, then stuck his tongue out. A bright, bubblegum blue pill sat there, still perfectly round.  Before he could roll it back in and swallow, Wakatoshi grabbed him by the nape, pulled, and shoved his tongue inside Oikawa’s mouth.

His lips were pillowy and wet against his, and he tasted bitter, almost astringent, as Wakatoshi swiped the fat of his tongue to catch the pill. He pulled away, already hard in his pants, and spat it into the toilet next to them, slamming the lid down.

In the next breath, Wakatoshi is on his back. Oikawa is on top of him, fist wrenching his collar. “Don’t leave me hanging, you fucking dog,” he drawled, chuckling.

He spat into Wakatoshi’s mouth. “Just like old times, huh?”

Wakatoshi grunted. He found himself unable sit up, until he pulled Oikawa by the hair and sunk his canines into his throat. Copper and salt mingled in Wakatoshi’s tongue. Oikawa moaned, grinding his ass down into Wakatoshi’s stiff cock as he made quick work of his pants.

Around his fingers, there’s a tacky downiness to Oikawa’s chestnut strands that made Wakatoshi grin. It almost felt like coming back home. He tugged harder, until Oikawa is facing the ceiling. The brunette cackled as he swiveled his hips.

“My greedy, little virgin boy,” he groaned. God, he wanted to slam himself inside that tight heat so fucking bad. “A trophy isn’t enough for you, huh? Want my ass too?”

“Fucking tease,” Wakatoshi grounded between his teeth. Blood trailed down Oikawa’s throat. He licked it up, feeling his Adam’s apple bob under his tongue.  

Oikawa cackled, sighing, as he stroked himself. “Iwa-chan.”

The world turned red. Wakatoshi snarled, then grabbed Oikawa’s arm with the other hand, and lunged him to the wall, both of them a couple of scrambling feet. Oikawa barked, sneering, as he pushed Wakatoshi to the plank of wood dividing the cubicles, his arm locking Wakatoshi by the shoulders.

The divider cracked under the impact. The hinges of the door creaked in protest.

“You think you're all that?! Think you’ve won, motherfucker?!” Oikawa snapped. They heaved into each other’s panting mouths.  “You haven’t won shit!”

Hot flushes fluttered in Wakatoshi’s chest. He laughed. “You’re a sore loser.”

“Yeah, better a sore loser than a— fuck me,” Oikawa groaned, “—than a desperate one. Hm?”

He’s already got Wakatoshi in his grip, their cock heads twitching and leaking into each other. Wakatoshi felt each heavy drop of Oikawa’s pre-cum on the tip, then slithering down to trace every vein on his shaft.

His cock was as pretty as him. The pink, curved head caught around Wakatoshi’s thick girth. Their fingers probed and scratched against each other as Wakatoshi stroked along with Oikawa. They bucked their hips forwards and backwards in a slow, frenzied rhythm.

They throbbed against each other, the meat of their cocks grinding and kissing. Sticky, wet sliding noises reverberated across the room.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa moaned, those enlarged pupils laughing at him.

“Shut the fuck up,” Wakatoshi growled, thrusting his fingers into the brunette’s waiting mouth.

He gnawed until they bled. Wakatoshi hissed, but watched anyway, transfixed, as Oikawa sucked them dry.

“Then what do you want me to call you?” he crooned around his fingers.

Their once measured movements became erratic, and his heart careened along with it. The light behind his eyes bursting, a volatile thing, sending shockwaves in his nerves.

“My baby? My prince? S’that what you want? You and that fucked up savior’s complex of yours?” Oikawa spat, sighing into his ear. “My prince? Have you come to save me? Ah, right there— My prince — fuck, baby, I’m so close—”

They spilled all over each other’s hands, shivering and gasping.

Oikawa fell to him, his damp forehead resting on his equally damp shoulders. For a while, there was only the sound of their strained breathing. Then, whimpering.

He wondered if the high had worn off and if it was causing him pain. Wakatoshi tried to shake him off just so he could see his face, but Oikawa stubbornly pressed into his cheek instead. He let him. Only for a minute though. They needed to clean up soon.

A steady trickle of sweat dripped from Oikawa to Wakatoshi’s neck.

Oikawa was blabbering something. He might still be up there after all, swimming in a river of adrenaline. However, the more he did it, that high-pitched blabbering, the less convinced Wakatoshi had been that that was indeed the case.

He was repeating a name, whispering it like a prayer, almost like sickly plea.

Wakatoshi understood then that Oikawa was no longer provoking him.

It wasn’t even Iwaizumi Hajime’s name.

It was somebody else’s.

One he couldn’t recognize.

And the sweat that flowed unceasingly didn’t seem to be just that.

[cloversnstrawberries]

Omg ;;; I need to know more about Malpractice and silly lill "kid" user. Like what does Malpractice do once he takes them.

Or was it a slow process since Malpractice probably wanted to get an idea of what he's dealing with and prepare a room!

Omg, plz yap about him. I will love to hear everything about him ;;

intro post | masterlist

!!! i was literally so happy when I got this ask,,, ohmygah,, i would be more than happy to infodump about the physical incarnation of “oopsie” “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘OOPSIE’? YOU’RE CURRENTLY DOING OPEN-HEART SURGERY?”…

this also got a little longer than i anticipated </3 i would add a 'read more', but it breaks the formatting and idk how to fix it :[ i just love him so much. i love my OCs so. i have to spill all his lore like it's spaghetti in my pocket at the slightest prompting.

Malpractice is a very methodical person in general. So I don’t think he’d exactly rush in on trapping reader, but that’s not to say he wouldn’t want to be quick with it.

Reader probably has some sort of ‘give-and-take’ power, the kind that’d be demonized to a certain extent. Probably a medical/healing related one as well, which would hit Malpractice right in his withered, literally rotting, heart.

The mentor would be a flashy sort of superhero, some sort of power relating to light/fire probably. You were assigned to each other not because the agency thought you’d work well together,

But because they were certain your mentor could keep you in check. They treated you like a ticking time-bomb, and the only reason they took you into their custody was to prevent you becoming an antagonistic force if you’d ‘fallen into the wrong hands’.

They treated you like an object, is what Malpractice thought when he uncovered it all. Really, it hadn’t taken very much digging at all to find your medical, training, and academic records.

…Then again, he supposes that’s no fault of the agency. Of course there was an easy back door in for him, he made the system. It was funny, how they never bothered to change it much-- even though it’s been nearly a century.

You’d think they would’ve, since the agency was very well aware of the little hiccup that caused Malpractice to become the way he was. Granted, he’d never been a very altruistic or good person in the first place; but he never had the means to enact over half of what he does now until that ‘hiccup’.

While the general public— and even a large majority of of the agency’s staff— didn’t know of the connection, the higher ups most certainly did.

Well, no skin off his teeth if they didn’t patch up the holes he used to get into their documents. Just made it all the more easy for him, hm?

But regardless, after reading the documents on you-- He decided to try and get you away from the agency’s grasp as soon as he could.

At first, he simply watched you from a distance. Oh, how he hated it, watching you being treated like you were,

But he never made a move to intervene, to let himself known. Malpractice wasn’t really known for being antsy-- he was a very patient person, all things considered.

He’d waited years, hell, even decades, for plans to come into full effect.

This time around, with you involved, he could hardly even wait the three months he had before you fell into his awaiting arms.

It wasn’t a fun time for him, having to keep tabs on you from afar; make sure you weren’t getting roughed up too terribly.

Then, he started helping you when your mentor would just up and leave you; which he had come to know, was a very common occurrence.

Far more common than it should be. Even once would be far too much, considering how you’re frontal lobe wasn’t even fully developed yet.

Usually, he didn’t have much of an opinion on the particular people running the agency at the time. He’s seen various board members and CEOs come and go,

But he’d couldn’t help but think of this bunch as complete and utter idiots. cruel, biased idiots and not much more.

At first, you’d hardly notice his ‘help’, when enemies would just keel over unconscious— or pitch forward and upchuck randomly, you thought it was strange how it was happening more and more often—

You never made the connection though. Obviously, you wouldn’t have, because no one was aware Malpractice had returned in the first place. He decided to lay low for once, make sure to leave his grand reappearance until after you’re safe and sound.

Eventually, his ‘helping hand’ got too obvious to ignore. Especially at one instance, where your mentor left you with an actual danger. Not some group of burglars or a smalltime, wannabe villain.

No. You were left with an established villain. One that even your mentor would have a little trouble subduing. In a rather uncharacteristic spur-of-the-moment decision, he sent in one of his helpers.

Your opponents suddenly getting sick, anytime they came even remotely close to landing a hit? Strange, concerning even; but ultimately, couldn’t draw a strong enough connection to anything (or anyone) in particular.

However, when a re-animated corpse shambles on the scene and beats the shit out of the villain you were fighting,

Well, it was undeniable. The connection to Malpractice— the agency kept it a secret, something they did quite often. They’d realize he was around again, but wouldn’t let the public know until Malpractice made himself known.

It was a self-preservation tactic, really. He could become quite agitated if his plan for a grand entry was smothered by the agency’s meddling.

He’s a very theatrical person, like his whole existence can be defined by the phrase “comic book villains are just theater kids that somehow got the means to enact their shenanigans on a large scale.”.

After that, he didn’t really see a point in not meeting you face to face. Obviously, he couldn’t just waltz up to you! He understands that looks absolutely terrifying, even ignoring the reputation he’s built for himself.

He’ll just scare you off!

So obviously, the next course of action was to find a fresh corpse, embalm it to try and get the most out of it time-wise; and puppet it around in order to meet you.

Very normal behavior in his mind. But the again, he hasn’t necessarily been all there for almost a century now-- not that he’d admit that part.

Out loud or otherwise.

When that body ‘expired’, damage too noticeable for any sane person to assume they were a living, breathing person; he just got another one.

He did this a couple times, learning things about you from the source-- hopes, dreams, hobbies, interests, so on and so forth. He used his findings to create a room in one of his favorite safehouses.

Honestly, he's quite sure that the agency knows the location of it; but use that knowledge to purposefully avoid it. It's funny to him, how much fear he strikes in them, because the heads know better than anyone just how difficult he was to deal with.

They'd leave him alone, even when he took you. Wouldn't come looking for you, even if they put two-and-two together and figured out where you'd gone. But he'd be foolish to think that the only reason behind that would be the fear they feel for him.

No, they view you as expendable. All the more reason to take you in, obviously! Again, children shouldn't anywhere near this sort of work. Even if you aren't literally a child, you'd be hard pressed to get that through Malpractice's thick skull.

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

🎄 Strictly Research

Strictly Research: Visiting a strange place every night in your dreams, your questions are endless as you promptly forget about the dream when you wake up. That is, until you cross paths with a strange man more than willing to assist you in some research.

Warnings: Explicit Language, Explicit Material.

To Note: Morpheus x AFAB!Reader

Prompt: Anonymous Sex

Word Count: ~10.2k

You find yourself in a weird, but beautiful place. The air shimmers with a surreal quality, making every breath feel like inhaling a mystery. You're standing on the edge of a vast field of flowers that seem to whisper secrets as they sway in a non-existent breeze.

"Back again, I see," a voice murmurs from behind you. You turn and face a bird perched on a low branch of a gnarled tree. His beady eyes fixate on you with an uncanny awareness.

"Who are you?" you ask, tilting your head in confusion. You are fairly certain you've never met a talking bird before.

"The names Matthew," the bird tells you before muttering underneath his breath, "for the thousandth time." You feel a sense of déjà vu as Matthew's eyes bore into yours, but shrug it off.

"Matthew? And where exactly am I?" you ask, scanning the horizon for any familiar landmarks.

Matthew flaps his wings, settling more comfortably on the branch. "You're in the Dreaming, kid. Place where dreams and nightmares come to life. It's kinda my beat."

You glance around, taking in the fantastical landscape. "So, this isn't real?"

"It's real enough," Matthew caws. "But don't worry about it too much. Dreaming's got its own rules."

"Why am I here?" you press, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and unease.

"Cause you're asleep," Matthew replies, a bit of a 'duh' tone in his voice.

You blink, trying to process what Matthew has just said. "Asleep? But I don't remember going to bed."

Matthew hops from the branch, flapping his wings until he lands on the ground before you. "Most don't, but I wouldn't worry about it… so, what do ya wanna see first this time?"

This time? Again, you have no recollection of ever being a place like this, but you shrug, your mind was filling with questions and you wanted answers.

Your curiosity bubbles over, and you start peppering Matthew with questions. "So, what exactly is the Dreaming? Is it like a different dimension or something? Are there other creatures here besides you? Can people get hurt in their dreams? How do you even know I'm asleep? Do you talk to everyone who comes here?"

Matthew ruffles his feathers, seemingly overwhelmed by the barrage. "Slow down, kid. One question at a time."

"But there's just so much to know!" you exclaim, barely able to contain your excitement. "Like, what kind of creatures live here? And why can you talk? Are there other talking animals? Oh my god will I be able to talk to fish!?"

The raven hops closer, his beady eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. You are like this every damn time you visited. "The Dreaming's got all sorts of beings—dreams, nightmares, gods, myths, you name it. Some are friendly; others... not so much."

"Gods and myths?" Your eyes widen in astonishment. "So like... Greek gods? Norse gods? Pagan gods? Are they all here?"

"Yeah, yeah, those types and more," Matthew replies with a dismissive flap of his wings. "As for why I can talk—well, that's just part of the gig."

You lean in closer, fascinated. "And do you always look like a raven? Or can you change form? I know some species of birds can talk but your pronunciation is awesome! But birds don't have vocal chords…"

Matthew seems to sigh, though you’re not quite sure how a raven manages such an expression. "Always with the questions. Look, kid, I'm here to help you navigate the Dreaming, not give you a biology lesson on birds."

"Right, sorry," you mutter, trying to rein in your excitement. "So, where to first?"

The raven tilts his head as if considering your request. "Well, there's Dream's castle at the heart of the Dreaming. It's got this eerie beauty that you'll never forget."

"Dream's castle?" you ask, curiosity piqued once again. "Who's Dream?"

Matthew flaps his wings and takes off, hovering just above your head. "Dream of the Endless, also known as the boss. He's the king around here."

You watch him circle above you before he starts flying in a particular direction. "Come on," he calls back to you. "Follow me if you wanna see something cool." Matthew knows you geek out over the village full of dreams, nightmares and denizens every time you see them.

You follow Matthew as he flies low, leading you through a winding path that twists and turns, each step feeling like an adventure. The scenery changes fluidly—trees morph into towering spires of crystal, streams turn into glowing ribbons of light. It’s like walking through a living painting.

“Here we are,” Matthew announces, landing on a cobblestone street that appears out of nowhere. You look up and see a village bustling with activity.

Your eyes widen in amazement as you take in the sight. Beings of all shapes and sizes go about their day—some human-like, others so fantastical you can't even describe them. A creature with the body of a lion and the wings of an eagle carries a basket of what looks like glowing fruits. A woman with hair made of flames chats with a small, translucent figure who seems to be made entirely of water.

“Oh my god! This is incredible!” you exclaim, unable to contain your excitement.

“Every night,” Matthew mutters under his breath but you don’t hear him.

“Look at that guy!” you point at a being who seems to be a walking cloud. “Is he made of mist? How does that even work?”

The cloud-being turns and waves at you, accustomed to your nightly enthusiasm and questions. “Good evening! Yes, I’m composed mostly of vapor.”

“And you?” You rush over to a tall figure with eyes that glow like embers. “What are you?”

The figure chuckles warmly. “I am Ignis, a dream forged from fire. It's nice to see you again.” Ignis chuckles at the brief confusion in your eyes before excitement overshadows it.

“Wow! That’s amazing! Do you ever get cold? How do you stay warm?” Your questions spill out in rapid succession.

Ignis smiles kindly. “In the Dreaming, we don’t worry about such things.”

You dart over to another creature—a tiny being with wings that sparkle like diamonds. “And you? Are you a fairy? Do you grant wishes?”

The fairy giggles, her voice like tinkling bells. “Something like that. We help shape pleasant dreams.”

Matthew flaps his wings and lands on your shoulder. “See? Same questions every night,” he says, but there's an affectionate note in his voice. "I am surprised none of you have gone bat shit crazy yet…"

"That's because the mortal is too adorably excited about our home," A dream grunts from where he is washing the front of his shop.

You barely register his words as you continue to marvel at the village around you. "This place is just... unbelievable!"

A tall man with horns and eyes like molten gold passes by, giving you a nod. "Welcome back," he says with a knowing smile.

"Thank you!" You beam at him before a puzzled look crosses your face. "How do I know you?"

The tall man with molten gold eyes chuckles softly at your puzzled expression. "Never mind that," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "There's much more to see at the palace."

Matthew, still perched on your shoulder, gives you a gentle peck to get your attention. "He's right. We've only scratched the surface. The boss's palace is where the real magic happens."

You nod, eyes wide with anticipation. "Okay, let's go!"

As you follow Matthew through the village, you can't help but marvel at the vibrant life around you. The cobblestone streets are lined with shops selling everything from enchanted trinkets to bottles of captured starlight. Dreams and nightmares alike go about their business, some waving at you as you pass by and greeting you like an old friend. Much to your confusion but you smile and wave back.

Finally, you reach the edge of the village and find yourself standing before a grand gate guarded by a Gryphon, a Wyvern, and a Hippogryph. They stand imposingly, their eyes glowing with an ethereal light.

Matthew flutters off your shoulder and lands in front of them. "Hey guys, it's me. Let us through; we have an eager visitor here… again."

The Gryphon nods solemnly and steps aside, allowing the gate to swing open with a creak that echoes through the air.

You step through the gate and into a lush garden filled with flowers that bloom in impossible colors. The air is thick with the scent of blooming flowers and something else—something unnameable but intoxicating.

"Welcome to the boss's palace," Matthew announces as he takes to the air once more, leading you into the palace with statues that seem almost alive.

The walls are adorned with tapestries that seem to shift and change as you walk past them, depicting scenes from dreams and myths. Chandeliers made of glistening crystals hang from the ceiling, casting a soft, otherworldly light that makes everything look almost magical.

"This here is the Hall of Dreams," Matthew says, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "It's where some of the most significant dreams are kept."

You gaze around in awe, noticing pedestals displaying various objects—an ancient book glowing with a soft blue light, a crystal ball swirling with mist, a golden key that seems to hum with energy. Each item feels alive, as if it holds a story waiting to be told.

"Wow," you whisper, hardly able to tear your eyes away from the wonders around you.

"Yeah, it's pretty neat," Matthew replies nonchalantly, though there's a hint of pride in his voice. "But remember, don't touch anything unless you want the boss himself to appear outta nowhere."

As you're about to ask more questions, you hear a soft cough behind you. Turning around, you see a woman standing there with an air of calm authority.

"Matthew," she says, adjusting her circular glasses. "You are needed in the hall of mortal inventions."

Matthew flaps his wings and lets out what sounds like a resigned sigh. "Duty calls," he mutters before turning to you. "Listen, kid, I gotta go. If you need anything or have more questions, just find one of the palace staff. They'll help you out."

You nod, still absorbing everything around you. "Okay, thanks."

You watch them go for a moment before turning back to the Hall of Dreams. You have so many questions, but no one to answer them. Shrugging to yourself, you continue walking.

You wander through the grand halls of the palace, your footsteps echoing against the polished marble floors. Each turn reveals new wonders—paintings that seem to breathe, corridors lined with statues that watch you with eyes that glint like stars. You feel a magnetic pull, drawing you toward a particular hallway.

As you turn the corner, you see him—a tall, thin man with pearl-white skin and black hair that contrasts starkly against the shimmering background. His blue eyes twinkle with stars, focused on his work as he appears to be redesigning a section of the palace. Walls morph and shift under his gaze, creating intricate patterns that seem to defy logic.

You can't contain your excitement. "Whoa! How are you doing that?" you exclaim, running up to him. "Where does all the matter go? Does it just disappear into thin air? Can you do this anywhere or only here? How do you decide what to change? Do you have to think really hard about it or does it just happen?"

Morpheus turns his star-filled eyes toward you, a small smile playing on his lips. "Calm yourself," he says softly, his voice like the whisper of leaves in a gentle breeze. "One question at a time."

You take a deep breath, trying to focus your thoughts. "Okay, okay. So... how do you change things like that?"

"In the Dreaming," he begins, "matter is not as rigid as it is in your waking world. It bends and flows according to my will."

"But where does it go?" you ask, your eyes wide with wonder.

"It doesn't go anywhere," Morpheus explains. "It transforms, takes on new shapes and forms."

"Wow," you breathe out. "Can anyone do this or just you?"

"Only those who understand the nature of dreams can manipulate them so freely," he says, his gaze returning to the shifting walls.

You watch in awe as intricate patterns continue to unfold before your eyes. "So, do you have to think really hard about what you're changing?"

"It requires focus and intent," Morpheus replies. "But for me, it is as natural as breathing."

You nod eagerly, absorbing every word. "Can I learn to do this? Or is it something you're born with?"

"It is not something one can simply learn," he says thoughtfully. "It is an intrinsic part of the realm."

Your lips pout and you mumble out about the unfairness of such a thing. Then a thought occurs to you, if you are here, there has to be others.

"Are there other dreamers here?" you ask, your curiosity still insatiable.

"Yes," Morpheus replies, his eyes glinting like distant stars. "Many dreamers wander these lands, each experiencing their own unique dreams and nightmares."

"So, they can't see each other?" you continue, your mind buzzing with questions. "Like, are we all in separate bubbles or something?"

"Precisely," Morpheus says. "Each dreamer exists within their own sphere of dreams, rarely intersecting with others unless I will it so."

As you ponder his words, a big question pops into your mind. You hesitate for a moment before blurting it out. "What happens when dreamers have sex in the realm?"

Morpheus' expression remains calm and unperturbed. "Sexual dreams are common among mortals," he begins, his voice as steady as ever. "In the Dreaming, such experiences can feel very real to the dreamer. The sensations and emotions are often heightened, reflecting the nature of dreams themselves."

"Matthew said that the Dreaming has a ruler, the creator or whatever," you say, your brow furrowing. "Does that mean he gets sucked into them as well? Matthew mentioned something about the Dreaming being a part of the boss or whatever…"

Morpheus blinks, the stars in his eyes dimming for a fraction of a second. "Yes," he says simply. Your eyes widen with a mix of curiosity and confusion. Then yet another question pops into your head.

"Wait! Have I had a sex dream!?" You gasp, your eyes round. "What is that even like? I mean if my mind is here what is happening to my physical body? Or it just like a mind fuck? Can you feel the same sensations in your dreams?"

There is a pregnant pause as you think and Morpheus tries to understand where all your endless questions constantly flow from. Your mind and dreams are nearly impossible to navigate. Your curiosity gets the better of you once again, and you find yourself asking yet another question.

"So, if someone has a sex dream in the Dreaming, does that mean the king experiences it too?" You blurt out, your cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and intrigue. "I mean you said that he gets sucked into it, but does he like just stand there and watch?"

Morpheus regards you with an expression that's hard to read, his starry eyes gleaming with a hint of amusement. "In a manner of speaking," he says, his voice as smooth as silk. "When dreamers experience such intense emotions and sensations, it resonates within the realm—and, by extension, it's creator and ruler."

"So basically every sex dream outside of masturbation is, by default, at least a threesome," you muse, tapping your lips with your fingers in deep concentration. Morpheus blinks at you in surprise, and then he too thinks about your words. You are technically correct. You stand there, absorbing everything, the wheels in your mind turning with even more questions. But before you can voice any of them, Morpheus's gaze locks onto yours, his star-filled eyes shimmering with a strange intensity.

"Would you like to find out?" he asks, his voice low and smooth, carrying a hint of something deeper.

You blink at him, your curiosity piqued once again. "Find out what?"

He steps closer, the air around him seeming to pulse with his presence. "What it is like to have an intimate dream involving copulation," he says, each word weighted with meaning.

Morpheus steps up to you, the space between you rippling with an electric tension. His hand reaches out, fingers cool against your skin as he cups your chin. The pads of his fingers are soft, tilting your head back so your eyes meet the endless expanse of his. His touch sends a shiver down your spine, a sensation that feels both foreign and familiar, as if you've been waiting for this moment in the deep recesses of your dreams.

His thumb traces the contour of your lips, a feather light touch that ignites a fire within you. The texture of his skin is like nothing you've ever felt—smooth as silk, yet with an undercurrent of raw power that courses through his veins. You part your lips slightly, tasting the essence of dreams on his flesh, a flavor that defies description, an intoxicating mix of starlight and shadows.

He leans in, his breath a whisper against your mouth as he speaks. "This is but a glimpse of the pleasures that can be found in the realm of dreams," he murmurs, his voice a melody that resonates deep within your body. Specifically, your cunt. Your thighs clench and you resist squeaking. Hot dream guy with a killer voice is asking you if you wanna sleep with him to find out what it is like to have dream sex? The answer is rather obvious despite your addled brain.

"Yes please," you whisper against his touch.

As you breathe out your assent, Morpheus' lips crash against yours in a searing kiss that sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you. His kiss is all-consuming, a possessive claiming that leaves no doubt about his intentions. His tongue teases the seam of your lips, seeking entrance, and you yield to him, welcoming the intrusion with a soft moan of surrender.

His hands roam your body, exploring every curve and contour with an artist's touch. Each caress, each stroke of his fingers, ignites a trail of fire across your skin, making you squirm with need. He pulls you closer, your bodies aligning perfectly as he deepens the kiss, his tongue dancing with yours in a passionate duel that leaves you breathless.

He breaks away only to move to your neck, his lips tracing a path of devastation along your sensitive skin. He sucks and bites at the junction of your neck and shoulder, causing you to whimper with pleasure. The sensation is so intense, so overwhelmingly real, that it sends you spiraling into a world of ecstasy. Each nip, each suckle, sends waves of pleasure straight to your cunt, making you ache with a longing that is both primal and profound.

One of your hands finds itself in his hair, the strands silken against your skin. You tug at the black locks, pulling him closer, as your other hand claws at his back, desperate to feel the contours of his form. Your nails scrape along his scalp, eliciting a low growl of approval from him. The sound vibrates against your neck, adding to the symphony of sensations that threaten to overwhelm you.

Morpheus' hands move to your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh as he grinds his hips against yours. You can feel the evidence of his desire pressing against you, a tangible reminder of the power he now holds over you in which sudden wicked dream.

Your breath hitches as Morpheus scoops you up into his arms with an ease that shocks you. The world blurs around you, the grandeur of the palace's halls melting away into a backdrop of liquid shadows and starlight. You're barely aware of the transition, your senses too overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze.

When the world solidifies once more, you find yourself in a bedroom that defies the laws of reality. The walls pulse with a soft, silver glow, and the ceiling is a canvas of twinkling stars that mirror the ones in Morpheus' eyes. A large, canopied bed awaits, its silken sheets shimmering with an iridescence that beckons you closer.

Morpheus sets you down gently, your feet sinking into the plush, velvety carpet. You're about to take in the splendor of your surroundings when his fingers tilt your chin up, capturing your attention once more. The moment your eyes met his once more your heart stutters from the swirling silver blue. The color is always shifting, flickering with stars that take your breath away. Yet another thought flickers into your mind.

"I don't know your name," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

"You may call me Morpheus," he replies, his voice a velvet caress that makes your body quiver. Morpheus, that fits him.

His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you towards him as his lips crash against yours once more. The kiss is fierce and demanding, a hungry claiming that leaves you trembling with need. His tongue invades your mouth, exploring and tasting with a fervor that makes your head spin.

You cling to him, your hands roaming over the firm planes of his back, tracing the contours of his muscles through the fabric of his shirt. The texture is unlike anything you've felt before—smooth yet resilient, like the surface of a dream.

One of Morpheus' hands move to the hem of your shirt, his fingers skimming along the sensitive skin of your abdomen. The touch is electric, sending jolts of pleasure straight up your spine. You arch into him, a silent plea for more, and he obliges, his hand slipping beneath the fabric of your clothing to cup your breast through your bra. You moan against the tongue curling with yours and lean into his touch.

Morpheus' lips move against yours with an urgency that takes your breath away. Each stroke of his tongue sends waves of heat coursing through your veins, setting your body alight with a desperate need. His kiss is a fervent claiming, a mingling of lips and breath and desire that leaves you dizzy and wanting. You can taste the stars on his tongue, an explosive taste that spins your mind up into a tizzy until you can only think about him.

His hand on your breast is a brand, his fingers kneading the soft flesh with a skill that leaves you gasping for air. His thumb strokes the sensitive skin exposed by your bra, each caress sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to your clit. You can feel the hardened peak of your nipple straining against the fabric, a silent plea for more that he seems all too willing to answer.

The sound of tearing fabric fills the air. He breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your shirt over your head, his eyes darkening with lust as he takes in the sight of you. The cool air of the room kisses your skin, making you shiver with anticipation. His fingers trace the edge of your bra, a soft caress that mirrors the hunger in his gaze.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, his voice a low growl that curls around your body. His fingers deftly unhook the clasp of your bra, peeling the fabric away to reveal your breasts to his hungry gaze. The cool air hardens your nipples further, and you can't help but arch into his touch as he cups your breast once more.

His thumb circles your nipple, teasing the sensitive bud until you're whimpering with need. "Morpheus," you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper. He responds by pinching your nipple gently, the slight sting of pain mingling with the overwhelming pleasure to create a sensation that leaves you breathless.

Morpheus' lips recapture yours in a bruising kiss that sends your senses reeling. His tongue delves into the depths of your mouth, exploring with a hunger that leaves you breathless. The taste of him is intoxicating, an intoxicating mix of darkness and light that makes your head spin and your heart race. His kiss is a storm, wild and untamed, and you surrender yourself to its fury, kissing him back with a fervor that matches his own.

His hand continues its assault on your breast, fingers tweaking and rolling your nipple until it's a hard peak of arousal. The sensation is exquisite, a delicate balance of pleasure and pain that sends jolts of electricity straight to your cunt. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his touch as you seek more of the delicious torment.

His fingers skim down your side, tracing the curve of your waist before dipping lower to the waistband of your pants. You twitch against him, your body a taut bowstring beneath his touch. His spindle-like fingers trace the curve of your pelvis bone with an artist's precision, each stroke of his fingers sending ripples of pleasure through you. It is nearly unbearable, the sensations he elicits from your body, a symphony of desire that threatens to overwhelm your senses. Your breath hitches in your throat, a breath that Morpheus gladly drinks from your lips, as you surrender to the exquisite torment, your hips canting forward in a silent plea for more.

Morpheus breaks the kiss, his lips moving to your neck as he trails a path of fire along your jawline. His teeth graze the sensitive skin, nipping and sucking as he marks you as his own. You moan and tilt your head back, granting him better access as you revel in the sensation of his mouth on your flesh.

"Morpheus," you gasp, your voice a mere whisper in the twinkling silence of his room. His name is a plea, a prayer, falling from your lips like sweet ambrosia.

Your breath catches yet again as Morpheus' fingers dance along the waistband of your trousers, his touch a whisper against your skin. His starry eyes lock onto yours, a silent promise of the pleasure to come. "Let me show you the wonders of dreams," he murmurs, his voice a velvet caress that brushes your skin with reverence.

Morpheus' starry gaze never even wavers from yours as his nimble fingers work at the clasp of your trousers, each movement a tantalizing dance. His touch is gentle as he guides the fabric down your legs, leaving you in nothing but your underwear—a flimsy barrier that seems to taunt the anticipation building between you two.

Your breath hitches as the cool air of the Dreaming kisses your newly bared skin. The vulnerability of the moment is intoxicating, getting naked in your own dream. He continues takes his time, his fingers skimming your thighs, the back of your knees, the curve of your calves, until you stand before Morpheus, practically trembling with need and curiosity.

Trickles of embarrassment try to worm their way through your veins, a flush of heat crawling up your neck. Morpheus' sees your embarrassment before you have the chance to physically express it yourself.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, the word a soft whisper that seems to echo through the vastness of the room. Well, your embarrassment most definitely grew, but not because you were naked, but because of the look in his eyes. His eyes rake over you, their silvery glow shimmering with stars. The desire in his gaze is palpable, a tangible force that wraps around you, drawing you closer to him. You can feel his physical desire for you.

He reaches out, his fingers tracing your lips to appreciate them, before drawing down a path of tingles that delights your senses. His touch seems to know exactly where all your most sensitive places on your body are. They glide over your shoulders, down the slope of your chest, tracing the contours of your breasts. You shiver under his touch, your nipples hardening even more, if that's possible, under his gaze.

Morpheus' fingers dance lower, skimming over your abdomen, causing your muscles to twitch and contract beneath his touch. Then he sinks to his knees before you, his softly glowing eyes never leaving yours. The sight of him kneeling at your feet is almost too much to bear. How did you have someone so beautiful kneeling before you? His hands settle on your hips, his grip firm yet gentle. His thumbs stroke the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your underwear, the last piece of clothing separating you from complete exposure.

Morpheus leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to your stomach. His lips are cool and soft, a stark contrast to the growing inferno between your legs. He places another kiss, lower this time, just below your navel. You can't help but let out a soft whimper, your hands instinctively reaching out to tangle in his dark hair. Soft and silky. With agonizing slowness, Morpheus hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear. "May I?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, your breath hitching in anticipation. He smiles, a small, knowing smile that makes your heart flutter in your chest. With deliberate care, he begins to slide your underwear down your legs, his fingers grazing your skin as he goes. The cool air of the Dreaming brushes against your exposed flesh, and you shiver. Morpheus' eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, completely bared to him.

Morpheus eyes are now glued to your body, and places a delicate kiss on your inner thigh. The touch of his lips sends a jolt of electricity straight to your cunt, causing you to gasp softly. His fingers dig gently into your hips, holding you steady as he begins his slow ascent towards your aching flesh.

His lips trail a path of fire along your skin, each kiss a promise of the pleasure to come. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your sensitive flesh, a tantalizing preview of what's to follow. He nuzzles the junction between your leg and folds, his nose brushing against your mound in a gentle caress that makes you shiver with anticipation. His tongue darts out and swipes at your flesh, making your hips jerk in his grasp while you whine in the back of your throat.

Morpheus looks up at you, his starry eyes filled with a hunger that takes your breath away. "You are exquisite," he murmurs, his voice a low growl that reverberates through your very being. "It is an honor to have the privilege of adoring your body." His words, combined with the adoration in his gaze, send a flush of heat coursing through your veins. You can feel your desire for him dripping between your legs, a slickness that begs for his attention.

With a reverence that borders on worship, Morpheus finally lowers his mouth to your cunt. His tongue darts out, tracing the length of your slit with a feather light touch that makes you whimper with need. He teases you, his tongue flicking over your clit before retreating along your inner folds, a maddening dance that leaves you trembling with frustration.

"Morpheus, please," you beg, your voice a desperate plea in the silence of the room. He responds with a low chuckle, the vibrations from his throat sending shivers of pleasure through your body.

"Patience, my dear," he chides gently, his breath ghosting over your wet folds. "Good things come to those who wait."

His words are a promise, a vow that he intends to make good on. He better. He delves into you with renewed vigor, his tongue delving into your cunt with long, languid strokes. He laps at you, tasting your arousal with a fervor that leaves you gasping for air and clawing at his scalp. His hands slide up your thighs, his fingers spreading your lips open to grant him better access to your most intimate places.

Morpheus' tongue circles your clit, each stroke sending waves of pleasure continually running down your thighs. You can feel the tension building within you, a coil of desire that threatens to snap at any moment. His fingers join in the exploration, slipping inside you with an ease that speaks of your desire. You can't help but squeal, tugging harshly on the strands of black, silky hair within your grasp.Pleased by your reaction, Morpheus curls his fingers forward, pressing against that secret spot within you that sends your senses reeling.

"Oh, god,” you moan, your hands fisting in his hair as you grind your hips against his face.

"I am no god," Morpheus growls, the sound vibrating against your clit and sending you spiraling towards the edge. You whine as your head drops back and you squirm against his mouth.

Your breath comes in short, desperate pants, the sound echoing in the room. His tongue continues its relentless assault on your clit, each flick and swirl sending you spiraling closer to the edge of ecstasy. His fingers pump in and out of your cunt, the wet sounds of your arousal filling the room and mingling with your soft whimpers and moans.

"Morpheus," you whine, your voice a mere whisper in the twinkling silence of his realm. His name is a plea, a prayer, falling from your lips like sweet ambrosia.

In response, he increases the pace of his ministrations, his tongue circling your clit with fierce determination. His fingers curl inside you, pressing against that sensitive spot that makes your feet rise off the cool, marble floor. The sensation is almost too much to bear, a delicious torment that threatens to consume you entirely.

Your legs begin to tremble, the muscles quivering with the effort of holding you upright. You can feel the tension coiling within you, a tight spring that threatens to snap at any moment. You want it to! Morpheus senses your impending release, his fingers and tongue working in perfect harmony to push you over the edge.

With a final, desperate cry, you fall apart. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, the force of it making your legs give out beneath you. Stars explode behind your eyelids as wave after wave of pleasure courses through your veins, leaving you boneless and gasping for air.

Morpheus is there to catch you, his strong arms wrapping around your waist as he rises to his feet. Your body melts against his, your arms dangling over his shoulders, trembling from the force of your release. He cradles you against his chest, his touch gentle and soothing as he carries you across the room.

Morpheus gently places you on the bed, your body sinking into the plush, velvet covers. You look up at him with a dazed expression, your eyes still glazed over with the aftershocks of your orgasm. He hovers over you, his starry eyes filled with a hunger that seems to have grown rather than abated.

He cups your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin in a soothing rhythm. He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that is both a claiming and a promise. His lips move against yours with a quiet urgency, coaxing your lips to part and grant him entry. You open for him, your lips parting with a soft moan as his tongue delves into the depths of your mouth.

You can taste yourself on his tongue, a taste that is both foreign and achingly familiar. It is a mingling of sweetness and heat, a flavor that is uniquely yours. The knowledge that he finds your taste as intoxicating as you find his sends a fresh wave of arousal coursing through your veins.

"Morpheus," you breathe against his lips, your voice barely above a whisper. He responds with a low growl, the sound rumbling in his chest and vibrating against your own. His body shifts, his knees nudging your legs apart as he settles between your thighs.

As he kisses you, you become aware of a strange sensation. His clothes, which had seemed so form-fitting and solid only moments before, begin to disintegrate beneath your touch. The fabric turns to sand, swirling around him in a vortex of shadows before dissipating into nothingness. You pull away from the kiss, your eyes wide with wonder as you watch the transformation.

"That is so amazing," you whispered, your fingers reaching up to touch his bare chest. Morpheus gazes down at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of this lips.

"That is only one aspect of the nature of my abilities" he murmurs, his voice a deep, seductive whisper that makes you moan. Certainly when his lips brush along the pulse of your neck. His body, now completely bare, is a sight to behold. He is all lean muscle and smooth, pale skin, a living embodiment of beauty and power.

You reach out to touch him, your fingers tracing the contours of his chest and abdomen. His muscles contract beneath your touch, a silent testament to his desire for you. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he savors the feeling of your hands on his body.

"You are so beautiful," you say, your voice filled with awe and raw desire. Morpheus opens his eyes, the stars within their depths shimmering with raw emotion.

"And you, my beloved dreamer, are the most captivating creature I have ever laid eyes on," he replies, his voice husky with desire. He leans down to kiss you once more, his body pressing against yours as he claims your lips in a passionate, all-consuming kiss. When you feel something hard, smoothing, throbbing, you nearly whine and buck your hips the moment your brain realizes it's his cock. You wrap a leg around his waist, pulling him closer as you kiss him with a fervor that leaves you eagerly breathless. The feeling of his skin against yours is intoxicating, a sensation that ignites a fire within you.

Morpheus reaches between your legs, his fingers stroking your slick folds until you are writhing for his touch. You moan into his mouth, your hips arching off the bed as you seek more of his touch. He teases you, his fingers circling your clit before dipping lower to stroke your entrance. Your body now feels like it is on fire.

As the heat between you two grows, you can't help but beg. "Morpheus, please, I need you inside me," you whimper, your voice dripping with desperation. His fingers continue their relentless teasing, circling your clit before dipping back down to your entrance.

"Patience, little one," he chides gently, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through your body. "Good things come to those who wait."

"I can't wait any longer," you moan, your hips bucking against his hand in a silent plea for more. Morpheus chuckles softly, the sound a delicious torture against your sensitive skin.

"As you wish," he murmurs, his starry eyes meeting yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. He positions himself at your entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against your slick folds. You hold your breath, your entire body tensing in anticipation of the moment he'll finally fill you.

But Morpheus doesn't just thrust into you. Instead, he enters you with a slow, deliberate precision that makes your head spin. You feel every bit of him as he slides into your tight, wet heat, his girth stretching you in the most exquisite way. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that leaves you gasping for air.

Morpheus stills once he's fully sheathed within you, allowing you a moment to adjust to the feel of him inside you. His forehead rests against yours, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps that mirror your own. You clench his cock in the most painfully exquisite way.

"You feel incredible," he whispers, his voice filled with awe and raw emotion. You respond by wrapping your other leg around his waist, pulling him even deeper inside you. A low growl rumbles in his chest, the sound vibrating through your body.

Morpheus begins to move, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward in a slow, languid rhythm. Each stroke is a study in controlled passion, his body worshiping yours thoroughly. His hands roam your body, tracing the contours of your curves with a reverence that makes your heart flutter in your chest.

The feel of Morpheus inside you only grows more exquisite, each thrust a delicious friction that sends sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins. You cling to him, your fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back as you writhe beneath him. His skin is cool and smooth under your touch, a stark contrast to the heat that radiates from your joined bodies.

He moves with a deliberate grace, his hips rocking against yours in a rhythm that matches each ebb of pleasure. With each thrust, he fills you completely, stretching you in the most delightful way. You can feel the head of his cock brushing against that secret spot within you, a sensation that makes your toes curl and your breath catch in your throat.

Your body responds to his with an eagerness that leaves you breathless. You meet each of his thrusts with a roll of your hips, your cunt gripping his cock like a vice. The sound of your bodies coming together fills the room, a symphony of wet, slapping sounds.

"Morpheus," you gasp, your voice a mere whisper in the silence of his realm. His name is a plea, a prayer, falling from your lips like sweet ambrosia. He responds with a low growl, the sound rumbling in his chest and vibrating against your own. His pace increases, his hips slamming into yours with an urgency that sends you spiraling towards the edge once more.

Your legs wrap tighter around his waist, your heels digging into the firm muscles of his ass. You can feel the tension coiling within you, a tight spring that threatens to snap at any moment. Your fingers claw at his back, the motion leaving thin, red lines across his pale skin. A kiss of pain Morpheus finds he enjoys.

"Let go," Morpheus whispers in your ear, his voice raw with desire. "Give in to my passion."

His words are all the encouragement you need. With a loud cry, you finally reach your climax, your body shuddering and convulsing beneath him. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, each one more intense than the last. Morpheus' name falls from your lips like a mantra, a prayer to the god who has brought you to this exquisite peak.

Morpheus' mouth drops to your throat and he runs his teeth along your tender flesh. His fingers tighten their grip on your hips, his entire body tensing as he thrusts deep within you one final time. His cock buried deep within your body, you moan and whine as liquid pleasure fills you. You can feel his seed spilling into every part of your womb, a hot, wet rush that makes your thighs shake against him and your toes curl into the soft, velvet covers of his bed.

You gasp for oxygen, feeling like you are no longer in control of your body. Then his pelvis grinds against yours, his cock twitching with each spasm of pleasure that wracks his body. Shards of pleasure ricochet up your spine and spots bloom in your vision. Softly glowing silver eyes are the last thing you see before slipping into a deeper sleep.

You bolt upright in bed, the remnants of your dream still clinging to your skin like a lover's caress. The room is bathed in the soft glow of dawn, the morning light filtering through the curtains and casting long shadows across the floor. Your heart pounds in your chest, the echo of your rapid pulse reverberating in your ears as you try to catch your breath.

The sheets are a tangled mess around your waist, the fabric twisted and damp from the heat of your body. You can still feel the ghostly sensation of strong arms wrapped around you, the phantom touch of calloused hands skimming over your bare skin. The warmth of his seed filling your body. The memory of his voice, low and husky with desire, sends a shiver down your spine.

"So that's what it's like to have a sex dream," you murmur to yourself, the words little more than a whisper in the stillness of your room. A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, your cheeks flushed with the remnants of your dream-induced arousal. "Dude was brutally passionate and hot..."

You flop back onto the pillows, your mind replaying the vivid images from your dream. The way his eyes seemed to glow with an otherworldly light, the feel of his body moving against yours in a dance as old as time. It had been so real, so intense, that you could almost believe it had actually happened.

Your hand drifts down to the hem of your shirt, your fingers skimming over the sensitive skin of your stomach. A small gasp escapes your lips as you recall the way he had touched you, his fingers exploring your body with a reverence that bordered on worship. You can't help but wonder if anyone in the waking world could ever match the raw, unbridled passion of your dream lover.

The room around you slowly comes into focus, the hazy edges of your dream giving way to reality. You take a deep breath, the scent of your own arousal still lingering in the air. It's a potent reminder of the pleasure you had experienced in the dream realm, a pleasure that had been so vivid, so all-consuming, that it had left you breathless. How can you still feel such sensations when it had been a dream?

As you lie there, the events of your dream still fresh in your mind, you can't help but feel a sense of longing. The dream had been a fleeting escape from the mundane reality of your everyday life, a glimpse into a world where desire and passion reigned supreme. But now, as the morning light continues to spill into your room, you're left with the nagging question of whether you'll ever experience anything as intense in your waking life.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself one last moment of indulgence before the demands of the day pull you from the comfort of your bed. The memory of your dream lover's voice echoes in your mind, a soft whisper that sends a final shiver down your spine.

"Morpheus," you sigh, the sound little more than a breath of air. It seems almost cruel that such a being could exist in your dreams, yet remain just out of reach in the waking world. But for now, you're content to bask in the afterglow of your nocturnal encounter, the memory of his touch a sweet balm to the solitude of your morning.

With a reluctant sigh, you push back the covers and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. The cool air of your room brushes against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of your dreams. As you rise to your feet, you can't help but glance back at the rumpled sheets, a small smile playing on your lips as you remember the passion that had unfolded in the realm of sleep.

You shake your head, a soft chuckle escaping your lips as you make your way to the bathroom. "Only in my dreams," you murmur, the words a wistful acknowledgment of the fantasy that had felt so real. But as you step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the remnants of sleep, you can't help but hold onto the hope that you'll see him again tonight.

You walk through the winding corridors of Dream's Palace, the walls shifting with each step, alive with the whispers of a thousand dreams. Beside you, a subject of the palace chatters away, their words a cascade of information that you're trying to absorb.

"So, the Dreaming can change form at will?" you ask, glancing at the flickering shadows on the walls.

"Exactly," they respond, nodding eagerly. "It's all a reflection of our lord's mood and intentions. Every corner, every room, every plant can transform depending on his desires."

You marvel at this revelation, your mind racing with questions. "And what about the denizens? Are they all like... people who fell asleep and never woke up?"

The subject shakes their head. "Not quite. Some are created by Dream himself. Others are born from the collective subconscious of humanity."

As you walk, the palace seems to breathe around you, its structure fluid and ever-changing. You turn a corner and see the grand entrance to the library ahead. The towering doors are carved with intricate patterns that seem to shift and change as you approach.

"And Lucienne," you ask, "what's her role here again?"

The subject smiles. "Lucienne is the chief librarian and guardian of all knowledge in the Dreaming. She keeps everything in order."

You push open the heavy doors to the library, stepping into a vast hall lined with endless rows of bookshelves that stretch up into infinity. The scent of old parchment and ink fills your nostrils.

In the center of the room stands Lucienne, her circular glasses perched on her nose as she sorts through a stack of ancient tomes. Perched nearby on a reading desk is Matthew, his dark feathers gleaming under the soft glow of lantern light.

"Oh, hi Matthew!" you call out cheerfully.

The raven's reaction is immediate and frantic. He startles, wings flapping rapidly, knocking over a few papers on the desk. His eyes are wide, and he screeches, "You remember!?"

You blink at him, confusion knitting your brows. "Uh, yes? Was I not supposed to?"

Matthew face palms with a wing, feathers rustling. "Oh, for crying out loud," he mutters to himself, voice filled with exasperation. "Of all the things to remember..."

You look at Lucienne, hoping for some clarity. She glances up from her stack of books, her expression calm and composed despite Matthew's antics.

"Lucienne," you begin, trying to divert the conversation to something less confusing, "what are your favorite books in the library?"

She adjusts her glasses thoughtfully. "There are so many to choose from," she says. "But if I had to pick, I would say I have a fondness for the ancient texts from lost civilizations. They hold so much history and mystery."

"Really?" You lean in closer, intrigued. "Any specific titles come to mind?"

Lucienne's eyes light up with enthusiasm. "One of my favorites is the 'Codex of Lumeria.' It's a beautifully illustrated manuscript from a civilization that vanished millennia ago."

You nod, absorbing her words. The library feels even more magical with each story she shares.

Matthew hops back onto his perch, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbles under his breath. "Books and mysteries... great distractions."

Lucienne gives him a knowing look but continues. "There's also 'The Chronicles of Faerie,' which details the history of various faerie courts across dimensions."

"Wow," you breathe out. The idea of such knowledge being within reach excites you. As Lucienne speaks, you notice Matthew seems calmer now, albeit still muttering to himself occasionally. Something about memory problems?

"Maybe you'll get a chance to read them someday," Lucienne adds with a gentle smile.

"That would be amazing," you reply with a glowing grin. You're about to ask Lucienne if you could take a peek at the 'Codex of Lumeria' when the air in the library shifts, becoming thicker. You feel a shiver run up your spine, making you quiver, shortly before he appears.

The moment you take in Morpheus striding confidently over to your little group, you have immediately flashbacks in your mind of the prior night. A night you spent beneath him. Heat crawls up your neck.

Lucienne, ever the attentive librarian, straightens up and pushes her glasses back up her nose. "Oh, do you require a book, my lord?" she inquires, her voice a perfect blend of respect and curiosity.

Morpheus spares her the briefest of glances before his gaze returns to you, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Not quite, Lucienne," he says, his voice a low, melodious hum that seems to resonate with the very walls of the library. Lucienne looks between her lord and you.

"Have you met Y/N, yet? They are a nightly visitor to our great halls," Lucienne explains before peering at your over her spectacles. "Y/N, this is Dream of the Endless, or Lord Morpheus as he is better known within our realm."

Holy fuck. You had literally asked the king of the dreaming what it was like to have sex in his realm. Then he proceeded to humor you with mind blowing dream sex.

You are never going to live this down.

The heat crawling up your neck now sears your cheeks as Matthew, now perched atop one of the towering bookshelves, cocks his head to the side, his beady eyes filled with curiosity. "Hold on, you two know each other?" he squawks, feathers ruffling in agitation. They way his boss and you were looking at each other made it painfully clear that you had met before… but didn't you always forget about the dreaming upon waking up?

You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat as you struggle to find the right way to explain the unexplainable. You clear your throat and chew on your lip. Morpheus, however, seems to find amusement in your discomfort, his smirk widening.

"Indeed, we do," he says, the amusement evident in his tone. "I've had the pleasure of assisting this one with some... research the night prior." His eyes gleam with mischief before they dip down to your, thankfully, still covered body.

Your cheeks burn as you struggle to maintain eye contact with Morpheus. His words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken truths. Oh yes, he certainly helped you out with some research the prior night… Lucienne's eyebrows raise slightly, but she remains silent, ever the professional.

Matthew caws from his perch, his beady eyes narrowing. "Research, huh? Sounds... thorough."

"It was very informative!" You announce, trying to quell the heat in your cheeks. Morpheus' eyebrow raises and the stars in his eyes twinkle. He seems to savor your discomfort, as if it is a fine wine meant to be enjoyed sip by sip.

"I see you are still intrigued by the Dreaming," he says, his voice as smooth and dark as velvet. "Perhaps you would like some further assistance with your... research?"

Your pulse quickens. The memory of last night's dream flashes in your mind again, and you feel a mix of embarrassment and excitement. You can swear your cunt clenched on his last word.

Morpheus extends his hand towards you, the movement both elegant and commanding. "Take my hand," he offers, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. "I shall show you more of what this realm has to offer."

You glance at Lucienne and Matthew, who are both watching the exchange with varying degrees of curiosity and confusion. But their presence fades into the background as Morpheus' eyes draw you in.

Without thinking, you reach out and place your hand in his. His touch is cool, yet it sends a jolt of warmth through your entire body.

"Good," Morpheus murmurs, his grip firm but gentle. "Come with me."

He leads you away from the library, through corridors that seem to shift and change with every step. The walls ripple like water, and doors appear and disappear as if by magic. You barely have time to take in the ever-changing scenery before he suddenly spins you around, pressing your back against a cool, solid surface.

His lips find yours in a fierce, passionate kiss that steals your breath away. You're caught off guard, but you can't deny the allure of the him, and you eagerly respond. His arms encircle you, pulling you closer as his kiss deepens. His tongue tangles with yours, once again indulging in your sweet taste but with such ferocity you whimper.

Morpheus devours that sound right up, lips tugging and pulling against yours until your mind is spinning. Then he pulls away, leaving you breathless. His eyes, twin stars, pierce through the dimness. He traces a thumb over your quivering bottom lip, the gesture both tender and possessive.

"Your curiosity about the Dreaming," he begins, eyes glowing soft silver. His forehead drops against yours and he raises his hand to your chin, his thumb pressing against your lower lip. "Is endless."

"Should I apologize?" you question breathlessly, already yearning for more.

Morpheus' eyes narrow slightly, and he lets out a low chuckle that reverberates through the space between you. "Absolutely not," he replies, his voice a seductive whisper that sends shivers down your spine. "Curiosity is to be encouraged, not stifled."

Before you can respond, his lips capture yours once more. The kiss is more urgent this time, as if he's trying to convey something words can't express. You melt into him, your hands gripping the fabric of his coat as if holding on for dear life.

You gasp as Morpheus deepens the kiss, his hands wandering, exploring the curve of your waist. The world around you seems to ripple, the walls and floor shifting with your shared desire. Your mind spins with the intensity of the moment, each touch igniting a fire within you that you didn't know existed.

His lips leave yours, trailing down your neck. You tilt your head back, giving him better access, a soft moan escaping your lips. His touch is both demanding and tender, a paradox that leaves you breathless and yearning for more.

"Morpheus," you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He pauses, his lips hovering just above your skin. His eyes meet yours, filled with a mix of longing and determination. "Yes?"

"I want to see more of the Dreaming," you manage to say between ragged breaths. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

 "Only after I have my fill of you, my dreamer,” he replies, his eyes glowing with possession.

You nod, breathless, unable to tear your eyes away from Morpheus. The desire in his gaze makes your heart race, and you feel a warmth spread through you as he leans in closer. His lips find yours again, and the world around you melts away into nothingness.

He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you through the shifting corridors. Your hands grip his shoulders as he navigates the halls of the palace with ease. You barely register the doors and arches that pass by, your mind consumed by the feeling of his touch.

Finally, he stops before a set of ornate double doors. With a wave of his hand, they swing open to reveal a grand chamber bathed in soft, golden light. The room is opulent, with high ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes and a massive bed draped in luxurious fabrics.

Morpheus carries you inside and gently sets you down on the bed. His fingers brush against your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. "This," he says softly, "is where I will show you the true extent of what the Dreaming has to offer."

You can only nod in response, your breath coming in short gasps as anticipation grows within you. He removes his coat, revealing the sculpted lines of his body beneath. The sight leaves you entranced.

He climbs onto the bed beside you, his movements fluid and graceful. His hands trace a path down your sides, exploring every curve with deliberate slowness. Each touch sends sparks of electricity through your body, making you arch into him.

His lips find yours again, and this time the kiss is slow and sensual. His tongue teases yours, drawing out soft moans that fill the room. You lose yourself in the sensation, forgetting everything except the feel of him against you.

Morpheus' hands roam lower, slipping beneath your clothing with practiced ease. You shiver at the cool touch of his fingers against your skin, feeling an ache build deep within you.

"You are so beautiful," he murmurs against your lips, his voice filled with reverence. The sincerity in his words makes your heart swell.

Your hands find their way to his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle beneath his skin. He groans softly at your touch, his eyes darkening with desire.

As he continues to undress you slowly, every piece of clothing removed feels like shedding a layer of reality itself. The room around you seems to shift in response to your rising passion—the frescoes on the ceiling coming alive with scenes from dreams past.

When you're finally bare before him, Morpheus pauses to drink in the sight of you. His eyes glow like twin stars in the dim light as he lowers himself over you once more.

The world outside fades away completely as Morpheus begins to make love to you with a tenderness that leaves no doubt of his deep connection to every dream and desire you've ever had.

In that moment—between gasps for air and whispered names—you understand why people revere him so deeply within this realm: because Dream doesn't just rule over dreams; he embodies yours entirely. And damn if you are going to forget him anytime soon!

Date Published: 2/10/25

Last Edit: 2/10/25

Morpheus Masterlist

12 Days of Smutmas 2024 Masterlist

[codenamesazanka]

More Post-Canon Spinaraki!Kid Masanori.

＊

Late one afternoon, Deku arrives back at UA and is told by coworkers that there's a kid waiting for him in front of the school gates. A middle schooler, who refuses to say what he's here for, refuses to talk to anyone except Deku. Not an emergency, he just wants to talk to Deku. Kid gave his name as Shirakata Masanori; doesn't seem dangerous, just strange. Deku's call on whether he wants to meet the kid or send him home.

So of course Deku goes to meet the kid.

Shirakata Masanori is a boy with a quirk that gives him lizard features, it seems - he's short and slender, with white scales, shaggy black hair, pink eyes; in a middle school uniform, holding a file in his hands. Quiet and a bit stiff. Deku feels a weird sense of familiarity, and wonders if he's encountered the kid on a previous case before.

Shirakata-kun…is it? You wanted to talk to me? Do you need help?

In a way.

Kid says it's personal, but nothing more than that. Deku, starting to get a bit concerned, secures a private room for them to talk. He wonders a variety of situations: kid has a secret only a Hero can help with, kid did something wrong, kid is in some kind of danger…

After they sit down, Masanori breathes in, looks Deku in the eye, and says: You killed my father, so I'm here because I want you to make up for that.

It's not super unusual for people to ask compensation from Heroes - usually from family members of people that Heroes were too late to save in an accident or were collateral damage in villain attacks. Insurance often takes care of it, and HPSC has a division dedicated to dealing with such accusations, but of course Heroes work their hardest to make sure they save everyone so it's not a thing in the first place.

In the six years since Deku became a Hero again, he hasn't had any serious accusations - minor injuries that insurance took care of, and the rare nutcase claims - so this is a huge shock. Immediately sends Deku into a panic where he stammers out apologies and condolences as he mentally tries to think of every incident he's been in and what he's done wrong. He's been super careful because his Hero suit is after all just a suit, and he always tries to team up with other Heroes so they can cover for him in case that ever happens, and in every case he's saved everyone who was directly in danger, so what can this be...

The kid's unmoved - just watching Deku panic and ramble on, almost like he's a curiosity. And strangely, he seems very calm. No anger, no sadness, no yearning for meaning - none of the emotions a grieving son might have, especially if he's blaming Deku for killing his dad. There's an aloof, gloomy demeanor to him that's also really familiar and then the realization hits Deku like a smash.

Are you... talking about Shigaraki Tomura?

There's that familiar pang of guilt and pain that always occurs when Shigaraki Tomura is brought up. But all that is overshadowed by pure shock and disbelief.

Because it's ridiculous. Shigaraki was 21 when he died - not married (…which means the kid is illegitimate?); not impossible to have a kid at that age, but improbable (and yet the kid looks about age 15, and it has been 15 years since the war…). There were no accounts of Shigaraki ever being close to a woman. Investigation never revealed anything that might have ever pointed to him having a kid. Moreover, Deku, having been in Shigaraki's heart, never felt an inkling that Shigaraki ever knew he had a kid.

The closest people Shigaraki ever had were the League and among them, there was only... Spinner... who was also a lizard heteromorph...

But Spinner was a guy. And Spinner was never—pregnant? Or capable of having a kid, as far as Deku knew, and he's been in prison ever since the end of the war, til the end of his life a few years ago, and he never said anything either.

(Or maybe there was someone else… maybe Shigaraki just… got along with people with lizard heteromorphic quirks? A woman in the Meta Liberation Army that could produce such a child... but.)

This has all the making of a very, very outlandish and distasteful hoax, and yet, looking at the kid in front of him, Deku somehow knows that it's the truth.

Maybe it's that on closer look, kid looks exactly like the crying child Deku once saw in Shigaraki's heart - shaggy black hair, reddish eyes. Maybe it's just that his demeanor reminds Deku of Shigaraki. Maybe it's that Masanori looks 100% serious, looks like he's being totally honest, telling the truth.

Or what he thinks is the truth.

You're... You're saying Shigaraki is your father?

One of them.

…One of them?

Spinner’s the other one.

Deku has no reply to that. His thought was actually right, but he has no reply to that.

Masanori says that last year, he received a letter from Spinner, the League Villain, delivered by a lawyer. It said that Spinner and Shigaraki were his parents. That Spinner had produced an egg; then lost the egg during the Gunga raid, 15 years ago. He asked his lawyer to find what happened to the egg, if possible, and if a kid ever hatched from it...

That kid was Masanori. He hatched from an egg three months after the war. The egg was captured during the raid on the PLF Villa. No one ever claimed him, they never found his parents, and he grew up in an orphanage.

Masanori says maybe Spinner was insane, but the letter is real. Came from a lawyer, who also gave Masanori manuscripts of the League memoir Spinner wrote. But otherwise, Masanori has no proof other than the letter, which he hands over to Deku.

If what Spinner said was the truth, though. Then what's also the truth is that Deku killed Masanori's father.

Masanori hands over the photo of Deku smashing Shigaraki, which Deku flinches at. And so, yeah, Masanori wants him to make up for that. Compensation.

Deku skims the letter, but is not reading any of it. Can't. This is a lot to take in. Don't even know where to start.

This is… I can't just… What do you even mean… I don't…

Masanori breathes out slowly. I'm Shigaraki Tomura's son. Probably. If that 'probably' is 'definitely', then you, Midoriya Izuku, killed my father. So I want you to pay for that. I'm allowed to want that.

Those last parts shake Deku out of his daze.

…Pay?

It feels bad, but Deku has to be on guard. Though Masanori doesn't seem hostile or out for blood - it doesn't seem like this is a blood revenge scheme, which would be more likely if the kid is delusional.

Then, is this an extortion attempt? A scam extortion attempt? Pay, as in money? Compensation is given after a death. If Deku really is responsible for a death. If the death really is Shigaraki's death. If the kid is truly Shigaraki's kid.

Three things, Masanori says. I want three things:

1. Guaranteed admission to UA's General Studies class

2. A stipend for three years of high school, and

3. An all-purpose recommendation letter from Deku when Masanori graduates.

That throws Deku off again. It sounds… so reasonable. Sort of. It's, of course, also ridiculous. It doesn't sound like compensation at all. Reasonable as in kid's not asking for millions; but ridiculous in that kid's asking for things that's for Midoriya-sensei the UA teacher to do.

You want to go here? To UA?

I want you to get me into UA.

Deku shakes his head. I can't just... Did you take the entrance exam? That was last week.

Think like a teacher. That's still not addressing the massive bombshell of Shigaraki having a kid (with Spinner???), but as a teacher, Deku can get a grip on this conversation thread. As a teacher, he knows how to proceed.

You should've gotten the results by now. Did you not get in? Are you—you want to be a Hero? You want to go to UA to be a Hero?

No. I told you, General Studies. Masanori pauses. I never took the entrance exam. I missed it.

Then…

But you're a teacher here. And you're Deku. You can get me in.

No, I can't do that. Deku straightens up, becoming the teacher he is, one that has to deal with teenagers and their bizarre logic sometimes. That would be cheating. You have to earn your place here. Why didn't you take the exam?

I wasn't planning on going to high school. And then it was too late. I missed registration. I also had no time to study at all.

You weren't planning to go to high school?

Masanori shrugs slightly. I'm 15. The orphanage asked me to leave once I graduate middle school this spring. I was going to work.

And… Deku shouldn't say this, but he does. He has to ask. …you don't want to?

...Not if I could go to school.

By doing this. Deku gestures wildly the room, at whatever this is.

By doing this, Masanori agrees.

Deku can't understand the logic at all. He tries a different track. Nothing else to do but move on at the moment. Why UA? I mean, there's other schools, surely, if you just want a general program.

It's a good school, Masanori says. Basically everyone famous went here. You've got dorms.

So do other places.

Recapping. Masanori wasn't planning on going to high school. He didn't study, didn't take any exams. Then for whatever reason, he decided he did want to go to high school. It was too late to study or take exams, so now he's here, asking to be let into UA of all schools, by—trying to use Shigaraki's death as a ticket. Because Shigaraki is his father. Probably. Because of a letter Masanori received from Spinner.

Deku rubs at his face. Continue ignoring that last part. Deal with that later. Deal with Masanori as a student, for now.

Shirakata-kun. This is not the way to do any of this. You can't just come and demand I get you into UA. It's a school that you have to test into. You have to work for it. You needed to take the entrance exam and pass, fair and square.

Fair and square, Masanori echoes. Yes, fairness and square...ness. You killed my father. I never got to know him. I grew up an orphan. I don't know, I think something in return is deserved. That would be fair, right? And then we'll be squared.

What does Deku even do with this logic?

Your parents have nothing to do with going to UA. Plenty of Heroes' children have to test into this school too.

Well. I'm not a Hero's kid. I'm a Villain's kid.

…What I mean is, Deku says. Then pauses. Then forces himself to continue. Who your parents are don't matter here, in this case. It's not about them. You are responsible for yourself, your studying, taking your exams. I'm... it must have been hard, growing up in an orphanage. But it doesn't mean you get special treatment. You have to earn your spot, like every other student.

Masanori watches Deku, face betraying no emotion.

Deku continues, carefully. If what you're saying is true... I did kill Shigaraki. I won't deny that. If it's compensation you want… there's official ways to go about that.

Masanori's gaze continues to be steady. They'll compensate for a Villain's death? For Shigaraki Tomura's death?

Deku has no answer to that.

In the silence, the two of them stare at each other. Masanori has Tenko's wavy black hair and Spinner's pink eyes. He has Spinner's scales and Shigaraki's slim frame. If he smiles… Deku wonders whose smile Masanori would inherit, if that's something that can be inherited at all.

Masanori's hands have no claws - rather, his fingers sharpen to a point, it looks like. They clench at his knees, stiff and rigid.

He's just a child.

Deku says, I can't get you into UA. But I can help you... I will help you. I can give you some of that stipend, so you can focus on school. There's probably schools that don't require entrance exams, or are still giving exams... You should try taking them, see if you can get in. Maybe you can take a gap year, and try to apply for UA next year, under special circumstances...

No.

No?

I want all three of my demands, Masanori says. If you say no, then I don't want anything.

Not even the stipend? Don't you want to go to school? You'll work instead?

Looks like it.

Deku is a little stunned. He can't understand this kid at all.

You wanted a free ride. You didn't want to work for it.

Masanori says nothing. Maybe Deku shouldn't say that to a kid who's going to be getting a job and working—(Or maybe... what if he gets illegal work? What if he's going to turn to crime?) No, he's just a child, needing guidance. As an adult and teacher and Hero, Deku has to—

This is the wrong way to approach your problems, Shirakata-kun. You can't try to take advantage of people, of situations like this.

Masanori twitches, before leaning forward, one hand reaching out to Deku. Deku recoils, suddenly seeing a different, more familiar hand, five fingers spread out to touch—

…I just want my letter back, Masanori says.

Deku blinks, looking down at his own hands, which apparently has been clutching Spinner's letter this whole time. He still hasn't read it.

O-Oh. Deku hesitates - he really actually did want to read the letter, because what how Spinner Shigaraki w h a t ? - but gives it back to Masanori. I—

This is all I have, Masanori says, sitting back and folding the letter. Two dead people and this one situation. Why shouldn't I take advantage of what's mine?

Deku grimaces. Things like extortion and blackmail are—

It wasn't. Masanori stands up. I know it wasn't. I'm not extorting anything. You said no, so now I'm leaving. There's nothing to blackmail, either. You killed a Villain and everyone saw it. They loved you for it. So all I did was come here to ask you for some help.

Calling what you were asking for help is—

You call it cheating, but I didn't do anything. I asked, you said no. Masanori heads for the door. So I'm going. There's nothing else I'm going to do. Nothing I can do.

Wait, Shirakata-kun. What you wanted—even if it was just about UA admission, you tried to use the fact that, that I killed Shigaraki—

Cuz you did.

You were expecting me to fold to that.

Yeah. The kid stands in the doorway, looking back at Deku. You're a Hero, aren't you?

And then he was gone.