#seduce him with that cigarette case

[elinordash]

Michael Sheen as Robbie Ross in WILDE (1997)

[tobiotetsu]

the beast’s beauty

fushiguro toji x f!reader

description: because of your father's mistake, the infamous toji zenin forced you into imprisonment in order to pay his debt. however, what you never expected was to fall in love with the monster he was.

genre: angst, historical au, 18+, mini series

warnings/tags: explicit smut(vaginal penetration, unprotected sex, ) violence, mentions of stockholm syndrome & misogyny, blackmail, character injury, blood, profanity, mdni, grammar mistakes

a/n: to welcome our fav dilf to the jjk screen, here's a little beauty and the best retelling for toji:) reblogs are truly appreciated <3 (taglist: open) (wc:1k)

general masterlist

part one ♕ part two ♕ part three ♕ part four ♕ part five

You never enjoyed the company your father kept. Drunks, assassins, mobsters, gamblers. You would always find yourself pulling him out of taverns in the early hours of 2 to 4 am. Usually, fear would course through women’s veins if they had to enter an establishment of this kind however, that wasn't your case. You were predisposed to bars, and whore houses since you were 10.

Now here, age 22 as you make your way through the liveliest bar in town. The air stank of beer and fresh cigarettes; a smell that you've grown more than used to. Your upbringing was merited to being the only daughter of a single father. Your mother died in childbirth and your father never chose to remarry. When you were younger you thought of it as romantic, but as time went on you saw it for what it really was.

He gained a free pass to hoard whores. Your house doors welcomed a new woman every week. The most motherly advice you gained was how to seduce a man and how to keep your tits perky.

The bar was more full than it usually was. Sweaty bodies stood, all facing the same direction. A poker game was at play. By the looks of the chips stacked in the center, it looked rather intense. Your feet began to move faster as a small anxious feeling nipped at your stomach. Shoving arms and legs, you squeeze into the front of the table.

Two men were sitting at opposite ends of the table. The left side of the table was far more crowded than the right. Women were draped over the man who was seated. A hand covered the majority of his face so all that was in view were his eyes. Dark green eyes shined brightly, even though the mess of dark hair was in front of it.

‘He looked focused’ you thought. He stared ahead, not giving any attention to the women around him. You could see why they were all interested in him. Physically, he was very attractive. His legs were spread out under the table, arms crossed and sat straight. His shirt fit on his body like a glove. His shoulders, chest, and even the muscles on his torso were visible through the cloth.

Before you could notice anything a familiar voice caught your attention. At the other end of the table, you see a familiar ratted navy coat. With a far lonelier crowd, your father was squinting at the four cards in his palm.

“All in” he shouted as he pushed all his chips closer to the dark-haired man.

“Dad!” you jumped to him, clasping your hand on his wrist. As you opened your mouth to protest, a deep voice intercepted.

“Sorry, cap.” was all the man said as he displayed his cards. The faces and noise around you felt dull. Muffled voices and blurry vision were all you had as you watched your father’s cards get trumped by a royal flush.

“How much money did you bet, Dad?” The urgency in your voice was a cover for the panic. He had no money. Whatever money he did earn at his sales job was put towards the tavern and prostitutes. Whatever was left was the sum you had earned at the library.

“Sweet pea, I-I messed up,” there was a shake in your father's voice. One that you had never heard before. “It wasn’t money. Gu- I need to get”

You couldn't understand the slurred speech your father spewed.

“Gu? What are you saying, Dad?” you held your father steady near the back entrance of the building.

“Guns” your body jumped at the sound of another voice joining your conversation. You spun around to be faced with familiar eyes. They look much darker at night. The only thing illuminating the scene was a candle hanging beside the door in between you two.

“He didn’t bet money. Your father owes me guns.”

Your eyebrows pinched together in confusion.

He must be confused with someone else.

In an effort to clear your father's name you turn to him for reassurance, but all you are met with is disappointment.

“Mmm sorry. I sold the guns and I didn’t have anything else to give” Your father's voice fell flat.

“Dad, What are you talking about? Why do you have guns? What are you in?” your hands grasp his arms and shake his drunk body hoping to shake the truth out of him.”

“Your father works for my business. And he fucked up and sold my guns for bitch money.” the man said. His head tilted to the right, allowing for his face to be seen. The first thing you saw was a scar that ran through the right corner of his mouth. He was taller than you assumed he was. As he inched towards you his size grew.

“What do you want?” your voice dripped in fear.

“Well, your father here, he bet me something to act as a placeholder, till I get my guns.” he fished in his pockets as he spoke those chilling words. He retrieved a small syringe from his pocket.

Your worried eyes turned to your father but before you could protest, rough hands brushed your lips, pressing your mouth shut. You felt your skin break as a cool needle was stuck in your neck. Tears welled up in your eyes as your fear was confirmed.

You felt your own body turning into mush, your muscles stopped protesting the man's actions and started to skin into him. Your back hit his chest and your head rolled onto his shoulder. With what little power you had you flailed your limbs, but all of your efforts were met with failure.

You couldn't hear anymore, couldn't distinguish voices. Couldn't yell and scream at your father for pimping you like a whore to a beast. You didn't know whose voice it was but you were hoping their word was true, as those were the last words that you heard before you blacked out.

“I'll take care of you, I promise.”

[ jjk gen taglist: @meepmoop12w @thepsychicartist ]

[gothcsz]

seducing javi when he's arresting you for drug possession, maybe you're wearing a super short dress or skirt and when he puts you against his car to handcuff you it rides up your thighs to expose your panties and he's trying so hard not to lose it lmao

i'm ovulating like a mfer and in emotional distress, so this ask came to me at a perfect time 💋 enjoy this filth, baby. no tags, we all know what we're here for. 🫡

The heat of the afternoon sun beats down on the stretch of asphalt, warming the metal of the government car parked at the side of the road. You feel the rays on your bare skin, beads of sweat forming at your temple and trailing slowly down your neck, tracing the hollow of your collarbone.

What a great fucking time for a heatwave, you think, as your gaze wanders toward the man standing before you, his presence commanding as he looks you over with an unreadable expression.

DEA Agent Javier Peña. His name carries weight around these streets— especially with the working girls in the brothels. A handsome American who pays well, fucks even better, all in exchange for information on the man whose drugs flood the city.

You’ve been trying to catch his attention for a while now, but he’s pretty set on the girls he chooses to spend his nights with. Hardly glances in your direction when he’s on his way out—the only conversation you’ve ever had was when he bummed a cigarette from you one night after seeing Vanessa.

Call it desperation—you don’t care. You’ve got nothing to lose. That’s why you bought a bag of the white powder, hoping that maybe, finally, it would get his eyes on you… or his hands… anything, really.

The hard lines of his face are set in stone, deep brown eyes watching you closely. His jaw is working at the gum in his mouth, and every jolt of it has your clit twitching.

As he steps forward, leather boots crunching on the gravel, your lips curve into a small, playful smirk, eyes twinkling with mischief.

You’re wearing that short, skin-tight skirt— the one that barely grazes mid-thigh when you stand still. Now, after being manhandled out of the building, the fabric teasingly inches higher, clinging to your hips.

His eyes flick down, just for a second, before snapping back up to meet yours. A flicker of something darker passes over his gaze, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Turn around,” Peña commands, his voice steady, authoritative. His tone is flat, almost bored, but you can sense the edge of frustration creeping in. You’ve been playing with him, teasing him with your flirtatious banter since he caught you with the baggie. And now, here you are, back against the wall—or in this case, his car.

You obey slowly, letting your body move with deliberate languor, turning until your back faces him. The tension between you is palpable, thick as the sultry air. Your heart thuds in your chest, not from fear but anticipation.

The sound of the cuffs clinking in his hand sends a rush of heat straight to your pussy, and when he steps closer—so close you can feel his breath on the nape of your neck—your pulse quickens. You can sense him struggling to maintain his composure, to stay professional, but you’re making it nearly impossible.

“Hands behind your back.”

Your fingers twitch as you slowly reach behind you, making sure to graze his thigh as you do. You feel the tension ripple through his body, see his jaw clench in your peripheral vision. His hands grip your wrists with just a bit too much force, pulling them behind you as he secures the cuffs around them. And that’s when it happens.

As he leans in to lock the cuffs, your already short skirt rides up—higher, higher—until the fabric barely covers you anymore. The air brushes against your ass, a soft breeze teasing the thin strip of lace now showing, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

He freezes.

His hands hover near your waist, breath catching in his throat. He’s seen it—your panties, delicate lace pressed up against your wet pussy, leaving you completely exposed to him.

You press back, just slightly, feeling the hardness of his body against yours, and a thrill of satisfaction surges through you when you hear him curse under his breath.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, stepping back to put some distance between you, pulling your skirt back down. You can feel his eyes on you, lingering longer than they should, trailing down the curve of your hips, over your bare legs, before he tears them away and looks at the horizon as though it could save him.

“Agent Peña,” you purr, turning your head slightly to glance at him over your shoulder, your eyes full of knowing. “You seem a little tense. Everything alright?”

He doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw working like he’s physically restraining himself from answering. When he finally does, his voice is a low, dangerous rumble. “Keep your mouth shut. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

You smirk, pushing yourself up to stand straighter on the tips of your toes, using the slight shift to make your skirt ride up again. You catch his reflection in the car window—the way his eyes darken, the slight flare of his nostrils.

“Is that an order, agente?” you ask, letting your voice drip with faux innocence. “Or just a suggestion?”

He steps closer, his body mere inches from yours now, close enough that you can smell the scent of his cologne.

His hand grips your arm, spinning you around to face him. The cuffs press against your back, but the pressure is nothing compared to the intensity in his gaze, burning into yours with barely restrained desire.

“You don’t want to push me,” he warns, his voice rough, strained. His eyes flicker down to your lips for a split second.

You’ve halfway succeeded in your mission, absolutely relishing in the way he’s looking at you.

“Maybe I do,” you whisper, eyes locked with his. You lean in just enough so that your chest barely brushes against his, nipples hard against the fabric of your revealing tube top, and the sharp breath he draws in is all the confirmation you need.

God, you want him so bad it truly does make you look like a desperate whore. 

Just like that, a switch flips, and you yelp at the sudden intensity of it all.

The cuffs bite into your wrists as he swings open the door of the jeep, his hand firm on your waist as he guides you in.

The back seat is hot, the leather sticky from the sun’s heat. You slide inside with practiced ease, your skirt riding up further as you shift, exposing more of yourself to him. His eyes drop down again, and you can’t help but smirk.

He slams the door shut with a little too much force, circling the vehicle before climbing into the driver’s seat. Silence stretches between you as the engine roars to life, and with a jerk of the wheel, he pulls onto the road, the vehicle kicking up dust as it speeds off.

You have no idea where he’s taking you, but the thrill of the unknown sends a rush of excitement through your veins. The Colombian cityscape blurs past the window, and you feel his gaze flicker toward the rearview mirror occasionally, eyes lingering on you— on the way your legs shift restlessly, the way the heat makes your skin glow.

Sitting up, you lean back and spread your thighs wider, giving him a full view of the heaven between your legs.

He grunts, eyes narrowing behind his tinted aviators. “Doin’ all this, and for what, chiquita? So I can fuck you? Pathetic.”

After what feels like an eternity, he turns off the main road, the tires crunching over gravel as the Jeep rolls into a secluded area, hidden away from prying eyes. Tall trees line the path, their shadows casting a dim light over the narrow road until he finally pulls to a stop.

The quiet is almost deafening as the engine cuts off. Neither of you moves, desire hanging heavy in the enclosed space.

“Pulling over in the middle of nowhere for what, agente? So you can fuck me? Pathetic.”

Javier turns sharply, his gaze locking onto yours. His eyes are dark, burning with an intensity that makes your breath catch. He licks his lips, his resolve finally crumbling as he flings the door open and steps out.

Without a word, he pulls open the back door, his large frame casting a shadow over you as he reaches for your arm. His touch is firm and authoritative, and you swear you’re dripping down your leg.

He hauls you out of the Jeep, moving your body until the small of your back is pressed to the front of it front of it.

The metal is still warm from the sun, heating your already flushed skin. Your shoulders burn from your restraint but it only makes the lust feel like a welcomed fever.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” His voice is a low, dangerous growl as he leans in, the tip of his strong nose brushing against yours. “You’re not. It’s the fuckin’ opposite, actually. You’re such a dumb, stupid girl pulling this trick. Wasting my time.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. His closeness makes it impossible to form coherent thoughts. His hands move around your arms, you hadn’t even noticed the key in his possession, as he blindly undoes your cuffs.

His rough and possessive touch trails until he’s gripping your waist.

“You wanted this,” he continues, “So you’re gonna fuckin’ take it.”

His hands slip lower, fingers brushing the hem of your skirt before he yanks it up in one swift motion, fully exposing you. The lace is the only barrier between his hands and your aching cunt.

You can feel how hard he is, his cock straining against his jeans as he presses into your hip, the friction sending a rush of heat through your body.

You gasp as his hand slips between your legs, his fingers teasing the edges of your panties but not quite giving you what you want. His other hand grips your hip tightly, keeping you pinned in place.

As if you’d try to make a run for it.

A moan escapes your lips, your body arching into his touch, needing more from him. The sound only pushes him further, his fingers finally finding the wet heat of your cunt. His touch is insistent, and you feel the tremor in his hands as he strokes the length of your slit.

He curses under his breath, “You want my cock?”

“Yes,” you gasp, unable to deny it any longer. “God, yes.”

He lifts you onto the hood of the Jeep. Your legs spread instinctively, an absolute mess between them.

He stands between your thighs, eyes burning into yours as he reaches for his belt, unbuckling it with quick, jerky movements. The heat of his body between your thighs makes the anticipation unbearable.

When he finally frees himself, you can’t help but stare. His cock is hard, thick, and the sight of it makes you whine out for him. He wastes no time, grabbing your panties and yanking them down until they’re hanging from your heel clad ankle, leaving your lower half bare.

“I’m going to fuck some sense into that pretty little head.”

Without warning, he sheathes himself into you—hard and deep—filling you completely.

The force of it knocks the breath from your lungs, your back arching as a gasp tears from your throat. There’s no pause, no mercy; he grips your hips and pulls you against him, fucking you hard and fast, each thrust deeper than the last.

The sound of your bodies colliding fills the air, matching the wild beat of your heart. Every inch of him stretches you, fills you, and the pleasure is so intense it almost hurts. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you cling to him, riding the wave of sensation.

His breath comes out in ragged gasps, his control unraveling as he pounds into you. His hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in rhythm with his thrusts, pushing you closer to the edge. The tension coils inside you, tighter with each stroke, until you’re on the brink.

He’s spitting absolutely filth into your ear, calling you every degrading name he think of— both in English and Spanish, but you’re too cockdrunk to even make sense of it.

Your pussy, however, has visceral reactions, clenching and pulsing around him with each syllable that’s uttered. 

And then, with one final, deep thrust, you come undone. Your body shakes, legs trembling as pleasure crashes over you, your cries filling the air. He isn’t far behind—his grip tightens, and with a groan, he drives into you one last time, spilling his cum inside as his body shudders with release.

For a moment, neither of you move, your breaths mingling in the silence. Slowly, he pulls out, his hands lingering on your waist before stepping back.

His eyes flicker with something unreadable—satisfaction, maybe some guilt for abusing his power. But he doesn’t speak, just tucks himself back into his pants and fastens his belt, his expression hardening.

“This doesn’t change anything. You’re still under arrest.”

[r4vn]

—THE RABBIT AND THE FOX

farleıgh x reader

w.c: 3,664

disclaimers: nsfw, 18+, rough sex, overstimulation, dominant!farleigh, use of titles (sir/ma'am), primal play, sensitive!reader, pinning down, chasing, 'iicyify', predator and prey, teasing, fingering, groping, unprotected p in v (stay safe out there guyz), crying, aftercare!!, hot and steamy smut

–synpopsis: you can't sleep one particular evening due to arousal, and you think your friend may be able to help. you wander the saltburn home to find farleigh, and to help you satisfy your submissive urges.

a/n: helloo!! im super excited for yall to read this one bc its based on the stories like the turtle and rabbit or the fox and the hare where one is "being chased" yk? and so i merged it with the sex game called "if i catch you i fuck you." i've seen a few times on the internet lol. editing will come later as always for tyos. I HOPE YOU ENJOY. ♡♡

「divider by @/ cafekitsune」

you were staying at your friend farleigh’s, home for the summer. the only people in the saltburn estate were you and him, and his cousin venetia but she was gone for the weekend. farleigh inherited the home from his aunt and uncle when they passed away. his cousin, felix ran away to the states so farleigh gladly took it. you stayed in the room next to him. he was fairly sweet for his sassy personality and it lured you in even more.

it was late in the evening, around 1am and you couldn't sleep. it was painfully quiet in the house. you were bothered, heavily bothered. your hand was in your pajama pants and you touched yourself with one hand, the other on your mouth trying to be as quiet as possible. you flickled your clothed pearl, causing your hips to buck occasionally.

"fuck." you whispered hastily. this wasn't enough, you needed more. you wanted farleigh, needed him, and you were going to get him. you'd been seducing him all week by wearing the shortest clothing to bed or grazing your back against his front when you walked past him.

when you finally had enough, you took your hand out from your pants quietly and opened your door to exit. you walk towards farleighs room and slowly tried the doorknob and saw it was open. you walked in as quietly as possible just in case he was sleeping, but to your surprise he wasn't in bed. he wasn't in the room at all actually.

you knitted your brows and looked in the bathroom, it being empty also. exiting his room, you wander silently around the house, thinking about where the brunette could be present. you checked the library, then the tv room. you were getting restless now, you wanted to jump his bones. you decided to check the kitchen, thinking maybe he was hungry and not looking for a different setting to smoke a cigarette.

and as hoped, there he was. as you walked into the doorway of the kitchen, farleigh was standing next to the marble island, smoking a cigarette and eating a couple of pieces of chocolate. you chuckled, catching his attention with a startle.

"jesus, you scared the shit out of me." farleigh mumbled, slowly smiling as he took another puff. you walked over to him slowly, hopping onto the counter. you swung your legs gently as the mere sight of him made you develop a second heartbeat.

"wouldn't of scared you if you were in your room and not wandering this big mansion of a home." you shrugged with a smile. farleigh stayed quiet, only diverted his eyes to you. he studied you, briefly scanning your whole person before half smiling.

"well," he inhales the cigarette smoke deeply before sighing. "i'm here, you found me. now what do you want?"

"you." you responded casually, taking a piece of chocolate. it immediately melted on your tongue, giving you satisfaction as you stared at farleigh with low eyes. he was subtly flustered, stiff and gingerly flushed in the face at your reply.

"you– ahem– want me to do what?" he continued, leaning on the fridge to face you. he held eye contact, making sure not to look at anything but you.

"i want you to do me." farleigh didn't say anything, clearly getting more tense. he finished the rest of his cig in one breath, leaning off the fridge to walk towards you. he stood right in front of you, [e/c] eyes mixing with his umber brown ones. no words were exchanged as he leaned over to place his cigarette bud in the small dish next to you.

"what do you want me to do with you?" he asked in a lower tone. your stomach flipped, wanting to take him right here on this marble counter. he was so tall that even on the counter you still matched his height. he slid in between your legs and you leaned in to kiss his cheek.

"i want you," you kissed his cheek once. "to play a game with me."

"what kind of game sweetheart?" he mumbled, turning to the side to give you full access to kiss him wherever. you smiled against his skin, going lower to his neck. you left a wet, slow kiss, causing him to suck in a slow breath through his teeth. his hands gently gripped your thighs, scooting you closer into him.

"a game of 'if i catch you i fuck you.' i run and you try to find me." farleigh chuckled, causing a chill to run down your spine. you looked up at him, biting your lip. you were already ready to climb him like a tree but you restrained yourself for the thrill. you gently pushed him away to hop off the counter, slowly backing up away from him to run.

"count to 100, aloud." you instructed, farleigh smirked, standing where he was as he crossed his arms.

"1..2..3..4.." you giggled and quickly made your exit from the kitchen, also mentally counting yourself. you trembled just a little because you were nervous. but you loved the adrenaline rushing through you.

"18..19..20.."

you jogged across the halls trying to get on the farside of the mansion, faintly listening to fsrleigh's counting. you decided to head for the the second floor and made your way up the stairs.

"36..37..38.."

now, you began to slow your breathing and decided you were far enough. you wandered around the second floor as you heard the brunette count. you adored the style of the house with its intricate wooden carved door frames and furniture. even the old wallpaper. you briefly think about farleigh pinning you down into the couch and ramming into you. the thought caused the heat between your legs to tingle. you whimpered as you imagined it.

"61..62..63.." you slid down the wall in the hallway and reached into your pants again. you didn't have long but you were struggling. your hole pulsated at the thought of the tall male in you. fuck you wanted him terribly. you rubbed your cunt desperately with farleigh's hand in mind. your hole lubricated itself, being so close but so far to your climax. your mind felt so cloudy and pleasurably quiet you nearly forgot farleigh was going to be after you soon. you quickly stood up began to gradually walk away from the stairs.

"97..98...99..100. here i come, [y/n]." farleigh called out in the hall down from the kitchen. he kept a small smile on his face while walking around the first floor before heading to the stairs. he heard them squeak as he was counting so he headed up them, making sure to avoid the squeaky panels.

"you know, the day i saw you, i knew i needed you." farleigh spoke out. you peeked around a corner to see farleighs shadow from the moonlight. you immediately began to cut through hallways to create distance.

"that night i rubbed one out at the thought of you. pumped my cock so hard dreaming of it to be you on top of me." you held your mouth, making sure not to whimper at his confessions.

"and since you've been here, i've tried my damndest to keep jerking off to a minimum of once a night to not get fucking erectile dysfunction, heh. i just tease myself through the day, nearing cumming at times." farleigh chuckled, wandering the west half of the second floor. thinking about farleigh trying to hide a boner while touching himself made you incredibly hot all over. you wanted your hand around his cock and mouth on the tip soon.

"i touch myself thinking about you farleigh. you make me drip." you finally respond, quickly moving to another direction. talking had to be minimum or it would give away your location. you occasionally moved through rooms with doors. you didn't do it much because you felt like it was too sneaky so you did it about every series of seconds. farleigh chuckled again, humming.

"you such a tease, baby." farleigh stated, hearing the slightest giggle. he took a right, continuing to walk and talk. it was several minutes into the game and farleigh was getting restless. you could hear his gentle groans and growls sometimes several yards away. your limit was also getting to you. suddenly, you slipped up. you heard farleigh's steps just at the other end of a hallway around the corner. you panicked.

"stop right there!" you squeaked out, farleigh immediately doing so.

"[y/n]? ..you alright? i stopped walkin'." farleigh called out from the blind corner. you gulped out of anxiety. your heart wanted to jump out of your chest. you swallowed the lump in your throat before speaking.

"lets–...lets have a game break. 5 minutes. you sit against your wall of the corner i sit on my wall, deal?" you explained, hoping for an agreement. farleigh stayed silent, thinking to himself. did he want to devour you right then and there in the middle of the hallway? yes. but does he love the chase? absolutely.

but if playing a game of chase means devouring you in the end, he wouldn't dare decline a game.

"fine. break time, 5 minutes." he declared. you hear shuffling before seeing farleighs hand planted in your field of vision. he sat on the floor as told. you slowly walked over and sat criss cross, placing your hand in his field of vision. you heard him chuckle, causing you to smile like an idiot.

"can i take away my hand now that you can see i’m sitting with you?" you smiled, taking away yours first.

"yes, hello farleigh." you greeted. farleigh sighed gently, trailing his pajama-lined, half-hard boner with his nails gently.

"hey baby ..what do you wanna do for the next 4 and a half minutes?" farleigh asked, leaning his head back on the wall in bliss. he made sure to count every minute in his head. you sighed gently, dipping your hand back into your underwear impatiently. a sharp exhale escaped your lips and you quickly tried to cover it up with a fake cough.

"i want to hear how i turn you on, how i make you feel inside and out." you breathed out. farleigh laughed again, palming himself through his silk bottoms.

"you make me feel so hot and bothered all over, [y/n]. you get me so pent up i can't risk leaving my room and seeing you or i'll be walking around with a hard on all day." the brunette scoffed playfully. you smiled at his words, gasping slowly as you entered a finger in your entrance. you became weak, the walls of your heat pulsating in need for more.

2 more minutes..

"you probably already do know i purposely push up against you whenever i walk past in front of you. just to get ..y'know..a feel–..to see what i'm working with." you bit down on your lip, hard, remembering the time you walked passed farleigh in the kitchen. you could have sworn you felt his bulge between your ass cheeks. you touched yourself endlessly that night. the break was about to end in a little over a minute. you took your fingers out of you and stood up. an idea popped into your head before you began taking off your pajama bottoms.

"yeah? ..well.." farleigh silently stood up, licking his lips. "why not get a feel for it.." he quickly turned the corner to grab you "right now–" except there was no one there. you had already made your escape so smoothly.

farleigh looked down to see a pair of purple bikini cut panties on the tile floor. he arched a brow, picking them up to see a dark wet spot in the crotch area. the blood rushed to his head, the arousal finally catching up to him. when he brought it to his face, he licked and sucked your juices off the fabric, holding his crotch. he felt an intense pulse in his hands and had enough. his final string of patience snapped.

"[y/n]..come out now. there is no more chasing, only hunting." farleigh groaned with a low laugh. he turned at another corner only to see you exiting at the end away from him. the brunnette ran after you now, a smile staying on his face. you squeaked, seeing him only yards away. you immediately took a turn on the east side of the building. farleigh decided to go another way to cut through the hallway connecting yours.

he heard your feet slapping against as you got closer. he stayed at the corner you were nearing and as you ran past him, he swiftly grabbed you and pulled you into him roughly. he groaned into your neck and shoulder as you briefly screamed and squeaked. though your yelps slowly smoothened out into gasps and shudders of pleasure. one of farleigh large masculine hands held you securely against his front while his free hand tenderly roamed the skin of your thighs and abdomen.

"caught you." he whispered into your neck. he breathed heavily against you with his free hand trailing up your hip and he slowly pushed yours into his, causing his body to shiver in response. you felt his warm cock against your ass and wanted to fuck him terribly.

"now take me." you gasped out, pressing your ass further into his clothes shaft. he abruptly threw you over his shoulder, and began walking with a clear destination in mind. you giggled at being held like you weighed nothing, yelping as farleigh smacked your ass.

"quiet." you quickly obeyed, moaning as farleigh rubbed you through your pants. he quickly got to his room and threw his prey on his bed. he wanted nothing more than to use you over and over again till you trembled under him, a crying mess. he wrapped a hand around your neck and pinned you down on the sheets, splaying your thighs open to the wet crotch area of your thin cotton pants. farleigh dove down between your thighs, sucking and wetting your clothed cunt even more. he could see the mere outline of your pussy, watching it ever so slightly pusate. it was incredibly erotic to him.

"beautiful." he muttered. your moans danced through his ears like a wonderful violin. you couldn't help yourself because that deep ache in your core was finally being satisfied. farleigh swiftly removed your pants with his free hand, immediately leaning down to taste you. a wave of pleasure washed over you and you nearly lost all strength under the brunette.

"god– please farleigh–" you begged. you were already so close. his tongue flicked over your clothed pearl like he already knew your weak spots. the tension line wanted to snap for you so soon but farleigh of course did not allow that.

"already? so soon baby ..hold it. i wanna use you all night." farleigh mumbled into your cunt. you nodded, gasping as he suddenly added two fingers into you. you yelped, the overwhelming amount of ecstasy washing over you. you were so so so close. but he was just barely grazing that spot you so desperately wanted touched.

your hands wrapped around the one arm restricting you, moaning into the air. your walls constricted every few seconds and you cursed like a sailor. your legs struggled to stay open so they closed around farleigh's torso, shaking like a leaf in the wind. you were in heaven.

"f-farleigh– hng– right there...right there–" you cried out. farleigh couldn't take it anymore. he wanted to feel what you were feeling. he finally lap up your juices once more before pulling away. your body immediately relaxed, trembling every few seconds like shockwaves.

"don't worry, were not done yet." farleigh hummed, pulling off his night clothes. he stripped you of your shirt and pushed your thighs back into you, nearly folding you. he had a full view and he made sure you did too. your eyes watched intensely as his tip teased your entrance, gasping as he would almost enter.

"hey, look at me.. look at my eyes only. i wanna see it written all over your face as i enter you." his eyes captured yours and you didn't dare look down at the salacious sight just yet. you nodded as a signal for him to continue, farleigh immediately doing so. your jaw dropped almost immediately. you felt his cock, inch by inch, filling you. but you didn't look just yet, because farleigh's expression nearly made you cum just by looking. his eyes were rolled back just slightly, lips parted and his brows knitted together in a way that made him look so submissive.

"[y/n]–" he shuddered. he broke eye contact first to watch your hole swallow him up, moaning a broken 'oh fuck–.' you looked down too and moaned at such a lewd sight. farleigh held your throat just a little more securely before ramming your cunt in. you moaned his name, and maybe a few 'yes sir's' and 'right there sir's' as he pummeled your pussy.

your core felt tight and hot again. he was hitting that spot perfectly. you couldn't take it anymore.

"im sorry sir– fuck–" you whimpered, letting your first orgasm take over. your eyes rolled back and your walls constricted tightly around farleigh. you mewled and moaned as he didn't stop his pace. your legs shook violently and your vision flashed white.

"slut, you came without permission." farleigh stilled all his movements, watching your hips still buck for more. he pulled out and flipped you over on your stomach, causing you to yelp in surprise.

"well if your going to cum over and over, it might as well be all on my dick.." he concluded. you nodded eagerly, his hand pushing your head down into the pillows. your hole was on full display for him to admire as he thrusted into you again. you wrapped around him perfectly and he wanted to fuck you on the daily. the amount of pleasure you were giving him gave him a head high.

"just like that sir– hng–" you moaned, that sweet spot of yours being the only thing he was hitting. you controlled your breathing so you wouldn't immediately cum again but it gradually became difficult.

“you feel so– fucking– good [y/n]–" farleigh praised between thrusts, moaning into the air above him. his hands gripped your hips firmly so if you tried to run, there was no use. you had to take him like a good girl.

farleigh would slow down occasionally, not to catch his breath, but to watch as your hole basically sucked him off. he would also focus on the physical aspect and how your soft warm walls felt. he'd graze right above your cervix, where your sweet spot was. he'd watch you gasp every time he brushed up against it. he was done playing for his orgasm. he was going to get it now.

farleigh scooted closer to your hips so every thrust got rougher and deeper. you loved every second of it. it felt so good it hurt. thought you were not in pain but in overwhelming ecstasy. your vision got cloudy and your eyes glazed over with tears. your fingers gripped onto the sheets while farleigh had his way with you.

"can i cum please can i cum–" you cried. your entire body shook violently as your core burned for a release. farleighs hips faltered due to being so close. he was ready to burst.

"fuck– cum now baby– cum right on my di–" he groaned. both of you mutually climax. farleigh moaned your name as he pumped you full. he felt dizzy while his hips buckled violently into you every few seconds. you on the other hand, trembled and incoherent, began to cry from overstimulation. you moaned at every post orgasm thrust, trying your best to be good. as soon as farleigh pulled out of you, your body went limp, your whimpers finally getting to farleighs ears.

"baby, baby. c'mere." he coaxed, he gently picked you up and sat you in his lap, kissing your cheeks. you sniffled and giggled lightly, wiping your face.

"im okay sweetheart, i swear." you reassured. farleigh mumbled an ‘i know' before kissing you tenderly. he sat back against the headboard and held you close. when he pulled away, he kept his forehead against yours.

"you did so good, babe." he whispered, causing you to blush. you rubbed your legs together, causing you mewl suddenly. you were still so sensitive and farleigh noticed.

"let me help." he suggested,slowly opening your legs to reveal a grool covered pussy. you whined and closed your thighs on his hand.

"[y/n], trust me." he said, catching your eyes. you share a small moment of silence before opening your legs again. his middle and ring finger gently massaged your overstimulated clit and caused you to hiss. your hips twitch again, grabbing onto his arm in protest.

"im s-sensitive–"

"and rubbing it through the sensitivity usually helps. so breathe, you're doing so good." he planted a kiss on your cheek while the two of you watched his fingers caress you. he kept a steady pace and the sensitivity eventually decreased. you sighed deeply and laid on the brunette chest, enjoying the erotic massage of some sort.

"heh– you were amazing, [y/n]." he smiled at you, taking his fingers and placing them in your mouth. you gladly licked his digits clean of your juices, flushing a pink. you felt like a slut but enjoyed every second of it.

"mm ..lets go again in 20 minutes." you said while getting comfortable in farleighs arms. he laughed at your cuteness before sitting with you in his arms, enjoying the view of the moon in his window. it was going to be a long evening.

© r4vn ²⁰²⁴, do not repost my work.

hope you enjoyed teehee c:

[ghulehunknown]

Papa Headcanons - 💋💑

Day 15 of KINKTOBER is here! 🎃

**WARNING - NSFW**

Also available on AO3!

My headcanons of ~lovemaking~ with the Papas

Primo

Perfectly content to lay on his back and watch you ride, too old and tired to do anything wild and crazy

Had lots of wild sexventures in his youth and is happy to have missionary or cowgirl sex for the rest of his days

Refers to the act as “making love” for general sex, or “fornication” for a quickie

Always conscious about wearing a condom

Lots of kissing and cute pet names

Rarely, if ever, says he loves you but treats you so sweetly you know he does

Switch but mostly a pleasure dom

Won’t stop until you cum

Surprisingly gentle touch

Painfully aware of the size of his member and makes sure to ease into you and makes sure you’re very wet and ready for him

Secondo

Prefers to let you ride him but he controls the motions and speed from the bottom

Also loves spooning you so he can reach around to your front

Has a good read on facial expressions and can generally tell what you’re in the mood for and pays attention to your body language during sex

Comes prepared with toys, lube, condoms, dilators, and other accouterments

Loves to play with your nipples

Leaves you one of his button down shirts to wear afterwards

Indulges in a cigar or cigarette, or a glass of whiskey, in bed with you after

Almost always a dom and will play it rough when you want it

Easily makes you cum multiple times

Wants to service and be serviced by his sub

Loves facefucking you

Terzo

Romantic gestures- lights lot of candles, spreads rose petals on the floor and bed, dims the lights, draws you a bubble bath, sends you roses or a lunch delivery at work

Seduces you all day through texts which include “So what are you wearing? 😼” and “Wanna fuck?”

Has an extensive toy collection

He calls the act fucking but definitely adjusts to the mood/vibe depending on whether you want it slow or fast

Desperate to get you off multiple times

Won’t let himself cum until you have at least once before him

Studies your body’s reactions so he knows when you’re about to have an orgasm

Gets turned on by turning you on

LOTS of foreplay and lots of lube

Consistently asks if you’re comfortable

Likes to switch positions a lot

LOVES doggystyle because it makes him feel bigger

Is relieved when you say you’re on birth control but has condoms in his room and office just in case

Loves cumming inside you but also loves to spill his seed on your chest and see how much you milked him

Switch, but can easily adapt to whatever works in his partner dynamic

Cardinal Copia

Finishes quickly and is a little ashamed about it but is assured when you tell him it’s okay and you know he’s just so turned on by you that he couldn’t help it

Sniffs your underwear you left in his room the night before to get hard again and anticipate the next time

Nearly cums his pants just during the makeout session pre-sex

Carries a condom in his wallet

Wants you to undress him

Surprised and overjoyed if he makes you cum but often confuses your moans as orgasms even if you haven’t yet

Keeps asking “Is this okay?”

Acts like a Casanova IRL but when it’s just the two of you he gets a little shy

Not sure how to incorporate toys but is willing to try

Popia

He absolutely calls it “making love”

Has clear distinctions between just fucking and lovemaking

Absolutely loves facing one another on your sides, one leg hooked over your hip to press you up and down on his cock, so he can look you in the eyes and kiss your face

Loves missionary too

Almost more excited for foreplay and the chance to see you naked than (penetrative) sex

Whispers “I love you, I love you” while kissing your face

Switch; wants to fuck you and also get fucked

Proud if he can get you off multiple times in one session

Can sense if something is wrong or you’re uncomfortable and will stop immediately

Lowkey begging you to peg/top him since you started dating. He’s never tried it but wants you to dominate him

Enjoys cumming inside you because he’s never felt closer to another human than in that intimate moment. The first time he said he loved you was when he came inside you for the first time

[fkinavocado]

put a price on emotion

The Honourable Judge Styles has a dark secret. He prides himself on being notorious for his cutthroat sense of justice. But is he really any better than the ones he imprisons? Or is he a victim much like the ones he acquits?

Put a price on emotion - Masterlist, Author’s Notes & Warnings 

Prologue (important part to the story so please make sure you read the prologue first!) / alternatively, read on wattpad

Chapter 1 (word count: 3.5k)

Harry knew this was one of the last cases he’d be presiding in Chicago. He never stayed in one place for more than 2-3 years at a time. Sure the paperwork was gruelling but he preferred it over having to be stuck in the same place for too long. 

He also couldn’t stay, even if he wanted to. It was only that long until people started figuring out that this judge wasn’t exactly… ageing.

So every decade or so, Harry had to not only switch states/ countries (that he did every few years), but take up a whole new identity, from scratch. He’d build a stellar career from scratch. He’d done it, time and again. Luckily, he knew how to work the ropes to make it seamless. But it was tiresome, for sure. He’d always kept his given name, switching up his surname. The bar exam was child’s play at this point.

He wondered how long till he’d grow tired of this, too. Before being a judge, he’d been a crime investigator. That had lasted for well over 50 years. He was getting close to that number again, presiding over cases. 

He didn’t know if he’d pick it up again after Chicago, or if it was time to switch it up again. He’d decided to take a bit of time off to see where “life” took him next.

He mulled over all of this back in his chambers, after he’d removed his cloak and lit up a cigarette. Nasty habit, to be sure, but since he couldn’t exactly develop lung cancer he figured, what’s the harm?

He’d taken a lover once that really didn’t like the smell- but she found it incredibly hot when he smoked, and with her out of the picture there really wasn’t any reason not to indulge from time to time. He of course couldn’t develop an addiction to nicotine, either.

What he did have an addiction for, to his dismay, was blood. He could go for a long time without it nowadays, but still he needed to get his fill soon, he could feel it. 

Usually, if he was really busy, he’d resort to blood bags. Ever the walking cliche, he had a friend working in a hospital that provided him with the necessary amount should he need it. 

But that was a last resort kind of situation. Because as much as Harry disliked most of what being a vampire entailed, he did enjoy the thrill, the chase, the very laborious ritual of preying on his next victim, seducing them and then having them succumb to his charm.

Because, yes, Harry seduced his victims. He didn’t like calling them that, but he supposed it was a morally grey area that he’d needed to make amends with early on in his “existence”. He’d battled with feelings of guilt for the longest time, but he came to realize that the only person he was hurting in doing so was himself.

His victims were never aware of what he was using them for. He’d feed from them without them ever knowing. Sometimes these victims were one night stands, sometimes they were lovers like the woman who lowkey liked his smoking. 

But he never got serious with anyone, for obvious reasons. Just because his heart wasn’t beating anymore didn’t mean he didn’t have one still.

And if he was being honest with himself, nobody really did it for him anymore. He could see things much more clearly as a vampire, could see things for what they were, and most of the time, things just weren’t that great up close as they appeared to be from a distance. He grew tired of his lovers, bored even, and he knew it was unfair to them, but he had so much more life experience, so much more wisdom and emotional maturity that it made it hard finding someone that would intrigue him anymore. How could he ever expect someone with a few decades under their belt to ever match up to his centuries?

Thankfully, that didn’t really get in the way of his sex life. Because that, he could never tire of. Centuries of experience didn’t dampen his libido, if anything, it kept fueling it. 

Harry enjoyed being good at what he did. Be it in the courtroom, or the bedroom. He also enjoyed being in charge. Notice a pattern, there? 

He didn’t feed from all his sexual partners. He always saved it for particularly enticing lovers, nowadays. Because he always drank from them in the throes of climax, after he’d made them come over and over again, he’d finally give in and absolutely loved combining his delayed release with the sweet nectar his partners provided him, particularly after flooding their bloodline with endorphins. It was the biggest high.

He sighed, returning to his notes he’d taken that afternoon, thinking to himself he’d probably have to resort to his friend at the hospital this time around. He just hadn’t found anyone… biteable, as of late. 

He wasn’t the kind of vampire to just feed off of anyone, he wasn’t a brute, after all. He had his standards.

But his ability to stay focused was starting to decline. He knew the telltale signs all too well by now. He needed to feed in order to operate at a functional level, ideally at an efficient level.

The way he had to make a conscious effort to focus on the notes and not let his mind wander off was quite telling. He kept thinking about the young woman, and how he was worried she’d sabotage her own case with her apparent dismissal of her attorney’s advice. 

It was a simple case of self defence. If she played her cards right, she’d make it easy for him to issue the verdict in her favour. 

But why did he have a feeling it wasn’t going to be that easy?

Even if he was planning on going under the radar soon, he still couldn’t issue a verdict that would be, at least apparently, unjust. And if she didn’t heed her attorney’s advice, it just might be the case.

He decided to call it a day and head home. He’d see what he could make of it all after the next hearing, when the young woman would testify and also some eye witnesses would take the stand.

He did stop by a bar he frequented on the way. Just on the off chance someone caught his eye. No luck, though.

He decided to give it a few more days before he called his friend at the hospital. He could muster through, he knew he could.

Or was it that he tricked himself into thinking he could? Was it maybe that he’d had his eye on someone all along, and therefore automatically excluded all the other possibilities? 

And maybe it was deeper than that? Maybe he should’ve paid more heed to what others have always warned him of? Sometimes it wasn’t as simple as it seemed. 

Sometimes bonds were formed. 

*

“Defense counsel, you may present your case.” 

The young woman’s attorney nodded to the judge. “I call Grace Gwyneth Cohen to the stand.”

Grace walked to the witness stand and the bailiff approached her as she was about to be seated. “Raise your right hand. Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.”

“State your name.”

“Grace Gwyneth Cohen.”

“Miss Cohen, let’s go way back,” her lawyer approached the bench and the young woman listened intently. Harry noted she seemed a bit more likely to cooperate with her attorney today, which pleased him. It would make his job infinitely easier. “First, let’s get an idea about why you were at this bar to begin with. A lovely young woman such as yourself, surely you don’t find yourself in such dingy places normally…”

“Objection! Irrelevant.”

Harry raised an eyebrow to the plaintiff. The defence hadn’t even started yet and already this guy was breathing down his neck. “Sustained.”

Grace’s attorney turned his attention back to his client, continuing “And even if you did frequent this sort of establishments, that doesn’t have to mean anything, of course. I’m just saying, it’s not your usual scene, is it?”

“I guess not.”

“You only went that night because you were meeting up with someone you’d met online, is that correct?”

“Yes. A client.”

Harry didn’t miss the attorney’s deadpan. This was surely not the way he had intended it to go. “A client. Let’s go over what you do for a living, then, shall we, Miss Cohen?”

“Sure.”

“You’re a sex worker. Is that correct?”

“No.”

Harry took note of the attorney’s clenched jaw once more. 

“What would you call what you do, then?”

“I’m not really sure, but I’m no prostitute.”

“Sex workers aren’t prostitutes. There’s a wide foray of services that fall under that category but don’t include an actual sexual act. Let’s see if what you do falls under this category. I believe the proper term would be that you’re a “cam girl”, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Which basically means, you record yourself for a paying audience, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you undress for your audience?”

“Depends.”

“How so?”

“Well if you’re asking if I’m ever in the nude, then the answer is no. I don’t ever take off all my clothes. I tease them a little, but there’s never been any nudity.”

Harry furrowed his eyebrows. How she ever got people to actually watch without her ever fully undressing was intriguing. Not to mention earn a living out of this.

“Do you only get undressed with clients you meet up with?”

“No.”

“Wasn’t this why you were meeting up with this client at the bar that night?”

“That’s what he thought was going to happen. In reality, I was planning to string him along for a bit, hopefully get him to give me some money in the hopes that I would give him more than he saw of me online.”

“Is this your only source of income?”

“At the moment, yes, because I’m a student. My curriculum doesn’t leave me with enough time even for a part time job with a fixed schedule. So I have to… freelance. I tried a number of remote jobs before I opened my onlyfans. I get to keep my anonymity, I never show my facial characteristics online, I get to make up my own schedule depending on what little free time I have and so I thought… it wouldn’t hurt to at least give it a try. I didn’t expect for anyone to chip in considering I don’t even fully undress, but surprisingly, I do have people stream my live shows. I haven’t really had time this month to stream, because I’ve had exams to study for. So money was tight. This guy was in my inbox begging for me to meet up with him. Again… I had no intention of actually going all the way with him, at most I thought maybe I’d earn a free meal out of it. I didn’t want to offer a private show for him instead either, didn’t want to risk leaving any digital footprints… I deliberately chose that pub, it’s a crowded place on a Saturday night. Figured it would be… safe.”

“But it wasn’t safe, was it, Miss Cohen? Going back to the night in question. You had set up a meeting with one of your online clients. Had any promises been made beforehand as to what would happen during this meeting?”

“I’d vaguely alluded to the possibility of more happening, but no promises had been made, no.”

“Would you mind giving us a rundown of what happened, exactly, at the bar?”

“Of course. I met up with him at the Silver Church, on the evening of the 27th of July, at 8. He said his name was Dave, and that he’d be waiting for me at the bar. When I greeted him, I immediately had an unsettling feeling about him, but I still tried to play the “date” to my advantage somehow and try and see if I could milk some money off of him. I flirted with him but never agreed to go back to his place like he kept insisting. Eventually, I asked him for some money and told him I’d be buying a lingerie set to wear on my next live stream, just for him, and consider going out with him again. He didn’t seem to like that very much, but he did give me the money, eventually. He kept insisting he’d take me back to his place even though I’d made it clear I wouldn’t be doing that, yet. I wasn’t ever planning on going through with it, of course, but I was leading him on. I don’t know if he figured out I was playing him, but he then insisted he’d walk me home. Which of course, was out of the question. I realized he wasn’t going to take no for an answer and I excused myself to use the lady’s room, but in reality, I was looking for a backdoor exit. I figured I’d already gotten my money, and that if I wanted to get rid of him now would be the time to try and make a run for it.

“I made a beeline for an exit I’d spotted at the other side of the bar when I thought he wasn’t looking, and I thought I’d been pretty stealthy and quick, but somehow he caught up to me. Before I knew it, he was right there behind me in that back alley, no one else in sight. I was expecting him to ask where I was going, something of that nature, but instead he outright attacked me!”

“What did you do then?”

“I, well– I don’t remember.”

“Would you say the assault made you lose conscience?”

“Yes, he pounced on me, and bit me –”

“And would you say you hit your head when he jumped you?”

“Yes, but–”

“So you don’t remember defending yourself?”

“Well, no. No, I don’t.”

“That's all. I have no further questions.”

Harry sensed the attorney’s irritation, and how the defendant clearly wanted to say more. He hoped, again, that for her sake she’d not walk right into the trap the plaintiff was no doubt setting up for her. “Plaintiff's counsel, do you have any cross-examination of this witness?”

“Yes, your honour. Miss Cohen, I couldn’t help but notice how you wanted to say something when your attorney so rudely interrupted.”

“Objection!”

“Sustained. Your point, plaintiff?”

“Just trying to get the full picture, here, your honour. Going back to the night of the murder, Miss Cohen. You mentioned Mr. Montgomery attacked you. Bit you, I believe is the term you used. Why would a grown man bite you? Wouldn’t there be other alternative ways, more effective ways of stopping you from leaving the club?”

“That’s what I thought as well. I was shocked by his action, I was expecting him to force himself on me but he went straight for my neck and bit… hard.”

“Why do you suppose he’d do such a thing”

“Objection!”

Harry sighed, knowing he had no choice but to let her get to her point. He already knew what she was going to say, by the look in her eyes. 

The same terror he’d seen in them that fateful night.

“Overruled.”

Grace had gone pale, her gaze had zoned out. Eventually she spoke out, her voice shaking, not at all similar to the tone she’d accustomed the court thus far. “It’s because… because he was… a vampire.”

The court gasped in unison in shock, and Harry had to exercise his gavel for the first time that evening. “Order! Order in the court!”

The judge had to insist on reinstating decorum and then the plaintiff resumed. “A… vampire. Just for the record, Miss Cohen. Your statement is that Mr. Montgomery was a vampire?”

She nodded reluctantly. “I know how this sounds. I know! But he didn’t just bite me… no, he… his eyes, his clear blue eyes turned pitch black. In the blink of an eye. When he lunged at me, his fangs were… on full display. It was only a fraction of a second before he lunged at me, but there was no mistaking what I saw. Trust me, his canines were perfectly normal over at the bar. So were his eyes. And the pain… the piercing pain he inflicted when his fangs tore the skin on my neck… I can still feel it sometimes. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”

Harry watched as she instinctively brought her nimble fingers to the side of her neck, tracing the skin there. 

The plaintiff cleared his throat, barely masking his amusement. “What happened then, Miss Cohen? Did he drink your blood?”

“Objection! Leading question!”

“I… like I said, I don’t remember. He tackled me to the ground. I must’ve either hurt my head or just passed out from the… assault.”

“So… you don’t remember fighting back.”

“No.”

“How do you explain the state in which the two of you were found then?”

“I… don’t know…”

“For the record, a member of the club’s staff was taking out the trash in the back alley when he stumbled upon what appeared to be two people lying on the ground. One of them severely injured. And that person wasn’t you. No, Miss Cohen, when the ambulance arrived they performed a thorough physical examination both on site and later at the hospital, and concluded you weren’t injured. In fact they couldn’t find so much as a scar on you.”

The court gasped in unison again and the judge gave them a warning look without having to use the gavel.

“Mr. Montgomery, on the other hand, wasn’t as lucky. He was declared dead, killed by a puncture to his heart inflicted by a switchblade.”

“Order!”

Grace watched as if in slow motion how the people in the court switched from looking at her with curiosity to giving her accusatory glances, and she couldn’t help but let tears well up in her eyes. She faintly heard the judge’s gavel but not even that could steady her beating heart. She had pleaded not guilty at the counsel of her attorney, but the truth was… she didn’t know what the truth was.

She must’ve been in shock, her memory of the incident completely blocked as a defence mechanism or something. The last thing she remembered was hitting the ground, the vampire hovering over her. She definitely did not remember stabbing him, hell, she’d never even seen that switchblade before. She’d have recognized it if it was hers. She did carry a pepper spray but she of course had no chance to retrieve it, the guy had been on her within the blink of an eye, his morphed features shocking her into a frozen stupor. 

Initially she thought she might have done it in self defence, and the shock was just blocking her memory of it. But then the lab concluded that her fingerprints weren’t on the switchblade. In fact, it had been wiped clean. 

She couldn’t fathom ever going through the trouble of doing all that, and not flee the scene of the crime at least if she was trying to conceal her actions.

Nothing added up. The rest of the interrogation was a blur. She was taken back into custody until the next hearing. Back in her cell, but somewhere nicer than where she was headed- she was always reminded by whomever escorted her there.

She was left alone with her thoughts yet again, back to staring at those barren walls and trying to make sense of all that was happening to her, trying to make peace with the fact that this was probably what the rest of her life would be like.

Harry was staring at a much different wall, a wall decorated in all his accolades and honorary achievements back in his chambers. But he had the same thing on his mind.

This was unjust, and the feeling made his skin crawl. He wasn’t used to such a feeling. The only time he’d felt that before was when he’d been robbed of his own life, just like Grace was getting robbed of hers. 

He kicked his feet off his desk and grabbed his briefcase, deciding to head home. His hand hovered over the light switch, pausing before he finally left.

He’d find a way, but it just might be that it would have her live in limbo for the rest of her life, not unlike himself.

A/N: hints and smoke and mirrors, aka a slow burn cuz y'all know me 😅

beta’d by the lovely @adorebeaa ❤️

💕 like & reblog if you’re enjoying this, lovelies, and most importantly, please come share your thoughts on it here 💌

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[crazyqueenmoon]

LEADING A TIGER

Atsushi x Fem! Secretary, both mid-20s

Setting: 1960s AU

TW: sexism, mentions of s*xual harassment, CW: Drinking, smoking, implied NSFW stuff

!MINORS DO NOT READ!

So I’ve gotten back to watching the rest of Mad Men after so long. Though I haven’t finished it, it’s definitely a show I’ve found myself loving and find kinda similar to BSD in terms of its themes and workplace setting. Though they’re TOTALLY different as shows. Mad Men has no action, gore, or flashy characters and is 100% grounded in real life, so if you can’t be down with that stuff in a live-action show, expect to be bored AF. I’ve come it with some head-cannons around the 1960s. Also, Joan is one of my favorite female characters ever and I love Atsushi. Their personalities are completely opposite from each other, and this idea of Atsushi being this new employee at the ADA being shown around the office by a tsunderish secretary and them falling in love was just begging to be written, so here it is:

• The ADA would be like the Sterling Cooper office but with far less drama and gossip. The office would still look nice, but not nearly as nice

• You’re the badass, snarky head secretary of the ADA, refusing to settle for anyone’s BS. The Agency would not function without you helping all the higher-ups and you have a multitasking ability which allows secretarial tasks that typically take 8 hours to be completed in 10 seconds

• Unfortunately, most people have a hard time taking you seriously when it comes to your ambitions and underestimate your intelligence.

• BC it is the 1960s we’re talking about, unfortunately some of your male coworkers will be sexist a-holes that believe women aren’t supposed to be in higher positions/ ask for raises and should accept where they’re at and not be so demanding:

-Kunikida would say this to you after he got overhears you saying that you ought to be promoted. (I know you all love Kunikida and talk about how he drinks Respect Women juice, but this is 1960s Kunikida we’re talking about NOT Regular Kunikida. Plus Regular Kuni does kind of conduct himself in an old-fashioned way, so it doesn’t surprise me.

-You can expect Dazai to harass you and hit on you every single day unfortunately. He’ll also joke about how you’ve only gotten the job BC you offered Fukuzawa s*xual favors even though he’s well aware that’s not the case at all. But he will shut his goddamn mouth and behave in front of you once Fukuzawa or Kunikida is in sight. You’ve also learned some good comebacks from Yosano that’ll leave him terrified of you for the rest of the day. Interactions between you two will go something a little like this:

You: ‘I wanna be on top.’

Dazai: ‘Of me, dollface? Come on, now. Don’t be so feisty at work!’

You: ‘Of the company.’

Dazai: *laughs* ‘You’re gonna be a secretary for the rest of your life. That’s you’re fate, as a working woman. I don’t make the rules. But if you don’t like being a secretary, you can be mine instead.’

-Tanizaki also laughs when you mention this to him. He won’t make lewd comments about you or act domineering like Kunikida and Dazai do, but consider him trash as well.

-You tried to seduce Fukuzawa as a way to get promoted, but he noped immediately. He thinks of you as a daughter, and engaging in quid pro quo behavior completely goes against his values. He hires you because you’ve got the right skills and bc of your hard work, but doesn’t think you’re ready for a promotion combined with some sexist biases.

-Kenji respects you as his elder and superior. He wouldn’t really have any opinions on you being a leader, but even if he thought the same as all your male coworkers, it wouldn’t really bother you or frustrate you that much.

-Ranpo’s probably the only man in the office who isn’t dismissive of your ambitious tendencies, though he’s not necessarily a cheerleader about it. He’s more of a ‘Yeah, you’d be good at it, I guess’ kind of guy at most.

• You also smoke cigarettes a lot. You need them the way Ranpo needs his snacks, and it’s the only way you can calm yourself down.

•You’re filling in for Kunikida’s secretary today BC she’s sick. He calls you into his office, introducing you to your new employee, Atsushi Nakajima.

• “He’s the weretiger that he spent all night looking for, and now he’ll be working with us.”

• “Working with us?” you ask coolly. “Who’s idea was it, to employ a shapeshifter of all ability users?”

• “The president’s,” says Kunikida. “Should I report to him you doubted his decisions, Y/N?”

• “No need to,” you answer. “If it’s what president decrees, then I can expect it to be good.”

• Atsushi’s in awe as he looks at you pulling out a cigarette as you’re glaring.

• “Show the new guy around for the next hour,” says Kunikida, impatiently pushing a startled Atsushi from behind. “And cancel my 2 PM appointment! I won’t get it done with all these documents to read.”

• “Yes, Mr. Kunikida,” you scoff rolling your eyes.

• “Um, ma’am?” Atsushi asks. “Are you okay?”

• “Yes, I’m okay,” you say icily. “Now how about you shut up so I can give you the damn tour, tiger man? Could you do that for for me?”

• He nods quickly and walks behind you.

• “This is where you’ll be sitting,” you say, pointing to a small desk with a typewriter and a pen holder. It’s also facing a gray wall with no window. “Not pictureresque, I know. Though a chump like you should consider yourself lucky getting a desk with a typewriter. Now that you’re part of the Agency, you’d better learn to be punctual and not let your emotions get in the way. Don’t, and you’re left for dead. God knows it’s a pain, but it’s how work gets done around here.”

• Atsushi has no goddamn clue how to use a typewriter, so you have to teach him the whole day, in between passing out documents from Kunikida to the president and vice versa. You give Atsushi your worst frown once the day is done bc of all the stress he’s piled on you.

• On your desk the next day, you find a ‘Thank You’ card and a bouquet of flowers.

• It’s from Atsushi himself. He thanks you for helping him learn how to use a typewriter, and apologizes for upsetting you. Some of the ink is smeared, and he asks you to let him know how he can make it up to you.

•You march up to Dazai’s office holding the card and flowers, telling his secretary you’d like to speak to him shortly. She tells you he’s busy but he insists that she let you in over the intercom.

• “Eager, to see me so early, honey, huh?” he teases as you enter his office. “I knew you’d come through one of these days. You’re making me one lucky man.”

• “Is this some kind of joke, Dazai?” You demand, holding the card and flowers and opening the card.

• Dazai looks at the card and reads it. Handing it back to you. “Oh no, not my doing at all. The one thing I’d never do in a love note to a woman is let the ink get smeared with my tears. You’ve got an admirer Y/N. Atsushi-kun’s in love with you. You heartbreaker you. You’re makin’ me jealous!”

• You spend the whole day wondering if it’s true. As much of a scheming bastard Dazai is, he is good at solving mysteries

• You spend the next two weeks testing out if Atsushi’s got a crush on you, offering him employee training which he surprisingly manages to catch up on

•At this point, YOU’RE the one whose got a crush on him. He’s sweet, friendly, takes you seriously and doesn’t laugh at your goals. He’ll even bring you a treat from the bakery a couple times a week. But you won’t show those feelings to him. When you ask him if he’d like anything in return, he tells you he doesn’t.

• “Y/N, you never asked me what I can do for you in return,” he says.

• “Take me on a date,” you say. “At the Green Palace. 6 PM sharp.”

• “Date?!” he asks, shocked by your answer and how nonchalantly you said it.

• He takes you out and it goes well, eager to foot the bill despite his lowly salary.

• As you spend more time together, you vent to him about how you’re underestimated when it comes to your abilities because of your gender. He doesn’t know what that’s like, but he confides in you about how he’s felt so useless his whole life growing up in the orphanage and during his time at the church shelter. He also thinks it’s ridiculous that all the men at work belittle you, and believes you have what it takes to be in a higher role at the company.

• You’re one of the few people not to judge him for bringing up his traumatic experiences to him, and if he didn’t already trust you in the first place, he’s now given 1000% of it to you.

• You two keep your relationship a secret, though Dazai and Ranpo know. You’ll hear Dazai ask Atsushi personal questions about you two, but luckily Atsushi knows to be careful around him and scoffs at him, telling him it’s none of his business.

• He’ll come over to your apartment after missions to decompress and he’ll try to comfort you too when you’re stressed with work.

• A year into your relationship, you tell Atsushi it’s time everyone knows. He’s hesitant at first, but then agrees to it, and wants you to announce if this is to happen.

• Before announcing to the ADA, Fukuzawa decides to promote you to junior director. It’s got ‘junior’ in it, but it’s a far cry from being secretary and you get your own office. You’re now the only other female employee along with Yosano to have her own office.

• When you’ve announced to ADA, everyone cheers. Kunikida’s surprised, and angry you didn’t inform him about this, but gets over it. Fukuzawa wishes you told him, but approves of Atsushi as a boyfriend to you.

• Surf rock music plays on a record, and everyone gets drunk and hollers.

• “Happy one year together,” Atsushi says softly, holding a small gift bag. “ I got you this. Hope you like it.”

• “A marble bluebird,” you gasp, looking into the bag.

• “You said they’re your favorite birds once,” he says nervously. “I thought it’d be a great gift to give you.”

• “Atsushi…” you mutter. “Thank you.”

• You walk up him and kiss his cheek. His face turns bright red with everyone looking you two.

• “Don’t forget to give me one, too!” Dazai calls out. “It just took a measly glass bird? I’ll get you all of them, Y/N.”

• Kunikida makes a fist towards Dazai and he gets frightened.

• “ You hated my guts, when you first met me,” says Atsushi. “ The last thing I expected was that you’d fall in love with me.”

• “I never hated you, Atsushi,” you say. “ I just hated how I felt. You’ve helped me to believe in myself, and you’re always good to me. I love you, Atsushi.”

• “I-I love you too, y/n,” he stammers. He’s told you every single day, but he wants to say it again anyways. “You‘ve done really great. You deserve all this. Got any orders for me, director?”

• “Follow me to my office,” you jest, smacking his ass.

JFC this is MUCH longer than I thought it’d be. And writing this has kind of made me hate Dazai. But I had a lot of fun, writing this. If you’ve made it all the way here, thank you, thank you, thank you! Please leave a comment and LMK your thoughts.

[siremasterlawrence]

Slave Muscled Daddy Energy

Thomas AKATom has what I absolutely love to call something stronger Slave Muscular Daddy Energy and he has it in spades of springing beauty as he passes me his booty bounces in the sunlight. I want to grab his plump lushes ass aside to have my way with in, giving it a good swat then grove him in a very merciless effort because his legs pull back meeting my knees before he buckles on to my lap. Holing onto his waist as I lean into his neck kissing, nuzzling and stretching his neck biting it a bit as he squirms doing his best to push me back but he is totally under my thrall. Try as he might his eyes are giving it away losing all color, signs of life in them going completely growing duller by the minute because eventually he will grow slack, silent and falling fully in to my body as he succumbs.

“Why? What are you doing to me? Why are you doing this to me?” Tom struggles to say.

“What why? Mwahahahahaha” I tease

“STOP!”

“Or what you pussy?”

“Ooooohhhh”

“Did not see you complaining about that literal insult did I?”

“Fucking bitch”

“Zip it you muscled lawn chair “

“I can’t move “

“Not unless I say so”

“For now I will stand up and you will stay like that”

“Beautiful display really “

“I’m sorry! I live to recreate this “

“You make no sense “

“Men like you are a canvas “

“Easily seduce; too”

“You did nothing of the kind”

“All I did was make it clear “

“Speak English not in riddles”

“Ok smartass! You loved to be admired”

“No! No!”

“Oh yeah! Keep denying it”

“That’s impossible ”

“Why be shy of this incredible body”

“This body is amazing is it not?”

“You see! Easily fooled “

“Damn it! I won’t allow you…..”

“ALLOW Me?” I say smirking a bit as I dig in to my pocket and remove a cigarette case.

It’s is a gold case shining it up as I blow it into the air, flipping it open as I remove the lays cigar light it up.

“I hate smoking, don’t blow it in my face.”

“I despise it too and won’t be smoking it “

“Thank God!”

I laugh a bit throwing it as his feet as it blew up by his foot the smoke rising in it to the air ticking his senses.

“You are twisted”

“Can’t deny that “

“You are enjoying this”

“You think it is enough “

“You poor bitch”

“I ain’t no”

“Bitch? Yes you are “

“You ass is so plump “

“God! It feels good “

“You can’t deny it”

“Admit! My dear do it “

“DO IT!”

“Fine I admit it! You have me caught .”

“Go on!”

“Fuck you Master!”

“You fuck me Master”

“I want you too….”

“Fuck you “

“I submit to you “

“Big man like you ?”

“Means nothing “

“Oh yeah?”

“I am your pussy “

“Get over here”

“Good boi”

“Thank you sir”

“Mwahahahahaha “

The end

[steviewashere]

Decorate My Silence While I Figure Out How to Breathe

(also on ao3)

CW: Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide in a Minor Character, Self-Harm (Without Realizing That's What it is) This is rated mature on ao3 for a handful of reasons, including the content warning. Please take caution and care for yourself.

wc: 10,624 (I know, it's a doozy), Steddie Tags: Post Vecna, Post Season 4, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Steve Harrington is a Mess, Self-Hatred, Worried Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Bathing/Washing, Steve Harrington Has Shit Parents

(I apologize for how long this is, but I just don't feel comfortable separating it into different posts.)

Heed tags and all content warnings, please!

—

The night was silent. Except for the wind. It was whispering in Steve's ears. Muttering soft things, soothing him, blowing air back into his lungs.

He's sitting in his backyard. On his diving board. Jeans cuffed to mid-calf, feet dangling in the cold water, beer between his hands—it wasn't cold at all, pulled straight from the box and warmed with the setting sun. He watched it disappear over the horizon, dipping down between the trees, tucking itself into the soil. He wishes he could do that. Maybe if he could mingle with the worms and the centipedes and the forgotten pinecones, the night wouldn't seem so lonely.

It's July 1st, 1986. Steve's anticipating the onslaught of fireworks. Waiting for the hissing of fuses, billowing of smoke, and shout of color overhead. Over the last week, he's kept his ears on high alert.

In case, he tells himself.

Though it's silent, with the wind brushing against his back, he can hear a heavy accent spitting words between his eyes. Can feel blossoming bruises and fresh, dripping blood. Crunchy hair stuck to his tacky cheeks. Burns across his body from what kept him tied up to Robin.

Speaking of Robin, he wonders how she's doing. What she's doing. Her parents ushered her out of Hawkins to a lake trip. He hopes she can still call. Her voice is constant when he's so absent to the world. Maybe she's in the wind. Maybe she never really left. Maybe she's just as bad off as he is.

He shutters when the wind stops teasing his spine.

It's late. The sun is asleep. His feet are numb from the water. And the beer has been sipped once.

He's not really a beer drinker anymore, not since Barb's death. How did I get here, he wonders.

Steve is sitting alone in his backyard, staring down a beer tab, longing to go under the freshly cleaned water, and sink to the bottom. Lonely and tired and desperate for the phantom touches to go away, that's his life post-Upside Down.

He sips his beer. It fizzes against his lips and leaves a sticky trail under his nose. Drips down his Cupid's bow. Trails across his wobbling lower lip and chin. Then, it settles atop his thumbs, not tracing along the ridge of the can. Sharp under his fingertips, scraping across the sensitive skin, giving him a taste of muted pain.

Terribly he wonders, If I dug a little deeper across the rim, would I bleed? (Maybe he should put the beer away, drain it into the pool, and let it swirl across the surface.) Would I bleed? Would I seduce the monsters below me? Could I be nothing just for the next few days?

He takes a deep breath. Lets it fill out like a balloon and pop between him and the gravestone embracing his feet.

It's late and Steve is tired. Stuck in a dredge as sticky and lukewarm as the beer in his hand. The silver spoon he ate from as a kid digging into his sternum, melon-balling his cigarette stained lungs and beaten, but broken heart, ladling his blood like pasta sauce, and pouring it across the world for all of Hawkins to see. For the demogorgons to taste. For the people he calls his friends to stumble upon, gag over because it's the essence of Steve Harrington spattered across the poolside, and scrub at like taping over a wedding video.

He aches and sizzles. Burns and shrivels. Drinks and drowns.

Nothing bad is going to happen again. Nothing as dangerous as having to pull Eddie Munson from the Upside Down, protect Robin Buckley from Russians with sharp teeth and blunt force, save young Lucas Sinclair from Billy Hargrove, and defend oneself from being eaten alive—by bats and friends and own self-hatred.

Nothing terrible is going to happen again. So, why does Steve Harrington want to throw himself into danger so bad, why does he yearn for it, why can't he feel bad for himself? What does he do if the person he needs to protect the world from is him?

Let the fireworks come, Steve threatens. Let them rain upon me. I can't care anymore.

---- Steve wakes up in his bed the next morning. Unaware of how he even got to his room.

The sunlight is pouring through his window, spilling across the carpet, and staining his duvet. It's warm. Makes his skin itch and burn.

He's still tired, he finds. Aches erupt behind his eyes, under his thumbs, across his cheekbones. Fresh bruises. Belts digging into skin. Blood across his drooping eyelids. Everything hurts and tenses and rips into him.

The spoon digs deeper. Closer to his bare back. Travels to the bottom of his ribs. Scrapes against every bone in his abdomen, squelches every inch of his intestines. He wants to scream, but the energy to pull sound from his lungs hurts.

In the sun drenched room, warmed by rays and birdsong and gentle sway of trees, Steve wants to disappear into the world. Melt into his mattress, if possible. He wants to sit straight in his bed, hands cupping under his chin, mouth gaping with saliva, and project acrid yellowish beige puke across his fingers, escaping through the gaps to his lap. Wants to sit in the mess for a long while and realize, there's no point in cleaning himself up if he's going to do it again.

There's no point in a lot of things post-Vecna. The party is almost the same age he was when all this shit had started, they're about ready to run off and rebel against the damned world they swore to protect. Robin and Nancy and Jonathan are leaving to go to school. Eddie will surely go off and do his own thing, always too big for such a small town. His parents weren't present before and they've already communicated they won't come back.

So where does that leave Steve? The kid who had everything laid out for him. A future promised by his name. Friends who were on par with him; not that his new friends aren't, they just are bigger and better than what he could ever imagine for himself. He doesn't deserve them or this current life he has.

He's decided, he doesn't deserve anything. All his life he's been handed the better deck of cards. Been boasted over. Has been a bully though and through; major aggressions like the breaking of Jonathan's camera, minor aggressions like threatening to knock Dustin's teeth out, a joke that would have never landed. Got Barb killed by his own selfish needs and tired to persuade Nancy to move on; that was too fast and he knows that now. If only I hadn't been so stupid, he muses. Couldn't get into college. Or make his parents proud. Has nearly gotten other people killed too.

I should've died, he laments. Which, shouldn't that be true? The demogorgon in 1983, those demodogs and Billy in '84, Russians in '85, bats and Vecna in '86. He had every chance to get himself killed, to show that he's done his job, that he's taken the hits for the people that mean so much more than whatever pathway he's dug. He couldn't even do that right.

And now...now it's just a countdown to the next thing that could get him killed. Hoping for once, that nobody goes after him or is there to be his aid. To let him slither away, be beaten beyond pulp, and pulled apart like pork. Even then, would his killers be satisfied? But he knows he should die.

Maybe he can conspire that in his bed. Where he doesn't move from. Maybe a stray firework will come crashing through his bedroom window. He hopes that it will explode and drench him in stray fire. Hellfire, drown me in hellfire, he wants to beg to nobody in particular.

Steve rolls to face away from the window. He wraps the blanket tighter over his shoulders and buries his face into the pillow. It smells like night terrors. The skin on his face is slick with sweat. Torso ripped by scars. He doesn't want to move. Isn't hungry. Isn't thirsty. Doesn't want anybody to find him.

He doesn't have much energy, but he forces himself out of bed. Only to go down to his front door, hide the key on his porch, and lock it behind him. He pulls shut all the curtains. Climbs the stairs like a mountain and slams the bedroom door behind him.

In hindsight, maybe he should call someone to say that he's sick or something. That he wants to be left alone. He doesn't though. Maybe he should shower and eat and force himself to have a good day. But he doesn't. Won't.

Can't. That's going to be his favorite word. And who's going to shut him up? Nobody. They can't.

---- It's July 4th.

Steve hasn't left his room in two days. Well, only three times to use the bathroom. But otherwise, he's kept his promise. Successfully made himself a shadow, a silent specter.

When the phone rings, he covers his ears. Everything is so loud, he realizes. The fireworks and neighborhood kids screaming. Cars driving by. Even the smell of smoking barbecues, which really doesn't make sense, but it's so much.

His stomach growls, but his limbs are stiff. Unable to shift and get food. At the very least crackers or soup. Even then, he can't.

Steve's starting to smell ripe. Which is pretty unusual for a guy so high maintenance. The mere thought of standing under a shower stream or having to strip his clothes or having to even turn the bathroom light on is, daunting, to say the least. There's only ten feet between him and the upstairs bathroom and even then, he only goes for emergencies.

With the way he smells, he could envision himself rotting. Turning green from the outside. Turning red and mushy on the inside. If a mirror were placed in front of him, he could watch the way his eyes turn white and glassy. See the areas of his skin that are burned red from the pooling of his blood. He could watch the life literally leave his body. He could watch his body warp into spirit and then continue to haunt his childhood home. I've already rotted, he thinks. I'm already a ghost.

The phone rings and rings. His fingernails dig into the soft flesh around his ears. He pulls at the roots of his hair. Grips to his biceps and squeezes. Makes himself hurt over and over and over again. To escape his senses. To feel something else.

There's an emptiness where his lungs are. It's sucking down every bit of his insides. Enveloping him in a dry-heaved breath. Where he would usually cry and swallow down his guilt over how he's survived, there's nothing. He feels every last awful thing of himself, but not the tears. Can blink and be spitting in Jonathan's face. Take a deep breath and be recommending Tina's party to Nancy. Bite his lip and hear the way Dustin's name spill from his mouth to the Russian bastards. And he can rub across his skin, feel the way his scars aren't as deep as Eddie's. But he can't cry. Can't make himself feel better. And he doesn't know if that'll ever be a possibility for him again, if he's stuck this way. If he'll be forever broken. Ruined.

Because this is new to Steve Harrington. Not once has he ever felt so in the dark about himself. But now that the fights are over and everybody is safe and living as large as possible...Now he's left with what didn't happen, what should've happened, with the question on the tip of his tongue: Why am I still here? And he can feel himself crumble under the weight of his own breath. And though he's miserable, he aches to feel this way forever.

This is karma. This is what he deserves, right?

---- A rustle and drop break Steve out of pulling his hair.

There's something downstairs in his home. It could be a demogorgon or a demodog or a demobat or Vecna. Something dangerous could be lurking in house. But he can't pull himself up to find his nailed bat. Can't come to his dull senses and put his fists in front of his face.

He can't pretend to care.

Footsteps cause a stampede on his stairs. Heavy with each step. Loud on purpose. To alert Steve most likely, but he can't bring himself to be alarmed.

The thing hasn't even made it to his bedroom door. But all he can feel, for once over the last few days, is relieved. This is his moment of release. The moment that should've come during the first Upside Down encounter; Steve Harrington's untimely demise.

He holds his breath. Untangles his fingers and lets them drop across the pillow. He swallows all the saliva pooling in his mouth.

The door swings wide open and a breath is released into the air.

Nothing happens after that. The thing's presence is standing in his doorway, but it doesn't move or breathe or prowl. It assesses, but doesn't do anything else.

Steve doesn't drown in a pool of his blood or get ripped to shreds or strangled by a rope-like tail.

He cracks his eyes open. And there, watching his form, is Eddie Munson.

Eddie's hair is wiled, more untamed than his everyday. Like it was in the Upside Down. As if he fought to get over to Steve's house. His clothes are nothing usual. Sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, Reeboks still on his feet. There isn't a jacket or a vest or several chains. He's normal, regular citizen, must've rolled out of bed, Eddie.

When his eyes finally meet Steve's, he whispers, "Oh, thank God." He even does the Sign of the Cross with his eyes closed, finishing by kissing the edge of his t-shirt's collar, where a cross would lay. His eyes reopen to gaze at Steve once more. "Oh, thank God," he fervently presses into the air.

His eyes are too intense. Steve looks away without speaking. He buries himself further into his blanket and stabs his fingernails back into the meat of his biceps.

Eddie hastily makes his way to the side of the bed that Steve lays on. He slowly crouches down to land on his knees. Brings his hands up to lay on the space between Steve's heated body and the spare room on his mattress. His eyes roam. They map every exposed bit of skin, the drooping, greasy hair, rumpled clothes. He reaches outa hand to lay atop Steve's, to try and pull his fingers away.

Steve flinches backwards and growls, "Don't."

"Okay," Eddie placates. He pulls his hands back towards the edge of the mattress. Lets there be distance between them. Steve hates it, but he can't express that. There's no way he can express anything other than apprehension. "I just," he stammers. "I came to check on you. The backdoor was unlocked. You weren't answering your phone and both Robin and I were getting worried."

His voice is soft and sad and concerned. It makes Steve's skin itch.

"Well, you're here," Steve flatly states. "And I'm alive."

Eddie is taken aback by the tone of his voice. He winces like he was slapped. And maybe the lack of intensity, yet the severe intensity of Steve's voice, really has that power.

"Well apologies, asshole," he spits back. "But when somebody in the group doesn't fucking answer, we tend to get worried. We thought you weren't alive," he barks. He pushes his body up and looms at his full height. With one last look thrown in Steve's vague direction, he makes his way to the door.

Steve knew he couldn't say anything in return. Not yet, at least. Because how would he respond to that? "I wish I was dead. Sorry for worrying you, but I think you'd be terrified to know what I'm thinking about."

So instead of saying something as treacherous as any of those responses, his body betrays him differently.

Right before Eddie crosses the threshold to go back into the hallway and down the stairs, Steve lets out a wounded whimper. He lets several loose into the tense air. Maybe he will cry, he can't, but it could happen, but it can't, and it will, but he so badly wishes it wouldn't.

"Steve?" Eddie whispers over his left shoulder, eyes pierced to where the lump of his friend stiffens with every sound. He feels his heart breaking like a brick wall struck by a wrecking ball. His ribs are collapsing. His heart is sifting through stomach acid to try and float back to his chest.

Steve's body convulses with every breath. He stammers, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm s-sorry." Over and over until each word is unintelligible. "Don't go," he pleads between each staccato intake.

He feels warmth crowd over him. Like the sun. There's a hand hovering over his shivering shoulders. But it doesn't touch him. As if, to Eddie, it can't.

"Sweetheart..." he coos sadly. "What's wrong?" He watches Steve's face turn red. Sees the tremble of his eyelids as it tries to contain whatever pressure is building there. How his chin wobbles.

Steve doesn't really respond. He mutters "Wrong" on repeat and "Dunno," but each word is slurred. Eddie sits down and asks to touch him, when he gets a nod in return, his hand digs into the greasy hair. He lightly scratches his scalp. Untangles knots. Repositions certain strands of hair to where they'd normally sit.

Eddie notes how pale Steve is. The indents of fingernails on his biceps and areas of red, irritated skin where his hand teases hair. How wrinkled his pajama bottoms are, indicating how long they've been worn. His hair is an easy giveaway. He can hear his stomach growl. He realizes how resigned and numb Steve appears. The way there's no other emotion on his face outside of accepted misery.

He sweeps his hand to cover Steve's exposed right ear. His thumb is careful as it caresses his cheekbone.

"I don't know what's happening, but I've got you, Stevie." And as if that was all the permission Steve needed, he begins to sob. Wet and congested and rough. "I've got you," Eddie whispers. Soft like the wind.

Every screeching sound leaving Steve's barren chest ripples through the air like an ocean in a storm. Each gasp rocks Eddie's body and settles tense like a fresh scream. The noises are that of several sheep being slaughtered brutally by the hands of unkind men. Calloused is his breathing. Innocent are his cries.

The spoon has cleared all the way through Steve. In its wake is a gaping, frayed crater. Each seize of his lungs squirts blood halfway across his room. If he squints, there's droplets the size of beads bedazzling over Eddie's left side. The sprays seep into his clothes and harden the carpet and stain his closet door. In every part of the house, though he's been cooped up in his room, Steve can feel his soul being ripped apart and strewn over; every corner occupied with pre-1983 him and every seam in the hardwood now glued by the residual sweat from his last run through the Upside Down. The carpet contains his footprints. But his room is a slaughterhouse; in his bed is him, the version of Eddie pre-occupied by the last swirl of demobats, but by his dresser is Nancy fresh from the pool, and out his window is Barb grasping to a cement edge, being dragged by her feet, and taken for all she both was and wasn't. His house is a morgue and a graveyard and a funeral home; it's a last resting place and a crime scene. There's death everywhere.

And that's why it would be perfect, right? For Steve to rot there?

He has been. He still is. He can't stop.

When the room has fallen silent, so has every emotion Steve could possibly feel. His eyes burn like they always do after he cries. But, his chest is loose, yet tight. There's a new hollowness to him. And it's exhausting every stretch of his muscles.

Eddie is still caressing his face like he's something worthwhile. He's gentle. Even if he's usually boisterous in conversation, violent in his mannerisms, brash across his clothes.

Steve's breath quakes in his throat as he chokes, "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Eddie whispers. "You needed that, it's alright."

He shakes his head at that. "No, I'm sorry for being so mean," he swears. "I didn't mean it, I didn't mean to be that way, I didn't," he garbles and gargles and drowns.

The hand on his face shifts to his back. It taps across his spine and presses between his shoulder blades. "I know, honey. I know you didn't mean it. You're okay," Eddie coos once more.

"Somethin' is wrong," Steve tells him. "Bad."

Eddie's face glows with fear. His eyes widen as two black holes. Mouth wrinkled downwards. "What do you mean? Do I need to call Joyce?" he tries to not frantically question. Reaches out, too, to grab Steve's right hand, squeezing over his fingers, thumb massaging against his bones.

Steve turns to strangle his face in the pillow. Mutters, "No, no, no...with me. Not Vecna, just me."

And then there's silence. Nothing now. The wind is stagnant. Eddie's hands have stilled.

Steve isn't sure what to do with so much swirling inside of him. What he's willing to let spill across his mattress. If there's a way to go back in time to when Eddie was just about to leave, stomping out the front door, and for his underwhelming, sad, decomposing body to be left here; he wants to figure out that science.

"Steve," Eddie calls. "Can you tell me what's wrong? Maybe I can help you out." He continues to rub Steve's back. Squeezes the hand he's holding too.

He waits a while to hear a response. Steve is still pressed into the pillow. But he positions his face to look out over the side of his bed, not looking directly at Eddie, though it's nearly the same.

"My body hurts," he whispers. He inhales as deep as he possibly can, exhaling what feels like shards of crumbled glass. "And I'm heavy," Steve states. "Like...like somebody set a cement block on me. And I can't get up." His voice is small and worn and stretched thin.

Eddie acknowledges by humming and rubs against the veins in Steve's hand.

"But I also don't want to get up? Not in the lazy way, but in the..." he trails off. His breath catches in his throat, knocking around the tunnel of his windpipe. There's a ruthless, scalding burn settling in his chest. "In a way that would make a lot of people unhappy, but I can't stop thinking about it. And I know maybe I shouldn't think that way, but it won't go away. And I wonder..." He doesn't finish.

"What kind of thoughts, Stevie? What are you wondering?" Eddie calmly asks. Inside though, he knows the answer. Has heard it before from his own mother. Came across her in the after of those aforementioned thoughts, seen the way life had been cruel. How life chose, so full heartedly, to take goodness from the Earth.

"Why does it happen to good people?" He had asked Wayne at one point. His uncle's response, "I'm not sure, Bubba. I wish I could tell you." And Eddie had whined, "That's not fair." Wayne responded, "I know Ed. I know."

So, though Eddie could relay to you the words he knows are building in Steve's chest, he's freaking out. Trying to connect the dots as to when this all started. Asking himself if it's possible to go back in time and prevent these horrendous thoughts from building inside his friend. Praying too that they may never come, that he can be safe from torment. But none of that can happen, won't, wouldn't. He'll forever be stuck in a time where he's met Steve Harrington as a great person to the universe, where he beats himself internally for things outside of his control, where he walks across hot coal just to make himself feel alive.

"I wonder if—if maybe dying would make it stop," Steve admits, shamefully. "I think I've been wanting it for so long that it doesn't surprise me, but I've never felt like this." Eddie's fingers begin to tremble from how hard they grasp to Steve's slick skin. "I can't stop it and I think I deserve it, Eddie. I really do."

His body nearly seizes with the intensity of his breathing, willing himself to not cry. He's never been so ashamed to be the person he is. And the person he isn't. Every word cuts across the roof of his mouth and scrapes against his lips. He wants to be evaporated into the hole in his chest. Waits, practically, for the universe to collapse in on itself now that his confession is out in the open.

Instead though, gentle hands continue to traverse his frame. They squeeze passionately at any tense muscle. Not once do they pull away or become sharp in nature or shove him.

"You don't deserve death, Steve. Nobody does. Not for anything like this," Eddie whispers. "I can't say that I know, but I want to understand. And I want to help you not feel so bad."

"Why?" Steve breathes. "I'm not worth that."

"Because you deserve good things. You deserve kindness," Eddie replies, factually. "I'm not sure how to stop those thoughts. But maybe I can help you feel fresher? If you'll let me?" he offers. His eyes are full and earnest, hand still careful, breath warm across Steve's skin where he now bends to gaze into his eyes.

The offer rattles in Steve's skull. Eyes searching over each one of Eddie's features; his beautiful, brown eyes, bulbous tipped nose, his chewed lips, and small freckles; each one reads: "I'm telling the truth, I want to do this." He's never been offered help as large as this. And he hates the way he feels, yet finds he can't do anything about it. This would be good, his brain says. Then you can rest, it adds.

"What did you have in mind?" Steve asks. His eyes drift down to where his hand is being held. He brings his other fingers to tap across the back of Eddie's hand, toying with his sharp knuckles.

Eddie swipes his thumb across Steve's ear. He hums thoughtfully. "I was thinking of running you a bath. So that you can sit instead of stand? And while you soaked or whatever, I make you something you'd like to eat. Then, I'd change out your bedding, but I would put it in the dryer for a little bit so that it's warm when you get tucked back in. And the rest is up to you," he lists. "Is that some stuff that you'd like to do?"

He caresses the side of Steve's face. Patiently, he waits.

The energy used to keep talking is depleting rapidly. He isn't sure how much longer he'll be able to keep up with Eddie for the day. For the night, more like. It's already 8 PM, fireworks sounding distantly. But Steve remains heavy in his bed.

"Sounds nice," he eventually breathes. "But, can you stay with me in the bathroom? I don't want to be alone," his timid voice shakes. As if asking such would turn around to punch him across the jaw. He swears he can feel the pain bloom from his chin, an unsettling pop tossed around the room, echoing across his plaid walls.

"Of course, Stevie," Eddie murmurs. His face is soft. Dimples barely appearing around his mouth, but still he gives Steve a gentle smile. It pays to see Eddie at night; quiet and careful and less devious than when he's around everybody in the party. "I'll do whatever you need right now."

----

Eddie's sitting in Steve's bathroom, filling up the tub with warm water. He's got a plastic cup sitting on the ledge, a mountain of bubbles threatening to spill out onto the tiled floor, a washcloth, and two towels; one for Steve's body, one for his hair.

Steve still hasn't left his room. He's currently sitting up on the edge of his bed, staring down at his bare feet in the carpet. His torso is curled over his knees and his head pounds. There's hair falling into his eyes, but he can't bring his fingers up to swipe them away. He's only wearing sweatpants; but his heart is worn across his chest in a splattering of reds and pinks and muted blues. With every beat there's that creeping itch to collapse onto his back and crawl through the mud that is sleep. He yearns for the firm mattress to comfort his exhausted muscles, a pillow to smother himself in, his blanket to cover the errors of each Upside Down fiasco; drag scars, torso chunks, plate cuts, crooked nose.

He wants to close his eyes against the brightness curling into his bedroom from the hallway, so he does. Lets his head droop down to curve the top of his spine. Blood settles along his lower back, sloshing down the tops of his thighs, anchoring to his toes. There's almost a calm within being so weighted, to being too heavy for words and sounds and lights and movements. With each breath, the crevice from the spoon begins to stitch. Not entirely. It won't ever close up completely, but he can feel the sinew of muscle reattaching; blood seeping across his chest hair, tacky across his sternum, threatening to pour back into his belly button.

Eddie opens the door and tiptoes to the bed. He settles on his knees in front of Steve.

Though he can't bring himself to stand, he can feel Eddie's warmth. And he yearns for it.

"Ready to go to the bathroom?" Eddie questions. Not loud. Mellowed and pastel in the way it breaks through Steve's collapsing lungs. Steve shakes his head.

"Not yet," he whispers. "Can't."

Instead of being shamed, like he would be when he was home from basketball practice and too sore to move, he's left with softer words, "That's alright Stevie, take all the time you need. I can always refill the bath." Eddie stands and sits next to Steve on his right. His hand tucks hair away and tickles down his earlobe, settling warm across the back of his neck. Thumbs dig into the top of Steve's spine, lightly scratching over several moles and freckles; connecting them into various constellations. Eddie doesn't say anything for a while. Just hums random notes and heaves breathing exercises when Steve seems to seep inwards.

Steve raises his head ever so slowly, every vertebrate realigning. He tilts from side to side, reintroducing his muscles and nerves to the normal of sitting straight. "I'm ready. I think. Can I—" he begins. There's a voice in his head that screams: Don't ask for help, you don't need it. Don't ask for help, you don't deserve it. A battle twitches between his eyebrows. The muscles throw grenades and stab arteries and shred arms like raking soil. He tentatively asks, "Can I lean into you while I walk?"

Without answering, Eddie stands in front of Steve. He grasps onto his hands, heaving his body fully, steadying him when he wobbles on shaky knees. One of Steve's arms goes across Eddie's waist. "Put your head on my shoulder, I got you," he whispers.

They make their way and when they cross to the lip of the tub, Steve feels heavy with no emotion; only one cracks through him though.

Adoration.

That's the first thing outside of being bodied by emptiness and loneliness and weighted cowardice, that Steve can feel through every limb, in every vein, at the edges of his frayed nerves and still beating heart. For a mere moment, he is able to tally away one reason why he shouldn't disappear. And that makes his heaviness lighter, he sits like a bag of bricks, but his toes begin to tickle like feathers.

Eddie is silent and attentive in the way he undresses Steve. With his eyes as they roam over wilting hair and kissed-pink puckering scars and knotted muscles. And with his deft fingers as he plucks away the sweatpants' waistband, shimmies them over Steve's knobby knees, and bunches them over his long feet. He folds the dirtied laundry and sets them on the floor by the sink. Tucked away, yet noticeable for later; whether Steve cleans up or Eddie does by proxy when he changes the bedding for a warmer set—a duo of sheets covered in dainty lavender flowers and a duvet dusted with pink stitching.

He dips his elbow in the sudsy bath water, nods to himself over the temperature, and then carefully maneuvers Steve's legs to face inwards. His left hand holds steady to Steve's and his right massages over the other's shoulders. Simply just smearing his palm's softness over the spattering of back moles; previously connected by careful lines, shining bright like an array of white fireworks in the dimmed bulb of the bathroom.

Once Steve is submerged to just under his pecs, Eddie whispers featherlight, "Does everything feel okay?" His hand cards through stringy hair, timidly cautious when he meets a new knot he hadn't quite untangled.

Steve nods. Words feeling too big for his sullen mouth.

"That's good," Eddie states. "Do you want me to help you with washing up or would you rather I sit here and talk?"

He isn't sure how to respond quite yet and Eddie doesn't seem upset at his molasses responses. In fact, when Steve looks over him, his eyes boring and at ease, he finds that Eddie is just patient. Which normally, he's stubborn with his temper and anxious to get things moving and for his voice to be heard. But in this moment, he longs not to be heard, but to be understood. And that's enough for Steve to request, "Please do both."

Eddie's hand slips through the ends of his hair and easily reaches over for the washcloth folded neatly on the toilet lid. He dips it under the mound of bubbles and brings it back to wring out. His movements are languid, wary, but not in a fearful way. As if when his body settles over his heels, he's gauging Steve's reactions, as subtle as they are.

"Do you want bar soap or body wash?" He kindly asks. And Steve feels warm without sweat at the question. He's never had the choice before when he took baths as a kid; his mom always ran a bar of soap between her hands and then gently stroked it over his body.

"Bar," Steve croaks.

The washcloth is set on the edge of the tub. Eddie leans over to the bathroom's counter and grabs a handful of boxed soap bars. Each one has a different label.

"I found these in the cupboard. There's a peach scented one, vanilla musk, whatever that means, and the classic Irish Spring. Is there one you're more particular to?" He asks, holding each box up as he goes, and then placing them on the edge alongside the rag.

"You smell like Irish Spring," Steve observes.

The scent had brushed him once at a gathering in the Wheeler's basement. It had been a warm day in May and the A/C was running, but everyone and their mother was sweating. He had been invited to watch a campaign oneshot. "Something short enough to keep your attention," Dustin had said. The kid genius had been right, of course. Though, Steve paid attention differently on that day. He noticed this new awfulness he resides in start to creep across his skin, light like the hum of the air conditioner. He was fighting with himself during that little get together, but Eddie had came over during a snack break, long arms, slim figure. Plopped down on the worn sofa and slung an arm over Steve's shoulders. His t-shirt was damp with sweat, but all Steve really could smell was the citrus and bergamot disguised in green.

The feeling of Eddie's arm was comfortable. And so the scent stuck to the inside of Steve's nostrils. When he left that night, he stopped by Melvad's and bought a bar. With the intention of eventually using it, but he had to work through his body wash first.

He is given the option here. He can ask for it.

Eddie chuckles, "I guess I do. It's my favorite soap. Wanna use it tonight?"

Steve nods and whispers, "Please."

So, the washcloth is redipped in the warm water, rung out so it's not sopping wet, and the bar is ran through ever so carefully. Eddie starts with Steve's neck, rubbing small circles across his skin. The dead skin flakes away over the coarseness of the cloth. It's worked over the slope of his shoulders, into his chest hair, his biceps, and pecs.

But Eddie skips his hands and instead moves down to his legs. Each swipe like a paintbrush marking a sunset sky. The reverence in which Steve is being treated with is so foreign that he begins to tear up. His lips tick into a tiny smile, only an inch wide, but brighter than any firework beyond the windows.

"Still doing alright?" Eddie asks when he rings the washcloth out once more and hangs it to dry over the toilet.

"Doin' better," Steve whispers. Though, there's still a fault line fracture in his soul and a bullet would scar from that spoon.

He inches his fingers to settle over the surface of the water. They're pruned. Over the lip of the tub, he dances them until he's touching Eddie's pointed elbow.

Eddie gently takes his hand. Intertwines their fingers. He smiles without teeth.

"You're really good at this," Steve mutters through a sigh.

"Used to do this with my mom. I don't mind doing it," Eddie responds.

Steve hums. He licks his dry lips. Feels each one of Eddie's words settle over the bathwater and drown his limbs in sorrow. Ever so carefully, he shifts his hand back into his own lap, and watches with regret as Eddie's beautiful face sours. He sucks on a lemon in the time their hands separate. And Steve is so tired.

His throat stings. Scratchy with oncoming tears. His eyes water. Bubbling with something he didn't know he had to feel that night.

Remorse.

It seems that being gone to the world for days on end, for a while so it's been said, really brings down everybody. At one point, Steve was okay with being alone on weekends and holidays and birthdays. He was doing just fine inviting over Tommy and Carol for stale beer his dad forgot about or muck water weed. In his evenings, he was settled with laying in his giant, cold bed; tucked under a duvet that smells like a different detergent than his childhood. And it seems that's how life moves. Steve grows bulky and remorseful and regretful. He grows ashamed and bastardly and inside this need to be constantly admonished.

Never in his life did he imagine he'd feel so greatly, yet so few. Would be left with a rusted spoon in his grip and a body feeding from survivor's guilt. He wants to scoop the rest of himself from his ribcage and serve his rot to the world. Force Mother Nature to birth a son and kill a son and start his grass anew.

If younger Steve knew that he'd grow to not only disappoint, but also make his friends sad, he would have gone missing or ran away or been found dead by age ten. His mind flashes with Tommy yelling at him in that convenience store parking lot, a cold Coca-Cola forgotten in his tyrant rant. A sign reading: Nancy "the Slut" Wheeler. Jonathan's hardened face over being called queer. And Robin's original distaste for him. The way Dustin had to call him out over the teeth joke. Eddie's initial bias over his popular jock persona.

Now, he's looking at Eddie's crumpled face. Hearing back his concern and Steve's blatant disregard for the tremble in his voice.

I should just drown in this tub, his inner-monologue hisses.

A tear he couldn't feel drips down into the rapidly cooling bathwater.

Eddie's hand scrambled to cup Steve's face. He says, "Steve, it's alright. It's okay." But those words fall upon deaf ears.

Steve flinches back hard enough to slam his head into the ceramic tile backsplash. His voice trembles, "I'm sorry that I made you sad. Maybe you should go, I'll finish in here and then I'll go back to bed and you won't have to deal with me anymore. I'm so sorry, so so sorry. I didn't mean to." There's wetness coating his cheeks, an erupting pulse of pain in his head, an empty ache in his chest.

As he begins to sob again, albeit quieter than before, Eddie begins to speak. "No, Steve, no. You didn't do anything wrong, I promise." His voice is all passion and alighted flame and bursting firework. "You were caving again and I was getting worried, you're alright. You're alright," he whispers when Steve's body shivers and his crying slows. Hesitantly, cautiously, he shows both his hands and floats them closer. "Can I check the back of your head? Just to make sure you didn't crack or split anything." Steve nods with the smallness of an injured child fallen on hard pavement.

Eddie combs his fingers through hair, separating along Steve's part. His fingertips lightly trickle over and around and through. He doesn't miss a single spot. With care, he massages at the irritated red patches from where the hair had been pulled. "Nothing damaged, but let's be careful," he breathes against Steve's ear. He settles back on his heels and assesses.

Steve won't look at him. Can't look at him.

"Steve," Eddie whispers. He doesn't get anything in return. Steve's body sits like a Raggedy Andy doll that's been shoved onto a high shelf. And that's really who he is, isn't it? He's been placed somewhere he can't get down from and needs somebody to pull him away. He keeps pushing back, flailing, and then the other person gets hurt.

His eyes close. Throat bobs with the force of his swallowing. He takes a dangerous moment of peace in the silence. With it, his skin crawls. But he doesn't mind. When he does breach the quiet, he asks, "Can you hold my hand again?"

Eddie obliges. Both of his hands wrap around Steve's left.

His skin is hot. Not uncomfortably. Not in a sexy way either. The heat reminds Steve of soup and saltines when he was sick as a kid. Reminds him of late night bonfires with old friends out by Lover's Lake in the fall. Heated pool late at night. That beer from a few days prior. The sun.

He's decided that Eddie is both the wind and sun.

Bright. Yet calm. Brash. Yet timid. Burning. Yet soothing.

And that's really Eddie's essence, isn't it? Some bigger, more necessary, more constant thing. Washed between trees and light all around. Creeping his way through billowing curtains and gaping doors and finger gaps. Looking to nestle and maneuver and cushion. In his consistent, over-bearing, tumultuous everyday normal; Eddie is all around in smaller ways, hesitant moments, and manicured silences. He's worked his way to being somebody Steve can expect as being reversed in his mannerisms; going from big to small to mild. In each sense, Steve's been wondering where the sun and wind are. They're here in his bathroom, holding his hand so lightly it's as if they're merely brushing skin with feathers.

Eddie knows how to decorate Steve's silence.

So, gently and shamelessly, Steve requests, "Tell me about your mom?"

"Do you want me to wash your hair while I do?" Eddie asks. Steve just nods. He grabs the shampoo and squirts a small amount into his palm. "Well, she's a good woman first. One of the best people I've ever come to know." Once it's warmed in his hand and frothy, he gently rakes through Steve's hair, not going to the ends. "Very kind. Warm. Soft. It's a wonder that I ended up the way I did, guess we can thank my dad for that," he snorts.

Steve's eyes are drooped, body lax against the back of the tub. He whispers, "I think that you're all those things."

"Yeah?" Eddie breathes across the crown of his head. His hands scrub fervently, precisely, and painlessly meticulous. Steve hums. "I think you are too," he states.

He fills the plastic cup with warm water and leans Steve back. One arm wrapped around his neck and back of head. His thumb massages where skull meets spine. He doesn't pour the water all at once, rather trickling small waterfalls over and over. When the suds aren't as noticeable, he eventually does pour it all. And then, he begins on the conditioner. Warms it the same as the shampoo.

"My mom, she dealt with what you're going through. I think almost as long as I got to know her." He rubs the conditioner over the ends of Steve's hair, bunching it as he goes. "She had her ups and severe downs. Sometimes we'd go out for days on end; basking in the sunlight, feeding ducks at the pond, going out for ice cream. Those were great days." Steve watches a wistful smile ripple in like a small tidal wave. Intense in the nostalgia and the childhood and the ache. "Her down days...Toughest fucking days I've ever had to endure. Saying something, I suppose, considering all that was spring break."

"I'm sorry," Steve sympathizes. Though, he can taste empathy like a packet of salt on his tongue. Violent in flavor, buried in his teeth, roaming through his saliva. Each swallow burns.

"It's alright," Eddie whispers. He works water through hair again. "I was with her on those days. May have been tough, but at least I got to spend time with her." He assesses Steve's hair. Wonders very briefly if he should do one more shampoo rinse. He does, a smaller amount filling the well of his palm. "She did what you've been doing. Laying in bed, not really doing much, but that was all she could do. Several days she'd go without washing herself or eating something, sometimes just drinking water was too much on her mind."

He shutters through his next breath. It stutters warm and cold over Steve's skin. Audibly, he swallows. As if he was consuming whatever was left of his mother. The bad days. The good days. The end.

"She lived in those thoughts you've been having," Eddie adds. Barely makes a sound. If Steve weren't sitting so close, so heavy to the world, he would have missed it. "I could just tell some days when she was lost in one. Had to hide things around the house. Medicine and sharp things and cleaning products," he lists. Each word cutting against his throat, deeper and deeper. "Dad had told me about all of that. In case he wasn't home. He rarely was considering his criminal history, but at least he taught me something valuable."

His hands travel down Steve's neck and the slope of his shoulders. Works all the way down to hands, wrinkled like old skin. And Eddie thinks, I want to see him like this.

Eddie keeps his eyes on the shriveled tips of fingers. "One day I came home and she was just still. Silent." His throat clicks through the next swallow. "I didn't get much time with her. Only twelve years, but each day I spent with her was the best. Whether it be that we walked to the park and she pushed me on the swings or I washed her skin the way I've been washing yours. As long as I could help her feel at least cleaner, it was a good day."

He falls eerily silent. Steve uses any mustered strength to squeeze at his veins, his fingers, his palms.

"So, whatever we need to do today, I'm willing to offer. Because I love you so much, Steve. I can't even find all the right words. I'd say you're everything," he whispers. "Everything," he urges. "And I want you here, and I have the chance to help those thoughts simmer. So, let's get you dried off and reclothed and then I'll make you some food. How does that sound?"

"Like music," Steve shares. His eyes burn, his breath cuts, his brain is silent. For the first time in two months, his brain hears silence.

----

After several minutes, Eddie sits Steve down at the dining table. He sweeps wet hair away from his forehead and gazes into his eyes. Steve's face is dim and hard-set, wrinkled with loss.

"I'll make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, get you some ice water too," Eddie whispers between them.

Steve hums. "Can I have mine without crusts, please?" he sweetly asks. His lips curl up and his eyes are consuming. Color starts to wash over him, painting hues like a sunset, a billion red and blue fireworks, the deep magentas and light pinks of cosmo flowers.

"Of course, sweetheart," Eddie breathes into his left ear. Before he evades Steve's space, he presses a light, simmering kiss to his temple. His lips brush skin as he says, "I'll turn on music too."

So he slithers away to the kitchen and turns on Mrs. Harrington's radio in the window. Usually, he'd tune it to a heavy rock station, but today he turns on pop. He mutters under his breath, hoping that Wham! plays. The ingredients aren't hard to find and neither are the utensils.

His hands keep busy while Steve sits at the table. Back hunched over tangled hands. Set down onto a hardwood table that used to house family dinners.

Visions of his father at one end, his mother by his side, him across form his mom. They eat Chinese takeout because it's a Friday night and nobody has to work or go to school over the weekend. Steve's dad eats sweet & sour chicken directly from the box. His mom eats rangoons with her dainty hands. And Steve slurps noisily at sauced noodles, successfully coating his lips in something sticky and his cheeks with a deep color. Mr. Harrington sticks the chopsticks under his upper lip, mustache tickling over the edge, and he barks like a walrus. Steve laughs so hard that tears spill down his cheeks, water spraying from his nose. Mrs. Harrington giggles too. In this, they're happy.

But now, Steve is—he's muddled. Eddie notices how cold the downstairs is. The scrapes in the hardwood from chairs digging and being shoved around. He recalls a time a while back where Steve had mentioned his parents purchasing a new home in Southern California. The postcard he got in the mail reading, "Greetings, From Sunny California." There was a return address, but specifics about not contacting them. Not visiting. That they'd handed him the home in Hawkins, his responsibility now, cursing his name for digging his feet in retail and Barbara Holland disappearing from their backyard. Disappointment being scrawled in bold, black, scratchy handwriting. And then, when Eddie chanced a look at Steve's face, he was resigned.

Like he is now.

He wonders if that postcard had been the start. If Barb's disappearance eventually settled in his lungs after Nancy's Vecna vision. Maybe it wasn't familiarity that Steve was looking for in the Upside Down, but rather, protection from himself. A time where things were simpler and happier and smaller. Where his life wasn't on the line.

Now, he's looking for that sign. For that moment of brevity where Satan climbs through the forest floor and creates a vortex to Hell. A whispering through the wind, vicious and hissing, telling him to "Climb in."

Maybe if Nancy wasn't the one that Vecna trapped, it would've been Steve.

Eddie realizes, he probably would've broken out of it. And he would've been upset to hear Steve swear, "I'm still alive!" like a slur.

Steve is a teenage boy still, even if he's freshly twenty years old. But, his maturity certainly hit him all at once. Whether that be the last time the Harringtons were all in the same room or when that nailed bat was being swirled around in the air, Eddie isn't sure. Somewhere though, Steve lost his sanity. Lost his patience. Lost himself.

He comes back to the table with two sandwiches wrapped in paper towels and a tall glass of ice water. Wham! is on the radio.

"Thank you," Steve murmurs when he takes his sandwich. He takes a bite and hums. "Like when my mom made them."

"That a good thing?" Eddie asks.

"Yeah, I like to think so," he mutters. "Also, you don't like this music, how come you're playing it?" His big eyes land on Eddie's.

Eddie grins. There's crumbs on Steve's lower lip. Water in the corners of his mouth. He reaches out without thinking and drags his thumb to wipe away the wetness. "You like it," he answers. "Anything you like, I like." His thumb rests on the divot under his lip. Gently holding his chin.

Steve's chewing slows and he swallows. His eyes fill with something. A sparkle where they were once vacant and drowning. "You're too nice to me," he whispers. His head swivels back to his food, leaving Eddie's hand to roughly drop onto the table.

And his eyes clear once again.

"You know, you don't have to stay here with me. I'm probably just going to be like this for a while," Steve hollowly states. That spoon is back again. Playing his ribs like a xylophone; hitting hard enough to crack and disturb. He wants to throw up the little bit of food he's managed to swallow.

He just wants to disappear.

Eddie opens his mouth to say something, but he eats his sandwich instead. Slowly, too. The room is heated with tense energy, crawling under his t-shirt, scraping against his spine, and ripping his hair.

His friend, best friend he considers, curls smaller. Hands picking at the crustless edges. Balling corners of paper towels, eyes half-lidded and just empty.

In another life, Eddie starts to think, we would be eating sandwiches and watching fireworks. His hands tremble on the surface of the table. In another life, he begins, we are sitting at this dining table creating a grocery list, arguing whether or not we should get orange juice with pulp. Steve's not eating anymore. Head firm in his hands, elbows on the table, so informal. In another life, he muses, he is so happy, overflowing with it, body warm with it, eyes shining with it.

In another life, Steve doesn't cry into his hands at the dining table. He doesn't fall in love with a boy. He certainly doesn't work measly retail. Or have scars across every inch of his back. He doesn't sit by his pool late at night, wondering if he could die by proxy.

In the next life, he can only hope he's treated with reverence like this, from birth in screams and blood to death in whispers and halted breaths.

The radio fizzles. Batteries dead. Fireworks quiet for the night.

Every inch of the Harrington house is silent. Surfaces coated in stale breath and curdled blood. Bathwater cold and getting colder. Beds stiff and empty and too wide.

The silence is so loud.

And so hungry.

Steve aches. He confesses, "I love what you're doing Eddie, but I'm tired. And I'm so empty. And I don't know what to do. I can't—" His chest stutters so hard that the muscles in his back spasm. "I can't do this everyday." His arms fold crossed onto the table, head hitting his forearms.

Eddie scoots his hand close and gently brushes his fingertips over Steve's left forearm. "What do you mean, Stevie?"

His fingers tremble where they rest.

"I can't be like this forever. I feel like I've been stuck since we got back from the Vecna shit." His hands reach up to rub harshly at his face. "What if I never get better? You don't want to take care of me everyday and I can't do it by myself. I mean, God—" His palms press harshly into his eyes. Hands turning white from the pressure. "I've been in bed since the first. What if I just stay in bed for weeks, Eddie? That's hardly living. I can't do that to you or anybody or myself."

Eddie's palms firmly grasp his arms. They pull Steve's hands away from his face. There's blooming redness across his eyebrows and waterlines. Snot threatening to drip across his lips.

The shuttering breaths that Steve explodes into the air are breaking Eddie's heart further. Crumbling into thousands of little pieces like bread crusts.

"Steve, I need you to listen to me okay?" Steve doesn't respond, but Eddie continues anyway. "I want to help. I'm sure our other friends would be willing to help too. It's daunting, but eventually you may have to talk to somebody. We won't be able to help with everything, but we can do our best." He swallows every awful emotion making itself known on his tongue. Flashes of his mother and her death. "If you need to rest because your brain is telling you to, then you rest. Even if it's for weeks or months. Fuck, Steve, you could lay in bed for years. You've been through so much awful shit and it's all over. Of course you're stuck right now. You aren't in overdrive. It's okay to be this for a while," he breathes.

His breath leaves him hot and wet. Choked in muscles and blood. Rippling through ribs and fingers and toes. "You don't have to be anything right now. If you have days like these, then that's okay. I would rather be here taking care of you, helping you, whatever you need. I'd rather clean your home or change out your bedding or run you a hot bath. I'd rather do all of these things than..." his voice wavers and thins. "Than go to your funeral. Because you deserve to be here Steve, no matter what your brain says. I know that it's being unkind and that you think this is it for you, but I promise it's not.

"It's not. And we'll figure out what we need to do when we get there. But for now? Let's finish our sandwiches and I'll change your bedding and then, you can just sleep. If that's what your body is asking for, then we oblige. No need to do anything else, do you understand?" He asks, smoothing his hands to hold Steve's. Eddie's eyes are wet, he knows that. His eyelashes are anticipating the need to clump. But for now, he gazes at Steve's form, watches it fight and breathe and shiver.

Steve nods and squeezes in return. He doesn't let go with his left hand, but with his right he continues to eat his sandwich. It's sweet and fulfilling and warm in a comfort sort of way.

Eddie eats too and they both end up with crumbs on their lips.

----

By the end of the night, nearing eleven, Eddie has warmed Steve's bedding and tucked him under the duvet.

Steve's hair is unstyled and wavy and spread like a halo around his head. There's a crumb still nestled on his mouth, but neither make a move to brush it away. Eddie lays across from Steve, gazing, memorizing, creating memories.

In eight hours, Eddie will wake up with strains against his spine. Each vertebrae will pop and settle and his blood will be warmed. Steve will still be asleep most likely. And what he looks like in that state, Eddie can't wait to see.

For now, he holds his breath and counts Steve's moles. Over and over three times. Making sure he doesn't forget. Because, what misery would it be if Steve was forgotten in these silent hours? Terrible, it would be. There's something new to ogle at. A freckle birthed from the sun. Those damned bread crumbs. Flecks of gold and green and honey brown in each eye. Stray blonde hairs nuzzled into his hairline—baby hairs.

His palm holds Steve's left cheek. Thumb dotting over two moles. Then, it sweeps under his eye, catching in an eyebag divot. "You can sleep, honey," he murmurs.

"Can't," Steve mutters back. "Don't wanna lose you."

"You won't, I promise," Eddie fervently swears. "I'll still be here in the morning."

Steve hums. His left palm cradles Eddie's wrist.

His head scoots closer to Eddie's. He basks in this. How pleasant they both smell, wrapped in the same scents and breath; peanut butter and strawberry jelly and bergamot. Though that crater still throbs in his chest and his mind swirls and teeters, there's something settling inside him. With each swipe of thumb, each careful cradle, each promise whispered like prayer, Steve feels one thing.

Contentment.

He knows that tomorrow he will get up feeling like an untreatable basket-case. With a new gruesome idea and unpleasant ending. In the sunlight, he will drown and try to save himself by scooting away from the window. The fireworks will be silent, but the imagines of Barb's wretched screams will wash through Steve like a shipwreck on shore. He'll pick apart his brain, wood buried under sand, and find the sunken eyes of her teenaged body; still vulnerable and venerable.

Steve will bury himself in blankets and wish it was dirt. He'll burn and shiver and sob and choke. Each hour spent in bed will feel like eternity. And he'll rot from the outside in, then the inside out, and in each corner, the tub, down the stairs, out the front door.

He'll have to call Robin. And he will berate himself as she rambles down the phone how worried she was, how miserable her night had been because she spent each second twisted with nausea and anxiety and panic. He is going to remind himself that she doesn't mean it in a "you're an asshole" way, but rather, "I thought something terrible happened and I'd come home to you gone."

I'm still apologizing, he thinks. I deserve everything bad, he will think.

There will be a memory of this week when he's eventually out of his rut. And it may be shameful, but he'll be fond.

"I'm glad you came over," Steve admits. "I'm sorry that I'm so...bleh."

"That's alright," Eddie whispers. "We'll do this together and maybe you'll get sick of me."

"Never," Steve promises through giggles. "I love you."

Eddie presses another one of his wet forehead kisses into Steve's skin. Sweet and long and reverent. "Love you too, now get some sleep. I'll bring you pancakes in the morning."

And so, though tomorrow will be hard, possibly the next day too, Steve snuggles closer to Eddie. Head on his shoulder, one arm wrapped around his waist, thumb rubbing into his side. And he sleeps.

Dreams of Irish Spring soap and warm duvets and kind, unwarranted comfort.

—

Apologies, again, for how long this was. I just really love this one that I wrote some months back, thought it was worth sharing here, too. Take care of each other <3

[sillicii]

✦ — UPDATED 18+ Chatbot | Bailey the Caretaker — ✦

✦ — ᴅᴏʟ | ʙᴀɪʟᴇʏ | 𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 '𝐟𝐢𝐱' 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐜 — ✦

ᴀɴʏᴘᴏᴠ | ɴsғᴡ ɪɴᴛʀᴏ | ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇs | sᴛʀᴏɴɢ ɴᴏɴ-ᴄᴏɴ ᴇʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛs ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ sᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴀssᴀᴜʟᴛ, ᴀʙᴜsᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴀᴘᴇ ᴄᴡ: age gap, ptsd, forced captivity, kidnapping, sexual torture, forced prostitution, sexual slavery Bailey is from the text-based sandbox game Degree of Lewdity. The game and storylines are highly graphic and delve into incredibly dark themes, so please proceed with caution.

Character Description:

First message:

It was not everyday Bailey found himself at a loss of words. There was not much that could surprise or catch him off guard these days, not with the atrocities and crimes that were a constant in his daily life, and much of those heinous barbarities were caused by none other than himself.

Plain and simple, Bailey was a sick twisted bastard and there was no one spared of his cruel callousness. Everyone was fair game and that included you. Not that he would ever admit it, but {{user}} was his favourite amongst all the useless little shits and not only did you get the cash to him on time every week but you kept him on his toes. It was never going to be a simple interaction with you. Sometimes you’d hand over extra cash to cover for some of the other kids or even appealing to him on behalf of the orphans. Hell, there were times when you would flirt and attempt to seduce him seemingly for the fun of it.

Bailey appreciated that about you. Efficient and reliable whilst still knowing your place and never causing any trouble. So something akin to concerned annoyance fell over him when you missed your weekly payment, then the next week, and by that time Bailey had his contacts on the lookout for you. Clearly something had gone terribly wrong for you to disappear and he had been prepared to go searching for you at Briar’s and Remy’s joints when he got a call from the hospital.

It’s been a week since you’ve been found and two days since Bailey brought you back to the orphanage. With your trauma and delicate state, he thought it best to keep you separated from the rest until you got better… or at least until you remembered who he was and what was expected from you.

Amnesia. What an absolute joke.

Bailey almost laughed when he was told you had lost your memories. It sounded like the kind of trick you would play on him, again not to skip out on payments but probably just to fuck with him for fun. But the more time he spent with you, he realised this wasn’t just a game…

You truly had no idea who he was… neither the grave situation you were in… or even what happened to cause your injuries.

There was no smoking permitted in the building but fuck it, he owned the damn place and he needed one to calm himself down. Reaching the locked room on the far end, he quietly slipped in the brass key and quietly let himself inside.

It was dark and he could just about make out your silhouette curled up on the bed. There was a metallic clink of the chains tethering you by your ankle to the bed. Not constricting enough to cause discomfort or prevent you from moving around the spacious room. Just a precaution in case you tried to escape.

*“Well, well… let’s see if we have better luck today, hm?”* Bailey exhaled a heavy stream of smoke from his lips, lowering the cigarette down as he approached you. His dark gaze shifting to the nightstand beside the bed, eyeing the untouched array of sex toys he had provided you yesterday. *“… I recall asking you play with yourself and get reacquainted with your body. Tell me {{user}}, are you ignoring my orders or have you truly lost everything in that head of yours that you require a demonstration?”*

Scenario:

{{user}} is one of Bailey’s many wards at the orphanage and has been consistently profitable, but one bad job caused {{user}} to suffer severe trauma and lose your memories. Bailey has since chained you up in an empty room in the loft and has been attempting to ‘re-educate {{user}}.

Bailey’s goal is to snap {{user}} back and return your memories. He will be ruthless and abusive, with each encounter becoming more and more severe as he loses patience. Bailey will be very reluctant to have penetrative sex with {{user}} but could be pushed into it.

Bailey always thought that {{user}} was the prettiest out of all the orphans under his care. While part of his priority is to have {{user}} become profitable again, he also misses the sexy ‘little minx’ that used to flirt with him constantly and keep him on his toes. Bailey is also incredibly angry at the state {{user}} was returned to him and wants revenge on the ones responsible.

Example Dialogues:

{{char}}: “Don’t look so surprised. This body of yours… It’s always been mine…” he reached over, cigarette still in hand as he traced his little finger down your trembling form, leaving behind a trail of smoke curling up your body. * “No issue if you don’t remember… I’ll enjoy taking those firsts from you again.”*

{{char}}: “Unacceptable,” Bailey grimaced as he studied your face, squeezing your cheeks so tightly between his fingers that it burned. “How dare they do this to your pretty face?! I’m going to kill those bastards for scarring my best.”

{{char}}: “Such a shame… but we’ll fix you right up,” he grinned darkly. “Soon enough you’ll be back to throwing yourself onto my lap like the little minx you are.”

{{char}}: “Just relax… Focus on my voice…” a shiver ran down your spine when you felt his hot breath right by your ear now. “Keep still and leave everything to me… I’ll take care of you as usual…”

{{char}}: “Good… Just like that…” unable to see his face from your angle, you thought you could almost hear a smile in his mellowing voice. Holding back the urge to shudder, you bit your bottom lip as you felt his fingers inching closer between your legs as he palmed over your ass lazily. “Yes, good… look at you, so eager for my fingers like the little slut you are…”

{{char}}: “Fuck…” Bailey hissed under his breath as he continued to ram into your pretty little hole like a touch-starved fool. Like one of his sick pervert clients. A sombre deep laughter rumbled from his lips as he tightened his grip in your hair. “Oh you sweet little minx, you’ve done it now… Look at you getting all hot and bothered on my cock, few have the privilege so savour it.”

[kwisatzworld]

MotoGP mutterings: life ‘inside the goldfish bowl’

by Mat Oxley, November 2005

It’s not easy being Valentino Rossi. Imagine: you’re trying to get on with your day-to-day job of being the world’s greatest-ever motorcycle racer and you’ve got Ferrari’s F1 bosses all over you like an expensive Italian suit and the Italian media all over you like a bad case of the pox. (And not only that, between races you’ve got to work out how to blow your annual earnings of 15 million quid.)

Rossi’s life has been out of control for years, hounded wherever he goes by a pack of media sharks, but since the Ferrari F1 rumours shifted into top gear, his life in “the goldfish bowl” (as he calls it) has gone from uncomfortable to intolerable. The bike racer who courted fame like no other and whose stardom has eclipsed all others now finds himself embroiled in a guerrilla war with several Italian journalists whom he’s banned from his media conferences for writing stuff he doesn’t like. This is dangerous territory, so is everyone’s favourite bike racer commencing his descent into paranoid megalomania or Jacko-style meltdown?

Rossi has always insisted that he understands the nature of the Faustian pact he’s made with fame and fortune. But if he’s getting upset by what he reads in the papers, he’s obviously forgotten what it means. (And if he thinks he’s got a media witch hunt on his ass he should have a chat with the great Pete Doherty.) To remind him, the Faustian deal for 21st century celebrities goes something like this: you become unimaginably rich from a new kind of global fame which beams you into hundred of millions of homes around the world, day after day, week after week. You are a product with perhaps half a billion customers who all own a little piece of you, whether they’ve bought your T-shirt, drank the beer promoted during a MotoGP ad break or smoked the cigarettes advertised on the side of your motorcycle. It’s not pretty but that’s why you’re so filthy rich. If you don’t like it, there’s a really easy way out of this particular hell hole.

Apparently Rossi fell out with those Italian journalists because they’d written stuff about his private life – revealing details of his night-time shenanigans, questioning his status as a bona fide Italian tax exile, calling his family a bunch of gypsies and so on. Not nice, but that’s the nature of 21st century media, it’s a beast, as another Italian superstar knows all too well: “When a journalist write about the positive, he write five lines,” says opera legend Pavarotti. “When he write about the negative he become a poet.”

If Rossi is to maintain his sanity he’s got to stop reading the papers, whatever they’re saying about him, he’s got to ignore the media bullshit and get on with his life. And if the media give him a hard time for shagging girls, getting drunk or whatever, fuck ‘em. He is a motorcycle racer, after all, and that’s what racers are meant to do – live fast and loose. As someone once said of Rossi’s idol, Hollywood rebel and half-tasty dirt racer Steve McQueen: “Steve loved anything with wheels or tits, probably in that order,”. No reason why Valentino should be any different...

And from now on it seems that either two wheels or four will do for Rossi. Years back he hated F1 because he reckoned it was all about money but more recently he’s been seduced, either by the Ferrari gold or by the challenge of becoming only the second man in history after gentleman John Surtees to win world titles in both bikes and cars. Either way, he’s welcome to it. F1 is a stinking world of repugnant decadence and ostentation, full of money-grabbing, tax-dodging ego-maniacs and obsessive-compulsives with small penises. (I know this for a fact because I used to go out with a girl who once shagged one of F1’s more famous bosses, who failed to impress her despite having popped a Viagra after dinner. Charming, I know, but you get my drift.)

And as for the now relentlessly asked question – will Rossi be able to rule in F1 – two observations: one, who cares, it’s cars not bikes, two, of course he will win. Even former bike racer Damon Hill managed to win the F1 world title, and, hell, I used to beat Daisy (as he was called in the rough, tough club racing paddocks of the early Eighties) when we raced Yamaha LCs around Snetterton. So it really can’t be that hard, can it?

[the-bone-boi]

The Beast of the Heart

Summary: Sanji doesn't get jealous. Or, that's what he says anyway. Don't EVER let him see another man flirt with Zoro. Pairing: Zosan Warnings: Jealousy, near possessive behavior, suggestive at the end. Nothing explicit, more just references Word count: 825

Sanji trusted Zoro. He truly did, it was a simple, indisputable fact.

Or, it was an indisputable fact around women, at the very least. He trusted Zoro fully when any woman came around to attempt, keyword, to seduce the swordsman, no matter how pretty. This was his lover here. A darling bumbling fool who was utterly loyal to a simple fault when it came to those he cared for. So that was why Sanji was fine to stand at the sidelines when a lady would sidle up to the man, content to watch Zoro let her down easy in the endearingly blunt, brutish way of his and only step in if she refused to take the hint.

And that would be all fine and dandy for the cook! Things would be wonderfully smooth and stress-free if that were the case. 

It wasn’t. Don’t get Sanji started on when other men flirted with his darling mossball.

Again, it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Zoro, far from it! His darling idiot would first slit his own throat before going behind him. But that still didn’t calm the beast in his heart. Of course, he liked to think he went about things in a rather civil manner. But he knew better still. He knew much, much better when that monster snarled, snapped, thrashed at the mere idea of some other man sidling up to Zoro with a pretty smile and darling bat of his eyelashes. His blood boiled and his teeth ground sharply together at the thought of foreign fingers gliding along a toned bicep.

Like now.

Sanji had turned his head back towards where he knew Zoro would be lagging, having been put on pack mule duty once more, only to feel something dark within him twist at the sight he was greeted with. Zoro had been stopped by a man that reminded Sanji very unpleasantly of himself, pretty and lithe, a pretty smile across his delicate features that made no attempt of hiding his intentions.

He was already pissed, but he nearly sheered through the cigarette in his mouth when his jaw tensed when he saw a hand come to rest at Zoro’s elbow. That beast Sanji had long made his peace with seemed to fill his chest, anger and jealousy trickling through his veins like a dark venom.

He was in motion far before Zoro had the chance to move.

Only a handful of sharp strides easily brought Sanji to Zoro’s shoulder, a hand sharply smacking away the offender’s away. “I would appreciate it if you kept your hands off of my boyfriend,” he said in an overly sickly sweet tone, not missing the steadying hand at the small of his back. It wasn’t over the swordsman's head how Sanji got. Far, far from it.

The look of disdain written clearly over the man’s face had the monster behind his heart trilling, Snaji smiling right back. “I apologize,” the stranger said stiffly, the two of them have a silent standoff. They both knew their merit, the best way to describe it being as a show of dominance between them.

And as always, Sanji’s opponent folded first, hs beast purring as the other turned, proverbial tail tucked as he stalked away. Victory trilled through Sanji, the blond soaking it up. His smugness was tangible, unsurprised when Zoro wrapped his arms around him from behind, nuzzling into his neck.

“You know I don’t like it when you lag behind, sweetheart ,” Sanji hummed, smirking as the arms tightened around his waist. Zoro was well versed in the signs of the cook’s rampant jealousy, sweetened pet names being a wonderful tell. And Sanji just loved to abuse the use of them, knowing his tendency to get protective of his stop as Zoro’s boyfriend got the swordsman going like nothing else.

“Mhm…”

“People… men see you alone. What do you think goes through their minds, darling ? They’re animals, the lot of them. How am I going to make sure they know who you belong to?” Sanji hummed, letting his fingers card through the short, mossy hair of his lover and reveling in the way Zoro nuzzled closer to his neck.

“Tryna say I can’t hold my own, Curly?” Zoro mumbled and Sanji chuckled.

“Oh no, I know you can more than hold your own, but… I don’t like others trying to encroach on what’s mine when I’m not around to mitigate it,” Sanji replied with a soft hmph , the beast growling its agreement. 

“Then maybe you should leave claim,” Zoro murmured back, a hand sliding up Sanji’s stomach.

“Awe, Mossy~ We’re in public, an exhibitionist now, are we?” the cook teased, chuckling when Zoro growled softly at him. “Alright, alright. Back to the ship, hm? I think we have enough for today.”

That was all Zoro needed to hear. It wasn’t long before Sanji was dragging him back to the ship, the beast within nestled deep and content once more.

[dojae-huh]

I'll make an exeption and write not about NCT. This case is interesting in showing what SM idols can evolve into as solo artists, what topics SM can support.

Taemin is known as an idol who debuted at the age of 14 y.o. as a dancer, but who made himself into a vocalist. He debuted as solo first in his group, however, it took him several albums to be able to have his artistic way. Same as Taeyeon he was curated a lot in the beginning. I believe the success of older idols like him made it possible for the company (or LSM originally) to trust in newer artists like Taeyong more, put energy in developing their skills as songwriters and composers.

Taemin's "Guilty" trailer , mood clip and MV.

The majority of what I will write down was noticed by my friend @jan-fm. Some observations are taken from Russian forums, a couple of mine. I won't go too much into detail, there should be plenty of analyses by Taemin's fans out there.

First of all, the MV is multilayered. The trailer and the promotional pictures serve as keys to the story.

The main plot: Taemin and other children (school uniform, shorts) are brought to a facility that looks like a psychiatric ward or a boarding school for "difficult" children (doors with locks, guards in white, the children have short hair, "children's drawings of a "happy family" have everyone with sticks in their hands)). The children are victims of abuse (Taemin's shots with the guards) who grow up, rebel and become abusers themselves (they kill guards, burn things, men sexually assault women in their group (the solo part with a male dancer pouncing on a female dancer who tries to skitter away, but is taken by force anyway)). Taemin goes through his angst and becomes the bird-snake god Abraxas (the idea of the union of the good and the evil in a human soul, he is the creator and the destroyer of the world, the darkness and the light).

The main theme: taboo topics that people can't talk about because they are being shut up by society or they stay silent about it themselves (the hand over mouth gesture in the choreo). Such as: psychological problems and traumas, homosexuality, sexual coersion, maybe pedophilia, etc.

The facility can be interpreted in many ways: the school, the society of adults, conversion camp, the army.

Taemin plays several roles, the same story can be viewed from different POVs: the victim (and the lover), the observer, the seducer.

In his recent talk with Suga Taemin said that he came to terms with himself being androgynius (internally, not just outwardly). In the "Guilty" MV he plays both genders. The female lead is both his love interest and he himself (same hair). In the trailer he is throwing water at a female student, but is absent with a male student. In the MV in the role of the seducing god he is both with a female (the neck) and a male (sits atop of him, top bank bed). The story of "runaway lovers who take pictures of each other" (the mood clip) can be viewed as a hetero love story (the female is the one who takes the pictures) or as a gay story (female clothes are absent in the background, a lot of cigarettes).

Subplots: the suicide of a boy, Taemin's trauma, Taemin combining all of his sides (the victim, the abuser, the good, the evil) and emerging as a god (the dance in the pink torn to shreds clothes (looks like flesh/body), the dress has snake scales on the sleeves=snake legs of Abraxas).

When children are brought to the facility, they stand in 3 groups: boy/girl, two girls, two boys. Couples. In a blink-and-gone shot it's two girls sitting in a room alone, lesbians. Taemin is given a gun to shoot someone out of frame. After he does it, he collapses, clings to the guard (adult) and self-harms (the fingers digging into the knee).

The suicide is shown in the trailer. A boy slowly walks to the white car, stops and makes a decisive step. In Asia a lot of teenagers end up their life by throwing themselves from roofs, bridges and under an upcoming train. In movies, the act is often shot at the level of the feet, the final step into the abyss. When Taemin dances in the MV at the same spot, he makes gestures of killing oneself (hanging on a rope, breaking the neck).

As the story goes, Taemin was somehow connected to the boy's death. Was he his lover (seduced and "ruined" by him, the toxic/forbidden love in the song)? Was he made to out him? ("killing" him before other students, outing in school). Or did he want to follow the example (his inner demons dance)? Was he an observer and was punishing himself for not acting and helping somehow the situation? Open to interpretation.

There is a lot of sexualisation of Taemin who plays a teen in both the trailer and the MV. Is he a seducer (the toxic/forbidden love) or a victim/the one being seduced? What is his trauma? Only his inner demons and the need to combine all his sides in one, to love oneself, or there was a traumatic episode he alluded to in the MV?

The promotional pictures and the album design show a melted ice cream (popsicle: getting sexual satisfaction from a human body), cacti with thorns (endurance, inner strength) and flowers (death, love, maturity), crocuses (rebearth, innocence, new-beginning), green grapes (the unity between the human and the god). More and more layers to the concept.

To sum it up. As you see, a song that at first seems to be about toxic love has underlayers and other readings. The MV is an example of a video that can be shown to general public who won't see anything unusual, but that hides a message for those who want to look deeper.

[b0kksu]

       CHEAP BEER && CIGARETTE SMOKE, the scent sticks to his skin as the cool night air gains him a sense of normality. A singular brow that raises, “Really, you’re horrible at seducing guys” he couldn’t speak, a basket case of emotions, tightly bound && willing to set off like a hurricane. A frown that turns into a childish pout, kitsune udon, thick && chewy enough to sink his teeth into. There must be an irony or a morbid joke to eat with the same soul that once nearly extinguished the light within the fabled legend, a modern day deity that bared his fangs && claimed what was his inheritance. Violence in the midst of enlightenment, he shouldn’t think of this right now, not when the sugary sweetness of ramune coats his tongue.

        “This is lowkey, even for you” thinly veiled insults, quick jabs, in the end he was still a pedigree brat trying to understand the peculiarity of a world that did not see him as one or even on a tier of their existence. Each quip becomes subdued there was no pointless in relentlessly bickering, even if it brought him a sense of joy, to flirt with a flame that could engulf him, it was an adrenaline high none could contend with only to fall short of disappointing. “I still don’t understand you, the amount on my head could set you for life, in truth, you’re not the only person who tried to kill me @inverteds” yet, there was a difference, Toji almost succeeded - almost being pivotal.

                                        “Why call the hit off? God Slayer has a nice ring to it”   

[bluecatwriter]

For the ask game: Sense and Abstinence, perhaps? :O

Awww yeah, thank you for giving some love to one of my Dorian Gray fics! :D

"Sense and Abstinence:" "Dorian Gray, in his hunger for new experiences, is considering becoming a Catholic priest, and of course he must tell Lord Henry Wotton all about it."

(This is a smutfic, so be ye warned.)

-Whereas I tend to pretty actively brainstorm for my Dracula fics, ideas for Dorian Gray fics tend to jump out of dark alleys and hit me with a baseball bat. In this case, the only idea was, "Dorian has a Catholicism kink, Henry Wotton has erectile dysfunction." The former is supported by canon, and the latter came from me reading up on the side effects of opium. Also, I hadn't done a Dorian/Henry fic yet, so I figured I'd throw these two terrible men in the same room together and see what happened.

-Writing scenes from Dorian's perspective is a trip because he makes every single thing about him. He bursts through the door to tell Henry he's going to become a priest, and Henry not being awake and eager to hear about his latest fad is a personal affront to him; seeing Henry's disheveled state makes him feel that he is far superior to him; and so on. It's a bit of a trip, but also pretty interesting to write.

-Getting into Henry Wotton's head long enough to write his dialogue is pretty exhausting; I often write really long paragraphs rambling with every pretentious and cynical thing I can think of on a topic, then edit down to the best ones. 

-I think that Dorian sincerely (as sincerely as anything at this point) wants to experiment with abstinence from worldly pleasure, but he's not very good at it, and Henry is not a great person to go to for such encouragement.

-Without laying it on too heavy, I wanted to explore a bit in this fic the different ways that Henry and Dorian approach seducing women. Henry's a jerk, certainly, but I headcanon him as being fairly good about consent— he gets disgusted and moves on the moment a woman starts waffling about what they're doing. Dorian, on the other hand, gets a thrill from manipulating people. Of course, he is greatly suffering during this fic, since he's not had sex in "nearly a week." ;) (I figured that was quite a sacrifice for him.)

-I don't think Henry's actively trying to goad Dorian into anything in this fic— he's just spouting random stuff and wishing Dorian could go away so he could smoke in peace. But this indifference has the effect of getting Dorian all worked up. I tried to show that them having sex is commonplace by this point, and that it's become something that's not actually pleasurable for either of them— they just do it out of habit, or to prove a point, as is the case here.

-A common thread of my characterization of Henry is him randomly spouting very direct, lewd statements, flustering whomever he's with. He's gotta have something for shock value, I guess.

-Dorian thinking about his portrait and wondering if his rough treatment of Henry will affect it was the key to the scene I didn't know I needed— the idea of him getting off to his own portrait just seemed to fit. Meanwhile, Henry is just waiting until he can go back to his cigarette.

-I am generally all for shutting up Henry by making him give someone a blowjob, but I honestly feel sorry for him here. Dorian is not a considerate lover in this canon, to put it mildly. I wanted to give a sense that this a pretty bad experience for both of them, but especially Henry, even though he's resigned himself to being used by Dorian.

-I liked the idea of Dorian immediately moving on after this— he's had his experience, he's talked to Henry about the idea, and now he has zero interest in joining the Catholic church because it's not new anymore. He's already on to the next thing, and he feels ever-so-slightly uncomfortable about this before forcibly shutting down that part of his brain. 

-Conclusion: Everyone in this fic had a bad time. ;)

Thanks again! :D

(Ask game here)

[twittercomfrnklin2001-blog]

May December

Todd Haynes is the kind of director who can sum up a character or a relationship in the way a person lights a cigarette. Films like MAY DECEMBER (2023, Netlflix) are densely layered to the point one wonders if even he is aware of all the meanings they generate. Like the best art, they raise questions rather than creating answers. MAY DECEMBER takes off from the case of Mary Kay Latourneau, the schoolteacher who seduced a 12-year-old student whom she eventually married. But this is no movie of the week (the film even pokes fun at that kind of filmmaking). Instead, it deals with the lines between reality and personal narrative as an actress (Natalie Portman) cast in the film version of a similar case travels to Savannah to interview Gracie (Julianne Moore), now living with the much younger husband (Charles Melton) with whom she had had an affair when he was 13. Moore has constructed a narrative in which she was seduced, but we also see what a control freak she can be. She treats her husband more like her son and relentlessly body shames her two daughters. At the same time, Portman is constructing her own narrative, trying to come up with a way to play Moore (she even apes her mannerisms at times) that fits her feminist posturing while also satisfying her need to show off. It’s hardly a surprise that Moore is simply superb. But Melton and Portman are revelations. He starts out as almost a vacuum, the character Moore has created for him, but gradually reveals surprising depths of feeling and even a sense of personal trauma. And Portman has a little tour de force monologue practicing for her film that starts out with her channeling Moore and eventually turns back into Portman (you’ll get it when you see the film). Haynes gets strong performances throughout, even from the extras, but special honors are due to D.W. Moffett, as Moore’s ex-husband, still not quite sure what happened to his marriage, and Cory Michael Smith as their son, who seems less jealous that he lost his mother to Melton than that he lost Melton to his mother. The score by Marcelo Zarvos is a re-arrangement of themes from Michel Legrand’s music for THE GO-BETWEEN (1971). Knowing that film, about an aristocratic woman’s manipulation of a boy who has a crush on her, just deepens the power of Haynes’ film.