#sometimes it does (probably because of heat rather than Dirty) sometimes it doesn't (possibly because Dry Skin)

[dredshirtroberts]

electricity skin is definitely one of the worst of the myriad symptoms i have. i do not like feeling like i am being static-shocked when there is nothing to static shock me.

[stevewhoreington]

give it right back to you (twice as hard)

[nsfw] an oldie i originally posted on ao3

Billy crashes into Hawkins like thunder and lightning rolled into one. Rattles the bones of the town's high school and shakes the dust off. He's new and he's shiny, and if there's one thing that can be said about Hawkins, it's that the place is so grey, so drab, that Billy's dirty-blonde curls shine like golden thread against its backdrop. His tanned skin is lustrous and his jeans are tight, and people flit towards him just for a taste of the sun. In those first few weeks, he downs a load of beer, a load of girls, and plucks the crown off the pretty head of Hawkins' finest.

This small-town shit is a blast. Feels like fucking worship, but. Billy knows, better than most, that good things never last, because that's the thing about small-town folk: they're suspicious of what they don't know, and loyal to what they do know. Princess breaks Harrington's heart and Tommy and Carol flock right back to him to kneel and pick up the pieces. Might as well suck his cock, too, while they're down there. 

Thing is, they don't just drop Billy on his ass - they drag him along with them. Keeping him, probably, for the next time King Steve betrays them. There's a sudden shift, and Billy knows his place. There's nothing dignified in being Harrington's fourth-in-command, but there's nothing worse than being a fucking has-been, so. Billy has no other option but to float along with them and try to keep his head above the water. He's still entitled to privileges, this way. Still has invites to the better parties; still handed the better weed; still sought after by the better chicks. It's just the way things fall. It's the natural order of things. The food chain. It's fucking brutal, but Billy would rather kick his feet up somewhere towards the top of the pyramid than drop to his knees, bow, and hold the back-breaking weight of it.

He still has privileges. It just means dealing with Harrington, which, truthfully, is not as difficult as it could be. They seem to have signed some silent pact to ignore each other as much as possible. They'll be in the same room, participating in the same conversation and sharing the same joint, but it doesn't mean that they actually have to interact. And, so what if he feels like he's sitting on the side-lines every time the four of them are together? Harrington, Hagan and Carol have history. Billy's just been dumped in the middle of their circle. Knows that his association with Hawkins' royalty is tenuous, fickle, and so he watches and listens respectfully. Joins in, sometimes, but only when prompted, and he never looks at Harrington for too long. 

It's about showing respect. That's what he does. Gives Harrington the bare minimum: doesn't hound or harass him during practice; doesn't taunt him about Nancy Wheeler in the locker room; doesn't stand too close when they're showering. Doesn't lay a fucking hand on him. Billy gives Harrington all of that. The bare minimum. It's basic respect - without licking the guy's ass. 

The respect isn't exactly mutual, because Harrington has the audacity to stare at Billy whenever he pleases. Does it a lot, actually. Is doing it right now. Billy's sat at the edge of the pool, jeans rolled up, boots off and feet in the water. He lights up another cigarette and ignores Harrington's blatant staring. He inhales nice and deep, tastes toxic smoke on his tongue, heating up the back of his throat, and he watches the gentle ripples of the water. It's dark out, but by the pool, everything is blue. 

"Chain-smoking tonight, Hargrove?" 

It's the first time that Harrington's addressed Billy directly since arriving here with Hagan and Carol several hours ago. He's breaking their pact, just by asking that dumb question. Billy's teeth nick the filter. "Guess so." 

"Could at least share." 

"Didn't think this was your brand." 

"I'm not fussy," Harrington lies, because of course he is. Billy knows he is. The first time he'd brought beer over, Harrington had mumbled his disapproval to Hagan.

Not drinking this shit. I'd rather drink the pool water. 

Billy still doesn't know if Harrington had wanted him to hear, or if he's just no good at whispering. He'd soothed the burn by silently playing out a delightful scenario in his head - something that involved knocking Harrington into the pool, holding his head under and telling him, drink up. Stuck it on repeat until he was too drunk to remember why he was pissed off in the first place. 

"If you want one," Billy says, "come get one." It isn't a challenge, nor is it a request. It just is what it is. 

"Hey, Tommy. Could you -" Harrington starts, shifting in his seat. 

Billy's eyes snap up because he can't quite believe it. Can't believe it, either, when Hagan actually fucking obliges and saunters over, fingers open and waiting. Billy doesn't say anything; doesn't pull Harrington up on his high-and-mighty bullshit, purely because nobody else does. Instead, he just wiggles a stick from the packet and slots it between Hagan's expectant fingers. Watches as Hagan trails back to Harrington and delivers the fucking thing. Billy's amazed that it isn't brought to him on a shiny, silver platter; that Hagan isn't hiding one up his ass, ready to be yanked out on demand. 

From where he sits, Billy hears the snick of Harrington's lighter; the fizz of the cherry as he inhales, and the slow, steady exhale that follows. He risks a look over his shoulder because there's a filthy, grey cloud around Harrington, and it isn't really looking if Billy can't make out the dark honey of his eyes, the sharp edge of his jaw, or the plush, pink bow of his lips. 

It isn't really looking if Harrington doesn't catch him looking. 

"Not bad," Harrington comments, but the smoke has cleared and Billy's no longer watching. 

*

It's Friday night. 

Billy's late, but time is relative. 

It's better, he thinks, to show up after the others. To arrive when Harrington's already high and Hagan's already wasted and Carol's a bit of both. It means eliminating the small talk, and getting to business. Getting to the good shit; to the reason why he ever shows up in the first place. 

The front door is open when Billy slides out from behind the steering wheel. The walk towards the house is made more awkward - made longer - because Harrington has settled himself in the doorway and is watching him approach. This isn't how it usually goes. Harrington's breaking their pact. 

"Heard your engine," he explains, words falling slowly out of his mouth and Billy would bet his left nut that Harrington's breath already smells like his dad's whiskey. 

"And you decided to come to the door," Billy states. "This the royal treatment?" 

Harrington shrugs. "Nobody else around to open it for you." 

Billy freezes. Remembers who he is and where he is, and who he's standing in front of, and picks his feet up again. Walks until he's by the door, but keeps himself at an appropriate distance. "Hagan didn't show?" 

"Nope." Harrington pops the 'p'. Doesn't bother to offer any kind of explanation. Asshole. 

It feels like giving Harrington what he wants when Billy asks, "Why not?" 

"Date night." Harrington seals the two words with a smirk. Looks vaguely amused. 

"Date night?" Billy repeats, outraged. 

"Uh-huh. Tommy told me at school. Carol's pissed because he hasn't taken her out in a while." Slowly, his smirk stretches into a grin. "Threatened to dump his ass." 

Billy scoffs. "Thought that was, like, something she does on the daily?" 

"Uh-huh." 

Harrington's watching him, eyes steady, like he's never put invisible-pen to invisible-paper and signed their invisible-contract. Billy, at least, holds up his end of the bargain, and keeps his eyes on anything but Harrington. 

When it becomes clear that Harrington has nothing more to say, Billy reluctantly opens his mouth and asks, "Why didn't you tell me?" 

"Tell you what?" 

"That Hagan isn't coming." 

"Huh," Harrington says, somehow throwing amusement, sarcasm and condescension into the one fucking syllable. "Can't smoke a joint without holding Tommy's hand, Hargrove?" 

"Fuck you," Billy shoots back. It rolls off his tongue, no hesitation. When he chances a glance at Harrington, he's looking back. Looking back and smiling, teeth glinting in the moonlight. 

The smile is still on his face when he says, more sincerely, "Nah. We had plans, so. Figured we didn't have to ditch them just because Tommy and Carol decided to." 

Billy thinks, oh. Thinks, shit. And Harrington just goes on, asks him, "Wanna come in?", and Billy has no good excuse to turn around and drive away. 

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." 

"Cool. Bring any beer?" 

"No."

"Shame."

*

Billy's on his second beer and his feet are in the pool. Harrington, as usual, has taken one of the loungers off to the side. Too good, even for his own pool water. 

He doesn't miss Hagan, doesn't miss Carol, but he does miss the noise. It's quiet without them. For some reason, Harrington's now deciding to follow their rules; isn't speaking. Isn't offering anything besides the cold beer from his refrigerator. It's more expensive than the shit Billy buys, but it isn't as strong. Isn't getting Billy where he wants to be as quickly as he'd like, but. He's still fuzzy around the edges. 

Just not fuzzy enough to shrug off the silence that sits with them around the swimming pool like an unwanted guest. 

"This is kinda dumb," Harrington says, abruptly cutting into the quiet as though he's just read Billy's mind. 

"What is?" 

"Getting drunk next to the pool." 

Billy huffs. "We always get drunk next to the pool."

"Yeah," Harrington mumbles from somewhere behind him, "but it's still dumb. And there's only two of us." 

"And?" 

"And, Hargrove. Two is less than four." 

"Really, Isaac Newton? How'd you figure that one out?" 

Harrington's probably flipping him off behind his back. He scoffs. "More risky with just the two of us." 

Billy hums and chugs on his beer. Couldn't give a shit, really, about what's risky or what's safe. He's a good swimmer, and he's not wasted. He doesn't bother saying so. 

"Let's go inside," Harrington says, and there's a tell-tale scrape of plastic against concrete, and Billy knows that he's dragged himself up and off the lounger without even having to turn around. 

"I'll follow in a minute." Billy would rather sit out here, watching the blue pool in the dark, feet warmed by the heated water. Fancy fuckers.

"Now, Hargrove." 

Billy nearly chokes on his beer. It slips down his throat, fast, and he shoots a glare at Harrington - no longer caring about some bullshit pact that tells him where to put his eyes. 

But. Harrington isn't looking back at him. His eyes are pointed towards the tree line beyond his yard. He's distracted. Looks oblivious to the fact that Billy's offended by his bossy-bitch attitude. 

"Fine." Billy downs the rest of his beer, crushes the can, and - just to be an asshole - tosses it into the pool. Harrington only tuts, but it's satisfying enough. 

*

His feet are wet. They squelch on the carpet. He's got his boots in his hand, like some drunk chick who's stumbling home and can't handle her heels. 

Harrington is walking ahead, locking doors and closing windows as though he's calling it a night. Maybe he is. Maybe this is Billy's hint. Except. 

Except, Harrington turns around and says, "Let's take this party upstairs." 

"Not the best party you've hosted, Harrington." Billy replies, tone dry. Making a point of sounding bored. 

"There's time yet." Harrington's retort is delivered smoothly and with the kind of smile that holds a lot of promise. The beer's suddenly kicking in, turning Billy's legs weak. "Grab you a towel for your feet while we're up there." 

He isn't drunk - knows he isn't - but he feels tipsy as he follows Harrington up the stairs. It's one of those fancy staircases with the gaps between each step, and Billy has to focus on where he's putting his feet to avoid losing a leg down one of the holes. He isn't drunk. He's only had two fucking cans and he can hold his damn drink. Probably, it's just tiredness, or something. 

Billy's feet are dry by the time they're upstairs, and nobody mentions a towel. Pact thoroughly fucking out of the window, he's invited into Harrington's bedroom, and he accepts. Walks right in, boots still in the one hand, bare feet on Harrington's plush carpet. He whistles as he looks around. "Take it you don't like plaid?" 

"Screw off." Harrington's drawing the curtains. Two lamps light the room. 

"Preppy," Billy comments, taking in the wallpaper and the curtains and how they very nearly - but don't quite - match. Holy shit. "Don't you get a headache being in here?" 

"Usually have better things to focus on when I'm in here." 

Billy scoffs. "Like you can get anybody in here." 

"You're in here," Harrington points out, and when Billy shoots him a look, he's wearing a smug fucking smirk and eyes that say, gotcha. 

Billy frowns and looks away. 

"You know what's funny?" Harrington asks. 

There are several responses on the tip of Billy's tongue - all fucking golden, and sharp, and hilarious. But he doesn't say a single word. 

Harrington sits on his bed. Billy only knows because he can hear the familiar creak of bedsprings. 

He waits for a handful of seconds, before figuring that Billy has nothing smart to give back. Says, "You never look at me. You used to always hang around my neck, and now you don't look at me." Harrington sounds almost disappointed. "What's with that?" 

Billy isn't prepared for a question like that. He's by Harrington's desk, staring down at unfinished school papers and blotchy, blue ink stains, and he falters. Freezes right up, shoulders rigid. What kind of question is that? Billy isn't sure he has an answer for it. Wouldn't have an answer, even if he could pause time, bring everything to a standstill, and have a good think about it. 

He doesn't have an answer, but he has to say something, because Harrington isn't helping him out. He's letting the silence stretch on; letting his question remain unanswered. Seems like he won't be changing the subject any time soon.

His mouth is dry when he finally speaks. "I didn't hang around your neck." 

Harrington scoffs. "Don't give me that shit. The parties. The locker room. On the fucking court?" 

Billy mirrors his scoff. Puts more enthusiasm into it. "Was only giving you shit. Teasing you. Thought it got your panties in a bunch, anyway." 

"Giving me shit," Harrington repeats, pushing each word out slowly. "That's what that was?" 

"That's what I said." Billy's over this conversation. Utterly fucking done with it. 

"I thought it was something else," Harrington tells him, and there's another creak from the bed. Harrington's standing. Billy knows without looking. "Even now," he goes on, "you're not looking at me, man." 

The clever part of Billy knows he needs to spin around, stare Harrington down, just to prove a point. Tell him, only because you're fucking ugly, and make a joke out of it. Needs to find his balls and lift his fucking head up before Harrington can spin this web. But. But. The dumb part of Billy is reigning; is keeping him speechless, making him stall. Making him forget how to locate his damn balls. There's a shift in atmosphere - that's why - and Billy's swiftly losing his footing. 

Loses it completely, in fact, by the time Harrington's standing behind him, breath tickling the back of his neck when he says, "Look at me." 

There's no way he can't, now. He has to, so he does. 

Billy turns, and Harrington's close. Ridiculously close. Close enough that Billy's staring at the tiny moles dotted across his cheek and down his neck. Close enough that Harrington's whiskey breath might just give him a second-hand buzz. 

"There," Harrington whispers.

Billy's going to die. Harrington's molten-honey eyes are setting him on fire. Mouth dry, Billy's speechless. Couldn't say shit, anyway, because his tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth; feels like some kind of intruder. Something that doesn't belong to him. Something that's fighting against him instead of working with him. 

"See," Harrington begins, still watching, "I don't think you were just giving me shit. I think you were flirting." 

Billy laughs. 

Or. 

He's supposed to. 

It's more of a choked-out noise. Something unintelligible and pathetic. 

Harrington smiles. "Bet you didn't think I'd call you out on that, huh?" His gaze dips to Billy's mouth. Back up again, to his eyes. "Or did you just think I was too dumb to know what you were really doing?" 

The initial panic is very much there still, but Billy's also growing agitated. Pissed because he feels hot all over. "You're way off, Harrington. What's in your dad's whiskey, anyway?" 

Harrington continues to smile, and Billy thinks about knocking that dizzy look off his face. ”Way off? Really?”

Billy matches Harrington's smile, but there's something mean to it. Sardonic. "Did you really drag me up here just so I can beat your face in?" 

He laughs. Harrington fucking laughs like Billy's told him the funniest joke of the year. "No. That's not why I brought you up here." 

The smile on Billy's face twists into something more frustrated. Impatient. "Then enlighten me, asshole." 

The words are hardly out of his mouth before Harrington's stepping in, sneaker closing over Billy's boot and making him wince. Billy's dazed. There's an abrupt sting and it isn't a result of his trodden-on toes. It's something else. Something that only clicks once he's tasting whiskey. 

Harrington's fingertips are digging into Billy's jaw. He's cupping Billy's face, a hand on each side of his jaw, and he's giving Billy a taste of his dad's whiskey. Harrington's mouth is on his, tongue slipping between Billy's lips easily because he's pliant and stunned and his brain isn't working fast enough to tell his body what to do. Before Billy can react, Harrington's curling his tongue behind his teeth and they're swapping spit. 

This isn't what Billy does. It shouldn't be what Harrington does. It's not what they do. But. But. 

A fire is being stoked in Billy's belly, shooting heat up the length of his spine and into his brain and that's probably why it short-circuits. Probably the reason why Billy closes his eyes and lets Harrington kiss him; invites his tongue into his mouth and it's funny, really, because this is the most their tongues have ever interacted. He doesn't have the time to question what he's doing. There's no room for thoughts when Harrington's tongue is halfway down his throat. 

They're breathless. Harrington draws back first, and Billy pulls in lungful after lungful of sweet oxygen. It feels like drowning; feels like a reminder not to take air for fucking granted. Harrington's catching his breath too, but he's cool about it - is taking his time sipping down air. Drinking it down slower than he drinks Mr Harrington's expensive liquor. Taking his time, like it isn't essential to his existence. He smiles with teeth, and his lips are wet, coated with a shine as glossy as chap-stick. Harrington's pretty and this is why Billy has a million and one problems with the guy. 

"Knew it," Harrington says. He looks satisfied, smug. Like he's managed to prove a point.

Billy's heart drops to his stomach. He wants to plunge his fist into Harrington's pretty face, but not nearly as much as he wants to turn his fist around on himself. "Fuck you," he spits, and he's never been good at hiding his feelings. His fingers flex by his sides, wanting to curl into his palms, but one hand's taken up by the burden of his boots anyway, and there's just no point. That stupid smile would probably stick to Harrington's mouth no matter how hard Billy hit him. 

There's no point. Billy's fingers dig into his boots, and he can actually feel how flushed his goddamn face is. The fire's still burning. Humiliated, he turns to stalk out of the room, defeated, because Harrington is King Steve again and he's at the top of the food chain and Billy suddenly feels like he's dropped right down, like he's kicking around with the plants, except he's dried up and too small, too hidden, to get a lick of sunlight. 

He doesn't get far before Harrington's wrapping a firm hand around his wrist, tugging. "What? Wait," he says, and Billy isn't looking at him but it sounds like that complacent smile is thoroughly gone. "Where are you going?"

Harrington sounds genuinely confused. That's the only reason Billy turns around. He's just as confused, though. Bites out, "What?" 

"Where are you going?" Harrington asks, voice softening right up in a way that Billy's never heard before. His grip around Billy's wrist loosens, but he makes up for it by stepping in. "I didn't say you have to go." Harrington's eyes are wide. "Do you want to go?" 

"The fuck do you think?" 

"I don't think you do. I think you wanna stay," Harrington tells him, simple as that. "I want you to stay." 

Harrington's hand comes up to brush Billy's hair out of his face. It's an oddly tender gesture, and Billy gapes, staring at Harrington like he's just been handed a single-coloured Rubik's Cube. "What?" 

"I want you to stay." Harrington presses in until their hips are meeting and there's no such thing as personal space. He reaches out, pries Billy's boots out of his grip until he can knock them to the floor. They land with a dull thud. "Stay," Steve says. Billy thinks it's supposed to be a question, but it sounds more like a statement. 

"Why?" 

"Because I think we both liked that kiss, and I think you've been trying to get in my pants since the night we first met." Harrington's smiling again, but it's less obnoxious, more fond. He brings his palms to Billy's hips, keeping him close, and he's hard. Billy thinks he is, at least. Everybody knows King Steve's well-endowed, but the solid pressure, the heat, is unmistakable. Harrington's hard and Billy's still humiliated but less so, because it doesn't necessarily feel like a trick anymore - not when Harrington's rocking into him unashamedly, wanting him to know just how worked up sticking his tongue in Billy's mouth has gotten him. 

Billy sighs. Licks his lips. Lets his shoulders droop. Harrington takes it for what it is - a surrender. 

"Good," Harrington mutters. "Glad you're staying." He bows his head and sets his mouth against the side of Billy's neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses. Murmurs there, "What do you want, huh? Because I know you've been wanting something from me." He drops a kiss to the hinge of Billy's jaw before shifting to speak into his ear. "You wanna get your hands on me, Hargrove? Want my hands on you? What do you want?" 

The voice in Billy's ear awakens goosebumps on his skin. He shivers. "I don't know." He sounds faraway, lost. He supposes he is. 

"Bet you wanna taste me," Harrington says next, finding the dangerous red button inside Billy's body and pressing. The universe crumbles. Billy makes a low noise. "Oh. Is that it? You wanna taste me?" He's grinning against Billy's ear. "Got such pretty lips, Hargrove, I'd let you put them anywhere." He straightens up and Billy slumps. He tells him, "Come on. Come here." Takes Billy by the hand and walks him towards the bed. 

It's all a blur. Billy isn't sure how he's commanding his feet to move. He thinks Harrington might be dragging him. He just doesn't know. It's a small, unimportant detail, and one which quickly loses his attention because Harrington's sinking down on the edge of the mattress, feet on the carpet. He's holding Billy's fingers in one hand and stretching out to snag a pillow from the bed with the other. He throws it down to the floor; to the space between his sneakers. It's a hint, or a demand, or a kind gesture, or maybe all three, but Harrington still needs to tell Billy, "Get down, baby?" He frames it as a suggestion, but he's already waiting, wearing an explicitly expectant expression. 

"Don't call me that," Billy shoots back, but he's dropping to his knees like he's easy. Like he's some easy-to-fucking-please prom date who'll put out at the gentle coaxing of soft words and sugar-coated pet names.

Baby.

"You don't like that?" Harrington asks, and there's an edge to his voice that tells Billy he knows that he does. "Sweetheart? Sugar? Honey?"

"None. I'm not your fucking wife, Harrington." 

Harrington stares down at him, pleased, before changing the subject entirely and asking Billy, "You done this before?"

It's such a startling contrast to the bullshit they've just been discussing. Billy blinks. "No?" 

"Really?" Harrington actually sounds surprised. Billy shoots him a warning look. "But you've had your cock sucked before, right?" 

"Duh." 

"Then I'm sure you can improvise."  

Unsurprisingly, there's a huge difference between being blown and blowing. Harrington's jeans and underwear come down to his knees, giving him just enough leeway to keep his thighs properly parted. He's already stiff, like just the anticipation of getting Billy's mouth around him has sent all of his blood rushing south. It'd be flattering if this was anything else, but this is Billy, on his knees, wrapping a fist around Steve Harrington's cock, pretending that he knows what he's doing. It isn't anything to be proud of. 

He can't stroke Harrington's cock forever. They both want more before he fucking loses it - even if Billy doesn't know where to start. His mouth is too dry and Harrington's dick is too big. 

He's hesitating, and Harrington knows it. 

"You good?" He asks, voice not quite as put together as it had been. He reaches out and threads his fingers through Billy's hair.

Billy nods. He's fine. It's just a dick. It's just a blowjob. If Nancy fucking Wheeler could get her mouth around this, then Billy will have no problem. "Yeah," he says, wetting his lips with his tongue. 

"Come on, baby," Harrington coaxes, tone gentle and fingers even gentler where they're tucked into Billy's curls. "You've thought about doing this, right?" 

He has. He actually, genuinely has. But fantasy and reality are very different, and in his fantasies, Billy's good at everything and it's Harrington who's at a loss for fucking words. "Guess so," he lies, just to be difficult because he can't be completely easy. 

Harrington ignores Billy's attitude, and just tells him, "It's okay. Doesn't have to perfect. Come here. Just do what you wanna do." His fingers flex in Billy's hair, gently tugging. "Do what feels right." 

Billy rolls his eyes. Makes a good show of it. Nothing about this feels right, but he doesn't point that out. He shouldn't have to. It isn't right, and that's a renowned fact; as certain as the pain in Billy's knees and as certain as the whiskey on Harrington's breath. Even so, he follows the guidance of Harrington's persistent fingers and starts by licking a long, slow stripe up the underside of his cock; from base to just below the head. It earns Billy a long, slow groan in response, starting from the second his tongue meets hot, sweet skin, to the moment it breaks contact. 

"Baby," Harrington breathes, "That's good." He pets his fingers through Billy's hair, making knots. "Keep going." 

Harrington's praise doesn't mean shit. It's whatever. But Billy bows his head again, anyway. Brings his tongue out to lap at the tip of Harrington's cock. Spits on his hand and starts to jerk him off at the same time. 

Billy can taste salt on his tongue. Harrington's leaking already, and his own cock is rubbing uncomfortably against too-tight denim. He wants to dip a hand beneath the waistband of his jeans, but blowing Harrington requires all of his focus because he has no fucking idea what he's doing. He's overwhelmed, and working at his own hard-on will only make the job more difficult. He figures his own needs are secondary in this arrangement, and - what was he saying about not being Harrington's fucking wife? 

"Hey, hey," Harrington coos out of nowhere, and Billy tips his eyes up to look at him, trying to gauge what it is he wants. He doesn't need to, because Harrington goes on, mumbling softly, fingers fully lost in Billy's curls now. He says, "Put your mouth around me, Billy." 

Billy's hand pauses mid-stroke, fist curled around Harrington's cock. He blinks, tears his gaze away from Harrington's blissed-out face and he thinks it might be the first time Harrington's used his name like that. Like, really used his name. It's distracting, and it's heavy, and it sort of feels like Harrington's found that red button again, hit it, and pieced the universe back together. Billy closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and wraps his lips around the swollen head. It's - strange. He has barely taken Harrington in, but it's one hell of an intrusive sensation. Harrington's heavy on his tongue; he's thick. It's nothing like how Billy had imagined. It's exactly like how Billy had imagined.

"Fuck," Harrington moans, and when Billy forces his eyes open, he glances up and the guy has his head tipped back, throat exposed. Pretty boy. "Good. Like that."  

He'd never admit it, but it's encouraging; has him thinking that he isn't completely fucking this whole thing up, but. At the same time, it's just getting somebody off, and how hard is that? Clearly, he's put too much thought into whether he'd be able to do it or not. He knows what it's like to be on the receiving end of a blowjob. Only needs a few hard sucks and vivid imagery that plays on-loop behind his eyelids, and he's done for. No big deal. 

That's what he thinks, until he's trying to suck Harrington down and it proves a mammoth fucking task. Harrington's doing all he can to keep Billy encouraged. He massages Billy's scalp with blunt fingernails and tells him, "Take it slow, baby. You're doing good." 

Good is probably an overstatement, but he must be doing something right because Harrington's thighs are trembling, knees twitching, like it's taking effort to keep still. 

Billy works at Harrington's cock slowly, just like Harrington had suggested. He takes it slow; tries to relax his throat as he takes Harrington deeper, weight heavier on his tongue, senses utterly invaded. Taste, touch, smell. Everything is just Steve Harrington. From a mutual pact of silence, to this. From nothing, to everything. Billy's drowning. Can't breathe. Can't swallow without feeling like he's going to gag. Everything comes to a stand-still with Harrington stuffed in his mouth. 

The choked-out noise Billy makes is, thankfully, lost beneath the sounds that are erupting from Harrington. He's fucking noisy, is the thing. It's something he shouldn't know about King Steve, but he does now, and he adds it to the very long list of things that he shouldn't know about a boy who shouldn't be as pretty as he is; a boy who shouldn't command Billy's attention the way that he does, or soften him up enough that he drops to his knees when he hears that word - baby. 

He holds Harrington on his tongue, cheeks hollowed out, and he tries to swallow past the building saliva and the salty precum that's sliding towards the back of his throat. Billy's hand is busy massaging Harrington's balls, and he isn't sure why he's giving the guy the full fucking treatment. It should be half-hearted, at best. Billy just convinces himself that this particular technique will have Harrington spilling his load much faster, and that means this whole thing will be over with; he can get to his feet, rub his aching knees and bolt, so. Yeah. That's probably why. 

He's building a rhythm, here. Starting to feel more comfortable and more confident, even though he knows that Harrington's eyes are glued to him. Billy likes the spotlight - loves it - but this is a new kind of performance he's giving, and he's still just an amateur. But, he's falling into something steady and easy, throat relaxing and becoming more pliant, making room for Harrington's cock as he bobs his head and sucks him off. 

He has a slice of control until Harrington takes it away from him. 

Harrington's fingers are still caught up in Billy's hair and he uses the grip, now, to pick up the pace, speed things up. He tells Billy, "Shit. That's fucking good. Keep sucking, baby." Tells Billy, breathlessly, "Gonna make me come like this." 

That's good for him, but Billy's eyes are watering, tears threatening to form and spill, and his throat is closing back up because Harrington's thrusting into his mouth like Billy's some kind of porn star. He chokes, gags, and then he's drawing back, pushing back against the surprising strength of Harrington's palm until his cock falls out of Billy's mouth with a slick pop. "Jesus fuck," he growls, throat sounding banged up. "You do this to the girls you screw around with?" 

Harrington huffs out a laugh. His face is pink and his eyes are dark. "No." He loosens his grip in Billy's hair, strokes the area with restless fingers. "Are you a girl?" 

Billy slips his hand from under Harrington's balls just to flip him off. It earns him another breathy laugh, but Billy's half-distracted, wondering if Harrington does this shit often. Does it with guys. He's knocked out of those thoughts by Harrington's voice, low and steady and edging on impatient, when he says, "I'm close, Billy. Are you gonna finish me off?" 

Billy nods. 

Harrington says, "Thought so. So good for me." 

Something clicks inside of Billy. It's divine and it's nice and it hurts. He brings his hands and his mouth back to Harrington, and lets the grip in his hair show him how to move. How fast to go; how slow. It's Harrington who's controlling it, and Billy's just the puppet. He swallows around a particularly rough thrust, eyes squeezing shut, tears spilling. He thinks he doesn't mind the strings. 

Harrington's knee jerks, fingers growing tight in Billy's curls. "Baby," he groans out. "Baby, I'm gonna -" 

It's Billy's warning, but it comes as Harrington's already spilling. 

It's fast. Happens in a flash. Hot come shooting out onto his tongue and slipping, easily, down his throat. He has to swallow, and swallow, and swallow, just to keep from choking on the stuff. He tips his wet eyes up at Harrington, and he's already watching; looking down at Billy, eyes heavy, mouth parted around a low, breathless moan. That pact of theirs has been screwed up and tossed out of the window. Has been shredded into thousands of tiny pieces and then burned on a huge fucking bonfire. It's dust. 

Billy isn't sure how it all happens next, but it's fast. 

Harrington's on his knees next to him. Billy's dazed, salt on his tongue and throat on fire, and Harrington's guiding him back. He's being tipped until he's on his back, and Harrington's stuffing the pillow beneath his head. A fucking gentleman. He's peppering Billy's face and throat with fast, chaste kisses that only serve to make his head spin. It's a good job that he's lying down. 

There's an easing of pressure and it's Harrington's hands unzipping his jeans and tugging them down to his thighs, underwear not far behind. He doesn't even ask, but he doesn't have to. In fact, it's a surprise that he's bothering at all, because there's no obligation. This isn't part of any kind of fair agreement. Harrington's known all along what Billy's been wanting, and it's true - Billy has been wanting to taste Harrington on his tongue. Has been wanting to get his mouth around him and be played like a puppet. Used. It doesn't mean that Harrington needs to give back. 

But he does. 

He spits into his palm and takes Billy into his hand and strokes until Billy's seeing stars. Tells him, "Relax, baby." Tells him, "Did so good, Billy." Stupid, silly words of praise and encouragement that shouldn't mean shit but absolutely do. That only serve to stoke the fire in Billy's belly and strengthen the strings that are attaching him to Harrington's wrists.

Billy comes under a shower of praise and Harrington doesn't stop stroking until he gets every last drop - like it's for him. Like it's all his. Earned it, owns it. He strokes until Billy's spent, breath knocked out of his lungs. Harrington's panting, sweat beading at his temples and when he falls to the ground beside Billy, he lands close.

Billy stares up at the ceiling, suddenly stripped of an old agreement and left to navigate a new world. Harrington closes his eyes and reaches for Billy's hand. It's the drawing up of a new pact. Billy laces their fingers together, and it feels like inking their names - sealing the deal.

[scarlettriot]

For All The Uterus Owners

What the MHA boys do to make you feel better during that time of the month when you are in absolute PAIN!

Warning: 18+ content below the cut. Mentions of sexy times. And period things, obviously. Mild cursing. 18 and under DNI

A/N: Yes, I am projecting. No, I don't care a single bit.

Midoriya

. This man knows your cycle better than you do!

. It might seem annoying but Midoriya just uses all the knowledge he's gathered to make it this time as comfortable as it possibly can be.

. During the days leading up to your period, he will stock up on all your favorite snacks, make sure the heating pad is easily accessible and he buys pain meds in bulk!

. Throughout your period, Midoriya will do little things to make your day easier.

. He'll always make sure you have a glass of water because hydration is important.

. He will throw your towel in the dryer while you shower so it's warm when you're done.

. Absent minded massages for your shoulders, feet, legs, chest. Things like that.

. "I just want you to be as comfortable as you can, doll."

. He knows when your worst days are and will do whatever he can to make them less painful. If you're irritable and want him to fuck off, he will. If you want cuddled until you're sick of him, he'll do that too!

. Hero work will come up but he does his best to check in with you in case you need him to bring anything home.

. The one thing he hasn't ever been too comfortable with is sex during this time. He's tried, poor man really has but he just cannot.

. But, he knows how much it can help SO! Whatever toys you want, he'll get them. You want dirty talk or phone sex, he'll be at the top of his game! Anything to help you, during this time, he doesn't give a single crap about his own pleasure.

. He will pounce on you the moment it's over though and I hope you didn't plan on walking anywhere in the days that follow.

Bakugo

. He might seem like he doesn't pay attention to these things but the man knows.

. He doesn't think about picking up pain meds or putting new batteries in the heating pad but without fail, you can find your favorite snack well stocked just before you're due to start.

. It might have taken him some getting used to but Bakugo has come to the decision (begrudgingly) that while you're on your period YOU are the one who gets to be full of sass and attitude.

. He does try his best to temper his anger around you during this time. He has his slip-ups but he's trying to not make you more irritable than you already are.

. That doesn't mean he lets you get away with shit though.

. You're still drinking that water he's brought you.

. You have to eat something other than sweats and salty treats.

. You're also are not allowed to miss that meeting for work.

. If you're cuddling, he will pop off tiny little explosions to heat his palms and rest them over your lower abdomen, your back, or your chest. Whatever is aching.

. If you suggest a little sexy time might help relieve a certain ache he'll be more than happy to aid you. But, HE will only suggest it if you're being particularly sassy, complaining too much.

. "Cramps bothering you? Bet I can make you forget about 'em."

. Bakugo will take it as a personal challenge to make you forget about the pain your damn uterus is causing you. The only one allowed to make you feel sore is him, damn it!

Todoroki

. This poor guy...

. Todoroki obviously knew what periods were, he has a sister but he didn't KNOW about them until he lived in the dorms of UA. (I headcanon that Ochaco had very, very bad cramps one day and missed training and when he asked Midoriya why she didn't go to Recovery Girl to fix it they decided it was time for an educational meeting).

. They're still a mystery to him for the most part. He knows they hurt you, make you double over in pain sometimes and it's not the kind of pain that can be healed through a quirk.

. He knows you like certain foods and that snuggling against his warm side makes you feel better.

. With his father's credit card, he will buy you whatever food you like. Tell you to book a day at the spa or whatever it is that will make you feel better.

. He's shocked you don't usually accept his offer and would rather just stay in, cuddling against him instead. Not that he minds after a long day of hero work.

. Todoroki will regulate his heat until you are comfortable, you practically pulling his leg across you and using him as your personal heating pad.

. "This can't be comfortable for you. Please, let me just get you something that's meant to help you."

. He has a hard time understanding that he is your favorite and that this actually is comfortable.

. You'll have to explain to him there are other things only he could do to help you too...you'll really have to explain it to him too.

. He's willing to give you what you need though as long as it gets rid of some of your pain.

. He is going to suggest doing it in the shower though, hoping to avoid making too much of a mess.

Kaminari

. Yeah, I think Kaminari is too scatterbrained to actually remember when your time of the month is. He picks up on the subtle changes in your mood quickly though when it's coming.

. When he does realize though, he's at the store that very day throwing literally EVERYTHING and ANYTHING in the cart that even has the possibility of making you feel better.

. From food to medication, to stuffed animals, to video games, to board games... it's all going in the cart.

. This is how you ended up with the life-sized teddy bear that now sits in the corner of your room...

. Take-out happens every single night. He'd try and cook if you asked him but you know that's probably safer to just let him be generous and order in.

. Big time promoter of snuggles!

. Big time promoter of period sex!

. "It helps! Or, that's what I've been told... I'm just sayin' we could give it a shot!"

. And it did help. Because of that, it is now one of the first things he suggests doing when you are even just a smidge irritable.

. You can chuck the life-sized bear at him. He won't take it personally.

. It might come off as annoying but, he does everything he can to get you feeling wonderful again. Expending all his efforts on you. Doing everything he can to be a buzzy distraction and get you to smile.

Kirishima

. Not nearly as detailed as Midoriya is but also not as aloof as Bakugo. Kirishima cares about you and your health and he sure as hell isn't afraid to show it.

. He'll take a peak where he knows you store your feminine products a few days before you're due to start and then go out to the store to pick up anything you might be running low on. You seriously haven't had to buy anything for yourself. He learned after like two months of dating.

. While there, he will also make sure you have plenty of snacks as well as actual food for meals because keeping your energy up is just as important as making sure you're comfortable.

. When he isn't off being the sturdy hero he is, he's your comfort hero at home.

. Wrapping you both up in the heated blanket, he has to stick a leg out so he doesn't overheat but he'll be damned if he gives up cuddles just because he's a little warm.

. During this time, Kirishima will do everything he can to make sure you aren't lifting a finger! He's had cramps before, in his legs and arms from working out and his several growth spurts, he can't imagine how you deal with them month after month!

. He'll offer to do just about anything for you normally but that goes double when it's your time of the month.

. Massages are his favorite way to help you though. They usually always turn into something more not that either of you complains.

. He will let you take the lead every single time.

. "Just tell me what I can do to help. Whatever you need, pebble, just tell me."

. That statement is always said multiple times over the course of your period but with different contexts.

. Going to the store, running you a bath, getting medicine from the pantry, dicking you down until you're speechless... you know, whatever you need.

[slashnatic]

NSFW ALPHABET [Vincent Sinclair]

a/n: soo...this is the first time i actually post what i wrote + english isn't my first language (and i feel like there’s still 1000 mistakes in this although i proof-read it like 10 times) so please don't be too hard on me, but feel free to give me constructive criticism :)

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He definitely takes care of you after. He’ll clean you up, gets you a drink if you want...really anything. You need to go to the bathroom? Sure, he can carry you. You’d rather walk yourself? Well, you’re only allowed to go after he’s given you your goodbye-kiss-on-the-forehead. And no, this is not unnecessary because you'll be back in a few minutes, it’s a must.

Once all of that is done he likes it when you lay your head down on his chest or the other way around and you just cuddle and enjoy each other’s company in a comfortable silence.

B = Body Part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Vincent has a very prominent v-line. He never paid attention to it until he realized how much you like it and with that it became also his favorite body part of himself.

He loves the curve of your hips and waist. (Whether you are slim or curvy, he absolutely loves it either way!) His favourite thing is when you’re lying naked on top of him, your head on his chest and one leg laying on top of his in an angled position. He won't stop caressing and squeezing your hips.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum basically)

He both loves and hates cuming inside of you. He loves the intimacy of it, the vulnerability you show each other, but he is also scared of the possible consequences, at least at the beginning of your relationship.

He also likes to cum on your chest and belly.

D = Dirty Secret (a dirty secret of theirs)

Vincent has watched you a lot. At first it was innocent glances he stole, later he would make time to watch you from afar going after your daily tasks and the more he started to obsess over you the less he cared about how wrong it was to basically stalk you. It went so far that he once stood before an barely-open door, watching your every move through the small gap while you showered.

It doesn‘t really matter how long you are together, he still does it sometimes. You’ve grown used to it and now even put on a show for him sometimes, pretending you don‘t know he’s right there.

Another secret of his is that he sculpted your orgasm-face. It‘s weird and creepy, but he doesn’t really care. (I’m referring to the faces he sculpted in the walls on the way down to the basement. You’ll find your face there too, just a bit a part from the others.)

E = Experience (how experienced they are)

Not at all. Vincent has been wearing his mask since he can remember. He didn't even consider pressing his wax mask in some girl’s face. Needless to say pressing your lips on wax isn’t really romantic and with that no teenage girl‘s dream. Aside from that he barely left the house. When he was older he had gotten too used to it. In conclusion: He never even kissed a woman and he didn't have sex either.

F = Favourite Position (their favourite position, could possibly include a visual)

I believe it is called the Sphinx Position.

https://littlepennyberry-files-wordpress-com.cdn.ampproject.org/i/s/littlepennyberry.files.wordpress.com/2018/12/IMG_3071.png?w=768&h=433

He likes how he towers over you. Not even in a dominant way, but more that his frame completely covers yours. Your body is practically buried by his, but in a good kind of way? It’s just whatever ground you‘re having sex on underneath you and him on top of you; you’re trapped in between, there‘s only him and it gives him a feeling of pride. He also loves kissing and softly biting your neck in that position.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He is quite serious, probably even stiff the first few times you’re having sex. He will get comfortable though and then he‘s a total romantic.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Vincent is almost never completely shaved. He doesn’t have the time for it and even if he did he doesn't think of it as necessary. Nevertheless he’s still always clean down there, just a bit sweaty sometimes from the heat of the fire in the basement.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? romantic aspect, etc.)

Uh, yes? Just yes. Yes, sex is an intimate thing to him. Yes, he is a romantic.

While he overall views sex as something very intimate, his mask also plays a big role. He’s scared shitless of taking the mask off, but he also doesn’t want to wear it while you‘re making love. Besides the fact that it‘s quite impractical, it also makes him feel worthless. He’ll overthink and then believes you’re only having sex with him and want to be close to him or even want him at all when you don‘t have to put up with his face, that you don’t actually care for him and that he isn't good enough. He knows himself well enough though, so he takes it off before he can lose himself in those thoughts (this doesn’t make taking the mask off easier though). In conclusion he rather has sex with you when he is (as a side affect, but that doesn’t really make a difference) vulnerable and therefore sex really is something intimate to him.

J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)

Well, first of all...he thinks about sex fairly often. There are also quite a few pieces of his art that have a sexual touch. (Have you seen the couple on the couch in the wax house? They’re going at it!)

He doesn‘t jerk off whenever he thinks about something sexual, but he does jerk off quite often. When he does it he‘s downright filthy. Lies in his bed or preferably sits at his work bench stroking his member at first slow and then faster and faster, throwing his head back, groaning and hissing and then finishing all over his work bench with his eyes closed, imagining it was your body.

He might as well has a few photos and videos of you. Wether he took them with or without your permission is up to your imagination.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Voyeurism. While he does enjoy watching you pleasure yourself, he prefers watching or rather observing you while he fingers you. He’ll spread your legs and position himself between them so that he lies on his elbows, fingering you with one hand and holding you in place (as much as possible from that angle) with the other, his face right in front of your heat. This also gives him the perfect opportunity to have a taste too.

He also has a praise kink. Telling him not to stop? Oof. Telling him how good he makes you feel? Bigger oof. Telling him how pretty he looks? Biggest oof.

L = Location (favourite places to have sex)

He preferably has sex in the basement with you. On his work bench or really wherever, just not directly where he works. You can be as loud as you want, there is a lot of space and lots of opportunities for whatever-you-wanna-try. Plus the house is quite dirty and so is his bedroom and he doesn't want to be that kind of filthy.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Anything can be sexy to Vincent, it really just depends on his mood.

It might be simple, but seeing you naked is his biggest turn-on. I‘m talking completely bare and vulnerable. No towel because you just came out of the shower. No blanket because you’re in bed. No make-up. Nothing. Just you, you’re body being illuminated by the warm light of the candles in the basement. And don’t talk. For some reason it is incredibly sexy to him just taking you in, so pure and perfect. When he sees you like this he doesn't get horny, he just:

N = NO (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything verbal which is respectless and degrading. If you’re into humiliation, that‘s cool. He can spank you, whip you, do whatever you want, but he won’t call you names. Ever. If you call him names he’ll also probably cry.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Vincent loves eating you out. Your taste, your soft moans, you telling him how good it feels... It makes him proud and when he hears those sweet sounds leaving your mouth he forgets all his insecurities for the moment.

It took him a while to discover this though, since he is so insecure. (‘You seriously want that face between your legs?’)

He hasn’t had any experience, but that doesn’t mean that he’s doing a bad job! He knows your body (or the human body in general) well enough to know what will make you feel good. On top of that he’s a quick learner. For everything else he makes up with his enthusiasm.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He’s rather slow, but still quite rough. He’s a big, strong guy after all.

Also: When it comes to who’s more dominant it really changes with his mood and the atmosphere. He likes hovering over you and trapping you underneath him, fucking you hard but teasingly slow. He likes to hear you whining, whimpering and telling him how good he feels inside of you. You look so beautiful when you stare up at him with big glassy eyes and rosy cheeks. Nevertheless he likes being submissive too, you straddling him, pinning his arms down and telling him what to do and what not to do. He likes being soft to you and he likes being rough to you. He likes you being soft to him and he likes you being rough to him too. He really doesn‘t have a preference.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Vincent doesn’t like quickies, they are almost a no-go. He likes to take his time, since it's something where he feels very vulnerable. Rushing through it isn’t satisfying for either of you in his opinion. He also feels like quickies lack passion and isn’t that what sex is all about?

Foreplay is also important to him. You start kissing him? He will get lost and he won't let you go. Not even for sex. Your having your romantic kiss now and you will have it a while longer. It doesn't matter how horny you are, you’ll have to be patient.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Absolutely! There’s basically nothing he wouldn't try, he just needs a bit of time “exploring“ whatever is new.

He also isn‘t actually disgusted by anything, whatever tools, body fluids or other things are involved. He might be a bit confused about some things you want to try out and isn't naturally turned on by it, but you can probably change his mind.

S = Stamina (how many rounds they can go for, how long they last…)

This totally depends on his mood, but even if it’s one round and no more he‘ll want to make sure you are satisfied. If you go for one round it‘s basically a lot of very intense foreplay, petting and all that, but less of penetration. More rounds means more penetrating sex, but will probably include some longer breaks in between.

T = Toy (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Nope. He knows they exist, but doesn’t bother to get to know more about it. He has two perfectly fine hands and now you, he‘s good.

If you want to introduce some toys to him though he’ll be interested and willing to try it out.

For some reason he really likes buttplugs, no matter if you use them or if he does.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He doesn’t tease you, at least not intentionally. When he feels like it, he touches, strokes and gropes you, but never because he wants to tease you. It often has the same effect as if he did though.

If you tease him...oh boy. If he doesn’t realize right away that you‘re doing it intentionally he’ll probably react super affectionate, in the sweetest way possible. Once he does realize it he’s confused as to how he should react and he is?? sad?? Like...why are you messing with his emotions like that? You can explain it to him, but he’ll probably never hop on the train and tease back or whatever.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make)

Isn‘t much of a talker during sex, but he does make some noise. He grunts and groans a lot. Whatever you do you’ll probably get a verbal reaction out of him. He surprisingly isn’t even trying to be quiet and isn’t ashamed of it either. He usually doesn’t talk and it’s as if he‘s letting it all out (Charlie Hoyt voice) f o r b a l a n c e.

W = Wild Card (a random headcanon/imagine for the character of your choice)

He loved your taste on his lips, the sound of your soft moans and needy whimpers in his ears, the feeling of your soft skins underneath his fingertips, even your smell. Yes, he loved your smell. The smell of your hair, the particular smell of your body, oh and he loved how you smelled there. He often wondered if this, the way he felt about you, was love or obsession. Probably both, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind because he knew you loved him too. And in your own way you were obsessed with him too. Ever since he‘d let you in, you had given your all to show him. And it had only made the feelings stronger, for the both of you. He placed a last light kiss to your heat before hovering over you again to feel your lips on his. The kiss was lazy, almost innocent and to him it felt like he was drowning in euphoria. With your eyelids only half open and a tired, loving smile on your lips you pulled him down to you. And there you two laid, lovers worn out with no energy left from hour-long love making, you comfortable on your back and he on top of you, with his face buried in the crook of your neck, your hand on the back of his head, you placed a kiss to his forehead. It was the last thing he felt before he fell asleep, just this once the first of you two.

X = X-Ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Let’s put it this way: It makes up for what god took away from him.

He’s above average length and very thick. Not big enough for an unrealistic way-over-the-top porno, but big enough to write a letter about it to your best friend if you know what I mean.

Y = Yearning (how high their sex drive is)

As mentioned earlier he thinks about sex a lot, so he’d always be down for it, but it isn’t a necessity. He’s horny quite often, but that doesn’t mean he needs to get off whenever he’s horny. He can ignore it or take care of it himself, no stress. Unless you want to have sex whenever he’s horny of course, then he‘d also be more than happy.

Z = ZZZ (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He‘s relaxed but won’t fall asleep for a while, so if you do he probably just stares at you and admires you (he even draws you sometimes, but only if it doesn’t ruin the moment).

[unholy-merchant]

NSFW Alphabet:

Death

Sorry again that this took so long but seeing as exams are finally over in free to write as much sin as I want and will most likely posting more alphabet later. I hope you enjoy!

A = Aftercare (What are they like after)

Death will tend caringly to your needs. He's gentle in a way you've never seen before. Giving you small and tender kisses while massaging every inch of your body. Death will do more than he needs to, grabbing you water and massaging your back. It surprises him when you also give him some sweet loving. He’ll caress your back, whispering I love you sweetly into your ear. Death seems to know exactly what you need after sex.

B = Body Part (Their Favorite body part of theirs and their partners)

Our Grim Reaper doesn't seem to really care for himself, but if he had to choose a body part he liked it would be his hands. His touch is both rough yet gentle. It has a certain yearning to it. He’ll have you moaning his names within seconds of touching your sweet spots. For you, he likes your eyes. He likes how much they tell him without you saying anything. They way they glow with a heated passion for him. It's very intimate to him.

C = Cum (Anything to do with their seed)

Death is a messy man and will definitely cum onto your stomach. His go-to is missionary so when he pulls out it's either on your chest or on your stomach. Hot and Steamy, Short but full strands. As for quantity, let's just say it's enough to satisfy.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty Self Explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

You know that soul splitter thing he does? Well yeah. He wants to have sex while split into his two halves. One teasingly you slowly, rubbing all those sweet spots that make you whimper and beg. While the other whispers dirty thoughts into your ear.  All the while your heat rises within your core but you're being denied from ultimate pleasure. Don't worry they both give you what you want after.

E = Experience (How experienced are they?)

Death has had his fair share of lovers and I would say he is very experienced. But not in a gross way. Death knows exactly what he is doing and will not hesitate to give you the pleasure you want. That being said Death is also a massive tease. He’ll have you moaning his name with just a simple yet lustful touch. He definitely knows how to satisfy you.

F = Favorite Position (What position they like to see ya in)

As I said in the above his go-to is Missionary. He wants you to be facing him, looking him deep into the eyes as he pleasures you. Your eyes tell him everything that he needs to know. Especially as to where those sweet spots of yours are.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment or are they more humorous?)

Sex is a time for him to be intimate with you. A time where he is vulnerable. Where he is given a chance to show how much he loves you. So you bet that he is going to be serious throughout your love session.

H = Hair (How well-groomed are they? Does the Carpet match the drapes?)

Death makes sure that it is at least manageable. Out of the four, he is the busiest and doesn't necessarily have time for grooming. But he does manage it. Will try to manage it if he does have any free time. Carpets do match the drapes.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect)

Death is very intimate during and after sex. Sweet nothings and praise will constantly be whispered in your ear, followed by a few dirty words. He will link your forehead together sometimes stealing a few kisses from your lips. Death just wants to show you how much he loves and appreciates you.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation Headcanon)

Doesn't do it often. If he has a boner he usually just ignores and tries to think of other things. Only when it gets to the point to where it's interfering with what he is doing does he go to take care of it. He usually makes sure he's by himself before unveiling his “Companion.” Takes long slow strokes up and down his shaft. That's if he's taking his time. If he needs to hurry up he’ll go faster. His moans are deep and guttural and might have to moan or bite into his cowl to keep himself quiet once he's reaching his end. Once he does though he is relieved and will quickly clean himself off before going back to what he was doing.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Bondage is definitely one of his kinks. It lets him explore your body completely. All while you moan for, or gasp at his touch. He’ll be leaving loves marks/hickies everywhere on your body so be prepared. Death is also willing to explore one of your kinks if ever given the chance.

L = Location (Favorite place to do the do)

Your home. In your bedroom most likely. He doesn't want anyone seeing both of your nude body's, So he tends to keep sex indoors and in private.

M = Motivation (What gets them going?)

When you both bicker but in a good way. You both taking light jabs at each other and just being sarcastic assholes. If you both are alone, Death likes it when you render him speechless.

N = NO (Something they wouldn't do/turn-offs)

Anything that will put you in danger or in harm's way, so don't try to suggest anything like that. The Daddy kink, he absolutely hates it. It's gross and he doesn't understand the appeal. Please never call him that. Like Strife, he doesn't like it belittlement. This man's been through enough and doesn't want someone he loves telling him he's a bad person.

O = Oral (Preferences in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He gives more often then he receives. He likes the way you come undone by his tongue. He’ll make sure to take his time and savoring the way you taste. Will get you nice and wet. It's a different story when he receives. Again your eyes shine with a lustful passion that just gets his blood flowing. He'll rake his hands through your hair as you suck him off. The sensation your lips bring his erected cock. He loves it.

P = Pace (Fast and Rough or Slow and Sensual?)

Death is definitely Slow and Sensual. It doesn't matter what you are, Angel, Demon, Human, etc. Slow and Sensual. Sex it a time to be intimate and its the only time where he can have a few moments of peaceful bliss. Just having you there is enough for him. Although if you both are in a more heated moment then he might be a bit faster and rougher.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies than then proper sex, how often?)

Quickies don't satisfy him. Death prefers proper sex over a quickie. That being said Death won't do quickies, he wants to satisfy you completely. Although they are convenient at times.

R = Risk (Are the game to experiment? Do they take risks?)

He's always willing to experiment with you. He wants to know what makes you moan and what sort of positions can give you both the utmost pleasure. He, however, will not experiment with places, if it's in your home then he will but if it's outside then he won't.  He won't usually take risks, his job is already risky enough and he just wants to come home to some sweet love after.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long can they last?)

He can go for a while. He is a Nephilim after all. It's also noted that Death has incredible speed and you bet that also transfers to the bedroom too. However, he'll probably give either one or two rounds. I've said it many times and I'm going to say it again, Death is a very busy man so going a while with you isn't really an option. But if he does, however, find the time he will go a few rounds with you possibly three or four. He doesn't want to go overboard so Four is probably his limit for you.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them on their partners or themselves?)

I would say he doesn't. He doesn't need a toy to get his love wet and begging. He can do that on his own with a swipe of a finger and a soft or dirty word. Toys are a bit of a nuisance to him and would rather have sex without one. He doesn't mind if you have one. It's for your pleasure when he's not around

U = Unfair (How much they like to tease?)

Teasing is his specialty. He’ll make sure you crumble and beg. Cold Hands scaling the length of your body, enhancing your sensations. He will tease nearly everything you have to offer. You get the utmost pleasure from his teasing. He knows how to rub you the right way and leaving you begging. His touch is a very cold yet a excruciating hot at the same time. Sex is never boring with Death.

V = Volume (How loud are they, what sounds do they make?)

He's not loud at all. It's usually soft sighs as he enters your core. Grunts and Guttural moans when he travels farther within you. Death will moan softly into the crook of your neck and will just entrance you with his low and sexy voice.

W = Wildcard (Get a random headcanon)

Death likes it when his hair is pulled during sex. It gets him going in a way. When he's giving oral and you rake your hand through his hair, pulling at those fine locks. Or when he thrusting into you, both of you panting heavily and you just snake your arm up his back into his hair and pull at him. It gives him a sense of pleasure and it let's him know he's hitting all the right spots in all the right way.

X = X-Ray (Let's see what's in those pants!)

Death is longer in length and has a medium size girth. Not only does he have a very voice but he has a package to match that. 6 inches pushing 7.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Not high at all. He reserves sex for special occasions. However, if you do ask to make love to him he will make love to you. Sex is an intimate thing and Death won't have sex often, and again reserves it for special occasions because sex is a way he can show you he loves you without words and more on touch. It also leaves him kind of vulnerable. He's also way too busy for it and won't necessarily have the time to make love to you even if he is in the mood. And he definitely won't give you a quickie to satisfy you both.

Z = Zzz (How quickly they fall asleep afterward?)

Death has a hard time sleeping. So it may take hours for him to truly fall asleep. And if he can't then he’ll just lay there, with you wrapped safely in his arms. He watches over you as you sleep, admiring every little thing he loves about you. Stroking your delicate cheeks and/or your waist. You're his everything, so he just holds you as the night drifts on.

[amayamiyaki]

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

Title: Home

Characters/Pairing: Genma/Sakura

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Strong language and mature sexual content

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

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

"Daddy, I want a mom."

Prologue:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because even he needs a break sometimes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[smallgayblanket]

The domestic ship meme for Anti and Chase??

Who’s more dominant:   Anti. Though Chase can have his moments. The guy can’t always be a big tough demon. 

Who’s the cuddler:  More like who isn’t? Catch these two constantly jumping or tugging each other into embraces when and wherever. 

Who’s the big spoon/little spoon:  Quite often Anti is the big spoon, but again, sometimes Chase enjoys being able to huddle into Antis back and embrace him. 

What’s their favorite non-sexual activity:  Video games is probably a big one, Little time, and the occasional kitchen mishaps.

Who uses all the hot water: Chase takes long showers, but he doesn't take one every day. However, of the pair, I’d imagine he’d be having to make it up to Anti.

Most trivial thing they fight over:  Whose the better cook. (Usually results in plenty of treats being made but also alot of flour being thrown about. ) 

Who does most of the cleaning:  I’d say they take it in turns, depending who’s the busiest or having a rough patch. Sometimes Chase doesn’t have the time nor the energy, other times he wants to make the place nice for Anti. 

What has a season pass on their dvr/Who controls the netflix queue: They’re pretty good at alternating between each other, and if they really can’t decide there’s always rock paper scissors or a coin flip. 

Who calls up the super/landlord when the heat’s not working:  Chase (Only after attempting himself to fix it)  Though Anti would happily do so if Chase wasn’t up for the stress. 

Who leaves their stuff around: Both are guilty. Hence how they somehow have equally dispersed items into each other’s rooms without really meaning to. 

Who remembers to buy the milk:  Chase usually ducks out on little errands but I think Anti is more aware of what’s actually in the house. (They probably have a whiteboard that Anti can scribble on to alert Chase of what they need.). 

Who remembers anniversaries:  Chase is a sap for that kinda stuff, though I don’t see Anti forgetting too easily. 

Who cooks normally: Simply because Chase is often doing videos, Anti. But again, he doesn’t at all mind being in the kitchen when he has the time and energy. 

How often do they fight:  Not all that much, at worst its usually because they just want to make each other happy and things can get in the way. 

What do they do when they’re away from each other: Chase does his vlogs, editing, seeing his kids, and plays games. Though he does miss being held. Anti meanwhile lays about, Does whatever he feels like, and no doubt they both try to send at least a few texts (Depending on the time away) 

Nicknames for each other:   Babe, Sweeheart. Sleepy head. I’m sure there’s a few others, but they often don’t need them. 

Who is more likely to pay for dinner: If they really can’t split the bill? Anti would probably try to insist more than Chase.

Who steals the covers at night:  Chase, but really thats only if Anti isn’t cuddling him enough. 

What would they get each other for gifts:  Usually just simple stuff, video games, some cool neon lights or figures. Chase did, however, buy Anti a necklace, and got one in return.  Also, plenty of hoodies to share between themselves. Anti spoils him with plenty of bears and some new hats.

Who kissed who first: Chase technically kissed Anti first. Though was awfully embarrassed he hadn’t asked.

Who made the first move: Chase, sort of, they kind of both met in the middle. 

Who remembers things: Anti remembers events and gifts. Chase remembers more little unimportant actions or feelings from certain times. (Like the first kiss, and how nice it is to be in Antis arms) 

Who started the relationship: Mutual nervous and hesitantly made agreement that they both had feelings. 

Who cusses more:  Anti. Chase only because of his kids, and his videos.

What would they do if the other one was hurt: Anti is an excellent caregiver, fussing, spoiling, making sure Chase is alright and being rather protective of anyone else. Chase is doting, affectionate, checking constantly that Anti is safe and content and not letting him go. 

Who is the dirty talker: Anti doesn’t technically have to try and ends up sounding suggestive even when he (Possibly) doesn’t mean to. Though, Chase has his moments that can wiggle under Anti’s skin.

A head canon:  They often could spend ages simply kissing. Not building towards anything, just in each other’s arms or laps, letting lips brush, trail necks and shoulders. Fingers entwined or tossling hair affectionately. No words. It’s just pefect in the quiet. Left breathless and all warm and fuzzy. Most importantly stress-free and relaxed.

[scripttorture]

What are some unique torture techniques to elicit a *false* confession. I'm writing a story in a fantasy setting, and am trying to think of something different than the ones you normally hear about (whipping, the rack, etc.). The character is in custody for about a week before the confession is made. It doesn't have to be "clean" but the character has to be able to survive without the use of modern medicine. Ideas?

Hmmmm. Well as youprobably know I try to match techniques to real world cultures even for thingslike fantasy and sci fi. I get the impression you’re less interested in thisnecessarily ‘fitting’ the world though and if that’s what you want for yourstory that’s fine.

A quick note on uniquetortures before we start.

They happen but they’re rare. Torturersoverwhelmingly tend to stick with what they know. They do also experiment with aspects of other National Styles or thingsthey’ve heard/experienced before. But this rarely means creating somethingtotally unique.

Torture generally isn’tinventive or ‘interesting’. It’s usually people doing the same awful thingsover and over again.

If you want yourcharacter to go through something unusual then I’d suggest having a reason instory for the torturers to pay special attention to this character. Perhapsthey’re under a huge amount of pressure to ‘solve’ the case they force thecharacter to confess to. Perhaps they genuinely believe this character isguilty and think it’s a particularly horrific crime.

From my point of viewit’s a lot easier to suggest a practice that happened commonly elsewhere in theworld (or is less commonly depicted in fiction) rather than one that’sentirely unique. So… I’m afraid that’s what I’m going to do.

The tortures you cameup with as ‘typical’ suggest a heavy western European influence to me. Withthat in mind a torture that wascommon in England historically but doesn’t seem to be in the popularconsciousness as much is tearing flesh with red hot tongs. Definitely scarring,it could be disabling if areas near the joints are attacked (this reducesmobility) and while it’s potentially fatal it does not have to be.

Falaka is a practicethat your readers will probably have heard of, but it doesn’t often crop up infantasy stories so you might want to consider it. This is beating the soles ofthe feet. With harder objects, such as heavy sticks, it can break the bones ofthe feet and ankles. A way this was carried out that made injuries to the feetmore likely was tying sticks to the legs behind the knees (keeping themstraight) and raising them above the body, with the victim lying on their back.This wouldn’t usually be lethal but could result in catastrophic injuries tothe feet, hampering the character’s mobility in future.

I’d also suggest‘pumping’ as an old European torture that’s survivable and rarely seen infiction. It involves forcing the victim to swallow a large amount of liquid.Usually water is used, often dirty water. Sometimes salt, irritants or humanwaste is mixed with the water. In historical times it was usually done byforcing a funnel into the victim’s mouth and pouring. The internal organs swelldramatically and painfully but the process leaves no lasting external marks orinjuries. By the end the victim often has liquid pouring out of their mouth,nose and anus. The torturers usually increase pain by forcing the victim tocurl up and applying pressure to their legs, crushing the swollen internalorgans. They may also kick or slap the victim’s swollen belly.

One of my sourcessuggests a less usual ‘wheel’ torture where the victim was tied to the outeredge of a large wheel, mounted above the floor. A fire was lit under the victimand torturers turned the wheel to apply heat to varying parts of the victim’sbody. I’ve seen multiple illustrations of this practice from historical Europebut I can’t say how common it generally was. Applying fire to the feet andgenitals seems to have been the most common choice.

This would causeserious burns but the torturers would have some control over how badly burntthe victim was (unlike with a brand or hot tongs). The result is that damagecould be mitigated. The character would likely have scars and they might havedifficulty walking but they wouldn’t necessarily have large, life threateningburns.

The final Europeanpractice I’m going to highlight is a type of restraint torture that as far as Ican tell was only used in a small part of England (the east near Cambridge).

The victim was made tolie down on a series of iron bars, evenly spaced out. A heavy metal collar wasput around their neck, with large spikes going out from the collar. Thisprevented them from moving their neck and resting their head comfortably on theground. It forced the victim to lie with their head strained so that the chinwas near the chest. A heavy metal bar (or cuffs) were then applied to the legs.

This wouldn’t beentirely clean. The metal of the bars and restraints would dig in, leaving atbest red marks and at worst deep cuts. Pressure sores are also possible. Thesecould leave scars but so long as none of the wounds became infected thecharacter would probably survive.

More generally I’d sayit’s important to remember that prison conditions in historical Europeancountries (that your fantasy may be based on) were often torture in and ofthemselves. Starvation, dehydration, unsanitary conditions, dark, cold and dampcells were all common. So was infestation by insects and rodents, lice andfleas. Solitary was relatively rare so far as I can tell, but overcrowding wascommon. I’m aware of at least one case in England where prisoners drowned intheir cells because they were on a flood plain. Deaths from cold and diseaseappear to have been common.

Finally if you want thecharacter to confess think about whythey might do so.

False confession undertorture isn’t common (the statistical sources we have show a rate of around10%, which rises to around 30% when bribery is used as well). It does happenbut you might also want to consider other reasons people falsely confess.

One of the most commonreasons is a simple risk analysis. The accused person realises that they can’tadequately defend themselves in court (this may be because of prejudice, theirfinancial situation or a number of other social reasons) and so they think thatconfessing is their best option. Most justice systems deal more leniently withpeople who confess and show remorse than they do with people who insist theyare innocent. Think about whether this applies to your story and character.

Finally take a look atmy Masterposton the common effects of torture if you haven’t already. It should help youwrite this character after torture.

I hope that helps. :)

Edit: @acemindbreaker made an addition to this in a reblog about torture techniques similar to the Russian Conveyer and some of the modern Chinese methods, and some ‘interrogation methods’ that tend to produce false confessions. I think I’ve lost the connection to it because I do not know how to steer tumblr.

Disclaimer

[stevewhoreington]

give it right back to you (twice as hard)

[snippet of my most recent fic. full version here. warning: it gets kinky]

Billy crashes into Hawkins like thunder and lightning rolled into one. Rattles the bones of the town's high school and shakes the dust off. He's new and he's shiny, and if there's one thing that can be said about Hawkins, it's that the place is so grey, so drab, that Billy's dirty-blonde curls shine like golden thread against its backdrop. His tanned skin is lustrous and his jeans are tight, and people flit towards him just for a taste of the sun. In those first few weeks, he downs a load of beer, a load of girls, and plucks the crown off the pretty head of Hawkins' finest.

This small-town shit is a blast. Feels like fucking worship, but. Billy knows, better than most, that good things never last, because that's the thing about small-town folk: they're suspicious of what they don't know, and loyal to what they do know. Princess breaks Harrington's heart and Tommy and Carol flock right back to him to kneel and pick up the pieces. Might as well suck his cock, too, while they're down there. 

Thing is, they don't just drop Billy on his ass - they drag him along with them. Keeping him, probably, for the next time King Steve betrays them. There's a sudden shift, and Billy knows his place. There's nothing dignified in being Harrington's fourth-in-command, but there's nothing worse than being a fucking has-been, so. Billy has no other option but to float along with them and try to keep his head above the water. He's still entitled to privileges, this way. Still has invites to the better parties; still handed the better weed; still sought after by the better chicks. It's just the way things fall. It's the natural order of things. The food chain. It's fucking brutal, but Billy would rather kick his feet up somewhere towards the top of the pyramid than drop to his knees, bow, and hold the back-breaking weight of it.

He still has privileges. It just means dealing with Harrington, which, truthfully, is not as difficult as it could be. They seem to have signed some silent pact to ignore each other as much as possible. They'll be in the same room, participating in the same conversation and sharing the same joint, but it doesn't mean that they actually have to interact. And, so what if he feels like he's sitting on the side-lines every time the four of them are together? Harrington, Hagan and Carol have history. Billy's just been dumped in the middle of their circle. Knows that his association with Hawkins' royalty is tenuous, fickle, and so he watches and listens respectfully. Joins in, sometimes, but only when prompted, and he never looks at Harrington for too long. 

It's about showing respect. That's what he does. Gives Harrington the bare minimum: doesn't hound or harass him during practice; doesn't taunt him about Nancy Wheeler in the locker room; doesn't stand too close when they're showering. Doesn't lay a fucking hand on him. Billy gives Harrington all of that. The bare minimum. It's basic respect - without licking the guy's ass. 

The respect isn't exactly mutual, because Harrington has the audacity to stare at Billy whenever he pleases. Does it a lot, actually. Is doing it right now. Billy's sat at the edge of the pool, jeans rolled up, boots off and feet in the water. He lights up another cigarette and ignores Harrington's blatant staring. He inhales nice and deep, tastes toxic smoke on his tongue, heating up the back of his throat, and he watches the gentle ripples of the water. It's dark out, but by the pool, everything is blue. 

"Chain-smoking tonight, Hargrove?" 

It's the first time that Harrington's addressed Billy directly since arriving here with Hagan and Carol several hours ago. He's breaking their pact, just by asking that dumb question. Billy's teeth nick the filter. "Guess so." 

"Could at least share." 

"Didn't think this was your brand." 

"I'm not fussy," Harrington lies, because of course he is. Billy knows he is. The first time he'd brought beer over, Harrington had mumbled his disapproval to Hagan.

Not drinking this shit. I'd rather drink the pool water. 

Billy still doesn't know if Harrington had wanted him to hear, or if he's just no good at whispering. He'd soothed the burn by silently playing out a delightful scenario in his head - something that involved knocking Harrington into the pool, holding his head under and telling him, drink up. Stuck it on repeat until he was too drunk to remember why he was pissed off in the first place. 

"If you want one," Billy says, "come get one." It isn't a challenge, nor is it a request. It just is what it is. 

"Hey, Tommy. Could you -" Harrington starts, shifting in his seat. 

Billy's eyes snap up because he can't quite believe it. Can't believe it, either, when Hagan actually fucking obliges and saunters over, fingers open and waiting. Billy doesn't say anything; doesn't pull Harrington up on his high-and-mighty bullshit, purely because nobody else does. Instead, he just wiggles a stick from the packet and slots it between Hagan's expectant fingers. Watches as Hagan trails back to Harrington and delivers the fucking thing. Billy's amazed that it isn't brought to him on a shiny, silver platter; that Hagan isn't hiding one up his ass, ready to be yanked out on demand. 

From where he sits, Billy hears the snick of Harrington's lighter; the fizz of the cherry as he inhales, and the slow, steady exhale that follows. He risks a look over his shoulder because there's a filthy, grey cloud around Harrington, and it isn't really looking if Billy can't make out the dark honey of his eyes, the sharp edge of his jaw, or the plush, pink bow of his lips. 

It isn't really looking if Harrington doesn't catch him looking. 

"Not bad," Harrington comments, but the smoke has cleared and Billy's no longer watching. 

-

It's Friday night. 

Billy's late, but time is relative. 

It's better, he thinks, to show up after the others. To arrive when Harrington's already high and Hagan's already wasted and Carol's a bit of both. It means eliminating the small talk, and getting to business. Getting to the good shit; to the reason why he ever shows up in the first place. 

The front door is open when Billy slides out from behind the steering wheel. The walk towards the house is made more awkward - made longer - because Harrington has settled himself in the doorway and is watching him approach. This isn't how it usually goes. Harrington's breaking their pact. 

"Heard your engine," he explains, words falling slowly out of his mouth and Billy would bet his left nut that Harrington's breath already smells like his dad's whiskey. 

"And you decided to come to the door," Billy states. "This the royal treatment?" 

Harrington shrugs. "Nobody else around to open it for you." 

Billy freezes. Remembers who he is and where he is, and who he's standing in front of, and picks his feet up again. Walks until he's by the door, but keeps himself at an appropriate distance. "Hagan didn't show?" 

"Nope." Harrington pops the 'p'. Doesn't bother to offer any kind of explanation. Asshole. 

It feels like giving Harrington what he wants when Billy asks, "Why not?" 

"Date night." Harrington seals the two words with a smirk. Looks vaguely amused. 

"Date night?" Billy repeats, outraged. 

"Uh-huh. Tommy told me at school. Carol's pissed because he hasn't taken her out in a while." Slowly, his smirk stretches into a grin. "Threatened to dump his ass." 

Billy scoffs. "Thought that was, like, something she does on the daily?" 

"Uh-huh." 

Harrington's watching him, eyes steady, like he's never put invisible-pen to invisible-paper and signed their invisible-contract. Billy, at least, holds up his end of the bargain, and keeps his eyes on anything but Harrington. 

When it becomes clear that Harrington has nothing more to say, Billy reluctantly opens his mouth and asks, "Why didn't you tell me?" 

"Tell you what?" 

"That Hagan isn't coming." 

"Huh," Harrington says, somehow throwing amusement, sarcasm and condescension into the one fucking syllable. "Can't smoke a joint without holding Tommy's hand, Hargrove?" 

"Fuck you," Billy shoots back. It rolls off his tongue, no hesitation. When he chances a glance at Harrington, he's looking back. Looking back and smiling, teeth glinting in the moonlight. 

The smile is still on his face when he says, more sincerely, "Nah. We had plans, so. Figured we didn't have to ditch them just because Tommy and Carol decided to." 

Billy thinks, oh. Thinks, shit. And Harrington just goes on, asks him, "Wanna come in?", and Billy has no good excuse to turn around and drive away. 

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." 

"Cool. Bring any beer?" 

"No."

"Shame."

-

Billy's on his second beer and his feet are in the pool. Harrington, as usual, has taken one of the loungers off to the side. Too good, even for his own pool water. 

He doesn't miss Hagan, doesn't miss Carol, but he does miss the noise. It's quiet without them. For some reason, Harrington's now deciding to follow their rules; isn't speaking. Isn't offering anything besides the cold beer from his refrigerator. It's more expensive than the shit Billy buys, but it isn't as strong. Isn't getting Billy where he wants to be as quickly as he'd like, but. He's still fuzzy around the edges. 

Just not fuzzy enough to shrug off the silence that sits with them around the swimming pool like an unwanted guest. 

"This is kinda dumb," Harrington says, abruptly cutting into the quiet as though he's just read Billy's mind. 

"What is?" 

"Getting drunk next to the pool." 

Billy huffs. "We always get drunk next to the pool."

"Yeah," Harrington mumbles from somewhere behind him, "but it's still dumb. And there's only two of us." 

"And?" 

"And, Hargrove. Two is less than four." 

"Really, Isaac Newton? How'd you figure that one out?" 

Harrington's probably flipping him off behind his back. He scoffs. "More risky with just the two of us." 

Billy hums and chugs on his beer. Couldn't give a shit, really, about what's risky or what's safe. He's a good swimmer, and he's not wasted. He doesn't bother saying so. 

"Let's go inside," Harrington says, and there's a tell-tale scrape of plastic against concrete, and Billy knows that he's dragged himself up and off the lounger without even having to turn around. 

"I'll follow in a minute." Billy would rather sit out here, watching the blue pool in the dark, feet warmed by the heated water. Fancy fuckers.

"Now, Hargrove." 

Billy nearly chokes on his beer. It slips down his throat, fast, and he shoots a glare at Harrington - no longer caring about some bullshit pact that tells him where to put his eyes. 

But. Harrington isn't looking back at him. His eyes are pointed towards the tree line beyond his yard. He's distracted. Looks oblivious to the fact that Billy's offended by his bossy-bitch attitude. 

"Fine." Billy downs the rest of his beer, crushes the can, and - just to be an asshole - tosses it into the pool. Harrington only tuts, but it's satisfying enough. 

-

His feet are wet. They squelch on the carpet. He's got his boots in his hand, like some drunk chick who's stumbling home and can't handle her heels. 

Harrington is walking ahead, locking doors and closing windows as though he's calling it a night. Maybe he is. Maybe this is Billy's hint. Except. 

Except, Harrington turns around and says, "Let's take this party upstairs." 

"Not the best party you've hosted, Harrington." Billy replies, tone dry. Making a point of sounding bored. 

"There's time yet." Harrington's retort is delivered smoothly and with the kind of smile that holds a lot of promise. The beer's suddenly kicking in, turning Billy's legs weak. "Grab you a towel for your feet while we're up there." 

He isn't drunk - knows he isn't - but he feels tipsy as he follows Harrington up the stairs. It's one of those fancy staircases with the gaps between each step, and Billy has to focus on where he's putting his feet to avoid losing a leg down one of the holes. He isn't drunk. He's only had two fucking cans and he can hold his damn drink. Probably, it's just tiredness, or something. 

Billy's feet are dry by the time they're upstairs, and nobody mentions a towel. Pact thoroughly fucking out of the window, he's invited into Harrington's bedroom, and he accepts. Walks right in, boots still in the one hand, bare feet on Harrington's plush carpet. He whistles as he looks around. "Take it you don't like plaid?" 

"Screw off." Harrington's drawing the curtains. Two lamps light the room. 

"Preppy," Billy comments, taking in the wallpaper and the curtains and how they very nearly - but don't quite - match. Holy shit. "Don't you get a headache being in here?" 

"Usually have better things to focus on when I'm in here." 

Billy scoffs. "Like you can get anybody in here." 

"You're in here," Harrington points out, and when Billy shoots him a look, he's wearing a smug fucking smirk and eyes that say, gotcha. 

[fic's way long - click here to read the horny parts!]