#there's like fire or light or something in a stripe across the background and then a full-body character portrait over top

[boilercity]

I'm sure this is not the case but I think it would be so fun if those bigger shots of the gunslinger outfits meant there were pop-ups that showed up the first time you got any of the transformations. Like megaman style kind of? It's hard to describe but I have something very specific in mind. I just can't remember what game I'm taking the concept from.

[inuhalfdemon]

We Dance to the Masochism Tango!

Inspired by the AI Cover found: here

Day 6 Prompt: Dancing

Word Count: 1,306 Words

“No, Charlie!” Lucifer told her loudly, exasperated. “I’m not doing it! Not this one! Not with him!!! Find us different partners!”

“You and Alastor both need to learn how to get along!” Charlie emphasized, refusing to budge. Vaggie agrees with me; this exercise is a perfect way for both of you to form a connection and finally: really and truly bond!”

Lucifer made a disgusted face. Alastor stood well and off to the side; eyes narrowed, his smile insane, head tilted and static buzzing from him loudly.

“Seriously, dad: You both enjoy dancing, you both enjoy music…you get to pick any song! It doesn’t have to be a big thing even; just a quick little dance routine! Just do the Cha-Cha or a swing dance or something!”

Lucifer opened his mouth; about to say something when Alastor drifted up from the floor; materializing himself from shadow, beside him. Leaning in; a wide and sly smile stretched across his face he glanced at Lucifer then looked at Charlie.

“Any…song?” Alastor asked, darkly.

When it came time for the residents of the Hazbin Hotel to demonstrate their dance routines for Charlie’s recent bonding activity; the initial results to the idea were actually quite very tame. Even Angel Dust and Cherri- both having public performance backgrounds of an erotic nature - chose to do a tasteful but well-rehearsed Ramba with each other for everyone to enjoy.

Lucifer and Alastor’s dance was the final routine to be performed; and it came to be their turn.

The lights cut out. The room blazed a vibrant green from fiery pillars that depicted coiling and hissing basilisks – suddenly occupying the impromptu dance floor.

Jaws dropped.

“Holy shit…” Angel breathed and everyone nodded.     

Alastor was dressed handsomely in a stark red, long-sleeved dress shirt and black tie; wearing a pin-striped black vest and dress pants with sharp black dance shoes. Lucifer wore a splendidly white suit; the lapels and the bowtie he had with it emphasized in black, matching his own black dress pants and shoes. Both were standing in the middle of the dance floor; hands clasped and arms resting on each others shoulders.

A live orchestra had emerged toward the back of the room; made up of a horde of shadow demons that Alastor commanded, and a few Lucifer clones thrown – here and there - into the mix. All were holding instruments and ready to begin. Percussion from the orchestra sounded loudly and the music bolstered lively throughout the room.

As the music began, both Alastor and Lucifer slowly waltzed together across the room – taking long and purposefully placed strides.

“I ache for the touch of your lips, dear”- Lucifer

“But much more for the touch of your whips, dear”- Alastor

The sharp crack of a whip sounded throughout the room.

“You can raise welts, like nobody else” – Lucifer

“As we dance to the Masochism Tango!” – Together

Lucifer dramatically – and awkwardly - dipped Alastor before they both smoothly spun; waltzing slowly the other way.

“Let our love be a flame, not an ember!” - Alastor

“Say, it’s me that you want to dismember!” – Lucifer

 Alastor jerked an arm away; slamming his elbow into Lucifer’s face.

“Blacken my eye!” – Lucifer

Lucifer roughly pulled him by the tie; pulling Alastor close to a green burning pillar and letting the fabric combust with the flames in his hand.

“Set fire to my tie!” – Alastor

“As we dance to the Masochism Tango!” – Together

Not a single resident of the hotel moved; eyes wide and barely breathing.

Flourishing himself away from Alastor now, Lucifer took quick and skillful strides as he danced around singing:

“At your command, before you here I stand

My heart is in my hand…” – Lucifer

Sliding onto his knees in front of Alastor; he pulled a hand away: palm open and extended: holding an actual bleeding and pulsing heart in his hand – tissue and vessels clinging to it from the gaping hole he had made to pull it out from his chest. 

“Yeeeecch!” – Alastor

Alastor looked at the throbbing organ with disgust; spitting his tongue out.

“It’s here that I must be.” – Alastor

Rolling his eyes; Alastor casually slapped the back of Lucifer’s hand holding the heart – pushing the organ and tissue all back into his chest. Taking him by the hands; he whirled Lucifer back up onto his feet, pulling him with him into dancing again.

“My heart entreats! Just hear those savage beats!

And, go put on your cleats!” – Alastor

“And come and trample me!” – Lucifer

They pulled each other close; disproportionate torsos brushing as they resumed their initial position: hands clasped; arms resting on shoulders as they moved quicker through room.

“Your heart is as hard as stone or mahogany,” - Lucifer

“That’s why I’m in such exquisite agony,” – Alastor

“My soul is on fire!” – Lucifer

The green flames engulfing the pillars flared brightly; burning hotter.

“It’s aflame with desire!” – Alastor

Still waltzing; Alastor reached for his ruined tie – pulling it away and loosening the collar of his shirt.

“Which is why I perspire when we tango!” - Together

The two did another turn; coming back around. The residents continued watching with open-mouthed stares; only blinking.

Alastor made to spin Lucifer; his hand smacking him across the face with the movement.

“You caught my nose…in your left castanet, love.” – Lucifer

Alastor pulled him back, dipping him low.

“I can still feel the pain yet, love. Every time I hear drums.” – Lucifer

And, the percussion crashed loudly.

“And, I envy the rose…” – Alastor

Alastor flourished his hand; sparking green, and a beautiful red rose with leaves and stem appeared in his hand. He briefly admired the flower before jamming the stem of it into Lucifer’s mouth.

“That you held in your teeth, love.

With the thorns underneath, love,” – Alastor

Alastor gripped Lucifer roughly by the jaw; pushing clawed fingers into his face, lifting the  corners of his mouth so that he could see the thorns of the flower digging bleeding cuts there in-between his teeth.

“Sticking into your gums.” – Alastor

Alastor smiled down on him wickedly and Lucifer spat out the rose; glaring up at him. Smoothly, they both turned; clasping at each other’s hands again and moving forward.

“Your eyes cast a spell that bewitches,” – Alastor

“The last time I needed twenty stitches!” – Lucifer

“To sew up the gash,” - Alastor

“You made with your lash,” – Lucifer

Another loud crack of a whip echoed across the room.

“As we danced to the Masochism Tango!” – Together

Their stepping increased tempo; their strides coming and moving together more quickly:

“Bash in my brain, then make me scream with pain,

Then kick me once again and say we’ll never part!” – Lucifer

They did a quick spin and a turn; going back the other way again:

“I know too well, I’m underneath your spell,

So, darling, if you smell something burning: it’s my heart!” - Alastor

Alastor stopped suddenly; gripping his chest and making a smiling but disgusted face, looking as if he may very nearly vomit…

“Eep…s’cuse me.” – Alastor

Pulling Lucifer with him back into a slower waltzing tempo:

“Take your cigarette from its holder,” – Alastor

“And burn your initials in my shoulder,

Fracture my spine!” – Lucifer

Alastor dramatically dipped Lucifer again; his face leering close:

“And swear that you’re mine!” – Alastor

Then, lifting back up, they quickly waltzed; shuffling and stepping apart – inside hands clasped together and outside hands spread wide and open toward the small, stunned and paralyzed grouping that watched:

“As we dance, to the Maso…

-chism Tango!” - Together

They both stopped; breathing heavily and smiling proudly…waiting.

Nobody in the group moved. Nobody blinked. Nobody breathed.

Then, Niffty cried out loudly, happily: “YES!!! AGAIN!!!” Laughing maniacally and clapping her little hands; her one wide eye bulging with her excitement as everyone else stared on in dead and complete silence.

Taglist: @helluva-simper

[iobartach]

let's talk about miguel's spider suits!

so... there's been three suits that he's used over the years - lemme walk ya through 'em, and how i intend to use 'em in my verses!

the original - unstable molecules, lightbyte cape for gliding

a.k.a. his 'día de muertos' costume, repurposed for his vigilante activities. it's comprised from 'unstable molecules', a synthetic material that's incredibly resilient. it allows him to use his talons without ripping holes in the fabric. the costume itself is dark blue with red accents that extend along the arms. the 'spikes' on his forearms are purely cosmetic. a piece of torn light byte material that miguel took from a thorite's glider is attached to the costume's back. acting as a kind of cape, it helps miguel with sailing through the air.

used exclusively the following verse; comhrá an bhaile mhóir seo // the talk of the town

across the spi.derverse - hard light, arm blades no neon webbing

a.k.a. the suit you're most likely to find miguel wearing these days. completely digital, it is comprised completely of hard light, making it susceptible to electrical-based attacks and technology. it retains the dark blue, almost navy hue of his original suit, with the red elements spreading also to his palms, soles of feet and along his shoulders. the light byte cape has been replaced with a retractable versions, which along with the addition of web wings incorporated under the arms, aids with gliding. another new feature of this suit are the large arm hard light arm blades that be summoned at will, and are used to further augment his tearing and slashing capabilities.

used in the following verse(s); trasnaigh an rubaicón // cross the rubicon [main/default verse] + most au verses, where applicable! (a.k.a. where he is/was spider-man)

armoured suit - unstable molecule bonded with kevlar, onboard sensors, jet boots, explosives, cloaking, web wings

a.k.a. miguel's white suit! whiiich ... i'm probably gonna adjust for plots as needed! there's two potentials for how he obtains this one, which are;

he completes building it after the encounter with mil.es (it's visible in a half-finished state in the background shots of his lab/room)

it was gifted to him by earth 616's parker , when he got stuck in the 2010s

so i'm thinking, until the 3rd spider-verse comes around with any new nuggets of info, the armoured suit was miguel's own invention, and is used for anomaly hunts and other missions that are more dangerous than usual? something like that? he probably also takes measures to insulate the suit from electrical attacks

as for the suit itself, it is black in colour with a predominantly white torso back and front, with stripes of white along the forearms, hands and sides of his lower legs. the red highlights also return, along with traces of a blue glow from the suit's instruments, which include infrared and GPS mapping, amongst others. the arm blades here are much shorter, but just as deadly. additional perks include jet boots and under-arm web gliders., giving him the option of flight for short distances. small spider-shaped bombs can also be fired from his wrists, which have a yield strong enough to leave a sizeable hole in the ground.

potentially!!! used in the following verse(s); fear as am // man out of time some post-across the sp.ider-verse / beyond the sp.ider-verse thing?

[shieldofiron]

As a celebration for unshadowban- trans alpha Billy?

Background on this AU here, for the uninitiated. Basically it's omegaverse, but you can be trans-designation as well as transgender. So Billy is Cis, but he's trans omega to alpha. And Steve is an omega, but transitioning FTM, pretending to be an alpha. There’s a whole munver side to this that of course I’m obsessed with, but let’s stick to the ask. Rated M but no doing it! For now...

Billy swipes at the sweat on his forehead, shuffling down to flop to the floor under the bleachers. He hadn’t wanted to shower after gym, because hormones cost money and it’s not like he’s swimming in it. The Alpha gel mixes with the sweat on his neck and makes him feel grosser than gross, but there’s only one period left before the end of the way.

He digs through his shorts packets for a cigarette when he hears a whimper to his left.

It’s pretty dark under here, just tiny slats of light creating stripes in the darkness. Billy squints anyway, like that might help.

“Hello?” He calls out softly, “Who’s back here?”

Hopefully it’s not Carol and Tommy. Once he walked in on them at a party, and the whiny, needy way Tommy called Carol ‘Alpha’ would haunt Billy’s nightmares forevermore.

The whimpers don’t stop, and if anything when Billy stands and moves towards the sound, they get worse.

“Is someone hurt?” Billy whispers, “Hello?”

His foot brushes up against something soft and he kneels down and touches something soft. Gym towels, it feels like.

“Hello?” Billy reaches forward in the darkness, “Are you okay?”

There’s some shuffling, and then big brown eyes come into view through one of the ribbons of lights, blinking back at him. He’d know them anywhere, though the smell that Billy doesn’t recognize. It tickles at his senses, a strange smell so unlike Harrington that he immediately backs away.

“S-sorry, couldn’t see that you were back here with someone,” Billy mumbles.

“Alpha,” Harrington says, in a strange, cracked voice.

“Uh, yeah man,” Billy turns away swiftly, “Said I was sorry.”

“Alpha, stay,” Harrington whispers.

Billy’s brow furrows, but he keeps walking away, still trying not to make too much noise.

“Billy,” Harrington moans, and the sound seems to echo in his chest.

“Uh,” Billy freezes, “You... hurt or something? You have your rut?”

Billy would help him through it, if it wouldn’t make him feel sick to do it. Billy’s still in the early days of his transition, or at least it feels that way. Hormones swim through his blood in a strange way, half heat, half rut, and he’s horny as hell most of the time. But being Harrington’s omega for now would actually be too much, too much of a funhouse mirror held up to his desires.

And Harrington really was too beautiful for Billy’s own good. Too beautiful to look at head on, he had to stick to glances from across a room. He didn’t know if he wanted the other alpha or if he wanted to be him. Either way, it was too much, overwhelming.

“Please,” Harrington whispers, “Help-”

“I can find a teacher, we can get you home-”

“Need you, alpha. Billy, I need you,” Harrington groans, “Please, stay, please, please.”

Being called alpha sets a warm fire in Billy’s chest that burns so brightly he exhales a little sigh. He’s so elated it takes him a moment to really hear the other words.

“Harrington,” Billy steps forward and nearly jumps when Harrington reaches out and grasps his wrist.

“Heat,” Harrington gasps, “Need you.”

His hand really is burning up. Billy reached out with his other hand, dropping his forgotten cigarettes somewhere in the darkness. He’s drawn to Harrington’s forehead, somewhere above those pleading eyes. Harrington’s on fire, damp with sweat, his hormones are pulsing in the air.

Billy’s body responds so swiftly, almost violently. He cramps low in his stomach, and begins to fill out his shorts, exhaling softly.

“You’re an...”

Harrington shakes his head, “You can’t tell anyone. Please.”

“Are you... transalpha?” Billy whispers. He almost says, ‘like me’ before he remembers himself. His dad would shit himself if the word got out that his kid was transalpha. Male omegas were valuable, and sometimes it was the only thing that ever seemed to bring Billy value to his father. Billy’s walking on a tightrope too, he would understand if Harrington did the same.

Harrington shakes himself again, “Omega. I’m just... trans.”

Billy’s eyes widen. He’s heard of this though. Transgender Men or Women who wear scent patches to pass as alpha, because it’s safer than being a beta or omega. No one would dare fuck with King Steve unless he fucked with them first. It was part of the whole bitchy, alpha package. And Billy’d bought it hook line and sinker.

“I won’t tell,” Billy whispers, “Who can I get to help you? The nurse?”

Someone must know in this godforsaken town.

“Stay with me,” Harrington begs, his scent slamming into Billy’s senses again, and nearly sending him to his knees.

“I... I...” Billy whispers, “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” Harrington whines, “I do. Really... I... I want you. Please, help me, and I’ll show you.”

“Harrington-” Billy whispers.

Harrington leans up, tugging on Billy’s arm at the same time, and even though Billy’s mind is filled with anxiety, his body goes easily into the arms of his crush. Harrington throws his arms around Billy’s shoulders, heat enveloping them both like a blanket and Billy’s hips jerk of their own volition.

“Please,” Harrington whispers, “I like you, Billy.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” Harrington tugs and Billy kneels in the makeshift nest, drawn by instinct and those brown eyes, the warmth of Harrington, hidden here in the dark.

“But I’m not...” Billy swallows, “Not a real alpha yet.”

Harrington leans in, smells at the juncture of Billy’s neck, presses a tiny kiss against Billy’s skin, and it feels like a burn.

“Yes, you are,” Harrington groans, “Fuck, Billy... I like you so much.”

Billy could blame it on the heat. But his resolve crumbles so easily, in his heart of hearts he knows that isn’t true. It’s fucking Harrington, and those pretty brown eyes, and the softness of the way he’s speaking.

“I like you too,” Billy admits, so quietly.

“Then show me, alpha,” Harrington whispers, before he finally presses his lips to Billy’s.

They’re both on fire, bodies twining together, writhing with desire. But the kiss is so soft, tender. It’s like a cool drink of water in the desert, and Billy would drink in every drop Harrington will allow him.

---

@intothedysphoria I hope you like it! Yay unshadowbanned!

[thenixkat]

Popculture dragon review (humanoid) part 1

(For dragons that are either fully humanoid or humanoid from the waist up. Pretty much dragon men, snake skirts, and serpent taurs. Also, yes, fish count as serpents. As do whales.)

Dobrickmon from Digimon

[id: A scan of a card from the Digimon collectable card game showing the monster Dobrickmon walking across a flaming forest battlefield. There are several other dragons in the background. The view of Dobrickmon is angled upward. /end id]

4/10- An armored dragon man digimon that loves to see the world burn. The head and shoulders are nice, like the toothy armor. The legs look terrible and the gauntlets aren’t much better. And just, no on those titties.

King Koil from Ben 10 (reboot)

[id: A screenshot of an episode of the cartoon Ben 10 showing a reptilian humanoid standing on top of a giant lizard mostly out of frame. The character has blond hair, orange eyes, green scales, and a yellow belly. He’s wearing a gold crown and a black cape. The character has six arms and is resting one on his hip and rubbing the back of his head with another. /end id]

6/10- A dork. A king of serpents and can control reptiles. Decided to make a herpetologist his queen b/c she was nice to snakes. Man really said that he understands the concept of clothing and chooses to go ass out with just a cape and crown. Like the extra arms and his little scale sleeves.

Rani Nagi from The Secret Saturdays

[id: A screenshot of the character Rani Nagi from The Secret Saturdays, a snake person with a very long neck and large bulbus head underwater from the chest up. She has yellow-green skin with black stripes along her topside and red eyes. /end id]

[id: Another screenshot featuring Rani Nagi this time showing her whole body while she’s somewhere inside some ruins. She is wearing gold and orange clothing around her neck and waist, /end id]

7/10- I do love a good lady villain. Look at her ugly ass big ass alien ass head. That one strand of hair. Her twiggy ass lil pincher arms. I do like the coiling up of her neck that she does when talking to short people. Is supposed to be a naga, the naga queen, but done in the style of the snake taurs that people call nagas in the west. So points off for that last thing.

Duncan Rosenblatt from Firebreather (film)

[id: A screenshot from the cg animated film Firebreather showing the main character, Duncan, breathing fire while in a lab. Duncan has orange scaly skin and styled up blond hair. In the background of the picture several characters are arguing. /end id]

[id: Another screenshot showing Duncan in a more monstrous form with horns, armor plated skin, and a glowing exposed core. He’s somewhere underground and bathed in an orange light. /end id]

5/10- Hmmm this bitch ugly and not in the way that I like. Visually this boy is very interesting. Like that exposed core in his transformed state and the scaly texture on his human form is neat. Those nail-claws are also interesting. But its just kinda ugly. Something about the facial structure and hair is just not doing it for me. Do like that he eats coal. Also, his fucking dad is the Image comics universe version of fucking Godzilla. His mom fucked Godzilla. And divorced Godzilla.

Ursula from The Little Mermaid

[id: A screenshot from the film The Little Mermaid showing the character Ursula in her lair posing while in the middle of a song. /end id]

8/10- She’s thick and working it. Love the vibes. I ain’t notice before but woman got an ass on her. Also she’s magic and a shapeshifter as a proper dragon should be. Also purple and black go great together.

Megidramon from Digimon Tamers

[id: An official image of the monster Megidramon from Digimon. The image cuts off the character’s wings. It’s posed with its body coiled behind it as it raises its bladed arms. /end id]

[id: A gif of a scene from the Digimon Tamers cartoon showing Megidramon attacking a smaller humanoid Digimon. Megidramon wraps its tail around the smaller digimon and lunges its jaws at it being held at bay by the smaller digimon’s arms.

Subtitles: Wh-what the hell is this thing!? /end id]

10/10- Listen, this bitch sexy. It’s so gods damn cool looking. Fucking god dragon of the apocalypse and feel like it. Love the flame like aspects on the arm blades and the wing color. That purple jaw is a nice little contrast. Also love the pseudo double mouth thing its got going on. Ya’ll don’t know how much I LOVE face-’out of control monster’ turns. And the fact that it tried to eat a bitch? I’m in love.

Shendu from Jackie Chan Adventures

[id: A screenshot from the Jackie Chan Adventures cartoon showing Shendu, a humanoid dragon-demon, sitting on a golden throne with a much smaller human servant by his side.  Around his throne are green pillars with burning incense on top. There’s another human character’s head in the foreground. /end id]

[id: A close up of Shendu, annoyed, resting his head in one hand while sitting on his throne. /end id]

9/10- Speaking of sexy. My man Shendu is the father of an entire generation of furries.  He’s got all the dragon powers. Can control the elements, shapeshift, even astral project and possess people (two dragon powers you really don’t get to see a lot of in pup culture). He’s got a nice face with the row of horns and lil fin mustache. I will say his coloring is kinda... bland. He’s just green with a yellow underbelly. That’s it. Do enjoy that he’s an evil Chinese dragon who can command western (more westerny) dragon minions.

Owlman from The Secret Saturdays

[id: A screenshot of the owlman, an all black humanoid bird entity crouched at the top of a rock face while inside of a cave. It’s glowing eyes are examining its claws. /end id]

[id: The owlman with its wings folded outside in a thunderstorm at night. /end id]

7/10- What a horrible horrible little bird. Nice.

The Queen of the Lair from She Creature

[id: A screenshot from a live action film showing a monstrous mermaid slithering around in the belly of a wooden ship. /end id]

[id: A model of the same mermaid at an event. Her tail is curled around a barrel as she leans over aggressively. In the better lighting the greens and blues of her top side are more visible. /end id]

[id: In more dramatic lighting in the film, the mermaid corners a man on the deck of the wooden ship. /end id]

10/10- Probably the most gnarly mermaid I’ve seen in mermaid horror films. Her colors are hard to see in the actual film but are pretty nice. Love her weird bulgy squinty eyes. This lady goes out and finds humans to mind control/kill to feed her school. Shapeshifting into a more humanoid/attractive form to seduce humans is very much a very dragon ability.

[chocosvt]

⚬ pairing: soonyoung x fem!reader ⚬ word count: 6503 ⚬ warnings: degradation, drinking ⚬ genres: this is just smut. filthy smut. featuring a lot of dirty talk from soonyoung and a hint of a secret au!

 ✧✎ synopsis: the tension between you and a mystifying stranger at the club only thickens each time you meet. he seems like a risk you’re willing to take.

✧✎ a/n: GOD. i have not written straight up smut in two years! i mean, there is a little bit of a background plot, i hope it’s all enjoyable hehe. also, the “secret au” is pretty easy to guess lol, but i suppose it could be a couple of things!

The first time you see him, you’re surrounded by your friends, packaged into a small space that grants you just enough room to sway your body and bring a pink-coloured drink to your lips. He’s across the room, leaning back on a white sofa. Impassively, he overlooks the crowd, until his entourage returns from the shadows to occupy the hard cushions. One of them leans into his ear and whispers something. You force yourself to swallow more of the sweet syrup from your glass, wondering what was said that makes him smirk.

A hand touches your bare shoulder, to which you turn around and grin rather intoxicatedly at your friend. She’s equally inebriated, and as the music reverberates toward the centre of the floor, you wrap an arm around her waist to pull her in close and move with the beat. You take another sip from the glass before hoisting it high in the air, hips undulating, feeling the heat and the dizziness and her hot breath hitting your ear as she mouths along to the lyrics.

Eventually, you two part, and your turn yourself back around almost immediately. As much as you want to believe it’s not because of the stranger, that seems to be the only plausible explanation, and it only burns that much deeper when you realize he’s staring at you. One arm stretches around the back of the sofa, his other hand loosely holding an amber shot glass at his knee. For a moment you stop moving to return his gaze. The stranger isn’t coy. He evidently scans your body, starting at your laced stilettos, venturing up the black fabric hugging your waist, and landing at the haze in your eyes.

You feel warm, but it’s not the muggy air, the crowded club, or even the violet lights.

However, you’re soon met with the repercussions of the dance floor as an unfamiliar body slams into yours, jostling you forward. You grimace as alcohol sloshes over your glass, prompting you to quickly escape toward a less populated pocket of space. The stranger’s glance follows you, yet his mood has shifted. Instead, he chuckles and shakes his head while bringing the shot glass to his lips, downing the golden liquid in a short swig. Your heart thunders upon watching him gently elbow his friend, where he utters something into his ear that preludes their amused, somewhat snide expressions.

It’s downright embarrassing. You can only deduce they’re enjoying your accident with the drink, even when the same predicament had probably just happened to someone else at the opposite end of the room. The stranger’s gaze seems to be searching out a different body, though you aren’t certain, rather you weave your way through the tables to find the washroom and rinse the alcohol from your hand. Admittedly, you feel disappointed to lose the stranger’s attraction. You can’t remember the last time you experienced a successful hook-up where you weren’t exaggerating your lacklustre pleasure.

Your hopes had simply been too high.

The second time you see him, you’re sucking restlessly at a straw, completely emptying the glass until there’s nothing but crushed ice cubes watering down the last few drops of alcohol. Looking up from the table, you spot him buried in the wave of sluggish bodies, the violet light tingeing his partially unbuttoned dress shirt and his black hair. But it rapidly dawns that he’s not dancing alone, for a girl twirls into his arms, pressing her backside to his front, rubbing herself against him while his hands explore her torso. The light hits a new angle on his throat, illuminating the trail of hickies.

It cuts through you, for the envy is like a blade generously sharpened. Even though you will yourself to look away, it becomes an impossible task, to which you trace their every movement without missing a heartbeat. His hand, clad in a myriad of silver rings, engulfs her breast and squeezes. Her head tilts back onto his shoulder, gasping something that seems to be full of euphoria. His eyes flicker quickly, and as though you’re a rabbit that’s to be nicked by an arrow, you’re caught directly in the crosshairs. You wish there had been more alcohol lining your glass so you could’ve turned further numb.

Enveloped in the stranger’s trance, you watch his hand slide around the column of her neck, how his gaze never falters even when he licks a stripe up her skin and nips at her ear. Folding one leg over the other, you attempt to snuff the venereal warmth that flutters at your abdomen, hating that you’re imaging what each sensation would feel like if you were against his body rather than her. His eyes are black, poisonous, and yet you contain so little care that he might be a menace, not when he grinds his hips against the dip of her spine while she hides her face in his neck, already suckling another bruise.

You have no idea what she’s feeling, or why he can’t take his eyes off you. It’s a bit unabashed and perhaps from a place of unsatiated neediness, but you’d really love for him to fuck you.

Maybe your third encounter will be the charm.

“Drink or dare?”

“Dare.”

For the past two rounds, you had purely subjected your body to the potent taste of sour, cold lime and gin mixed with tonic. Not desiring to ram your consciousness further into the ground, you finally chose dare, which uproots some whistles and snickers from around the table. Your friend bites her lip, straining her neck while her eyes cherry pick through the club-goers. Despite the alcohol exchanging your blood for liquid fire, there’s a nervousness in your tummy, and you can’t help fiddling with the hem of your black dress upon waiting for her sinister verdict.

“Alright,” she says, almost yelling over the thunderous bass, “I dare you to ask that guy what his biggest secret is!”

You follow her pointed finger, and your heart seems to immediately shrivel. He’s standing by the white sofa, invested in a conversation with another man who’s holding a martini glass, filled with a drink that’s an electric shade of blue. He offers the drink toward him, but the stranger denies, aggressively pushing away the glass. You sense a scuffle is going to break out between the two men, until someone else who always seems to accompany the stranger steps in, diminishing the conflict.

“Well?” She calls out to you, quirking an eyebrow. “You going or not?”

“I’m going!”

You slide off the stool and pull down your dress. As you shift your way through the crowd, you attempt to rally some confidence, rehearsing the different approaches you could take upon introducing yourself. Yet, there’s a gigantic roadblock. How are you going to persuade him to reveal his biggest secret? From what you already gleaned, he appears unforthcoming, but awfully magnetic.

By the time you’re tapping his shoulder, your confidence disintegrates like a dried flower petal and every nonchalant line you practiced in a spasm floats out your head.

His eyes are much darker in proximity, the colour of sable, and he smells like a royal cologne you can’t afford. He waits for you to speak first, almost as though he knows how nervous you are, wanting to revel in the trembling notes of your voice.

“I-I’m supposed— I’m, uh… How are you?” It’s painful, but you manage to choke it out.

With his hands casually buried in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed, he shrugs.

“I’m fine, honey. And yourself?”

Your blood surges, for you can feel it dragging through your veins, and a heat unlike any other draws a glimmering film to your palms. Due to the pounding music, you both have to raise your voices.

“I’m –uh– good? Yeah, I’m good!” Somehow, your lexicon could exist on the point of a needle.

The stranger chuckles. He’s enjoying your flustered nature far too much.

Quickly, you spiel out another question: “what’s your name?”

However, he doesn’t catch it. Instead, he taps his ear and leans in.

“What’s your name?” Your entire chest beats wildly upon repeating the question. The black fibres of his hair smell like passionfruit, but there’s a distant scent, and you think it’s charcoal.

He pulls back and smiles. “Soonyoung.” His name simmers in the thick air for a moment.

Your skin intensely prickles as his gaze then traces the length of your body, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, plump and pink as he asks, “what about you?”

Soonyoung lowers his head again, to which your lips nearly touch his ear upon replying with your name. Once more, he smiles contentedly, while you believe that the scent in his hair has to be charcoal, or maybe even gunpowder. You think about the man with the electric blue drink, how he must’ve sunk into the shadows after Soonyoung’s friend intervened. The dare is still in the back of your mind, even when you inquire on a different topic.

“Why do you look at me all the time?”

There’s something about the darkness in his eyes that keeps you allured, even when you sense it’s better to reject the dare all together and brace through another gulp of gin and tonic.

“Hm. That’s not what you came here to say now is it, honey?”

His response unsteadies you. As Soonyoung counters your question with another question, a small curl develops at the corners of his mouth, as though he knows something you don’t. From his backside, another companion of his abruptly slides by, his hand settling on Soonyoung’s shoulder while he whispers into his ear. The man disappears immediately afterward, like he was nothing but mist.

The strangeness of it all leads you to fumble.

“Well… I-I was dared to come over here. I have to ask what your biggest secret is…”

It’s rather embarrassing to admit. You’d shoot a glare toward your friends if you weren’t so enraptured by Soonyoung’s unfaltering eyes.

“My biggest secret?” He drags a hand slowly through his hair while he bites his lip, thinking. You presume the gold watch on his wrist must cost more than your rent.

“I think I have a good one.” The manner in which Soonyoung’s tone had deepened piques your curiosity, though his soft smirk suggests you should consider if you truly want to know the answer.

Not willing to capitulate when you’ve succeeded this far, you dare grin at him, ensuring that you’re heard overtop the club music when you invite, “tell me.”

The sweltering of the amethyst lights and the concentrated gin coursing beneath your flesh does nothing to mitigate how hot you feel. When Soonyoung steps in close, his cologne seems to envelope you in an unbreakable spell, and your fingernails dig into the flexible, tight fabric of your dress when his lips brush your ear’s cusp. His voice laps like velvet at your very core.

“I think about fucking you, calling you my pretty little slut as I shove your face in my pillow and put my cock so deep inside you that you’re screaming. Every time I have a girl in my bed, I imagine it’s you, begging me to give it to you harder, begging me for my cum, and I make you take it all, just so I can watch how it drips out of you, honey. ”

Then, Soonyoung is leaning away with an expression that’s wholly complacent, meanwhile your universe is splitting itself apart beneath the flame of his words, a sensation much too slick now dampening the lace between your thighs. You can’t help but wet your dry lips.

“Is that a big enough secret for you, huh?” He purrs, a purple glint flashing in his eyes.

Nothing pieces together in your head. There is not one sentence bothering to make itself apparent, let alone any margin of thought that was relatively pure. Engulfed in the midst of unintelligible music and sanity that endlessly dwindles, you decide the only sensible reply is to kiss Soonyoung. This is just an opportunity you can’t lose. Pressing your chest to his, one hand gripping his shoulder, you at long last acquaint yourself with his candied taste and the softness of his pink mouth.

Soonyoung grins upon the pressure, the gin and tonic that coats your unhesitant tongue, how you mewl so helplessly when he digs his fingers into your hips like they were meant to be imprinted with bruises. Winding your arms around the boy’s neck, you fall into him in complete vulnerability, pull him down closer while he licks into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he chuckles breathily, his hands venturing lower to squeeze your ass, “bet you’d let me bend you right over on this couch, wouldn’t you, honey?”

Sliding your fingers through the feathery, black hair at his nape, you push your lips to his once more, nipping at his bottom lip that shimmers with your own saliva. Honestly, Soonyoung isn’t far from the truth. The last time you experienced such a sharp, needy pang at the apex of your thighs is thrust back too far in your memory. His hands reach down over your ass to the dress’ hem, where he hikes up the tight material slightly, his fingertips suddenly stroking you through your underwear.

“Please, Soonyoung,” his name feels so right as it escapes your throat, “I need you.”

“Yeah?” His firm grip plants back on your hips, and he catches your stare, deep and lustful. “You’d let me take you home, baby? Are you sure you want this?”

Immediately, you nod your head, arms fastening around his neck. “You can take me anywhere.”

Maybe it’s selfish, but you don’t once consider your friends crowded at the table across the club, nor would you care if they witnessed Soonyoung’s hand slipping beneath your dress to brush your clothed folds, not when a sensation felt that appeasing. He smirks, then briefly turns around, tapping a member of his entourage on the shoulder to exchange another whisper. The only thing you register is your burning excitement when Soonyoung tilts his head in the direction of the backdoor exit.

“C’mon,” he takes your hand, ��my place isn’t a far walk.”

Soonyoung seems to live in the esteemed, Grand Plaza that’s no further than a street down from the club. It’s surrounded by the flashy nightlife, and as he pulls you into the foyer, completely marbled and elegant, you infer that he must be paying bigtime in order to maintain an apartment amidst the city’s pumping heart. The second you reach the elevator, he’s already pinned you against the cold metal, his kisses full of aggression and clever tongue that you pathetically whine for.

His palm sneaks up your dress, cupping at your pussy aching for any degree of attention. You grind into his hand and Soonyoung delights at your arousal. In fact, as the elevator nears the appropriate floor, a desire to touch every crevice of your body consumes him. Before you can take in another breath, the sweet pressure deserts your core, his fingers now pulling aside the plunging v of your dress so that he can free your breast, to which he immediately licks and suckles over the soft skin. A small ding resonates from the elevator, though he spends an extra moment lapping at your nipple.

You step away to avoid an embarrassing blunder with the doors and hastily readjust your dress. Once Soonyoung confirms that the corridor is clear, it’s a blitz to his room, his key card shoved carelessly into the slot before he’s dragging you inside. The sight of his apartment admittedly stuns you, particularly the tall, slender windowpanes that reach directly to the floor, the high arch of the ceiling and the diamond chandelier hanging like a celestial object.

Soonyoung touches your waist, pushing your spine to his door. His fingers then graze underneath your dress to the inside of your thigh, where he merely snaps your lace panties against the skin.

“You’re going to be my good little slut for the night, aren’t you?” He asks, his tone dripping much like syrup. You nod without question, and his other hand rests next to your head while he murmurs huskily into your ear, “take your underwear off for me, sweetheart.”

The fabric slides down your legs and drops at your ankles, which you manage to kick away, though you don’t miss the embarrassingly large wet patch that stains the lace. It only amplifies this desperation that’s been blooming inside you, and as Soonyoung slowly drops to his knees, a shaft of moonlight falling across the complete blackness in his eyes, you can’t help the shudder that strings so icily down your back. He begins tucking up the dress until it sits nice and snug over your hips.

Something about the way he gazes at your heat crushes every bit of breath from your lungs. Without warning, Soonyoung nestles his face between your thighs and delivers a long, hard lick, his eyes fluttering open to gauge your contorted expression as his tongue drags against your nerves.

He smirks wolfishly. “You’re so gorgeous, baby. Does your pussy always get this soaked?”

You struggle to articulate when Soonyoung places another lethargic lick with the flat of his tongue, a scoff half-rumbling in his chest while he massages your clit using the slick muscle. Somehow, you find the words, though they sound strangely distant as they echo outside your haze of pleasure.

“N-No, only when I-I think about you.”

Soonyoung’s guttural laugh strikes your core, and with a swift movement, he manages your leg over the back of his shoulder, improving his access to your plentiful wetness. A sharp inhale rushes between your teeth upon the boy sliding his index finger past your slit, until the thick silver ring dissuades him from pushing the digit in any further. He curls it, rubs against your silk to make you moan. Your fingers scratch into the door, not yet sure if you should be rifling them through his locks.

“Yeah? You think about me, baby?” It almost seems like a taunt. “Entertain me then.”

Just as you open your mouth, Soonyoung deviously slips in another finger past your opening, trails of gloss seeping down his hand as he stretches your pulsating warmth.

“I-I imagine this,” even with the boy on his knees and his fingers ticking your sweet spot, it’s still difficult to admit such filth, “I imagine you e-eating me out, n’making me cum.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” He purrs knowingly against your clit, his lips kissing the sensitive bud. “Such a good girl, letting me taste this pretty pussy.”

You hum in agreement, eyes falling shut to bask in the overwhelming sensations and how expertly Soonyoung reads on your slightest twitch or exhale, pinpointing the areas that prominently break you down and render you incoherent. Every so often you feel the cold silver of his rings brush your heat as he continues pumping his fingers, to which Soonyoung notes that your leg always trembles against his shoulder. Smiling, he presses his fingers in further, the rings just touching your inner walls while he swirls his tongue at a slow, thorough pace against your clit, satisfying the ache.

Unable to process the insane pleasure, your spine arches from the door and your fingers latch into the boy’s strong, black roots. You pull up on his scalp, cursing vehemently.

“F-Fuck, Soonyoung! Soso good—nngh—don’t stop, please!”

You almost feel apologetic for his neighbours who must hear these unabashed shouts muffle through his walls each night, though you can’t be bothered to moderate your volume when Soonyoung abuses your g-spot with the deep, consistent massaging of his fingers. He attaches his mouth overtop your clit, his tongue lathering across the bud before he starts flicking it harshly. At that moment, nothing else surges through you but an unprecedented hedonism, and you stuff his face in further to your heat. With your head tossed back against the door, you almost fear how greatly this orgasm builds.

It feels like the pressure situated at your abdomen could burst you open like a water balloon, and the only manner in which you can express the pleasure is to wail helplessly. As Soonyoung’s touch sinks so deliciously against that heavenly spot, his tongue, unrelenting and passionate, working to abuse your swollen bud, your body discovers its incapability to hold out a moment longer. Instead, it crumbles, and with a piercing cry of Soonyoung’s name your arousal gushes onto the boy’s awaiting face.

But he doesn’t wither away or allow the room to stop spinning, rather he delivers a few more vigorous pumps with his fingers and licks over your throbbing bud, all while you feel some of the liquid drip down your inner thigh. Breathing feebly, you tug hard at his scalp in an attempt to make him remove his mouth, for your heat feels raw and swells with oversensitivity.

“Soonyoung, please,” your eyes heavily pull open, “i-it’s hurting too much.”

At last, his fingers retreat from your opening and his mouth allows the cool air to ghost over your flesh. It’s alarming to observe the droplets of your cum that glisten on his face, his lips, so flushed and shiny, yet the boy’s tongue only curls out to collect the arousal.

“Fuck, you’re amazing. Did you know you could squirt, sweetheart?” His smile is cunning. “Or has no one ever treated your pussy that well?”

“I’ve never done it before,” you laugh breathlessly, and your head hits the back of the door as you attempt to process what just happened, “I didn’t know something could feel that good.”

While your fingers brush back his hair, Soonyoung places soft pecks up your inner thigh until he reaches the enflamed skin of your core. He catches your infatuated gaze, ensuring you watch as the very tip of his tongue pushes in shallow past your opening before the muscle circles delicately around your clit. Your hips jerk against his face, to which the immediate reverberations in his chuckle vibrate past your folds. Attentively, Soonyoung kisses the sensitive bud, and then your stomach.

After removing your leg from his shoulder, he rises to his feet, the darkness still dancing in his eyes like a flickering shadow. He feels like a foreboding addiction, one that you can’t give up.

“You’re perhaps the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” He compliments, his hand sliding around to stroke the small of your back, his lips just brushing your ear’s shell. “Even better than I imagined.”

Despite the complete filth laced into his speech, his voice somehow contains a tender cadence when he pulls back slightly to murmur against your temple, “now that I know how you taste, I wanna know how you feel, honey. How tight that little pussy is when it’s squeezing around my cock.”

A lightheaded blur emerges from your high, now subsiding, less electric. At the mere thought of Soonyoung pounding you remorselessly into the pillows, your knees begin to wobble and that yearning ache rebuilds itself at your abdomen. To steady yourself, you grip his shoulder, though when you look down, you’re somewhat astounded at the pool of wetness gathered on his floorboards. If just his tongue and fingers could force you to gush, then you wonder how you’ll stay together on his cock.

The trip to his bedroom is all but graceful, rather it’s your legs wrapped snuggly around his waist while his palms splay and squeeze against your ass, your tongues consistently brushing together as you taste yourself from his plump mouth. You had been expecting Soonyoung to just toss you on his bed like an insignificant ragdoll, but to your gratitude, he lays you down gently, spends his next few minutes licking and suckling at your throat. To be marked by him ignites a small grin on your face.

“I want this off, sweetheart,” he demands, tugging at your dress, “do you need help?”

“Yes please. I-I think, with the zipper.” You grunt, reaching behind you to feel the ridges.

After shifting yourself around, Soonyoung stands at the end of the bed, one hand resting on your shoulder blade while the latter undoes the zipper and reveals your back. The little hairs bristle along your skin as you feel a compassionate kiss against the first bump in your spine. Upon helping you slide the fabric down to your waist, Soonyoung’s mouth continues to drift across your shoulder, his hands sliding up your ribs until each hand palms reverently at your breasts. His teeth then dig into a sensitive patch at your neck, giving more vibrance to the low groan that flutters past your lips.

He whispers silkily, “I can’t wait to be inside you, baby. Hm? My good little slut? So beautiful and needy? I can’t wait to fuck you ‘til you’re nice and full.”

Your dress lands somewhere at the base of the mattress, and once your heels are unbuckled, they thump against the floor next to it. Soonyoung guides you into the exact position he desires, which entails your chest flush with his grey bedsheets, cheek sinking against his pillow while your ass pokes into the air. Behind you, there’s the rustle of his clothes being removed, prompting you to wriggle your hips in anticipation and whine for his touch to continue grazing your skin.

His slides off his belt without any particular haste. Impatience prickles, and you moan for him.

“M’so wet, Soonyoung. Please, I need you to fuck me, c-can’t wait anymore.”

You spare a glance over your shoulder, examining his firm torso, the muscles smooth and lithe, how he begins shoving his pants down over his hips. It’s antagonizing.

“I know, honey,” he soothes, his black eyes glistening, “you’ve been so patient for me.”

At last, the mattress dips to suggest that Soonyoung is taking his place behind you, to which you can hear the lewd sound of his hand passing up and down his cock, leaking and painfully hard. Despite the sensitivity lingering from your last orgasm, your entire core still throbs in such overwhelming arousal, a sweltering urge to be stretched completely open. He leans over you, pecking your temple.

“Terrible timing,” Soonyoung laughs, his fingers circling below your navel, “but you are on the pill, right? I’d love a child one day, just not at this exact moment.”

“I am.” You smile, though you aren’t sure how entirely bad it would be to bear his child, and you can’t tell if it’s the gin and tonic finally bleeding through your rationality or the viscid lust.

“Perfect.” He hums, his hand gripping onto one side of your hip while he presses his engorged head into your slick. 

At an indulgent pace, Soonyoung drags himself through your slippery folds and rubs at your clit, a satisfied, low rumble emanating from his chest upon a sight so impure, especially as your gloss coats his length, sticky and wet. Your chest heaves largely at his teasing, engendering you to grind back against his body in a desperate hope to have him split you open.

It’s to your absolute pleasure that Soonyoung obliges. He begins pressing his cock in past your opening, your jaw falling slack until he’s digging in as far as he can fit, inducing the delicious stretch that ripples throughout your body. You breathe in raggedly and hiss his name between clenched teeth, fingers curling into the bedsheets once he’s grounded himself enough to start thrusting.

“O-Oh ffuck,” Soonyoung slurs, swallowing tautly, “you’re such a tight little bitch, hm? Just begging for me to ruin this pretty fucking pussy. I’ve waited so long for this, baby. You have no idea.”

He clutches your hips and slams you back onto his cock, grinding himself so deep inside you that the edges of your vision speckle with white dots. While it’s a bit tough for you to admit that your last sexual encounter had been months ago, it only seems to enhance how wonderful each sensation is now, how euphoric it is to feel his length rub against your inner heat and tick all those aching spots that your own fingers fail to prod. Soonyoung shifts onto his one knee, and suddenly he’s striking a newfound depth. You can’t help the loud squeal bursting from your mouth as he bruises your hips.

Suddenly, the boy is reaching for your arm. It’s pinned behind your back, his fingers latched around the wrist while his other hand threads against your scalp.

“That’s it, babygirl,” he growls upon shoving your cheek into the pillow, “scream for me, just like that. Let everyone know how much of a slut you are.”

With an unrelenting pace, he snaps into you, and the obscene noises of your heat sucking in his cock echo endlessly around the bedroom. At this point, you’re completely void of shame. As Soonyoung pounds into you, his hand ironclad around your wrist, your desire to cum warps into a critical essentiality. The tears stream hot and abundant down your face, muddling your makeup.

“H-Harder, Soonyoung! Please! Give it to me harder!”

“Yeah?” The sweat gleams on the column of his neck, black hair tousling before his eyes that shine mercilessly. “My pretty little slut wants it harder? You want me to fucking break you, baby?”

You don’t care if your body cracks in half like a ceramic. The way his cock is pressing consistently and roughly against that pliant, sensitive spot, it’s the only sensation you can feel. Even his fingers helping to smother your cheek against the pillow, damp with your tears and drool, is a sting rather infinitesimal compared to the pleasure. A cold breath expands in your lungs, and you take advantage of it to plead with Soonyoung, your voice falling apart at the seams while you beg to cum.

Unable to deny you, he takes it upon himself to fuck you so hard that the bedframe slaps into the wall. Soonyoung has already adapted to that spot which makes you weep, and he bites his lip harshly while abusing it with the head of cock. Your body immediately attempts to twist itself up as the ecstasy splatters like rain, though Soonyoung uses his grip on your arm and hair to keep you in position, instead forcing you to take the stimulation until you’re erratically clenching around him.

“Right there, honey? Does it feel good when my cock hits you right fuckin’ there? Huh?”

“Fuck, Soonyoung!” Your howl pierces the dense air, and he can tell you’re sobbing. “M’cumming!”

He tosses his head back as you convulse around him, the juices dripping down the back of your thighs while your world momentarily fades. You’re clamping against his cock with such warmth and silk that Soonyoung releases only a minute later, his seed thickly coating the inside of your heat, his length throbbing with every hot spurt. His guttural cursing subsides into laboured breaths. You feel his hands leave your wrist and hair, retreating to their favoured hold on your hips where he manages to deliver a few more thrusts, languid enough for him to watch his cum get pumped back inside you.

Spent in every single manner, you possess only a dying wisp of energy. You whimper and tremble at the vacancy when Soonyoung removes his cock, a feeling you never thought could be this horrible. Not soon after, his cum slowly pools from your opening, trailing down the inside of each thigh, to which he slightly stretches your ass in order to see just how much he’s emptied into you.

“I can’t believe you’re this beautiful,” he sounds mesmerized, “fuck, baby. Just look at you, so full of my cum. I’ve waited so fucking long to see you like this.”

Soonyoung then leans forward, pressing a kiss to the base of your spine.

“My good little girl. Perfect, aren’t you? Just for me?”

His soft chuckle is somehow a comforting sound, even when your body collapses against his sheets and there’s nothing you’re able to do but nod in agreement. You’re purely exhausted in the afterglow, too tired to even care that his cum is spilling out of you or that you’ve completely deserted your friends at the club. Soonyoung kisses a trail up your back and stops at your shining temple. You can’t tell if he ever joined you in bed or not, though he did stay with you for a few minutes afterward, rubbing your back, brushing his lips over shoulders, a beaming praise whispered every now and then.

You just know you fell asleep smiling.

By the fragile light of morning, you hear Soonyoung’s voice. It doesn’t seem as though he’s beside you or even sitting atop the bed, more like he’s standing somewhere distant. The dimness to the room helps your eyes adjust, and with a low groan you turn your back to the window, snuggling into one of the boy’s cold pillows. When you peek downward, you notice that a decent-sized blue blanket had been strewn across your waist, which you quickly pull further up your body to hide from the cool air. Through the fuzziness, you spot Soonyoung leaning against the doorframe to his washroom.

He’s partially dressed, wearing his black pants while a towel hangs around the back of his neck. The bathroom mirror is smudged with fog and slipping beads of vapour. It isn’t until you hear his quiet voice for the second time that you realize Soonyoung is speaking with someone over the phone. Your eyes fall shut as you attempt to concentrate on snippets of the conversation.

“Fine, we’ll meet at the abandoned hanger off Lake Avenue… Yeah… Just the handgun… Isn’t that too many though?... No, no, not the stash at East End… If he shows up then it’s fucked… That’s what I’m assuming… Okay, sure… Call me back after noon.”

Then, Soonyoung hangs up his phone and slides it with a sigh into his pants pocket. Your eyes open wide again, and you blink a few times to properly clear the sleepy, clinging remnants. Not wanting to overstay your welcome and become a potential hinderance, you slowly shuffle up in his bed, the blue blanket pooling around your hips.

“Did you sleep well?” Soonyoung inquires, tossing the towel from his neck onto the bed.

Pulling the blanket up to your chin, you nod at him. “Yeah, I did,” your voice has yet to lose its monotone rasp, “who were you talking with?”

“Just a friend.” He replies.

Soonyoung walks toward a desk placed across from the bed, picking up a white dress shirt that he slips into. He leaves the front unbuttoned, though he cuffs up the long, flimsy sleeves.

“Hey, do you think I could take a quick bath or something? I promise I won’t be long.”

As he continues to adjust the sleeves, he shrugs. “Yeah, you want me to start it?”

“It’s fine.” You decline politely.

Though the moment you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and prepare to stand, a doubtful inkling has you rethinking that choice. A resounding soreness thumps at your core, the marrow of your hips, yet you pretend that your muscles feel nothing like gelatine and attempt to take your first steps after such a rigorous night. Soonyoung watches in amusement, for your knees immediately begin wobbling while that deep-rooted ache has you buckling to the carpet.

When you look up, cheeks heated from embarrassment, Soonyoung is standing before you baring a fond smile.

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?” He inquires again, folding some black hair behind his ear.

“No,” you sigh, “I’m sorry. I need help, please?”

“All you have to do is ask, sweetheart.”

Soonyoung proceeds to bend down, tucking you carefully against his chest while your arms loop in a secure fashion around his neck. Feeling like a moonstruck bride whose being carried off to her honeymoon, you can’t evade the tiny smile that flits from each corner of your mouth, and it sticks coyly, even when Soonyoung sets you down on the closed toilet in order to run the bath water. You realize you’re going to need your dress, heels, the lace underwear that’d been deserted by his doorway.

Swallowing nervously, you watch as warm water fills the tub.

“I’m sorry to keep bothering you, but do you think you could grab my clothes? A-And I might need to use your phone, since I never took my purse with me last night. My friends are probably worried.”

He stands from the porcelain edge, a laugh rumbling in his chest, “why are you so apologetic?”

“I don’t know,” you quickly shrink into yourself when Soonyoung’s gaze falls over you, hardly as poisonousness compared to the night before, “I don’t want to be an inconvenience if you’re busy, and you just seem like a busy person.”

“And I also fucked you so hard that you can’t even walk.” He reasons lightheartedly, keeping an eye on the bathtub, “I don’t mind, honey. I’ll get your clothes, okay? I’ll take care of you.”

At least if he’s a poison, it’s a sweet one.

“Don’t worry about your friends either,” Soonyoung comments, at last shutting off the faucet while thin steam curls into the air, “One of my guys told them you’d be safe. They know where you are.”

“Really? Thanks.”

He baffles you; he feels mysterious yet personable. You want to ask him what he does for a living, especially upon recounting his earlier phone call, though you dismiss the question when Soonyoung helps you slide into the tub. The hot water works magnificently to relieve the soreness from your muscles, and though it’s a bit uncomfortable to squeeze back into that tight, black dress and the expensive heels, at least you’re able to walk (as long as you keep a hand flush against the wall).

Thankfully, Soonyoung helps you toward the front door of his apartment. A one-night stand has never felt so painful to leave behind, and you’re overwhelmed with poignancy as you wonder why you had never approached him sooner. He announces that there’s a driver stationed out front the Plaza, in a jet-black car you don’t catch the name of, and that you only have to lend him your address.

“He’ll take you home.” Soonyoung assures you.

Already, you find it astonishingly natural to trust him, engendering your hesitance as you stand in the corridor wishing you could somehow stay.

“What if I want to see you again?” You pipe up, catching his gaze.

Your heart is racing, and warmth dapples each arch of your cheek.

Soonyoung steps forward, cupping your face in his palms, his soft mouth pressing to yours while a fragrant, winter mint cuts sharp to your senses.

“You know where to find me, sweetheart.” He responds casually, and smiles as though he knows you’ll come back to him. “See you around.”

✧✎ a/n: i am handing out water bottles down here guys, it’s okay i got you covered! after not writing serious smut for so long, it just FELT SO? BIZARRE? TO TAMPER WITH IT AGAIN. like i remember the times when i could write smut with a straight face and you’d think i was typing my will or something. anywho. I REALLY HOPE IT SATISFIED SOME OF U!! and WHAT DO U THINK THE SECRET AU IS HEHEHEH

[dancingazaleas]

jeankasa | guidance

yeah i gave them a header what abt it⁉️

this ship is gonna be coming up a lot on this page because i have immense love for this pair

also, i would just like to make it clear that i do know eremika is canon. i don’t ship it personally. pls don’t attack me

warnings/notes: modern au!, blind!mikasa, cursing, mentions of bullying, mentions of insecurity, hints of depression, shit ending

if someone had ever told mikasa that she’d lose her sight at the age of 19, she would’ve brushed it off.

but now here she was at 19, service dog attached to her hip as she navigated through the streets. her clumber spaniel dog, who she named vanilla, turned her to the left, trying to lead mikasa to the her favorite coffee shop. when she felt a small wave of air and heard the sound of vanilla’s nails clinking on metal, she knew that she was at her desired location.

with caution, she walks inside the shop and turns her head to the side to figure out where she was from muscle memory. before she could contemplate, vanilla lead her through the webs of the tables and to the counter to order. she put out her left hand, trying to feel for the edge of the counter so she could hear the cashier.

she felt at ease when she felt the cold metal on her fingertips, inching her feet forward to let them bump into the counter as well.

“hello,” mikasa said to the cashier, praying that there was one actually there, “i’m blind, so i apologize if i seem to be difficult.”

“it’s alright!” the cheery cashier said back, “let me know if you need help with the menu.”

mikasa thanks her and orders herself a vanilla bean frappe, even though she thinks it’s basic; she quite enjoys it. vanilla leads mikasa to a table and she cautiously sits down in her seat in fear of that there might not actually be one there.

“oh, did you need something,” she heard a baritone voice ask her when she plopped her butt in the seat.

“oh! i didn’t know there was anyone sitting here. i’m blind and vanilla led me to this seat,” she explains, getting ready to get up to find another seat.

“y-you don’t have to leave..!” he suddenly shouts, startling mikasa, “i mean... you don’t have to leave, you can sit here. i’m jean kirstein.”

mikasa’s face heats up as she sits back down, “i’m mikasa ackerman.”

“i’m going to grab your hand to shake it, is that alright,” jean asks and he smiles at mikasa’s nod.

when jean touches mikasa, she feels a jolt of electricity run down her spine that makes her shiver.

his skin is rough against his own and her hand is small in comparison. her hand is encased in warmth while his is encased in cold.

jean’s face was a cherry red as he stares at mikasa. she’s honestly gorgeous, black lipstick on her plump lips with a small blush running across her cheeks. her hair ebony and was a tiny mullet, bangs spread across her forehead.

her hand accidentally came into contact with his sketch paper, and she quickly yanks her hand back towards her in fear.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to touch that.”

“don’t worry, it’s just my sketch pad. i’m an art student at trost university,” he waved his hand, despite her lack of sight.

“my brother and our friend go to trost. our friend, armin, is a marine biologist students. he’s really sweet. my brother’s name is eren, he’s studying criminology,” mikasa gives a sad smile and jean knows it’s because she wants to go to trost too.

“oh i know them. i don’t... exactly get along with your brother a lot,” it manages to make mikasa crack a real smile.

“i’m not exactly surprised, he’s a very brash person,” he watches her hands lean down to pet vanilla.

before he’s able to get a word in, her name is being called for her to get her drink. her eyebrows furrow from frustration, she doesn’t know where to go.

“i’ll get it for you,” jean’s already getting out of his chair, walking over to the counter with her drink on it.

she thanks him when he guides her hand to hold it.

“so,” jean doesn’t know what to say, “shouldn’t you be getting back to... your house?”

“i should, but i don’t want to. i don’t get to go out alone much,” he nods at her.

“i’m sorry if this is rude, but were you always... blind,” jean asks slowly, gesturing his large hands in a circle.

“no, i haven’t. i started losing my vision around my 13th birthday. it was gradual and by the time i was 16 i could barely see anything, now i can’t see at all,” mikasa seems sad as she explains her situation, dejectedly sipping out of her straw.

“i’m so sorry, i couldn’t imagine going through that. you’re strong for enduring that,” jean puts his hand on top of her’s, flinching at mikasa’s flinching.

“i don’t feel strong,” she frowns, “i’m always being coddled and i can only talk about it with armin and vanilla, even if she’s a dog. you barely even know me and i’m dumping my baggage onto you.”

jean’s face flushes at the realization, “no, no, no! don’t worry, i-i asked! if anything, i should apologize for asking so much.”

mikasa shakes her head, earrings clinking as they dangle down.

“it’s alright, i haven’t gotten to talk to many people like this is a while. what’s your number,” she’s taking out a phone with a light purple phone case.

he doesn’t know how she uses it, but he’s not going to ask. he takes and when his thumb presses against the contact app, he jumps at the robotic female voice telling him ‘contacts’. guess he got his question answered.

he types in his number, trying to get used to the robot calling out each letter and number as he types.

he never thought he could learn so much in such little time.

————

jean never thought that him and mikasa would become friends. if he were being honest, he thought that mikasa wouldn’t text him after he gave her his number. he’s not that interesting in his opinion.

but luckily, she did. and now, a couple of months later, he’s guiding her hands to paint on a canvas in front of her. she’s anxious and hesitant as jean helps her swipe the paintbrush across the canvas.

“relax your body, i’ve got you. the picture will look weird if you’re too stiff,” he rubs his thumbs in circles over her wrists.

she takes a deep breath and jean can feel most of the tension leaving her body. he guides her hand to paint a large stripe in the color of a peach, hands warm against her cold skin.

“paint what feels right, let your body move on its own,” his hands slowly leave her wrists, and he watches as she runs the brush across the canvas with relaxation.

back and forth her brush runs, lips parted in slight relaxation and concentration. her face has splotches of lavender and bubblegum pink on it, and her hands are covered in a maya blue mixed with the purples and pinks.

jean can’t help but feel himself swoon at the sight, milky grey eyes darting around the canvas aimlessly and her reluctant free hand feeling for the edge of the canvas to let her know how far away she is. she’s in a loose white button up where the sleeve are cut at her elbows. her vancouver blue skirt ends at her scraped knees and her feet are bare, making her toes curl around the stretcher of the stool she’s sitting in.

“i think i’m finished,” she says as her fingers loosely hold the paintbrush in her hand.

jean looks at the painting and he feels a sense of pride in his gut at the sight. despite how much he guided her hands, she still managed to create a masterpiece all on her own.

the painting is messy, but jean loves it nonetheless. the painting is of a mix of pink peonies arranged in a vase with hydrangeas and himilayan blue poppies, peach ranunculus flowers with their petals spread in blossoming. there’s a dash and a mix of different colors in each flower that makes it feel completed and some of the colors dash out of the lines of the flowers and mixed into the honey brown background.

it’s messy and choppy, and if mikasa were an art student, she’d get a 68% on this painting. but in jean’s eyes, she’s scored a 100%.

“it’s beautiful,” he smiles, taking the paintbrush out of her hands and onto the cart of paint supplies next to the easel.

he grabs a thin brush and dips it into a black, signing it as ‘m.a.’ in the right hand corner.

“i doubt it,” she shrugs, “when will i be able to hang it up?”

“probably in a few days. i’ll text you when and i’ll come over and hang it up,” he helps her off of the stool.

“thanks,” she nods hand now reaching up to search for his own.

he puts his palm against her’s, taking note of how much smaller her dainty, yet tough, hands were against his own. their fingers intertwine perfectly and their temperatures contrast each other’s.

mikasa’s got a small blush as she stares at jean’s chest. jean lets go of her hand, moving it to her cheek along with his free hand and tilts her head up to look at his own.

jean leans down a bit and their lips connect in a sweet kiss. mikasa’s lips are soft and wet against jean’s. they shiver at the other’s contrasting temperature, but deepen the kiss anyways. jean pulls away and watches mikasa’s eyes flutter open and her face get even more red.

it has him kissing her again.

————

mikasa’s giving small chuckles and smiles as jean walks behind her and holds her hands up above her head in his own, guiding her bare feet through the runny sand. vanilla is running circles around the two of them, barking and partly happily.

jean’s making arrogant comments, which is why mikasa’s smiling, as he leads her over back to their group of friends sitting in a sandy fire pit. mikasa’s smile fades when jean sits her down on a bench in front of the fire, the sound of voices flooding her sensitive ears.

it’s mostly sasha and connie, cackling at one another obnoxiously. jean sits on mikasa’s left and eren is at her right.

“we can roast marshmallows now that the lovebirds are back,” connie snickers and it has everyone but eren, mikasa, and jean laughing.

eren’s pretending to gag as he bumps his shoulder into mikasa’s to look over at jean above her head. mikasa doesn’t need sight to know that there’s a sneer on jean’s blushing face when he also pushes his shoulder to her’s.

“stop it,” she says, “i need help with my marshmallow.”

“even blind, mikasa still scares you,” armin laughs to eren, taking a metal stick and a marshmallow from sasha’s outreached hands.

“it’s not like i’m the only one scared of her. jean’s quaking in his boots!”

jean ignores and stabs a marshmallow onto his own metal stick, guiding mikasa’s hand to grip around the wooden handle at the end. he positions her arms to hold the marshmallow over the crackling flames of the fire, and then starts to put his own marshmallow on a stick.

the conversation continues on without comments of both jean and mikasa, now focused on teasing eren. when mikasa’s marshmallow is finished, jean puts the handle of his metal stick between his knees. he’s taking ahold of graham crackers and hershey’s chocolate after he pulls mikasa’s stick away from the fire. he holds her stick at the handle and guides her with his voice to arrange herself a s’more.

“now close it carefully around the marshmallow,” he says and she obliges with caution.

he puts the metal rod on the bench beside his thigh, kissing her cheek as she bites on the s’more.

“it’s messy, be careful,” he’s holding his marshmallow back out over the flames.

she turns her head towards him, giving a small pucker of her messy lips. he kisses her lips, the sticky residue of the marshmallow sticking to his own. he laughs when he pulls away and licks his lips, enjoying the gooey treat.

he’s putting together his own s’more now, occasionally looking towards mikasa, who’s listening to sasha and eren’s conversation with rapt attention. she’s got chocolate, crumbs, and melted marshmallow spread across her mouth.

“babe, let me wipe your face off,” he���s grabbing a paper plate and sitting the s’more on it, then place the plate on the bench.

her eyes look downwards as jean wipes off her messy face with the sleeve of his shirt; something he doesn’t usually do.

“thank you,” she turns her head away, hand patting his thigh in search for his hand.

with his left hand, he holds his s’more. he gives his right to mikasa, who leads it to put his arm around her shoulders. he smiles and tugs her closer to him, kissing the crown of her head before he eats his s’more.

he groans when the flavors hit his tongue, going in to take another bite but stops at mikasa’s head turning to him.

“can i have a bite,” she asks innocently, like she didn’t just have one of her own.

“you just ate one,” he furrows an eyebrow.

instead of a reply, she opens her mouth in hopes for jean to put the s’more against her lips. he rolls his eyes while shaking his head, putting a corner of the s’more against her pretty pink lips. she bites down and he revels at the sight of her small smile.

“thank you.”

“whatever, you would’ve kept bugging me if i hadn’t,” jean snickers, pecking continuously at the crown of her head.

“true,” she smirks and nuzzles her head against his lips.

he shoves the rest of the s’more in his mouth, mikasa only knows because the everyone laughs at the sight. when he’s done chewing, he leans close to her ear to whisper to her.

“i’m gonna go to the car real quick and get a blanket. even with the fire it’s starting to get colder, and you’re wearing a sundress.”

mikasa gives a silent nod, and feels her mood dampen whenever he gets up and leaves.

“can i talk to you,” she lifts her head a bit while she processes the voice.

“yeah, what’s up marco,” he sits next to her.

“nothing’s up. i just wanted to thank you, i guess,” he gives a breathy laugh.

“what for? i didn’t do anything.”

marco put a hand on her shoulder while he smiles, ignoring the fact that she cannot see.

“mikasa,” he starts, “jean’s a lot happier because of you.”

“oh,” she blinks, “i didn’t do anything. if anything, it’s the opposite. he helped me accept and love myself even though i was blind. he guided me.”

marco laughs, “mikasa, while he may have guided you and your hands, you guided him into becoming a better person. he was so lonely and sad before you. he would have one night stands a lot of the time just so he wouldn’t have to sleep alone. his sketchbooks used to be so gloomy and bitter before you and now his sketchbook radiates life. there are so many sketches of you and the people around him, and he hadn’t done that since sophomore year of high school. he paints with light colors instead of the gloomy grey’s and blue’s he used to paint with. he’s so comfortable and content with you, and i’ve never seen him act that way with another person besides myself. he loves you, mikasa.”

mikasa feels herself crying at the speech. ever since mikasa was little, she always felt out of place, even with eren and armin. they were so vibrant and passionate to the point where mikasa could barely comprehend it. mikasa felt she had never made an impact of anyone, not even eren.

in high school, kids would whisper about her in the hall. she always acted unbothered but late at night she would cry silently under her blanket. mikasa never thought of herself as special, even if she was blind. mikasa often felt ashamed of herself for so many reasons; her lack of passion, lack of speech, lack of emotion, and her blindness. she often felt suffocated by the coddling and unsaid expectations eren’s dad left on her shoulders.

when she met jean, it was a breath of fresh air. someone treated her normally and would make her feel free. she felt like she fit in with jean, that he didn’t think she was weird for flaws. she asked him about it once, and he replied that when he said he loves her, he meant her flaws as well. jean made her feel special yet normal at the same time. he never let her lack of sight become a hinderance, instead guiding her with his hands and his voice.

to find out she impacted the person who changed her whole world made her emotional and happy beyond belief. she was also bewildered at the discovery because not once had she impacted someone to her knowledge.

“oh my god! i’m so sorry, i-i didn’t mean to make yoy cry!!!” marco’s freaking out and mikasa doesn’t need sight to know that all eyes are on her.

“mikasa?! what’s wrong?!” eren’s booming voice fills her ears.

“just happy,” she sobs and rubs away her tears.

“hey babe, i got a thin blanket so it might not warm you up too mu— what happened?!!” mikasa hear’s jean’s voice getting closer.

“i’m okay,” she sniffles, but jean ignores her and pulls her onto her feet. it has vanilla following behind.

jean leads her further from the group, stuttering out apologies as if he had done anything wrong. when he stops, he turns around and cups mikasa’s damp cheeks and kisses her nose.

“what’s wrong? what happened? are you okay,” he worries, voice cracking.

“i just,” her own sob cuts her off, “marco told me that i guided you into changing a-and i’ve just never had a-an impact on anyone.”

jean relaxes with a sigh, kissing her softly on the lips.

“he’s not wrong, you’ve impacted me in a way i can’t explain. i’m also sure that you’ve impacted so many people, you just don’t know it. you are so special,” he smile fondly, wiping away her tears.

“you make me feel special,” she laughs through her tears, “and i’ve never felt that, and you know that.”

he hums while he nods.

“cause, again, you are special. my special girl,” he murmurs to her right before he kisses her.

“you’re special because you guided me in the right direction of happiness,” he mumbles against her lips.

“ditto,” mikasa gives a small smile, “thank you for guiding me.”

[aizawaorkuroo]

Missed You

Ship: Dabi x reader

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 2k

Summary: Dabi meant to come see you last week. He really did. He just got busy, but he’s here now whether you like it or not. 

Warnings: Language, Choking, Biting, Vaginal Fingering, dubcon(ish not really)

AN: dabi’s fucking weird lmao

________________________

Dabi closes the door to your apartment gently behind him. He’s late by maybe a week. But hey, who can blame him? He’s a busy man, and at the end of the day, you’re not dating. Not really. He’s not going to take you out to fancy dinners or hold your hand while you walk through the park. Well, at least not when the sun’s up. It’s not his style. 

And even if he wanted to, he can’t. He can’t give you all the things he knows you want. But whenever he brings it up, you put your hands on your hips and jerk your chin at him, insisting that you don’t need any of that sentimental crap. But he knows you deserve better. Whatever.

Despite his edge, something sharp pokes at his heart when he hears the shower running. He kicks off his shoes and lets his jacket fall from his shoulders, a cruel smirk pulling at his lips. He shuffles towards your bathroom, and as he gets closer, he realizes he can hear music streaming through the door. Perfect.

The door opens softly, waves of humidity flowing into his face along with the notes of whatever band you were listening to. Your voice reaches his ears as you hum along to the music, words intermingling with nonsense. The wicked grin on his face stretches wide as he jerks an arm out to yank back your shower curtain.

A scream claws its way out of your throat, and you stumble trying to cover yourself with your arms. Your eyes focus on puckered patchwork skin, and you breathe out his name, hanging your head as you sigh. Dabi smirks as you shake your head, eyeing the way water rolls off your body. The water splashes out of the shower, forming puddles on the floor. You turn your gaze up, fixing Dabi with a glare.  

“Dabi,” you hiss. “Mrs. Mai is gonna get mad about the water.” He sneers as your concern, pulling off his shirt before fumbling with his belt.

“If that old hag downstairs gives you any shit, let me know.” His voice is calm and cruel, sending chills down your spine. You cross your arms and try to ignore the way your stomach flips when Dabi’s eyes seize the newly exposed flesh.

“Dabi.” His eyes lazily trail up your body before landing on your eyes. He’s really here. You bite down on your tongue, ignoring the sour taste in your mouth. “You said you were gonna be here last week.” His face hardens at your comment, but only for a moment. His cruel smile reappears as he kicks his pants off.

“Must’ve gotten caught up with something,” he murmurs, distant and cold. Your face twists unpleasantly at the thought. You let your eyes appraise him, making note of the small bruises and cuts that pepper his already marred skin. You knew what he did; how could you not? But your stomach still curdles at the thought of losing Dabi.

“Yea, that sounds right. I got so busy I forgot to come back,” he taunts. You pout as his words, but it just spurs him on. He slips off his boxers and steps in the shower, invading your space.

“Hmm? Does that bother you?” You steal your eyes over his shoulder, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But he moves forward, crowding you against the wall until there’s nowhere left to look but at him. His arms create a solid cage around you, not letting you escape.

“Why are you upset?” His breath fans over your face, and your eyes flick down to his lips. “Did you miss me?”

Something dark creeps into his voice, making you shiver. Your nod is almost discernable, but the growing smirk indicates he saw it. He’s got you right where he wants you. A finger trails down your neck, before his hand lightly grasps your throat. “Use your words.” He gives your throat a light squeeze and cocks his head to the side, waiting.

You shift under his intense, hot gaze and drag the words out, giving him what he wants.

“I missed you,” you choke out, watching as his eyes darken. He leans towards you and licks a hot stripe along the side of your face.

“Dabi!” you whine unhappily. You grimace and try to shift away from him, but his grip on your throat tightens past the point of comfort. In a panic, your hands fly to your throat and tug at his hand. He freezes, no longer tightening his hand, but not letting you go. You feel his cock twitch against you, and your pussy clenches around nothing.

He releases your throat, and you breathe heavily against him, the tension thickening in the heat from the water. In an instant, Dabi surges forward molding his lips against yours in a searing kiss. His scarred skin is pressed firmly against yours, rubbing against you in a way that sets a fire in the pit of your stomach. His hands clutch painfully at your hips, and you can feel the bruises beginning to form.

His lips are warm against yours. Almost too warm. His stapled skin is also hot, practically burning your nerves. One hand squeezes your hips, making you squirm, before trailing up to gently tease your nipple. You thread your hands through his hair, tugging, trying to yank him closer. A groan vibrates through his chest, and pride bubbles up in your blood. 

He harshly pinches your nipple, making you gasp. Dabi takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, all while still tweaking your nipple. His tongue maps out the soft warmth of your mouth, and he rocks his hips into you, letting his cock drag against your skin.

He pulls away to catch his breath, but when he tries to find your lips again, you turn your face away, escaping from his burning mouth.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs against you, letting his head dip down to suck marks along the side of your neck. Your fingers massage his scalp as you try to catch your breath.

“Dabi,” you breathe out, “I… I have somewhere to be.” His fiery lips still against you, and he pulls away from you. His face hardens, lips pressing into a firm line. His head cocks to the side, waiting for you to explain what could be so important to drag you away from him now. You swallow past the lump in your throat, trying not to buckle under the pressure of his attention.

“I’m going to meet my friends at-” you cut yourself off when he bucks his hips harshly into you.

“I finally make it over here, and you wanna leave,” he taunts. You narrow your eyes, feeling the maelstrom of emotions swirling in the air. They’re hot and sharp, crackling unpleasantly and intensely like lighting. You lean forward, pointing a defiant finger into his chest.

“You were supposed to be here earlier.” He rolls his eyes, grabbing your hand and jerking you forward. You stumble into his arms, and he clutches you tightly, attacking your lips with a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. The hot water rains down on your skin, adding to the burning sensation deep inside you. His hands snake down to squeeze your ass, and you moan into the kiss.

His hands continue to squeeze and wander your available flesh, letting himself get lost in the noises you make and the way your body opens up for him. Dabi rocks his hips into you, letting his cock rub against your body. 

He traces a hand along the side of your body, letting it slide in between. You squirm as his finger swipes along your pussy lips. As if burned, you try to shift away, remembering your plans for the evening. But Dabi is intoxicating, and he pulls you down into dizzying dark depths.

“My friends...” you mumble against him, knowing you’ve already lost the battle. A disappointed noise rumbles through his chest, and he gently pinches your clit, making your hips cant against him.

“Not tonight,” he whines, pressing burning kisses into the side of your face. “Not when this pussy’s so wet for me.” He pushes one of his fingers into you, thumb rubbing harsh circles on your clit. Your hips cant against him, and you whine as he bites into the juncture of your shoulder. You rock against him, trying to push yourself towards the ledge he wants you to fall over, but Dabi laughs at your feeble attempts.

“You want more?” he murmurs into your ear. You nod, hands tugging at his hair. He pushes in a second finger and pumps them into you harshly. You moan trying to pull him back so you can kiss him. He chuckles and easily shakes himself out of your grasp. “What do you want? Use your words,” he teases. You whine, letting your hips buck against him.

At your lack of response, his thumb digs harshly into your clit, making you cry out. “I said use your words.” His tone is sharp against your ears, and you shudder. You narrow your eyes petulantly at him, and he scowls. When he realizes you’re not going to give in so easily, he rips his hand away from your needy cunt. You let out a cry of frustration at the emptiness inside you and weakly try to grab his wrist. He yanks his hand out of your grasp and turns off the water.

“Dabi, wait!” you cry out, but he’s already stepping out of the shower. He turns around to look at you, face impassable. He blinks at you slowly, waiting. The cold air plucks at your skin, goosebumps forming everywhere. Your music plays quietly in the background, and you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

“I wanted you to kiss me,” you whisper. He doesn’t move, letting your words hang heavy in the air. You squirm under his intense gaze, and a cruel smile spreads on his face.

“I know.”

Dabi surges forward, cupping your face with his rough hands, and he kisses you harshly. You stumble, but he braces you with his body. His piercings and staples scrape across your skin, and he drags you forward out of the shower. His teeth clash against yours, and he spreads his palm out behind your head, holding you in place.

Your nails scrape across his chest and he groans against you. Dabi breaks away from you, leaving small nips against your neck.

“Say it again,” he whispers into your neck, voice softer than normal. You furrow your brows, head tilting to give him better access to your neck. Dabi’s normally so harsh, unbridled fury wrapped up in lean muscle and patchwork skin. But there’s something different in his voice. Not necessarily soft, but different. It’s hot and sticky and echoes through your brain.

“That I wanted you to kiss me?” you ask, confusion coloring your words. He shakes his head, hands trailing back down to your hips, squeezing the flesh there.

“That you missed me.”

Oh.

The hot, syrupiness that you heard in Dabi’s voice flows through your veins now, making your mind slow like honey. You hum in contentment, his words bouncing around your brain. You weave your hands back into his hair, holding him close to you.

“I missed you, Dabi.” His nips transition to kisses, and makes his way up your neck to your jaw.

“Again.”

“I missed you, Dabi.” He licks a hot stripe along your jaw, making you squirm. His grip tightens uncomfortably on your waist.

“Again.”

“I missed you so much, Dabi!” A bruising kiss sears itself to your lips, and you moan. You’re dragged from the bathroom to the cold comfort of your bed. He’s on you instantly, fingers buried inside your wet cunt, pushing you to the release he had denied you earlier. His touch and kisses leave you burning, reeling, but craving more.

He’s insatiable, and far too much to handle, and is most likely going to leave your burning and broken, but you don’t care. You missed him, after all.

[gallickingun]

From the 410 smut prompts, could I please request a drabble with 40 & 331 for Pro-Hero Shouto and fem interviewer? Thank you!

PAIRING: Pro Hero!Shouto x Interviewer Fem!Reader RATINGS: M/E+ WARNINGS: oral sex WORD COUNT: 1.6k+

PROMPTS: 40: “I’m afraid I can no longer remain professional.” 331: “If you keep making those sounds, I’m not going to be able to stop myself.”

request from THIS prompt list - prompt fill sentences will look like this.

Interviewing Pro Heroes wasn’t an easy job. There were the wild ones, like Ground Zero or Grand, but there were also the kind ones, such as Red Riot or Froppy. Each of them balanced one another out.

However, there had been one Pro Hero you couldn’t quite make out just yet – Shouto.

He was the one you were responsible for interviewing nearly every time after a battle or intervention, and he gave you hardly any information each time. It was just a simple nod of his head, a one liner, and then he’d retreat back to the squad car to take them off somewhere else to do paperwork.

“Hell, Shouto,” you grumble one day at a conference, the mic hidden underneath the top of your dress easily spotted by his careful eyes, “Can I just get one sound bite?”

The Todoroki-san chuckles, readjusting so his hands rest at his belt loops, “Apologies. I’m not used to doing interviews in a tuxedo.”

“Are you ever used to interviews?” you ask him, relaxing against the punch table. “Because even if I’m not trying to spin a story, your lips are sealed. It’s irritating.”

“I had no idea I made you feel such things.” His voice is smooth, so much so that you would not have caught the sly undertone if you hadn’t been so in tune with his facial expressions.

Shouto’s lips are tugged sideways into a smirk, his turquoise eye glittering at you from where he stands so you can only see half of his face, the scarred half. Your stomach flips, and you wonder if he can see the motion against your dress. You swallow the lump in your throat and stand tall, bolstering your spine, “I-I don’t feel anything but anger. You’ve cost me a couple of headlines, you know!”

“Bakugou always has the better lines anyway,” Shouto shrugs, tilting his head towards the blonde hero stood across the room, “I prefer my reputation as the silent type.”

“Well,” you tip your cup of wine back against your lips, praying that the alcohol will help this conversation, “it really blows for me.”

His eyes widen at the choice of phrasing, but only for a moment, and then he has regained his composure. Todoroki licks his lips and leans back, his trim figure looking rather toned within the confines of his professional clothing. You wonder what he’s packing underneath that dark button up, your eyes tracking down his torso.

You can’t stop yourself when your eyes dip below his belt, zeroing in on his zipper. You gag around the wine settled in your throat, having to reach up to cover your mouth to make sure none dribbles out at your surprise.

Todoroki crosses his arms, jutting his hips forward unbeknownst to your current predicament, “What? Do I have something on my pants?”

He looks down to make sure he hasn’t dropped food or drink on his clothes, scanning the fabric for stains. It gives you a moment of reprieve from his intense stare, and you force yourself to become more composed. You wish away the blush on your cheeks, begging him silently not to notice the change in color.

“N-No,” you stutter out the broken word, ashamed of your wanton state, “I-uh, well. No. You look fine.”

Somehow the sentence comes out a little lighter, more lilted, than you expected. It’s enough to turn his head so he’s paying attention to you again, “Do I?”

You can hear the speeches going on in the background, but they do little to tear your line of sight away from the handsome hero stood in front of you. Truthfully, you’ve noticed his bejeweled irises and contoured body before, but your anger had surpassed your lust after the first few interviews.

Now, however, it’s coming back in full force.

“You’re insufferable,” are the words you choose next, opting for the frustrated route rather than the lecherous one.

You do not expect him to sidle up next to you and whisper his next sentence in your ear, “Would you like me to ease your suffering?”

The base of your throat bobs as a strangled noise tangles itself up in your throat, piercing your tongue as it slips from your lips. Shouto’s palm is on the base of your back, his lips grazing the shell of your ear so his warm breath travels down to the base of your neck. Every hair you have is standing on end, arousal pooling within the core of you, and your tongue has suddenly gone relentlessly dry.

You want to say his name, to admonish him, but all you can do is turn, mouth agape, and stare into his heterochromatic eyes. You’ve never noticed the gray orb is so sparkling from the distance you’ve maintained. But now, in the low lights of this party and the proximity you have between you, it’s practically glowing.

His other hand cups your cheek, “You look beautiful. You always do.”

“Th-Thank you?” you manage to squeak out the words and somehow, they feel sultry coming from your hoarse throat. You swallow your inhibitions and drop your gaze from his eyes to his mouth, analyzing the plush curve of his lower lip and the angled bow of his upper.

Todoroki chuckles, and the sound makes you shiver, “Wanna get out of here?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

-

You didn’t expect to find yourself shoved between a rack of cleaning supplies and the torso of one Pro Hero, Todoroki Shouto.

Not that you were complaining.

He’s smirking up at you from where he’s got himself lowered between your thighs, your skirt hiked up over your hips so he can see your glistening cunt from his position crouched below you. His hands roam your thighs and he inhales, “I’m afraid I can no longer remain professional.”

“Shouto,” your legs tense, “I thought that was a given.”

He shakes his head and his nose brushes over the base of your belly, just below your navel, “No, I mean after this.” His voice is quiet and tentative, much in contrast to the confident grip of his hands, “H-How does that make you feel?”

“Impatient as hell,” you grip a hand in his dual-toned hair, guiding his mouth towards your aching core. “Now c’mon, Todoroki, use that pretty mouth.”

“I hope you can get a few sound bites for your show tomorrow.”

Shouto taps the microphone that’s hiding underneath the silk of your dress, smirking up at you as he leans his body forward, “It is still on, isn’t it?”

He is murmuring little praises into thin air as he kisses up the inner part of your thigh, nudging his nose over the sensitive skin before finding his way to the center of your hips. Todoroki kisses just below your navel, nosing the swell of your belly before he comes to face your pussy. You swear you hear him salivating, drool dripping down his chin to coat your core as he licks a stripe up your slit.

Your feet stutter forward, and he has to bring a hand to your torso to press you flush with the door. The coolness of the metal slab is in stark contrast to the burning skin of your ass. You whimper at the sudden change in temperature, your head lolling back as you lose yourself in the way his tongue feels as he laps at your pooling heat.

The hand on your abdomen must be his right, because a thin sheen of ice spreads from your belly button outward as he activates his quirk. Your breath shudders from your lungs, shoulders shaking at the air drops at least ten degrees if not more just with the gentle use of his power. You look down to see glittering ice crystals covering your belly, starting to creep up toward your breast. Before you can complain or cry out, Shouto is reaching upward to tweak the bud of your breast, frozen touch encasing your nipple in a thin layer of ice.

Todoroki has skillfully delved his tongue between your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue and using it to further lubricate the muscle before he redirects his attention to your clit. He sucks the sensitive bud between his teeth, making sure to lavish it with his tongue before returning his attention to your sopping core. Bringing his warm palm to your navel, you feel the ice on your stomach melt, dripping down and tickling your skin as his opposing side lights on fire.

It is a warm flame, something calm and tame, but it is enough to thaw the ice on your body and make the hairs on the back of your neck stand erect. You swallow thickly and try not to cry out too loud as he turns your sensitive nipple in his freezing touch, a white-hot mix of pain and pleasure shooting up through your nerve endings, making your eyesight blurry.

“If you keep making those sounds, I’m not going to be able to stop myself,” Todoroki leans away from your cunt, still working at your chest, “And I really want you to come on my cock.”

The timbre of his voice in conjunction with the sultry look on his face makes your outer walls tremble in anticipation for what his cock will feel like sheathed within your core. Even the thought makes you weak, your knees wobbling so much that he has to brace you with his hands behind your thighs, letting your dress fall so he’s no longer visible.

“Guess you’ll just have to come back to my place,” he offers, voice muffled from where he’s hidden, “and maybe I’ll give you an exclusive.”

-

@shoutogepi 👀💕

[foryoumyheroes]

hi! I dont know if you are still taking request, or even active but if you are, could you do a headcanon with todoroki having a s/o that loves drawing him ? they could be already on a relationship or not ur choice

Hi anon! If you're reading this I previously replied that I am sort of taking requests, but I was inactive until recent. In order to make that up to you I'll give you both a scenario fic and headcanons since I was struck by inspiration to write this! Hope you enjoy!! I kinda spiraled off topic asdfgh 

Pls accept my word-vomit like I’m a cat giving you a dead rat. 

The Campos 

Todoroki x Artist!Reader

"How is it possible for anyone to be that handsome." 

Even you were surprised by the words tumbling out of your own head, stopping your pencil in its place and as you froze like a still frame. It wasn’t long before you felt heat creep up your body, painting your cheeks all the way to your ears with a red like the sunset. 

It was always like this. 

There was nothing artistic from the way his image always flowed from your pencil in hurried lines and messy scribbles, and there was no beauty from how you always hunched over into the collar of your shirts whenever you felt the burning of your emotions. You wrote Todoroki [Name] and [Surname] Shouto in the margins of your notebook as if you had reverted back to primary school, doodled among little tiny hearts and sketches of his side profile. 

Maybe your parents were right. You should’ve just gone to art school like they had said and fallen down the path of them and so many of your other relatives. But at fourteen you were just so caught up with wanting to be different. You had to be. You had to get off the beaten path and flow out of the frame you were confined in. You said that in this family you would never be the best artist, but you could become the best Hero that the [Surname]s had ever had. You were a Hero-in-training, but you knew that at heart you would always be an artist. 

And now at sixteen you were at a loss. You were at a loss because whenever you looked over at the last window seat in 1-A, your talents always fell short. There was nothing you could draw that could bridge the distance you felt, to calm the foreign feelings in your body. Your drawing skills had not diminished while you practiced war, but you were backtracking now. Perhaps you really should’ve gone to art school instead. 

Maybe then you would find a way to express how you truly felt. 

Nothing you wrote or drew now could match up to the endless admiration you had for one Todoroki Shouto. 

Everyone else was mere background noise to Todoroki when he set his gaze on you. 

Although Bakugou and his group of friends were in the common room shouting and making a ruckus and Todoroki’s own friends were giggling at the back of him, tossing frosting, floating bowls of batter to Iida’s ire. 

His eyes always sought you out. 

It was difficult to explain why. Even now, with you in a baggy sweatshirt and loose jeans rolled at the ankles, Todoroki wondered why he was paying you so much attention. The world around you was spinning and you were at an impasse. You were only writing in your notebook, probably jotting down notes at a speed he couldn’t comprehend. Your head was always buried in that Campos notebook.  

With a loud screech, Kirishima bumped his hip on the dining table, jostling both you and him from your standstill, pencils rolling across the wood. Your eyes immediately flashed up and met with his wide heterochromic ones. A deer in the headlights. The two of you turned away as quickly as it came, ignorant to the pink that bloomed on both of your cheeks while a spark flickered across his left cheek. 

“Whatcha drawing there, [Name]?” Kirishima asked boisterously, pulling out the chair beside you while you heated up like a furnace, waving your arms around wildly and sputtered like a train engine. You couldn’t snatch it away fast enough and his dark eyes fell on your doodle-ridden pages with a soft, “Oh.” His lips formed a small O shape. His eyes carefully looked up at the hot-and-cold boy before dropping back down to your page. You carefully averted your eyes, fixing [e/c] orbs on some faraway wall until he carefully pulled your notebook toward him and quickly scribbling something down, pushing the pages back toward you. 

When you snuck a peek at the drawing of a blond gremlin with spiky hair like a porcupine, and a crude drawing of a K and B underneath an umbrella, a loud laugh tumbled out of your mouth. 

It was as if Todoroki didn’t exist anymore as you gave Kirishima your full attention, laughing to whatever jokes he made or witty one-liners. 

He wasn’t a poet. He didn’t know the words. 

Others could talk about how selfish he was for having his mother’s pretty face and his powerful Quirk; boys and girls have tried before, handing him letters in his locker and bouquets of flowers, but that never mattered to him. Only you have stayed on his mind. His attractive features and his Quirk only had stock to it if it helped him win over your affections. 

In crowded places and busy gatherings, when he stood in solidarity, when his hands hung by his sides and his eyes were left with nothing to see, he wondered what primitive part of him was always acting out. How his hands wanted to cut off all connection with the logic in his brain and reach out to grab yours. How he always silently watched you from faraway, physically unable to tear your visage away from his eyes. His body always acted without reason — the heavy palpitations against his rib cage, the rose against his skin, the sweat on his palms, the dilation of his pupils. 

He wondered how he was in Heaven just by being near you. 

He wondered what it would take to get you to look at him for once. 

But your eyes would just be deep within the confines of your Campos notebook, impervious to his lingering thoughts of you.

Surprisingly it was Todoroki who offered to clean up after his friends while they went into the showers to wash away the flour and frosting that coated their hair and skin. The night had already been long by the time they turned in, heavy and drowsy after making several tins of uneven, ugly cupcakes. He had to do something with all of this energy, he thought, scrubbing away at stubborn stripes of sugar that painted the counter tops.

The lights were off and only the streaks of moonlight filtered through the large windows of the dorm room. You had left with Bakugou’s group several hours earlier, accepting Kirishima’s invitation to go to the nearest konbini for ice cream with an open hand. 

Now it was just him. 

Tossing the rag in the wash bin, he was about to make his way back to his room when his eyes fell upon the dining table and he found your notebook. 

How could he not know it was yours. He had seen it within your hands more times than he could count, more obsessively than Midoriya’s Hero Analysis for the Future No. 13. He wondered if that was why he was so interested in you. Your dedication to your studies were admirable. Nearly twenty-four-seven. 

Carefully, he crept closer to it, as if it was a bomb going to detonate before he picked it up. 

The pages curled and crinkled in his hands, and he debated opening it. 

It was just a school notebook, right? You probably only had notes and worksheets hidden inside of it. 

Maybe he could get an answer to your time. He could discover the subjects that you were struggling at, or even find one that you were better than him at. You were a couple ranks below him in the class grades. When he returned your Campos to you he could ask to study with you. 

He flipped it open and his heart stopped at the sight. 

Shit, shit, shit! you thought, running down the stairs, taking two at a time. It was late enough that the elevators were locked for curfew and you cursed Aizawa-sensei for putting your room at the very top of the building. After you had gotten back from the konbini with your friends, cheeks hurting from how hard you were laughing at Kaminari’s antics and Sero’s sarcasm, you had completely forgotten that you left your notebook on the kitchen table. You only remembered when you dug through your bag only to scramble around when nothing came up. If anyone like Hagakure or god forbid — Mineta, found it, you would never live it down. You were lucky enough that Kirishima was a good sport about it. He knew how to keep his mouth shut, but everyone else? 

You wondered if it was too late to transfer schools. 

Your feet landed harshly on the carpeted ground after the final step, head snapping back and forth for your notebook, but froze at what you saw. 

Even in the dim light of the moon and past the hand clamped over his face, you could see the heavy pink on his cheeks. 

Your heart dropped. 

“I — “ His hand fell to his side and you were given a full view of the strong flush on his face. “That’s my notebook... Todoroki-kun.” 

When the Campos dropped to the floor and he dashed across the common room, hand around your waist and his lips on yours, you found that you didn’t need flowery words or an arsenal of artistic techniques to express how you felt. 

Your hands wrapped around his neck, locking him deeper in the embrace, fingers cording through his soft red and white hair. 

The instinct to be closer to him would be all you need to overcome the division between a desire for him and the stillness of your body. 

Headcanons: 

After you two get together and it becomes more obvious that you’re drawing him, he’ll coax you out of doing it in secret.

He’ll ask to take pictures of the drawings on the margins of your notebook or if you’re drawing it on scrap paper, he’ll ask to have it after you’re done with it. 

He keeps it in a box uwu and he has to upgrade every year because it keeps on getting full. 

Even if you’re not drawing him, you ask him to pose for you so you can take references for your other drawings. He’s just so proportionate!! 

It makes him so happy every time he sees it!! He nearly catches on fire every time. 

The fact that you’re expressing your affections in this special way makes him so soft?? 

He once tried to draw you in return but he has like zero to none art experience. Even had no experience in his childhood because all he wanted to draw was All Might and Endeavor wouldn’t allow that. 

Instead you offer to teach him the basics on how to draw and you two continue bonding that way!! You sit on his lap because that’s the best spot to be close enough to guide him and show him how to draw while you drone on and on about shadows, anatomy, perspective, and he’s just nodding along without a single word going to his brain because he’s just staring at you the entire time. 

[“Shouto-chan, did you get that?” 

“Yeah...boxes?”]

If you draw him complete pictures he keeps it on his wall, and eventually his dorm room looks like he’s about to string red yarn around it because it’s blanketed with paper all over like he’s uncovering a murder conspiracy. 

A/N:  The picture that I used for the page breaks is Anselm Feuerbach’s “Peonies” and I actually saw it in real life at the Neue Pinakothek!! It’s one of my favorites and I even got a mousepad of it bc I’m a dork asdfg 

The Kirishima and [Name] scene is inspired by this comic by marbitss and I was inspired to write a lot of prose after reading Nicole Krauss’ The History of Love!

[wevegottogetaway]

Thanks fo’ saving my ass (Part 2)

There is a part 3 coming, I think these two deserve the...culmination, but I wasn’t sure if I could have it ready soon enough. Stay tuned for more, hope you enjoy! x

Part 1   -   Part 3*

It starts with a resounding bang. A back curving over maple hardwood; taut muscle stretching soft cotton fabric; twin jades squinted in concentration; a shoulder blade protruding briefly for one swift determining movement. Red, blue, yellow, purple, orange phenolic resin scattering across green worsted wool like a dozen pinballs simultaneously kicked in various directions.

It ends with the deep echo. A ball falling into emptiness before meeting rock-bottom; the release of a soft withheld breath; firm flesh unflexing with satisfaction; two sets of glossy eyes meeting in a knowing look. "Nice break, Styles. Stripes it is," y/n happily comments once Harry leans back from the pool table.

Gibson’s is full of rowdy chatters, tipsy laughs and fulsome smiles. Strangers bonding for a night of undiluted carefreeness, clicking drinks after merry drinks in honor to their new ephemeral best friends. All sorrows have been forsaken on the coat rack at the entrance,  hung in insouciance, leaving nothing but good spirits to sit at the tables and loiter near the bar. Everything about this place is warm and nurturing, a cosy embrace after a tedious day, a home for the people that lets them nurse bottles and wounds alike, and sees them leave later on, cheerful, relaxed and healing. It took but a second for Harry to understand why y/n is so fond of the place and he was not surprised to find her on a first-name basis with the barmaid, the two of them catching up on life while she was preparing the drinks.

Now, fifteen minutes in, they’ve happily made their way to the vacant timeworn pool table at a secluded corner of the bar, drinks and grins in toe. The space is only lit up by a single lamp hanging from the ceiling, casting daedal shadows along the walls and across the table’s carpeted surface. The subdued light and music crooning in the background make for a suggestive atmosphere, air thick with limitless curiosity and enticing promises.

The corner of Harry’s lips quirks in a wry smile and a bold glint takes residence at the crease of his eyes; the telltale sign of a burgeoning idea brewing up in his cheeky mind. "What’dya say we make this a lil more interesting?" The offer is served with a raised brow, a hand on his waist, and one foot perched on its toes over the other as he leans against the cue.

From across the pool table, y/n is quite endeared at the sight but her response comes out in fake offense,"oh I’m sorry, am I boring you already?"

"Quite the opposite actually." His head tilts the slightest bit to the side, gaze unwavering from her face in a mission for persuasion.

Her lips grimace as she tries to suppress a betraying smile to no avail, "fine, I’m listening."

He grins victoriously at her inability to keep a straight face, his limbs dislodging from his casual pose. "We take turns," his motions at the space between them. "F’we pocket, we get to ask one question. No bullshit answer, jus’ the truth." His eyes are wide as he gauges her response.

"A question, huh?" she takes her time to contemplate the proposition just to watch him squirm in impatience. "Damn, for a sec I thought you were about to suggest strip-pool." She sends him a playful look as she walks the length of the table to step closer to him and have a better look at his chiseled features.

"I mean, m’totally down but might be a bit unfair on your part," his eyes briefly trail down her body in silent conveyance of her single-piece attire. He’s got much more material to shed before exposing skin than she does.

"Wouldn’t you like to know." The suggestive retort has Harry’s stomach churn with humid passion, the question of just how many layers she’s wearing exactly, playing with the most lascivious parts of his brain. "Not that it matters, you’d be butt-naked before you’d get a nip-slip."

"Overestimating yourself?"

"Just giving you fair warning," she shrugs in nonchalance running her fingers along the edge of the table, "so you know what you’re getting yourself into."

When she lifts her head back to connect their gaze again, she finds him biting at his bottom lip to contain his signature smirk, "no worries there, darlin’. M’all willing." He almost punctuates his retort with a salacious wink but decides to save it for a more opportune time. Something tells him he’s in for a long evening, not that it’s any cause for concern. Like he said, he is very much consenting to anything her heart desires to do to him.

"Good to know." Y/n quips back with a smile before leaning on her hand resting upon the pool table. "What’s your question then?"

For a moment, Harry forgets he just broke the rack and successfully sent a plain purple ball in one of the table’s pocket, taking him one step closer to victory and granting him one question as per his own proposition. He quickly gathers his reeling thoughts before settling on an easy inquiry, fingers fiddling with the desire to sketch every bit of her character. "Right um, do you have other hobbies besides playin- or should I say, winning pool?"

She wants to slap- or should she say, kiss the smug look off his lovely face, but her answers airs in the same level tone she employs at work, "yes I do."

It’s not enough for Harry’s archeologic curiosity though. He’s barely dusted off the ground beneath his feet to reveal the hint of new groundbreaking findings; armed with sieves and brushes, he is eager to dig a little further, "and what might those be?"

However, y/n is quick to rebuff him, "uh uh, that’s two questions."

Indignation soars through his straightened posture, as he cries out a faint ’what? no!’ and her own ego grows two size at her cunning deceit, "gotta up your game if you wanna keep that perky bum intact, Styles."

Earlier words resonate in the confines of his outfoxed mind then, you can kick my ass at that game of pool as promised, and he tries really hard not to think about the promise following them. Instead he counterattacks in obvious diversion tactic, "that’s twice you’ve mentioned my ass in the past 5 minutes, perhaps I should read into it?"

"I guess you’ll have to wait and see," she lithely deflects as she grabs her own cue with a determined look etched upon her face, "my turn now."

With powerful strides, y/n navigates around the table to position herself at the most promising angle for a score of her own. Once she has both her target and the cue ball in firing line, she tunes out every last bit of stimulus encompassing her; the muffled sound of the music, the sticky oxygen filling up her lungs with sensual tension, the charming presence of the beau intently ogling her every move.

It barely takes her a couple seconds of intense concentration before a sharp thump is bouncing off the table and piercing through the air. The shot is so accurate, clean-cut, vigorous yet graceful and elegant all out once, Harry finds himself mesmerized by her skills more than the subtle form curving out from her bent posture.

The satisfaction is evident in her traits as she straightens up to face him, a pleased rictus forming at her lips. She doesn’t let any suspense unfurl before she cashes in her prize, "so what’s up with the muffin deliveries? You a stress-baker or summat?"

It’s a puzzle that’s been boggling her mind for while now; ever since the first time she watched him gallivanting around the office, handing out kindness and freshly baked goods for the small price of a friendly smile; it’d been a reoccurring thing ever since. The recollection has Harry’s cheeks warm up to a bashful shade of vermillion at the thought of admitting the reason behind his action: he’d bake a basketful of cakes just so he could give her one without exposing himself. Being straight forward with his infatuation may have been unfeasible at the time, but there was nothing against inconspicuously indulging the sweet tooth he knew she had, right?

"I dunno, just like seein' people smile, and everyone likes a good muffin, right?" His answer teeters on the ledge between veracity and evasion, the genuine ‘they were all for you’ being replaced by a less naked truth.

Y/n nods at his answer and waits until he is about to aim for another shot to voice her musings out loud, "mmm, they are quite delicious." Her attempt to distract him turns fruitful when his ears perks at her sultry voice right as he pointedly knocks the white ball with his cue. It’s off by an inch but a near-hit doesn’t help assuage his frustration, "fuck."

"Oh bummer. Guess you’ll have to pass," y/n can’t help but to tease him.

And the pout on his lips does nothing to quell her amusement, "bollocks, you distracted me."

"I did no such thing," she denies before taking his place at the table. The odds are in her favor, a perfect alignment offering itself to sink the blue striped ball right into the closest pocket. And because y/n never misses a clear shot when she’s handed one, that’s exactly what happens. Tucking the cue back at her side, she mulls over the hundred questions titillating her mind and settles for another pass at him,"is this suit the most extravagant you own and if not, what are the others like?"

Harry scrunches up his nose at yet another dig taken at the expense of his clothes, his voice pitching a halftone higher than usual, "hey, s’nough outta you, leave my suits out of it." There is a pout puckering at his lips and y/n giggles at his theatrics when he brings his hands to his chest in a protective gesture. This man and his suits…

"Somehow I don’t believe you give a single fuck about people’s opinion on your fashion choices."

"Very true. But I do value your opinion." For a brief moment, humor and wit give way to vulnerable sincerity as the two of them lock eyes over the pool table. A shy smile graces y/n’s lips, her heart faltering at his sweet sentiment before Harry gently breaks the consuming stare-off, "well, if you’re lookin’ fo’ more extravagant, I actually have a canary yellow flared suit that goes with a violet dress-shirt." And just like that, they found their way back to confidential banter.

"Damn, now I have to see it."

"One day if you’re lucky," this time he does wink at her, and this time he doesn’t let her enchantress juju distract him from the task at hand. As soon as the balls vanishes from the table, the question flies out of his mouth, "do you really find my suits obnoxious?"

Y/n pauses at the inquiry and tries to read into his eyes. She inspects the bright emeralds for  any unsuspected insecurities and when she finds none, she sends him a simple smile, "I love them. I just enjoy too much your reactions when I give you shit about them." Her chuckle tugs at Harry’s lips, before she lets honesty flooding past hers, "you got such a great sense of who you are, Harry, it just shows in the way you dress. I admire that, don’t let that go."

Interiorly, he’s heart is jumping in somersaults at possibly the kindest compliment someone’s ever granted him, the fact that it came from her only sending his beating organ into more acrobatics. Exteriorly, he returns her tender smile and mutters a timorous ‘thanks love,’ before watching her pocket another ball.

This time she doesn’t have to mull it over, "why did you wait?"

"Huh?"

"When we kissed earlier, you said you’d wanted to do it for a while. Why didn’t you?"

Her words are bare of any reproach as they both lean on their side against the table, inches apart from each other. It’s a fair question; one that she doesn’t really own as the word could have easily tumbled out from his mouth instead. It’s him on the spot though, and while he didn’t quite expect to broach such hazardous matters over a game of pool, he appreciates the openness of their bond. "I dunno, you always seemed so attached to boundaries at work, always so professional, I didn’t think you’d want me to make a move."

"I secretly did," she whispers.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

Goosebumps race down Harry’s arms as he takes in her confession and the way her teeth are  nipping her lips into a darker shade of pink. His eyes are drawn to them, the urge to close the gap and have her moaning in his mouth growing harder and harder to ignore, "fuck that’s sexy. You’re sexy."

The praise washes over y/n like a cold shower after a scorching day at the beach; startling shivers at first, golden skin tingling, and then all-encompassing relief. She loves how unfiltered he is with her, baring his thoughts to her just as they come, no editing, no secret agenda, no diffidence. Just her pure effect on him plastered across his beautiful face and candy-coating his words with a thick oozing layer of honeycomb syrup.

Leaning the slightest bit towards him, she tempts him with a near-kiss, almost dipping her lips in exquisite spongy fudge, but stops just as their breaths starts blending in one hot mess, "your turn," she purrs against his lips tantalizingly, before stepping away.

Harry looks like he is now the one in need of a cold shower, eyes pinched closed as he tries to compose himself, "right," he clears his throat. It takes him a bit more time to regain enough focus to make a successful go at the game, but once he’s got a good hold on the cue, a stable breath and a clear view of the shot, he takes it with ease and fortune.

As soon as he straightens up, he erases the distance between them, a determined look hardening the subtle lines of his face. "Did you ever think about me like I thought about you? At work, did you ever see me pass in the hallway and it took everythin’ you had not to follow me and kiss me senseless in the copy-machine room while no-one was watchin’?"

"Fuck. The thought might have crossed my mind once or twice," y/n confesses in batted breath. It’s clear the scenario isn’t so much a fabrication of his mind made on the spot as it is  a confession of his own experience, and the thought has the air in her lungs going scarce, as though she’s reached the apex of Mount Everest.

Harry isn’t fending off the heated tension much better, fingers twitching around his cue as he’d rather have her underneath his fingertips instead. He takes one look at the ceiling to stave his yearning some and draws in a deep breath."This is killing me," he whimpers while his lips skim over he skin of her forehead. "Go on, take your damn shot so we can be done with this game."

"It was your idea," she reminds him wryly. All of it, really; coming here, playing pool, playing 20 fucking questions, this heated hodgepodge of salacity and virtuous adoration is all his doing.

"I miscalculated."

"Poor you," y/n gently mocks is disgruntled attitude before scoring another ball, or as she likes to regard, another question, another opportunity to further tease at his already crumbling countenance, "what about you, Harry, do you ever think about me? At work… or otherwise?"

She already knows the first half of the answer and only voiced the double-entendre to rile him up, so she’s quite stunned when he whizzes, "too fucking much fo’ my own good."

The pained expression on his face is almost comical for y/n, she can’t resist probing at his despair, "me too." He groans at the flowing visuals he can’t ban from his filthy mind before she gestures towards the pool table in a gentlemanly way, "and that’s your cue," they both share a chuckle at her silly pun.

If Harry wasn’t so lost in a whirlwind of lustful thoughts, he would revel in the way their intellects seem to dovetail on all fronts; humor, banter, seduction, sincerity, nothing is lost in translation, they seem to talk in the same love language. From teasing digs and dirty innuendos to play on words or heartfelt confessions, they know exactly which frequency to tune in.

"Fuck, I can’t see straight," he laughs as he misses a shot for the second time, and y/n quickly takes over his spot around the pool table. Settle, relax, aim, breathe, shoot; another point to her flawless record. She turns to him, looking intently at his blown irises to stir up the flame already inhabiting them, "was it good?"

"Mind-blowing," he answers without unlocking their eyes, and the whole conversation is starting to get to her too. Her thighs rub against together, knuckles turning white around her cue as she tightens her grip and Harry has to bite his lips to contain a moan. He tries to distract himself by taking his turn in the game, and burst out in laughter when he pockets the ball and y/n cries out, "blue ball in the pocket! I feel like their might be a subliminal message somewhere but I can’t quite put my finger on it"

Once they regain their breath from laughing, tears of joy actually peeling from the corner of their eyes, they go back to staring at each other. It’s Harry’s turn to ask a question, and the anticipation had y/n fidgeting under his consuming gaze. She expects him to bounce back on the previous question, but to her surprise he decides to take a different route, "tell me darlin’, if I were to kneel at your feet and look up that pretty dress right now, what color your lil panties would be?"

The question sounds boyish really, yet instead of rolling her eyes at him, her core clenches around emptiness at the thought of having him between her legs right this moment, "can’t answer that, sorry."

"Oh come on love, you gotta say. Them’s the rules," Harry tries to coax the answer out of her but she’s not budging.

"Sorry, Harry. I’d tell you if there was anything to tell." His eyes widen at her lewd implication, the revelation of just how many layers away she is from being in the nude, coming into light. Damn, he would have gotten much more than a nip-slip.

"Fuck me, I need to sit down for a mo’."

She laughs at his dramatic response before picking up her cue, "you do that, in the mean time…" The rest of her sentence is cut short as she positions herself at the pool table, and the next sound cutting through the humid atmosphere comes from the ball falling into its target.

"Jesus, do you ever miss?"

"I don’t play to lose, Styles," she quips back. "Now, what’s your biggest fantasy? Aside from shagging in the copy-machine room, that is."

Harry takes one step closer, gently backing her against the table with one hand encasing her at either side of her waist. As he towers over her, his ardent look ignites a fire at the pit of y/n’s stomach, flame licking all the way up to her heart and down to her toes. Her core throbs before the words fall out of his supple lips like maple syrup on a stack of fluffy pancakes. "Right now? Bend you over this pool table and have my way with you."

"In front of all this people?"

"What d’you think is stoppin’ me from doin’ it right now?"

"Manners?"

The retort earns her a deep chuckle, as he shakes his head in disbelief, "fuck y/n, I lost my manners the moment you kissed me."

The raw admission sends a shiver down her spine, before she regains her full bearings and pushing his cue against his chest for him to grab, "your turn."

Barely moving from his spot nestled against her, he successfully sends the ball down the drain and doesn’t waste any time before asking in the same sultry voice, "favorite position?"

‘Why are y’asking?"

"Future reference," he announces confident.

"Well in that case, kinda like this…" she brushes against him as she bends over the table, ass jutted out on one side, before adjusting the angle of her cue and aiming for the pocket, "…when everything aligns and it just sinks…" bam, she propels the sphere in one strong hit "…right through." She finishes her demonstration with a score and a suggestive smile, only but one ball left for her to obliterate; the eight ball. "Are you ready to lose, Styles?"

"Dunno, is that your question?"

"Yes. I got everything I want to know already."

"Then I don’t fucking care about losin", s’not the game I wanna play anymore," he trails a finger down the skin of her back, goosebumps erupting at his touch. He is stopped by the tip of her cue pressing at his chest, slowly pushing him back from her space, and his hands meet this air in surrender. She’s got a wicked smile on her lips and a title to uphold after all, "last shot, make it count."

Harry takes the shot hastily, half expecting another miss, but the solid yellow ball disappears into the table’s corner in a vibrant crash. Eyebrows raised and shallow breath, he pivots back towards her, "please tell me this is turnin’ you on s’much as it’s turnin’ me on?"

"Yes," she rubs the exposed skin of his chest, eyes leaving his face to trail down his torso. "I’m just better at hiding it," she brings her lips to his ear, "physically or otherwise apparently." Then she leaves a loud smack on his cheek and goes around the table to sink the last ball standing in the way of her victory. In true y/n fashion, she completes a faultless round with one last graceful hit that leaves Harry transfixed by her dexterity.

"Damn, you are the queen of pool, I’m bowing down to you. Any final question?"

She lays the cue down on the table before coming up to him, "Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Take me back to my place?"

His head falls back on its neck, eyes closing in deliverance, "fuck yeah." This whole night may have been the most intense and rousing foreplay he’s ever experienced, he can’t wait to deliver good on his own promise.

➪ Masterlist

[livesincerely]

you render me in a thousand details

Also on Ao3

00000

“Hey, Davey, can you grab me another can of paint outta the closet?”

Davey looks up at the sound of Jack’s voice. The man in question is perched precariously on top of a ladder, the latest backdrop for Ms. Medda’s new show set up in front of him

He places the book he’d been reading while Jack worked to the side. “What is it I’m looking for?” Davey asks, clambering to his feet.

Jack’s head turns in his direction but he doesn’t take his eyes off his painting, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he carefully adds a series of fluffy white clouds to a cheerful skyline. “The extras should be just inside the closet on the right⁠—I need the dented can with the red stripe on the lid.”

Davey makes his way over to the tiny supply cupboard that Jack has claimed as his art closet. It’s a floor-to-ceiling collection of paint cans, canvases, brushes, and other supplies, and it never fails to amuse Davey how Jack can take one look at the mess and immediately unearth whatever item he needs for a particular project. Most of it belongs to the theater⁠—requested by Jack but paid for by Ms. Medda⁠—but Davey knows that Jack sometimes stores his personal pieces and supplies in there as well, if only to keep them safe from the daily mayhem of the Lodging House.

He reaches for the pull chain and a lone light bulb flickers to life. Davey takes a couple of tentative steps, squinting his eyes against the dust in the air as he scans the shelves for the can Jack had asked for, then lets out a squawk as he immediately trips over an unopened box of paint thinner.

His elbow knocks against something as he fumbles for balance and there’s a loud thunk and the flutter of paper as he sends a sketchbook full of drawings careening to the floor. Davey lets out a quiet curse, crouching down to pick up the scattered pages and tuck them back into place. 

His movements slow as he suddenly understands what he’s looking at⁠—what he’s discovered. Because this is one of Jack’s sketchbooks, but it’s not one that Davey’s ever seen before. And the drawings inside...

Dazed, Davey wanders back into the larger room.

Jack glances back at him, one eyebrow raised. “What, did ya get lost in there? What took so long?”

Davey swallows. When he finds his voice, it comes out tremulous. “Jack, what is this?”

“What is what?” Jack wipes his hands on a spare rag, then comes over for a closer look. He gets within a couple feet of Davey, then staggers to a stop, his face going alarmingly pale. “Where did you get that?”

“I, uh, I knocked it off the shelf by accident,” Davey says. “Why do you have⁠⁠— What is this?”

Jack lurches forward as if to snatch the sketchbook away from him, but stops himself mid reach—like he can’t bring himself to actually tear the pages out of Davey’s hands. He paces in place for a moment, then takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What, that?” Jack says, and it’d be a passable attempt at nonchalance if not for the nervous waiver in his voice. “That’s nothing, really. Just practice sketches, and, uh, doodles and stuff.”

Davey looks at him. Then he carefully opens the sketchbook to the first page. There’s an inhaled breath, the tiniest twitch of the hand, but Jack makes no move to stop him and Davey takes that as permission.

He’s quiet as he flips through the assortment of pages. Or maybe it’s that he’s stunned into silence. 

There are all types of drawings. Some are only outlines, vague sketches with just enough detail to be identifiable. Others are fully-worked—entire pages of careful shading and texture and blending. He’d caught a few glimpses in the dim light of the closet, and this closer look only confirms his suspicion: these are all drawings of Davey.

There’s one of him from the other day, where he’d gotten caught in a storm and came back to the Lodging House sopping wet, his clothes dripping and his hair curling up at the ends from the rain. There’s another of him on his building’s fire escape, hands curled around the railing and head tilted towards the stars. There’s a series of drawings that are just of his eyes, all done in various shades of blue and in a couple of different mediums, which are the only bursts of color in any of the drawings so far. Davey asleep at the table in the mess hall with his head pillowed in his arms, a pencil starting to slip from his fingers. Davey sitting on the corner of Jack’s desk at Pulitzer’s, studying his latest political cartoon. Davey with the other Newsies, their bodies drawn in hazy silhouette, Davey standing at various street corners, hawking newspapers to faceless passersby.

A few of the scenes depicted are things Davey recognizes, distinct instances that he can place in his memory. Others are more nebulous, ordinary moments in an ordinary life. He turns to a new page, this time finding a sketch of him reading an unlabeled novel, curled up in the corner of one of the dorm beds. Davey frowns, a little perplexed. Although it’s beautiful, as all of Jack’s artwork is, he can’t begin to imagine what inspired Jack to draw this particular scene. He’s not even really doing anything in it⁠—it’s just Davey being Davey.

He turns to another page and his breath catches in his throat.

It’s a drawing of him⁠ caught mid-laugh with his head thrown back⁠, the morning sun shining brightly behind him and a slew of crisscrossing lines in the background⁠. Davey recognizes it as a moment from a couple weeks ago, when he and Jack had made the trek across the Brooklyn Bridge for a meeting with Spot. 

Davey traces a finger gently along the broad strokes of charcoal. Jack had remembered this moment, had kept the image in his mind until he’d had a chance to commit it to paper, then rendered it in astounding detail. And Davey’s no artist, but even he can tell that this drawing must have taken Jack hours. Days even.

“This is what you think of me?” The question falls out of his mouth, so unexpected that not even Davey had realized he was about to ask it. “This is how you see me?”

“Whaddya mean?” Jack responds, shifting uneasily, his voice a little gruff in his discomfort. “‘S how you look.”

“Jack…” Davey trails off helplessly, unable to elaborate, unable to explain the fragile hope that’s blooming in his chest. He starts flipping through the pages again.

It’s a wash of ink and charcoal and lead, the occasional flash of blue, but all of him. Davey pauses on one particular page, which features a drawing of him from the shoulders up with his eyes rendered in vivid color.

Colored pencils are expensive. Paint even more so. Davey imagines Jack in an art shop, imagines him hunting through the rows of supplies for just the right shade of blue with the same determination that made him start up a strike, deciding that this color is worth handing over some precious amount of his hard-earned paycheck… Davey’s heart starts beating frantically in his ears.

“These are beautiful,” Davey whispers hoarsely. “The way you’ve drawn me… you’ve made me look beautiful.”

Jack’s eyes dart here and there. Davey gets the sense that he’s looking for the ‘right’ way to respond to this statement.

“...I don’t hafta make you look beautiful, Davey,” Jack eventually says, scrubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “You already are⁠—I just draw what I see.”

Davey calmly sets the sketchbook down on the nearest bit of clean, flat surface. Then he steps forward, grabs Jack by the straps of his paint smock, and kisses him.

There’s a split-second where Jack freezes, startled. Then he groans somewhere deep in his chest, wrapping his arms around Davey’s waist to draw him even closer, and the press of his lips against Davey’s is deep and soft and wonderful.

It’s Jack who pulls away first, moving back all of a hair’s breadth, his eyes flitting across Davey’s face like he’s savoring every detail of his expression⁠⁠—like he’s perfectly content to just look at him.

It’s only now that Davey realizes the significance of that gaze: Jack looks at him like he can’t believe his eyes, like he’s something out of his wildest dreams, and he cups Davey’s face between his hands with aching tenderness, like he’s something to be cherished. Davey can only press up into that embrace, can only hold Jack close and hope that he understands, that Jack sees the emotion in his eyes the way he sees so much of Davey’s everything. 

But there’s one question he needs answered. “Why?”

Jack leans in and presses a kiss to Davey’s temple. “It’s just… you have so much to you, Davey. No drawin’ could ever be all of you. But that didn’t stop me from tryin’.”

A kiss on the high point of his cheek. “And once I got started, I couldn’t stop. I would see you sittin’ somewhere, anywhere, laughing or sleeping or shouting and⁠— and you just buzz behind my eyes and I can’t get it to stop unless I grab a pen and some paper and sketch out whatever picture of you I got in my head.”

A kiss right at the corner of Davey’s mouth. “And I couldn’t never show ‘em to nobody, couldn’t risk anyone seeing ‘cause there’s too much of my heart in ‘em and I couldn’t⁠—”

Davey lifts up and kisses him again: slowly, reverently. He whispers into the seam of Jack’s lips, “I love you too.”

[myhusbandsasemni]

Rescuing the Main Attraction

I’m late to the party. @flashfictionfridayofficial

Warnings for human trafficking and some form of mind control. 

WC: 1687

......................

Underground was starting to get alarmed by the amount of shady circuses he’d disbanded due to human trafficking or slavery. Not only were there an unholy amount of circuses doing that sort of thing, they were all creepy. He already had a list of excuses he was going to use if anyone tried to ask him, as Silas and not as Underground, to go to a circus with them. Not that he actually socialized with anyone other than active or retired heroes who would also be avoiding circuses for whatever their own personal reasons might be. 

Underground hung out near the back, his mask off and his hood on. He hoped no one would recognize him as Silas. Then again, if they did, he would just be a retired hero here enjoying his retired hero pay. No one would really imagine that he had retired only to hide the fact that he was becoming a different hero. Well, except for the conspiracy theorist college students living on coffee, ramen, and the last dredges of their childhood dreams. But he wasn’t too worried about running into any of them here. There was quite the expensive entrance fee to pay to get in.

Underground waited, watching the real performances of trapeze artists and lion tamers. He winced at the obvious animal abuse and muttered to Foxfire, who was wrapped around his chest under the hoodie he was wearing, to send a message to a hero who specialized in animal abuse cases. 

The acts were still beautiful and choreographed perfectly, but something felt off in the background. The dancers smiled, but their faces seemed like masks rather than flesh. The animals called out, but their screams were made of tin. The ringmaster laughed, but no sound left his mouth. Or so it seemed.

Foxfire burbled as she did as he asked. Underground went back to waiting for the main attraction. It took much too long to come. He nervously picked at his fingernails as the minutes ticked past slowly, his gloves tucked in his pockets. The biggest performance was heralded by music and dimmed lights. Underground straightened, tugging his gloves back on and staring down at the ring. The ringmaster addressed the crowd, seeming to whisper into the darkness to make everyone really quiet down and listen.

“Ladies and Gents,” the man said conspiratorially, though there was no emotion in his eyes. 

Silas took that as his signal to slide his mask onto his face. It sealed there comfortably and he watched through the one way material, ignoring the calculations and other things Foxfire was running on the inside. 

“We thank you for coming to our tents today,” the ringmaster continued, his cape swishing as he stood up straight, poised like a snake about to strike. “Now we come to the main attraction, as we always must. Please keep as silent as you can during this part, loves. For the most enjoyment.

“There was a race of people, they say,” the man continued, the lights changing to rainforest hues, “That could curse or bless, bewitch or enchant, amuse or horrify. All with just a vibration in their throats. Just one song and you would have to trust that they wouldn’t steal from you, or kill you. Of course, they were hated, hunted, and silenced. Now, there are precious few left. I have here, among my little family, a descendant of that race. And, as always, she has agreed to sing for you.”

Shrouds of gaudy fabric fell from where they had been obscuring the center, showing a woman in a bird like cage. She was dressed in a feathery outfit, draped across lush pillows. She was a beauty, though, she seemed even more off than the other performers.

Foxfire enhanced the view and Underground could pick out the fear in her eyes and the bags under them. There was a metal cuff connecting her to the bottom of the cage, carefully hidden with feathers and decoration. 

The rest of the victims were brought out. There would be others besides these three. All of them were dark haired beauties. The woman in the cage started to sing. The three beauties started dancing as if they were being forced to, performing moves altogether too in sync. This was a secret part of the human market. The most beautiful ‘exotic’ women were gathered and sold through this circus. Three at every performance. Underground could see the Ringmaster watching the crowd, communicating with potential buyers through signals and looks. Underground sneered from underneath his mask. He was all too happy to clean this all up. But first.

Underground slipped from the tent and prowled among the others. The performers ignored him, most thinking he was one of them due to his grey mask with blue stripes. He started getting looks as he neared the tent he was looking for. He walked up to the two guards of this tent, nodded silently, and knocked them out with perfect jabs to their necks, pressure points pressed with a bit of help from his slight electro manipulation powers. 

He stepped into the tent. It was dark, but Foxfire fixed that by letting a piece of herself roll out from under the hoodie and glow in the dark. There were a set of cages and Underground saw four more ladies in kennels not even fit for dogs. 

“I’m here to get you out,” Underground said softly and warmly to the women, who were understandably afraid. He crouched and undid the locks, quickly opening the cages. He helped the last one out and looked around to all four of them.

“Are you all okay to walk?” he asked, concern in his voice. 

The oldest one, a woman of about 21, nodded. He nodded and pulled masks and cloaks out of his bag. “Put these on, they should keep the performers from noticing us.”

“How do we know if we can trust you?” asked the woman with hard eyes.

Underground nodded. “I’m a hero, though that is never a true proof of trust. I want to protect you and get you to safety.”

“Would you die to complete it?”

Underground paused. This was indeed a question. 

“That is hard,” he sighed. “To die would be noble, but if I am dead then I will not be able to protect other women like you and rescue them as well. So, how about I get you out without any of us getting dead or captured.”

The women seemed a bit surprised by this answer. They looked at each other and nodded. 

“We will go with you.”

With the costumes donned, Underground rushed them through the tents again. The performers didn’t seem to care. They all seemed tired and sick in a way that Underground couldn’t put his finger on. Sort of.. Apathetic. 

“There are friends waiting for you there,” Underground whispered to them as they came to the top of the rise on the edge of the circus. “They’ll be in cop cars and will be able to show you their badges. I have to go back for the others.”

As Underground turned, one of the women grabbed his arm. “Please save the bird woman. She is being forced to do those horrible things,” she said, fear in her voice.

Underground nodded as solemnly as he could. “I was planning on it. Just.. be very careful.”

The women silently nodded and were off to the roads that Underground had pointed to. He took a soft breath and turned to go back to the tent. He checked his watch. The performance was quite a long one to account for the sales of women, but he was cutting it quite close now. He threw off the hoodie and stormed in, Foxfire proudly displayed as a stripe on his chest, taking the steps down and counting out guards armed with guns hiding in the shadows. The ringmaster was so caught up in the sales, he didn’t notice the infuriated hero until Underground decked him across the face.

…………………………

Underground leaned to help the bird woman up. He hissed slightly at the bullet wound in his shoulder, but that would heal. She took his hand and stood unsteadily. She looked around wonderingly at the unconscious guards and empty seats. The place had cleared out pretty fast after the first guns fired. The police outside made quite the racket as they captured known criminals, though there were too many people to grab them all. The only people left were the unconscious ring master and guards. The three dancers had already been gone with the police. 

“Let’s get you out of here,” Underground said, helping her down respectfully.

She clung to him, her legs weak and wobbly. She probably didn’t get to spend much time walking. “Saved,” she muttered. “Saved. Saved.”

Underground nodded. At the entrance of the tent a police officer was waiting with a shock blanket, which Underground took and wrapped around the bird woman. She thanked him softly as the police officer offered the woman her arm.

The victim took her arm and walked off into the crowds of officers, careful of where she put her feet.

Underground leaned on a support, almost exactly where he’d been standing before the whole rescue. He was tired and disgusted, but glad he’d managed to get all the victims out. Still. There were many other people that needed his help and he knew that, despite the abundance of heroes, they wouldn’t get to them all. He watched the police slap handcuffs on the unconscious men in the ring for a moment before pushing off the support and slipping out to go home for the night. He’d have a report to finish for the police and have a quick check in with his medic before he could go to sleep, and goodness knows, he was weary. 

“We did it,” a soft voice said in his head.

He smiled and rubbed his fingers over Foxfire’s cool surface. “That we did. Thank you.”

“No, thank you, Silas. You made my dream a reality.”

Silas smiled. “We made the dream a reality.”

Underground Hero Taglist: @doubi-ixi @my-dump-of-whump @thethistlegirl

[illeee-girl]

La La(chimolala) Land Chapter Ten: Spring in Full Swing

jimin x reader genre: fluff word count: 1k warnings: none

[Inspired by La La Land]

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

Jimin refused to call it “summer.” The advent of summer, he said, meant that he could no longer wear long pants—and he’d just bought too many pairs of Calvin Klein jeans for that to happen. And you, for the most part, agreed with him. The weather was too glorious (cloudless, electric cerulean sky; grass still green thanks to the moisture left over from the rainy season) for it to be dubbed a Southern California summer. Not quite yet.

Soon, April turned into May, and May turned into June. You and Jimin capitalized on the excellent weather by visiting all the quintessential LA spots together: the Hollywood sign, Randy’s Donuts, Urban Light, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the Getty Museum, Griffith Park, Sunset Boulevard, City Walk, the LA Zoo, and more. You’d work the early morning shift at the café; then, around noon, Jimin would pick you up in the old convertible he’d rented long-term, take you to lunch, and then whisk you off to another tourist trap.

_________________________

You’re walking hand-in-hand along a pier in Malibu when you realize something.

“Jimin,” you start.

He swallows a lick of his ice cream cone, guiding you towards a bench with a spectacular view of the ocean. “Not ‘Jiminie’ this time? This must be serious.”

“I thought you hated that nickname.”

“Not when it comes from your lips,” he teases, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Jiminie, Jimi, Chim, Chim Chim . . . you can call me whatever you want.” A drop of mint chocolate chip rests on his bottom lip, and you brush it away with your thumb. He smiles.

“We have an expiration date. Don’t we,” you look out towards the breakers as a commotion of your own brews inside you.

His eyes grow round. “You’re going to leave me?”

“What?” You scoff. “No! You’re going to leave me.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You’re in an incredibly famous k-pop boy band!”

“And?” He tightens his grip on your hand.

“And you’ll have to go back to Korea sometime. You can’t stay here forever. And then you’ll have to tour. You guys aren’t about to fade into the background and live normal lives. That just isn’t an option. People love you too much.”

He drapes his arm around you, the fabric of his striped boat neck shirt stretching ever so slightly. “We’re in LA for at least another six months.”

“What?” You look up at him in surprise. “Really?”

He nods. “The company wants to expand more into the English market. Let’s face it—there’s more English speakers than Korean speakers worldwide, and the managers figure that . . . well, we’ve been known to have a certain appeal internationally. We have the potential to reach an even wider audience.”

“Well of course you do. Just look at you,” you beam up at him. “I’m . . . I’m so proud of you, Jiminie.”

“There it is. I knew you couldn’t resist calling me that.”

“It’s Jiminie for when I’m proud of you,” you start, pausing to eat a bit of your horchata soft serve, “Jimi for when we’re with the boys or my roommates, Chim for when you’re being sweet to me, and Chim Chim for when you’re being irresistibly cute.”

“What about for when I’m being irresistibly sexy?”

“Wait,” you sit up. “Why don’t I get any nicknames?”

“You’re just going to ignore my question, huh.” He takes a sassy bite of mint choco.

“Is it because my name doesn’t fit with as many derivational morphemes?”

“I have no idea what you just said,” he rubs your back a bit, “but . . . I have one for you in mind.”

“What is it?” You turn. The wind blows his dirty blonde hair back, exposing his forehead.

“Jagiya,” he says.

“Hm. I like the sound of that. Does it mean anything?”

“I think the nearest English equivalent would be dear. Or sweetheart.”

You crinkle your nose a little. “I like jagiya much better.”

“Jagi for short.”

You both take a few minutes to finish your ice cream cones (before the sun consumes them first), and then finish your stroll down the pier. When you get to the end, you both lean against the railing and listen to the crashing of the waves, the calls of the seagulls, the yells of the surfers, and the giggles of the children playing. You feel the sunshine illuminate your face, the salt air soothe your skin.

“I’ve been thinking about pitching Red Writer to some independent film studios,” you tell him. “I’m done getting rejected by men in suits who just want to produce nonsensical crap. Maybe I could find a director who’d be willing to make the film exactly the way I want it to be, who’d let me be there through every step of the process. It may not make it big, but that . . . doesn’t really matter to me anymore. I don’t need everyone to see my work and adore it. I just want it to actually happen. But I don’t know . . . do you think it’s a good idea?”

Delight spreads across his soft features. “I think it’s an excellent idea. Break away from the Hollywood machine; you’re better than that. You’re not just a screenwriter, Y/N, you’re an artist. Some independent studio is going to snatch up Red Writer, and tons of uber-intellectual movie critics are going to sing your praises all day long. I know it.”

The fire that ignited within you the night of your first kiss burns even brighter. Then, it was excitement. Contentment.

Now it’s pure joy.

You wrap your arms around him. “What’s next for you, Jiminie?”

You feel his chest expand as he lets out a sigh. “I’m not sure, jagi. Yoongi swears he’ll help me start writing another single soon. He’s just so impatient with me,” he half-chuckles. “Coming up with lyrics is just so hard. I don’t know how you do it.”

“I included some tentative placeholder text in my screenplay, Jimin.” You look up at him from the home you’ve made in his shirt. “I’m not sure you can call me a lyricist.”

“But you’re a writer. That’s close enough. I . . . I can perform, but I can’t really create anything. Not like Yoongi or Joon or Hobi can.”

“What are you talking about? Have you heard the sound of your singing voice? Have you seen yourself dance? That’s certainly creation—it’s just a little more spontaneous. But still, you have to practice. That’s all creation is, really. Successful practice.”

He buries his face in your hair. “Maybe I should call you Athena,” he whispers. “You’re a freaking goddess of wisdom. I think you’d rival Joon at trivia night.”

“Oh, I’d cream Joon at trivia night,” you take his hand and pull him back towards the shore. “When is that, by the way?” 

[sandpumpkin]

Pumpkin Power

Got a little carried away! Little bit of metalpumpkin. 

almost 2k..Pumpkin will fight.

@one-piece-dumpster-fire​

It had been a long day, Hana had been out of town for a few days for a tea party and to deliver some handmade bonnets there too. Delay after delay she was finally back in town, the sun long set. Sighing as she made her way home with her suitcase, she would drop her things off and call Kid, he had been strangely silent for the time she was away, he just stopped replying. She assumed maybe he was just busy. He got like that sometimes. 

Shuddering from the cold wind, she picked up her pace and held onto her bonnet just in case it blew off. Once she was safely home, she headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Pulling her phone from her pocket she rang Kid but the call was cut off before she could even get to her ear. Her heart sank. I wonder if something happened? She decided to call Killer. 

“Hello?”

“Hi, Killer..sorry to bother you so late but..is Kid okay?” she asked nervously, what if Kid was just in the middle of something and she was being paranoid. There was a long pause on the other line “Killer?...Kid is alright isn’t he?” her voice started to crack “Killer?”

“He didn’t tell you then…” Killer finally said, Hana quickly reached to switch the kettle off “Kid was in an accident..well sort of..He was jumped by another gang when he was alone.” Hana felt sick to her stomach. 

 He was hurt…

“Can I come see him?” she questioned, trying to calm her racing heart. How badly was he hurt? Why didn’t he tell her? 

There was another long pause “sure..but he might not be in the mood for visitors-”

“I’m on my way.” Hana announced, hanging up and grabbing her shoulder bag, throwing it over her bonnet and headed out the door at lighting speed, not bothering to change. Please be okay Kid. 

She didn’t stop running until she almost collided with the front door to Kid’s place. The door opened promptly and Killer was there to greet her. She was quite the sight in her black floral lolita dress, striped socks, rocking horse shoes and a bonnet, panting and trying to steady her breathing “Sorry-” Killer ushered her in and closed the door behind you. 

“Look...before you see him,” Killer started, running a hand over his long blond hair “Kid’s temper is uncontrollable when he’s like this..so is he shouts at you, don’t take it to heart.” Hana nodded and looked up at the suddenly daunting staircase. Taking a deep breath she climbed the stairs and knocked softly on Kid’s door. 

“F*@K off!” he shouted angrily from the otherside of the door. That’s what Killer meant.. Psyching herself up, Hana reached for the door handle and slowly pushed the door open. Poking her head in, before she quietly stepped in. Her heart broke into pieces. Kid was propped up in his bed looking angry and sorry for himself all at the same time, his good arm was in a cast and a sling tied around his neck, he was covered in so many bandages and various grazes and his favourite prosthetic arm was strewn on the floor in pieces. 

“Kid..” she called out timidly, her whole body trembling, she wanted to run and hold him gently. His head snapped in her direction, he looked furious.

“Get out!” he snapped, “Leave! I don’t want to see you!” he barked. Hana felt her eyes welling up already but she tried her best to keep it together.

“S-sorry..” she mumbled and excited the room quickly, resting her back against the door, trying to calm her erratic emotions and the painful lump growing in her throat that made her want to hunker to her knees and cry. She pushed back all the tears before headed back downstairs to see the others waiting for her.

“No good then?” Wire asked, she shook her head.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice cracking giving away her emotional state. Heat patted her shoulder reassuringly. 

“Apoo jumped him,” Killer started, leading her down to the garage, “we haven’t seen him around in a while and he apparently decided to try and start a fight. Kid was just unlucky.” Killer explained, walking over to a covered motorbike he pulled off the cover and Hana gasped loudly. Kid’s beloved bike was scratched and battered, it looked like it had been hit with a truck. “Though he’s lucky he got out with such mild injuries. I heard Apoo almost killed someone in another town.” Hana was speechless, she couldn’t take her eyes off Victoria. Her beautiful paintwork, chipped and dented. Killer’s heavy hand on her shoulder snapped her out of her daze “Kid will be fine, he just needs to calm down a bit.” Hana nodded slowly “Want me to drive you home?”

Hana shook her head “no..I think I need the walk home.” she smiled as best she could. 

“If you’re sure..”

“It’s late. I’ll be fine. I’ll check in on Kid tomorrow.” she said again with another brighter smile. “Goodnight.” she left the house, feeling the cold night air nip at her nose. She got as far as the park, sitting on one of the empty wooden slate benches, Hana stared down at her hands. The more she sat in silence coupled with her own whirlpool of emotions, the more she trembled with anger. Fumbling for her phone, she dialed a different number.

“Kabochan!” 

“Hi, Barto. Sorry to call so late..are you busy?” she asked, fiddling with the lace on her dress “I need a favour..”

“Are you okay?” Barto knew it must be serious, since she never asked for help. 

“Yes..I just...need your help with something. Can you pick me up in the park? Oh..and can you bring that metal bat please?” 

“I’ll be right there!” Barto hung up quickly and Hana waited patiently in the park until she heard the hum of Barto’s chopper pull up nearby. “Hi!!” he waved frantically. “So..is this about Apoo?” he asked quietly, looking around in case someone was listening in. She  nodded. “..I asked Luffy-senpai to see if he could get any info for me and his grandpa willingly told him exactly where Apoo is right now.” Barto said, flashing his brightest smile coupled with a thumbs up. 

“Good. I can’t let him get away with hurting Kid like that.” she stated, clenching her fists tightly “lead the way.” she said, climbing onto the back of Barto’s bike, holding onto her bonnet as they sped off into the night. Apoo was very easy to find. They were gathered at a bar just outside of town. At first the gang weren’t in sight, they must have been inside the bar. Apoo’s bike was easiest to pick out of the group. It had his name in lime green spray painted on the side in an old style graffiti. As she climbed off Bartolomeo’s bike, his friends pulled up beside them.

“They came as back up.” Barto explained with a nod, shaking the mohawk on his helmet “That grump wouldn’t forgive me if I got you hurt.” he grinned, handing her the well dented bat.  Hana pulled on the straps to her bonnet and passed it to Barto 

“Hold my bonnet.” She half ordered, taking the bat and walking over to the ugly spray painted bike “sorry bike but-” she took a swinging stance and swung so hard she took the wing mirror clean off in one swing. One of Barto’s group shouted ‘And it’s outta here!!! Home run!’ Hana didn’t stop there and swung repeatedly into the bike until the owner operated 

“Oi! You bi-” 

“YOU!” the bat made a loud whoosh sound as it was swung violently and pointed straight at Apoo “I’m about to rain hell down upon you!” Hana shouted, slammed the bat down onto the tarmac, the sound echoing across the carpark. What a sight, a small orange haired lolita armed with a bat, single handedly picking a fight with a man almost twice her height. 

-

Kid laid in his bed grumbling under his breath. I fuckin’ shouted at her...shit..He growled as his phone rang again, struggling to pick it up he saw Bartolomeo had tagged him in something. “Fuckin rooster.” he sneered, dropping his phone onto the floor. It was almost ten minutes before Killer barreled through his door. “What do you want!?” he snarled, but that didn’t deter Killer who stumbled over his feet towards Kid. 

“Did you get a message from Barto?” Killer asked quickly, gripping his own phone tightly.

“Yeah but I ignored it-” Killer grabbed Kid’s phone from the floor and shoved it into his face 

“watch it…” Frowning, Kid snatched the phone from him and navigated to the tag, it was in a live feed. The first one was Bartolomeo grinning stupidly and sporting a black bonnet with bats and bows on. 

“Don’t I look bonny?”

Kid grimaced, didn’t need to see that..wait..that looks familiar.  

“What the hell-” and then in the next shot, he saw a familiar orange haired woman in the background armed with a bat and took a swing at a motorbike, the wing mirror was sent flying and there was much cheering as she then took to smashing up the motorbike. 

“Is that...WHAT THE HELL IS SHE DOING?!” Kid shouted trying to move but his whole body jolted with pain. 

“I’m about to rain hell down upon you!” 

Kid was shocked to hear her shout, she never shouted. “You told her..”

“Of course. She was worried. Though I didn’t think she’d go personally pick a fight.” Killer said with a shrug of his shoulders. The sound of cheering from the video filled the room, Kid leant back into the pillows and smiled which slowly dissolved into laughter, which hurt so much but he couldn’t stop.

“What a woman..” Kid closed the app and dialed her. What if she doesn’t want to talk to me.. He jumped when the phone was answered quickly.

“Kid! How are you feeling?” she asked, her voice sounded so happy but he could hear the deep breaths form her rigorous activities,

“Fine..look... will you come back..”

“Of course! I’m on my way,” she answered happily, “I’ll see you soon. Love you.” she hung up quickly. Kid dropped his phone and looked at Killer who was chuckling silently 

“shut up you.” Killer shrugged and left the room, leaving Kid to wait impatiently for Hana to return. He could just hear the hum of a motorbike pull up outside and the door opened and closed. His door opened slowly and her bright orange hair poked round the door. 

“Kid..”

“Come here. Damn it.” he huffed, she closed the door behind her and hurried over to his bed. “I’m sorry alright..” he grumbled. The minute he said that, Hana had carefully slid her arms around his shoulders nuzzling her face against his hair.

“I was so worried.” she whispered.

“You’re crazy you know..” he mumbled into her chest, listening to rapid heartbeat “I saw..you pick a fight with Apoo. The hell were you thinking? What if you got hurt?!”

“I’m not going to forgive someone who jumped the love of my life and trashed his precious bike.” she kissed his forehead softly “you missed him shrieking like a banshee.” she mused, “he won’t bother you again.” she stated confidently. Kid laughed and nuzzled her chest contently.

“You really are crazy.”

“Crazy in love with you Kid.” she grinned “I’m going to stay a few days and make sure you rest properly.”

“Oh, my own private nurse? How lucky I am.” Kid purred. Kid couldn’t get over how much he loved this woman. Cute and she will fight.

[sceptilemasterr]

Defenders of the Flame (TE Rewrite) Act 1, Scene 9 - Theory and Practice

Title: Defenders of the Flame (A CIU Screenplay)

Main Pairings: Shreya x F!MC, Beckett x F!Atlas

Other Pairings: N/A

Genre: Full Rewrite (The Elementalists, Book 1)

Rating: PG-13 for violence, blood, swearing, alcohol, and sexuality

Summary: Fiora gets a wake-up call to the dangers of stoichi in her first practical lesson.

Previous Scene: The First Day

Masterlist: Link

INT. TUBIGAN HALL - AUDITORIUM 4 - DAY

Auditorium 4, which features seats that are much more spaced-apart and have large counters between each pair of seats, is filled with background chatter as Fiora and the other students file in. Fiora and Shreya find a pair of seats together; Zeph sits across the table from Fiora, while Beckett ends up beside him, across from Shreya.

BECKETT: Ah. If it isn’t “Mr. Lost Forces” himself.

ZEPH: Ugh. I’m never gonna live that one down, am I?

SHREYA (laughs): Doesn’t sound like it.

ZEPH: Well, I’ve got a name, you know. It’s Zeph.

BECKETT: Beckett.

ZEPH: Okay, at least we’re getting somewhere! Nice to meet you, Beckett--

He is interrupted by a door at the front of the auditorium slamming open forcefully, propelled by a huge clod of earth in the shape of a hammer. The hammer dissolves into mud, then re-forms into a wave of earth that slides across the podium. Atop it rides a large man with short black hair, wearing a blue sweater and striped tie. He makes a powerful, sweeping gesture with his arms, and the mound coalesces into a pillar that raises him up until he is almost to the ceiling. This is DR. ENGLUND, another Penderghast professor. With a powerful, booming voice, he declares:

DR. ENGLUND: Students! Welcome to Applied Stoicheal Technique and Practice!

He gestures again, and the pillar of earth slowly lowers him back to the ground to resounding applause from the students. Fiora grins eagerly.

FIORA: Okay, I think I’m gonna like this class!

BECKETT: Certainly an impressive demonstration, to be sure.

ZEPH: That. Was. AWESOME!

DR. ENGLUND: Thank you, thank you all. I am Dr. Englund, and I will be your ASTP teacher for the year. However, I won’t be your only teacher in this course; being an Earth-Att, there is only so much I can teach once we get into unique types of stoicheal techniques. Other professors will be giving guest demonstrations when needed. But that won’t be for a while, yet, so don’t worry. For now, we’ll be doing only the basics of channeling stoicheal energy: things that, with minor variations, any Attuned can perform.

He stomps one foot and gestures behind him, and the pile of dirt he rode in on dissolves into nothingness. Where the dirt had been sits a stack of covered mason jars, each containing a small amount of an elemental object: blue-dyed water, swirling wind that has been colored light green, small flickering candles, tiny clumps of dirt, a small plant shoot, or a little cube of metal.

DR. ENGLUND: I will need volunteers to help me pass these out. Anyone?

Beckett raises his hand, along with a few others. Dr. Englund selects him and two other students, one of whom Fiora recognizes as Shinelle from the Test of Attunement. Dr. Englund and the students each take a tray of jars, walking through the auditorium and asking each student for their Attunement before passing out the corresponding jar. Eventually, Beckett is the one to reach Fiora’s row first.

BECKETT: And you are?

FIORA: Uh, fire?

SHREYA: Oh, me too!

Beckett nods, and passes out a jar with a candle inside to each of them. He places a jar with a metal cube on his own table, then frowns at Zeph.

BECKETT: If you’re about to say something ridiculous like “Time-Attuned,” so help me--

ZEPH: Oh, come on. It’s not like I’m... (sighs) Whatever, look, I’m a Water-Att. Okay?

Beckett starts to say something, then stops and simply hands Zeph a jar of water before moving on. After Dr. Englund has finished handing out his own jars, he walks back to the front of the room where a single jar of dirt sits on the table.

DR. ENGLUND: As they finish passing out the remaining jars, let me start going over today’s exercise. Now, Attuned are capable of creating their respective elements from nothing, but this is a more challenging technique that we will get to later in the course. For now, we will tackle the relatively simple task of manipulating an existing source of stoicheal energy.

He holds up his jar of dirt and opens the lid.

DR. ENGLUND: What we are going to do today is get our element to cover the top of the jar without touching it ourselves. Observe.

He closes his eyes and stretches out a hand toward the top of the jar. The dirt inside twitches, then starts to flow up the sides of the jar and toward the top, finally consolidating into a perfect recreation of the actual lid of the jar.

DR. ENGLUND: Not as flashy as my entrance, I admit, but it should be easy enough for you all to manage by the end of today’s class. The key to accomplishing this is to focus on the center of energy within the object in question. Stoicheal energy is bright and easy to sense in an external object, but likely most of you have never tried to directly tap into a center of energy before.

Fiora leans forward, trying to focus on the professor’s words.

DR. ENGLUND: That is the easy part. More difficult will be covering the top of the jar. To do this, you must be in tune with the external object, using your innate stoicheal foundation to coax the object to where you want it to go. I don’t expect any of you to make a lid this perfect, of course!

He laughs and indicates his own perfectly formed dirt lid.

DR. ENGLUND: Just a simple cover will suffice. Keep in mind that stoicheal energy does not like to be contained once released; when you cover the jar, make sure to keep it covered and not allow your element to escape all over the lecture hall! ...And that goes double for the Fire-Atts here in the room, for reasons that should be obvious.

Fiora glances over at Beckett, who has already unscrewed the lid of his jar and begun concentrating on his cube of metal. Fiora and Shreya exchange a glance.

DR. ENGLUND: If anyone has trouble with the assignment or needs help, please raise a hand and I will be there as soon as I can. When you are finished, bring your jar to me at the front of the room for approval. Ready? Begin!

He stomps forcefully with one foot, and a light shockwave ripples out through the floor of the auditorium. Fiora lets out a small shriek when it reaches her, then looks around to see that everyone else have already begun opening their jars. Blushing slightly, she pulls her jar toward her and unscrews the lid, setting it aside.

FIORA (muttering): ‘Innate stoicheal foundation...’ okay, but how do I do that?

She closes her eyes and scrunches up her face in concentration, stretching out a hand toward the open jar. Nothing happens for several moments. Then, Shreya yelps in surprise, and Fiora opens her eyes to see Shreya’s flames beginning to creep up the sides of her jar.

SHREYA: Oh! I think I--

As soon as Shreya starts speaking, the flames abruptly recede back into the candle flame. Shreya frowns.

SHREYA: Zut! I almost had it!

FIORA: Hey, at least you did something. Mine won’t even budge.

SHREYA: Oh, right... here, let me help you with the basics. What you have to do is--

BECKETT: Amateurs.

The two girls look over to see Beckett holding his jar in his hand, a neat metal circle perfectly covering the top of the jar. Their mouths drop open in astonishment.

ZEPH: What, already?!

BECKETT: Naturally.

He stands and walks away toward Dr. Englund at the front of the room. Zeph slaps his hand down onto his table in frustration.

ZEPH: Sure, make me feel dumb, why don’t you...

Shreya takes Fiora aside and starts whispering the basics of stoicheal manipulation to her. As the two of them start attempting to control their candle flames, Zeph grips his jar tightly in both hands and holds it up to his face, frustration evident in his expression.

ZEPH: Okay, water... it’s just you and me.

He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again.

ZEPH: C’mon, let’s go! Up!

He shifts his hands so that his left hand is holding up the jar by the base, and gestures with his right hand up toward the top of the jar. The water twitches, then starts to ripple, and then finally begins climbing up the sides of the jar.

ZEPH: C’mon... just a little further...

Fiora watches, enraptured, as Zeph continues gesturing around and around the jar. The water starts to swirl upward, hugging the inside of the jar, until it reaches the top and begins to form a neat film over the top of the jar. Zeph keeps his concentration, sweat forming on his brow, as he brings his palm up and over the jar and starts moving it in slow circles.

SHREYA: Wow. Nice!

FIORA: I guess the hand motions help?

SHREYA: Might be worth a try...

As Zeph continues moving his palm in circles, frost starts accumulating on the watery lid. He stops and nearly drops the jar in surprise, and the water completely ices over. He looks down at the icy lid in confusion.

ZEPH (shrugs): Okay, that’s not what I meant to do... but I guess it works?

He flashes a triumphant grin to Shreya and Fiora.

ZEPH: Good luck with yours! I’ve always heard fire’s a bit trickier to learn than the other Attunements...

He nods toward the front of the room. Fiora follows his gaze to see the group of students lined up with their jars for Dr. Englund. Not a single one among them has a fire jar.

SHREYA: Well, that’s good to know. Guess there’s no shame in taking a bit longer, then.

ZEPH: Exactly! That’s the spirit!

He walks off to join the line. Shreya and Fiora turn their attention back to their jars.

SHREYA: Okay, so... he did something like this?

She holds her hands out to either side of her jar, palms facing inward. Then, she closes her eyes and concentrates. Fiora watches as the candle suddenly twitches and starts burning brighter, and Shreya opens her eyes again.

SHREYA: Found the center! Now...

She starts experimenting with various hand motions and gestures, gradually coaxing her flame into spreading outward toward the walls of the jar. After a moment of watching, Fiora turns her attention to her own jar.

FIORA: Okay. I can do this. Fiora, just... breathe.

She closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath.

FIORA: The center. The center. The center.

After a brief moment, her own candle flares brightly, and she opens her eyes.

FIORA: Whoa! Okay, don’t lose it!

SHREYA: Nice, Fiora!

Shreya’s own flame has begun slowly but surely creeping up the sides of her jar, coaxed along by her swirling hand gestures. Fiora stays fixated on her own flame, but attempts to copy Shreya’s gestures.

FIORA: Okay, c’mon, up we go...

Shreya’s flame reaches the top of her jar and starts to flare up and into the room. She pulls her arms back, dropping them to the table.

SHREYA: Non! Oh, no you don’t!

The flames recede, quivering shakily between the inside and outside of the jar. Fiora, whose flames are still at the base of her own jar, closes her eyes again, concentrating even harder.

FIORA: Okay, fire... up we go. Up. UP!

She overenthusiastically sweeps both her arms upward. The fire within the jar roils, then jets upward in a spectacular geyser of flame. Shreya, whose jar was nearly covered by her own flame, leaps back in shock, knocking over her jar and causing it to shatter on the ground. Other nearby students panic and grab their jars, backing away from the sight. Fiora’s eyes shoot open and she stumbles backward in shock.

FIORA: AAH! Wait, no, stop it! Go back down! Go back down!

DR. ENGLUND (authoritatively): Everyone, remain calm! I’ve got this!

Dr. Englund stops what he is doing and immediately starts sprinting toward Fiora and her rogue flame, which has now spread to the nearby tables, gathering strength. Zeph follows closely behind Dr. Englund, his jar with its icy lid clutched in his hands.

FIORA: Help! Sorry, Professor, I didn’t mean--

DR. ENGLUND: Stay back!

He raises his arms, then crosses them in front of his chest. A pile of earth begins to form in front of him, growing in size as he focuses. Then, he extends his arms outward and sends the earth flying toward the fire, extinguishing a large portion of it.

SHREYA: Fire, go away! Begone! Vanish!

Shreya gestures frantically at the remaining flames, but to little effect. As Dr. Englund begins gathering the dirt back around him, building the pile back up, Zeph stretches a hand out over his jar, then gestures toward the remaining flames. His small piece of ice lifts off of the jar, then melts back into water and splashes itself onto the flames. Dr. Englund nods in approval as he sends his dirt pile flowing back over the flames, putting the remainder out. Fiora breathes a sigh of relief, then gulps as Dr. Englund turns and looks down at her sternly.

DR. ENGLUND: Are you okay? Are you hurt?

FIORA (nervously): Uh... no, I think I’m okay... I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to--

Dr. Englund raises his voice, addressing the entire class along with Fiora.

DR. ENGLUND: As I made clear earlier: stoicheal energy does not like to be contained. Isn’t that right, Ms. Luxen?

FIORA: Yes... yes, that’s right. I’m sorry--

DR. ENGLUND: And I believe I even specifically said that this goes double for the Fire-Atts. Correct?

FIORA (ashamed): Yes, sir.

Dr. Englund waits in silence for several moments. No one says anything.

DR. ENGLUND: Clean up your jars, both of you. Ms. Mistry, you are excused from the exercise owing to these exceptional circumstances.

Shreya bows and crouches down to pick up her broken jar. Dr. Englund turns to face Zeph.

DR. ENGLUND: As for you... I am impressed. You showed quick thinking and expert stoicheal manipulation in a time of crisis. Though your actual assignment left a bit to be desired, I will nevertheless award you full points for today’s class. Well done!

ZEPH (surprised): Wow! Oh, uh... thank you, Dr. Englund!

DR. ENGLUND: Right. As for the rest of you! Class is still in session; those of you who have not yet been graded, please return to the line at the front of the room. As before, when you have been graded, you are free to leave.

As the other students start lining up at the front of the room, Dr. Englund crouches down beside Fiora.

DR. ENGLUND (quietly): Ms. Luxen. A moment.

FIORA: Uh... right. I’m seriously so sorry about this, I didn’t mean to--

Dr. Englund waves her apologies aside.

DR. ENGLUND: I know from Dr. Swan that you have a very unique Attunement. One that grants you incredible stoicheal energy and the potential that comes with that. But let this be a lesson to you: great power does not mean everything will be easy.

Fiora nods.

DR. ENGLUND: Some students struggle to accomplish any stoicheal techniques at all. You, however, will have the opposite problem: your Attunement means that your greatest challenge will be learning to modulate your power to a manageable level. Do you understand?

FIORA: I... I do, sir. Thank you.

DR. ENGLUND: Good. Now, be sure to practice on your own time. Preferably with your Water-Att friend nearby, just in case.

He stands and strides off back toward the front of the room. Shreya and Fiora exchange embarrassed glances.

SHREYA: What was that all about?

FIORA: I’ll tell you when it’s just us. It’s about my... y’know...

SHREYA: Oh. Oh, right. Your Attunement. Gotcha.

They return to their task. As they pick up the shards of glass and pieces of candle wax on the ground, Shreya laughs.

FIORA: What’s so funny?

SHREYA: Just... well, I’d spent all week hoping for an exciting first day of class. Can’t say this was what I had in mind!

FIORA: Be careful what you wish for, right?

They smile at each other, then return to their cleanup work.

_______________________

Scene Notes: And so the first-years have their first practical lesson! Accidents are inevitable, and doubly so when you have a Light-Attuned in your midst. Worldbuilding notes:

Earlier, we established that Attunements are much stricter in terms of cross-element overlap. Hence the jars of different elements: though it’s fundamentally the same exercise, an Attuned needs their exact element to perform well. And as Dr. Englund said, manipulating an existing element is MUCH easier than creating it.

_______________________

Next: New Routine

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