#> au: mutually assured destruction

[dreamsclock]

Why do you think c!Wilbur was so obsessed with dream in the first place?

if you want a long answer: it genuinely comes from utah. it comes from being the lower class, struggling white cishet man working a horrible job in utah, being transported to a place where people have ultimate power. it comes from moving from regular society to a society where people can get power through feints, through minecraft wars, through exchange of game items.

wilbur exists outside the narrative. he’s lower class, works at a gas station in utah. therefore, of course he wants to seize power the moment he lands in the dream smp. imagine being minus minimum wage, struggling, desperate, and going from that, to minecraft.

you would become wilbur. you would. because poverty (even non extreme lower class poverty) leaves you desperate. it leaves you knowing power is important. if wilbur had come from another server, it would’ve have affected him as much. but on earth, power matters. and so, wilbur has a chance to gain absolute self destructive suicidal power. and so he does

[rhaegang]

one of my favorite things about BoT was all the exploration of Oliver's mind, his time in the hospital and the (non existent) relationship he had with his family

can i ask for a little bit more? 👉🏻👈🏻💖

[TW: suicidal impulses, Oliver having generally a Bad Time]

He didn’t speak for the first three hours. A part of him thought that, if he said nothing, if he didn’t acknowledge it, then it wouldn’t happen. Wasn’t happening. Couldn’t. Didn’t.

But after those first three hours, Paula’s hysteria and Jeff’s ignorance won out over Oliver’s hope.

What that means is this: there were tears and shaking fingers and pleas of Oliver, Oliver say something, are you ill? Are you hurt? and there were declarations of I don’t care who they are, Paula, they’ve done something to him, I’m going to the police. There were more things said, though not by Oliver, not until after Jeff reached for the phone in the hotel room, preparing to make good on his word.

What Oliver said was this:

“You’ve just kidnapped me, you realize?”

Technically, he might have been correct. He was a legal adult, and he had been coerced into getting in the Quicks’ car against his will. He had been in shock, hadn’t had his wits about him, or he would’ve made more of a fuss. Nevertheless, just because he hadn’t screamed No did not mean he had consented to being taken.

He regretted speaking almost instantly.

Most of that day, he hardly remembers. He knows Paula gasped in joy at his voice, then in horror at his words. He knows they mentioned Farleigh, the phone call with the American, and he knows they knew he had been hurt. They asked him what happened. They asked him how it happened. He resisted answering.

The hotel room was paid for; the drive to Prescot was long, and Jeff wasn’t young, so he hadn’t intended to make a round trip in one day. But as Paula grew increasingly distraught and Oliver increasingly withdrawn, something shifted.

The Quicks put Oliver back into the car. They put everything back into the car, and then they aimed it north, which was the wrong way. That wasn’t the way back to Felix.

“You can’t take me anywhere I don’t want to go,” he said, and his heart thrummed unevenly in his ears. “You have to take me back to Felix. Right now.”

In the rear view mirror, he saw Jeff and Paula exchange a look. Jeff shook his head the tiniest bit, but Paula asked anyway.

“Your neck,” she blurted. “The bruises. Did he do that to you?”

Oliver’s guts heaved. He hated the way she said it, the way she sounded like she pitied him, like she thought she understood him, and the way she said he like she was afraid to say Felix’s name, like he was the villain in a stupid kids’ story.

“I wanted him to,” he snapped, angry that she would think Felix capable of the sorts of things she was insinuating. It was more important to Oliver to defend Felix’s honor than it was to think ahead, to think strategically. It was more important that his parents be made to understand who Felix was and what he meant to Oliver than it was to tell them what they would have preferred to hear.

Maybe that, more than anything, is what marked the beginning of the end of Oliver Quick.

“I love him, I love him, and I love the way he touches me, even if no one else understands, and you’ve got everything wrong, and you have to take me back, you hear me? I don’t need you to rescue me. I don’t need you, I need Felix—”

The turn from the main road in town, the turn they needed to take to head back to Saltburn, whipped past the window. Oliver turned in his seat, pulling against the seatbelt, and watched it start to shrink away.

You’re dead anyway. You already died once without him. You won’t have another chance.

His thoughts were so, so loud, and coming so fast, and they were terrible — reaching over Jeff’s shoulder and yanking the wheel to spin them off the road, flip the car, or biting down until his tongue split, and choking on the blood, or unclipping his seatbelt and

“Oliver?”

throwing open the

door to the car and

“Oliver!”

covering his face with

his rucksack just before

“OLIVER!”

He woke up in an unfamiliar bed, but the feeling of a hospital gown had become quite familiar to him, as had the sounds of the monitors, the pinch of the IV line in his hand. Later, Oliver would learn that the hospital contacted the cardiologist who had been seeing to him all summer. Through the involvement of some protective service or another, she had been pressured to discuss some details of his overdose. It was enough to establish a pattern of behavior. From there, it took two doctors and his parents’ witness that this pattern of behavior posed an immediate risk to his life to start the paperwork.

His injuries from the road had been minimal; Jeff had put his foot on the brake before Oliver had jumped. He was in one piece, and he left that hospital less than a week later, but in the back of an ambulance, not the back of the Quicks’ car. The next hospital he did not leave until much, much later.

[pocketramblr]

As annoying as another movie is, it is fun that the movies all give villains that if allowed would have taken care of each other

[tsukuyomii45]

I read the ObiKonan warring states period post and that got me wondering: how would Madara relationship with Obito be like if he raises him near the end of the warring states period? To be more specific, Obito would be around eleven when the events of Izuna's death and Konoha's founding take place.

It would be Hashirama that encourages Madara to watch over Obito, an only-child Uchiha orphan who lost both of parents and grandparents due to the war and who would grow up to not know what his parents were really like.

Hashirama tells Madara that it will not replace the emptiness that Izuna left, but because the goal is to build a village where everyone, all clans, would protect each other... he can start by adopting Obito and raising him.

And so, after a long while of hesitating and considering what Hashirama told him.. one look at Obito as an infant, and one small grip of those baby fingers on his index was enough to make Madara determined to raise this little child who wields his bloodline.

Madara was brought up by Tajima, so he would instill the discipline and values on Obito. He would project the need to make him stronger onto Obito because he does wants him to be unbeatable.

In other words, he does not want to lose Obito the same way he lost Izuna. He would train and train Obito in every weapon and in every technique so that he can be just as strong.

So he is rather strict and tough on him, but not in an aggressive manner. He deals with Obito calmly and never takes out his anger on him - but he scolds him sternly.

But because of that, Obito grows up to also be a rather fun boy. XD By the age of 11 he is already raising Madara's blood pressure. He grows to love training and learning techniques, but despises running errands and doing chores.

A scenario could look like this:

"Obito! Get over here."

Obito would rush and skid over to where Madara was outside in the yard, with his eyes shimmering in excitement. "What is it?! Are we learning a new jutsu today?!"

"Come here and chop these up. We need to replenish our stack of firewood."

Obito would roll his eyes and let out a loud groan. "Oh, come on! I already did that last week!"

A vein would pop on Madara's forehead as he says, "Do not question me, boy! I will not ask you again."

XD

Something like that. It's a mix of both, parental and mentor-student relationship between them...with Madara consistently looking out for Obito and feeling protective of him.

[ghostoffuturespast]

WIP Whenever & Thirsty Thursday

Tagged by the lovely @vox-monstera! Thank you!

It's not Wednesday, but it is Thursday ;) So you know what that means...

I'm not gonna tag anyone because of my crippling embarrassment every time I post smut (even though I've got no reason to be embarrassed. It is, however, my first time posting something saucy here on ze tumblr...), but @wanderingaldecaldo and @shimmer-like-agirl, you both outed yourselves on the sandwich poll. So there.

Anyway, enjoy a morsel of smut of Grandpa V and Old Man River from the next sandwich chapter I'm working on. Below the cut because porn.

River kissed V fully.   Boldly.  His appetite for her the furthest thing from shy.  She felt his smugness as his lips ran over hers, hands coasting along her ass before settling to hold her hips in place.  V flushed at the way River kissed her.  How his mouth enveloped her.  Consumed and savored.  The way he took his time with her, observant in his exploration, it wound V up deliriously high.  Sent waves of pleasure through her body that made her want to dance.  But she held still, so as to soak in the attention he gave her. It was a disappointment when River stopped, panting as he caught his breath.  "How’s that?"    The heat of V's dizziness robbed her of thought.  "It's, uh…"  She fumbled stringing the words together.  Took too long to answer.  A startled whimper escaped as River took the opportunity to prompt her, his mouth sucking hard on her clit.    She squirmed, and River chastised her even harder. There was a small pop as he paused to let V go again, propping her up and keeping her just out of reach.  His amusement smirked up and down the inside of her thigh.  "Gotta tell me what you want, babe." V's fingers went to the hands clasped on her waist.  The ones denying her.  She scrabbled needy at them.  Desperate.  Then pleaded.  "Fu–fuck.  River, don't stop." "Mmm,"  He held her firm, his voice a contemplative whisper.  "Not the name I was hoping for, buuut…"     A hitched breath, before the provocations of his tongue descended upon her in absolute indulgence.  V pressed down into his caress, tension spasming tight in her thighs and snaking hot in the pit of her stomach.  That damp heat cloyed heavy between her legs, every stroke River made making her want to writhe with every infinitesimal motion.  He held her in his hands, wetting her.  Lapping her up.  The pleasure became overbearing as it tried to seize her, clamber through her body.  Unable to hold back any longer, V bowed forward and gave into sensation.  Wanting to be destroyed.  Be the destroyer. Two could play. Purple strands cascaded over tawny skin as she caved into desire.  River's ministrations continued, but the tempo shifted as she began her own. Balanced on her right elbow and caving into desire, the splayed fingers of her left hand slid across the taut planes of River's torso followed by inquisitive lips.  She touched whatever she wanted, ran her mouth wherever it pleased. His grip alternated between tight and slack beneath her scrutiny, his composure from earlier, crumbling.    V traced a path downward, following the trail of hair around his navel and slipping a hand underneath his waistband to part fabric.  She pushed the offensive material aside to dart through the thicket at his groin, expose River’s brimming arousal.  Toy with him.  She placed light caresses on the lulls and peaks of his hips, traversed the crest of his thighs; watched him twitch swollen and erect with every miniscule manipulation.  And then… V kissed River back.

[mizukei]

So i just finished reading Mutually Assured Destruction by @arealphrooblem and OMG CIDNDIFBDIDNDJFB IT'S SO AMAZING DHFHSHZJZJDNS

Soooo i decided to draw my ocs as the characters in it and added a lil twist in the story (this is referenced to part 11 lol) :3

Crying over a 'fake' relationship bc your 'fake' bf left you for 10 months after the Christmas party

-just for him to show up again at midnight in your bedroom

[faithfulcat111]

ST Epic Cycle AU - Skylla, Charybdis, the mutiny, and washing up on Calypso's Island

[daisychainsandbowties]

i love writing star wars au bealil because they both have love languages that above all else do NOT involve speaking to each other, but instead demonstrating affection in the most bitchy and aggressively unhelpful way possible 

[thetismcave]

Figuring out the dream and Wilbur dynamic for my au is a joy because dw!Wilbur is positively feral but he looks downright responsible next to dream lmfao

Wilbur and dream, co-leading the resistance and constantly tossing the role of Designated Impulse Control between them like it’s a game of hot-potato: “never let them know your next move”

[dreamsclock]

ggrhrhhhjk madduo hhihkhkgjgjgggghk worshiper of a false god. The divinity is a lie but the god is his

“You’re the admin,” Wilbur murmurs, his dark, dark eyes never leaving Dream’s face, “I know you know what that means. Even if nobody else does.”

And Dream does: feels the plea of the server with every breath he takes, sees the destruction behind his eyelids at night. It’s why he’s stopped sleeping. The stacks of TNT in his inventory are heavier than Atlas’s weight, all of a sudden. Like somehow, Wilbur’s death isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.

“If I pray to you when I’m dead,” Wilbur continues, a puff of smoke leaving his lips at the same time, “will you hear me?”

Yes, Dream thinks. Because he hears everything. Every plead, every desperate, desperate whisper.

“Wilbur,” he says instead, evenly. Level, like he’s not being torn apart by war and factions and the sickly cigarette smoke. “You don’t have to do this.”

Wilbur’s thin fine finger traces his jaw.

“I do, Dream. If not for me, then to ruin you.”

The smile he offers Dream is pale, arrogant, apologetic.

“I know you’ll understand.”

[julictcapulet]

“ did you seriously just invite me to your fucking wedding? ” // “ i don’t think you should come around here anymore. ” for lucille & monty’s AU ✨

BREAKUP  SENTENCE  STARTERS. for @asystcle because obviously!

“ did you seriously just invite me to your fucking wedding? ”

Lucille stayed seated on the chaise lounge, looking up at Monty as he stood over her. His eyes were bright with the feeling of betrayal, his eyebrows pinched together either in confusion or an attempt at repressing any kind of emotional reaction. He gripped the invitation in his hand, his name written right there in perfect calligraphy.

She set her novel aside and sat up straighter, trying to find the words that would satisfy him. But both of them knew there could be no such thing. “I couldn’t very well not invite you, could I?” Lucille asked. It was a strange argument to choose, reminding him just how close their lives would always be no matter what relationship they had. “Fred wanted to invite you. My mother would surely love to see you. And my sisters.”

“And me?” Monty asked. “Am I supposed to sit in the aisle watching you marry someone you shouldn’t be with?”

A cutting reply jumped to her lips, ready to spit it out: You don’t have to show up if it’s such an inconvenience for you. But Lucille held herself back, looking down at her hands fidgeting in her lap. She knew the reason Monty was upset was not because it was an inconvenience. She just didn’t have the heart to say what it truly was. “Would you like me to tell Fred you won’t be coming, then?”

Her words sounded rehearsed, like she was speaking to guests at a party she spent months planning. Nothing like that had ever existed between them, not Lucille and Monty. It hurt her to talk to him as if he was just another wedding guest, but that’s what he would have to be.

“Are you going to continue speaking as if I’m just anyone else?” Monty asked. “I’m not going to let you marry someone who—”

“Let me?” Lucille repeated, looking up at him. She felt, strangely, very calm through the whole ordeal. Even as Monty stood there, searching her face for anything that would tell him he was reaching her, Lucille couldn’t let him see anything of the sort. “Let me? I wasn’t aware I needed your permission to get married.” She raised her eyebrows. “Especially considering how you didn’t show much of an interest in who I married until very recently, but maybe that’s just because...” The sentence hanging there unfinished. Because I wasn’t much of an interest until recently. Lucille shrugged. “Anyway. If you don’t want come to the wedding, that’s all you have to say.”

“Hang the wedding,” Monty said heatedly, and Lucille’s face snapped up to his. “I don’t care about the wedding, I care about you.”

“You should have said something to me, then,” Lucille replied.

“I did, I told you how I felt, I told you—”

“You were too late.” Lucille turned away as she said it, refusing to meet his eyes. She didn’t want to see the way his face fell, the way he looked at her as if she’d struck him.”

“And so that’s it?” Monty asked. “I tell I love you, you tell me you love me back, and now you’re still getting married to Fred? Now you won’t even look at me?” He took a step closer and put a hand on her cheek, somehow handling her with the utmost care even as he spoke with so much hurt and so much pain. “Look at me.”

Lucille did, seeing the boy she had loved for as long as she could remember. If she closed her eyes, he was the only face she would remember. If she went to sleep, his voice whispering her name was the last thing she’d repeat in her head. Even when she had said yes to Fred as he’d gone down on one knee, she had thought of Monty, her heart beating fast like she knew, even then, that she was making a mistake and still couldn’t bring herself to stop it.

“You were too late,” Lucille repeated. “Do you imagine it’s a coincidence that you discover your feelings for me when I’m already going to be engaged? I couldn’t...I can’t wait for you to see me about to walk out the door only for you to realize at the last second that you want me to stay. I want a home, I want peace, I want—”

“I want you.” Monty interrupted. “I would be yours, if you’d let me.” He took her hand in his and Lucille didn’t even bother trying to pull away. She wished he’d take her in his arms, kiss her again until she couldn’t breathe.

Lucille stood up, clutching his hand as if her life depended on it. Sometimes, she thought it did. “You want me,” she whispered, “and I love you.” She bit her lip, eyes steady on the marble floor beneath her feet. “So where does that leave us?” Monty opened his mouth to speak but Lucille shook her head. “I don’t want someone who wants me because he thinks I’m about to fly away. And maybe that’s not the way you want me, and maybe I’m wrong, but my future—my family’s future—can’t take the chance of me being wrong.”

She pulled her hand from his. “And I’d rather have a partner who I can depend on, someone I trust and admire, than someone who I fear I’ll always wonder if he truly wants me or only wants what he can’t have.”

Monty tried to pull her in to kiss her and Lucille remembered so vividly how she had allowed him to the last time. The way he’d pressed against her, the way she’d felt breathless in his hands. Fred had never made her feel that way, and still she turned away from Monty.

“I understand if you won’t be coming. If it were you, I wouldn’t come, either.”

“ i don’t think you should come around here anymore. ”

They had been going on like this for an hour now. Lucille sat on the bed, her dressing gown wrapped tightly around her, while Monty stood on the other side of the room, facing the window. He wasn’t looking at her as he said it, but Lucille was looking at him, and nothing about him seemed to be taking those words lightly.

Lucille slid off the bed, walking towards him slowly with her eyebrows scrunched together. They’d been going in circles for what felt like ages, old arguments mixed with new ones, but never had Lucille imagined that any of them would culminate in Monty telling her she had to go.

“Do you mean that?” she asked. She still stood a healthy distance away from him and he was still standing in a way that she could only see his side profile. If she had been thinking of anything else, she would have thought she’d like to paint his portrait in this exact position.

“Are you surprised anymore?” Monty responded. “We’re not happy, are we? Unhappy people don’t make very good bedfellows.”

“They do when they aren’t what’s making each other unhappy,” Lucille said with a soft smile, trying to make light of what she was hearing. It wasn’t Monty that made her unhappy, no, it was the choices Lucille herself had made. Monty was the way to combat that unhappiness. Of course unhappy people made good bedfellows, as long as they were happy together.

But Monty didn’t respond to her comment, nor did his expression change. And Lucille’s face slowly lost her smile, whatever she’d been trying to do to resolve the mess they’d become fading fast. “I don’t make you very happy, do I?” she said after a long pause. “I am the one that’s making you unhappy.”

She didn’t phrase it as a question; she didn’t need to. His silence had answered a question she’d never wanted to ask.

Monty finally turned to look at her, seeing her stand in the middle of the room with her arms wrapped around herself as if they were protecting her—from him, from herself, from the entire world—and the way he looked at her was so tender even in his exhaustion, even in his frustration with her. She wanted to step towards him, kiss him, bring him back to bed, anything that would keep him with her.

Instead, Lucille turned away from him and went back to the bed, sitting on the edge. She felt sick at the thought of going to what she had begun to think of as her side of a bed she never stayed in for more than one night.

“Did I ever make you happy?” Lucille asked, her eyes on the floor. But she shook her head almost immediately. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

“You did make me happy,” Monty said. “You do. But you don’t just make me happy.” He came to sit beside her on the bed and Lucille instinctively stood up, walking back to the center of the room. She felt tears prick at the edges of her eyes and was suddenly so grateful for the darkness of the room because the thought of Monty seeing her cry filled her with so much humiliation and shame that she feared she might collapse from the weight of it.

She wanted him to wrap his arms around her just to push him away so he would know the feeling. She wanted to kiss him and bite his lip all at once, tell him that she hated him and she never wanted to see him again, and she did none of those things.

She couldn’t, because he was right. She didn’t make him happy, because how could she? Every time Monty came close, Lucille couldn’t help but turn away. She hated him for being right, almost as much as she hated herself for doing it.

A small sob escaped her lips and Lucille burned with embarrassment. Monty immediately came to her, his arms encasing her even as she struggled for him to let her go. She bowed her head, covering her face with her hands, and let the tears come. She used to be so worried about Monty hurting her, and all she had done since the first time she had kissed him was hurt him. She used to think it was what true love was, the heartbreak and the passion, but nothing about this felt like just love anymore.

“I don’t know what to do without you,” Lucille said, pulling away. “I’ve never known what to do without you. I’ve spent my whole life loving you. That doesn’t disappear overnight.”

Monty had no answer for her and she knew he could never give her one. He hadn’t spent his whole life loving her. Lucille carried the weight of it on her own, just as she would carry the weight of his goodbye with her. Every since the beginning of this, when Monty had kissed her even after she was married, when Lucille had sought him out whenever Fred was away, when he would arrive unannounced and lock the door behind him so they wouldn’t be disturbed, Lucille had known about the inevitability of an end.

She just never wanted to acknowledge the reality of it. She knew heartbreak like an old friend, and still this hurt more. Because Lucille had had Monty, she’d held him in her arms and spent evenings with him and laughed with him when he teased her or pulled on her braids as if she were still a child. And this was somehow worse than never being with him at all, to know that she’d had him and she was losing him and it was her own fault.

“I love you,” she repeated. “What am I supposed to do with all of that? I can’t give it to anyone else, it’s yours.”

Monty wiped a tear away from her cheek and Lucille flinched away from the tenderness of it all. “I don’t know where I’m going to put my love for you, either.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead like a curtain falling at the end of a play.

He could have rejected her, yelled at her that he never wanted to see her again, and Lucille would have done it. Even as he broke her heart, she was grateful to know there was something to break. The pain she felt was, and would always be, a reminder that what she felt for him was real. Every bit of love and heartache that she’d poured into him would sit inside her until she forgot him or he forgot her, a steady reminder that something had lived there in the space between them and it had once been good. The pain would remind her that for a moment, the reality of Lucille and Monty had been real. She never wanted to get to a point where the thought of him kissing her cheek didn’t leave a hollow pain in her chest and Lucille was okay with that.

It meant he was too important to forget.

[pedgito]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐕𝐄 | Tommy Miller x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | tommy's on a path for revenge and you're his unfortunate baggage.

author's note | this is a small blurb for a future series for tommy. for context: joel revenge tour, forced proximity, reader is baggage to tommy, and also mean!tommy. him and maria have already separated before he leaves to go after abby & the group. so if it’s easier to consider this au, please do. this is unbeta'd and based off this post.

content warning | 18+ smut, eluding to past hookups, undefined age gap, tommy is a broken shell of himself, manhandling, a moment of softness from tommy but mostly selfishness, unprotected p in v, mentions of not pulling out. the tommy brainrot is in full effect y'all.

word count —1.4k

He doesn’t touch you like this unless he wants something.

A hand up your back, under your shirt as you bend down to throw more kindling into the fire, taking the broken twigs from his hand.

You feel it, tense slightly as you toss the sticks into the pool of flames and rise, turning your head over your shoulder. 

He’s got that distant smile that doesn’t ever reach his eyes, not anymore. The thing with Tommy is that when he smiled, or used to anyways, it was a full body reaction.

His eyes light up, the lines around his mouth creasing as he grinned and the subtle twitch or flex of his hands as he tried to contain himself. As dark as you’ve seen him lately, you knew that Tommy was still buried underneath. Deep, deep down.

“It was once,” you remind him, eyes flicking down at his now empty hands pressing against your hip, slowly caressing its way over your stomach and slipping underneath the fabric there, sandwiched in by both of his hands as he nudged you to turn and face him, “—we agreed, Tommy.”

“You can keep tellin’ yourself that,” Tommy argues, “s’far as I remember you did a whole lotta talkin’ and you still haven’t told me stop,” his hands settling against your waist, squeezing the flesh under his fingertips, “you want me to stop?” 

Your eyes follow the path of his fingertips as they clutch the end of your shirts and push up, dragging it up until your skin is bared to him, knuckles dragging over the surface. It was heat, pure heat. Different from the sweltering flames at your sides. It was hunger.

So strong, unbridled. If he wasn’t thinking about this, he was thinking about them. Or him. He has nightmares every night, ones you’ve learned to let him ride out. The one attempt to pull him out ended with you on your ass and a knife to your throat, skin nicked from the sharp blade pressing into your chin.

You shake your head so slightly you aren’t expecting him to catch it, but he does. “That’s right,” he nods, his hand raising to brush against the underside of your chin, thumb dragging over your cheek, “look at me.”

Hesitantly, you do. Heart hammering in your chest you dare, staring back at his unrestrained gaze. There wasn’t admiration or fondness, nothing like that. But, there was understanding.

You help me, I help you.

Mutually assured destruction.

The force of your kiss as you rush into him sends him stumbling, feet hitting the edge of a table before he’s collapsing in an old chair, creaking under the weight of you both.

His head presses against the back of the chair, kissing you back soundly, sloppily as he tongue dives—digs into your mouth and licks away the built up frustration you’ve carried for the past week.

It tastes like resentment and anger, things you couldn’t say to him—things he wouldn’t say himself. It was a dangerous dance that has begun to play out for you both.

He reaches blindly for your jeans, popping the metal button and attempting to squeeze his hand between the snug material and your underwear, struggling with the angle and how desperately your pressing yourself into him as you pull at his hair, dark locks tangled around your fingers and he grunts, heaving out a heavy sigh.

“Get ‘em off,” he orders casually, rubbing his hands against the denim as he pushes you away, mirror your movements as he strips himself of a few more layers; coat, flannel, shoving his pants just far enough down his knees that by the time yours are off he’s ready for your hurried approach.

You climb back over his lap, a salacious grin on his face as you mount him, “alright, atta girl,” followed by a soft catch of his breath as you wrap your palm around his shaft, tugging leisurely as his cock hardens from your touch, brow pinched as he watches, “—careful, honey.”

He joins your hand, using the force of his thumb on his opposite hand as it wraps around yours to press the head of his cock between your cunt, slipping between your folds and notching himself against your clit.

Before you can even think to speak, his hand is wrapping around the back of your neck, pulling it taut in his grip as he forces you still, gaze locked on his own as he pushes inside of you.

He’s already worked up, functioning on pure adrenaline and rage the past few days, knowing that he would soon hit a wall, but not before he allowed himself this. A gentle whine squeezing from your throat as he bucks his hips into you slowly, watching the desperate clench of your jaw as you swallow, eyes falling closed.

If it weren’t for the fireplace, he’d be acting off feel alone—like the last time. A back alley in the decrepit city of Seattle and the low hum of infected in the nearby area. Hand over your mouth, fingers circling of your clit as he fucked you against the moss-covered brick wall. 

There was no preamble. Only a look, a deep growl of anger as he snapped and you allowed him to take his emotions out on you—given you were a big reason why his trip wasn’t going off without a hitch like he’d expected.

You were ruining it, dragging him down, but he couldn't just let you go—you were too far from Jackson, too far from home. 

“Not gonna be the last time,” you inquire, a breathlessness to your voice as you worked your hips back against him, fingers digging into the material of his shirt and feeling the flex of his abdomen underneath, the sharp snap of his hips as pistons himself into you, “is it?”

Tommy leans forward suddenly, hand pressing against your back for support as you yelp softly, fingers pulling in his hair in a reactionary manner but it makes him curse. Your body goes fuzzy at the aggression in his tone, clenching around him out of instinct. 

“You tell me,” Tommy counters, “you sneak outta Jackson, you follow me here, you fuck up my plans—and you just think—“

“Think what?”

“I ain’t that dense, honey,” He snarks, “you’ve been eyein’ me for weeks. He said you were good, mindful—but you are just nothin’ but goddamn trouble.”

He didn't need to say his name, you knew.

You smirk at his assumption of you, a small laugh bubbling from your chest as you fight for the upper hand, pressing him back into the chair against his hardened grip, almost avoiding the nudge of his mouth as he leans in for a hungry kiss, his palms squeezing at your ass cheeks so tight that it pulls you forward too, your foreheads colliding quick and sharp, a collective groan of pain erupting from you both.

It’s in the quiet lull of a look, as Tommy rubs at the sore spot on his forehead that you find yourself laughing—soft and wistful as you rock back, his cock still buried inside of you.

In an instant his hands are at your hips, gripping tight as his lips pull in a thin line, whatever semblance of a smile he did have was quickly gone and focused on you—or more so, the point where your cunt was sucking him in and squeezing, so tight he feels like he might come just like that

“Ease up,” he chokes out, the sweat on his brow glistening with the glow of the fireplace, “keep squeezin’ my cock like that and I’ll come right now.”

You grin, a soft snicker slipping past your lips.

“Is that a threat?”

“No,” Tommy offers in a softer tone, “but I ain’t finished with you yet—so ease up.” It ignites the coil of pleasure deep inside of you, the snarl of his teeth contrasting with his gentle tone.

You knew there was no piecing Tommy back together after everything that's happened—whatever was left of Tommy’s peace had departed the moment his brother had too. 

-

dividers creds: @/saradika-graphics

[lorelune]

of carnage

|| blade x reader || E/18+ || shared toxicity, band au || wc: 8.8k  || ao3 ||

You and Blade are mutually assured destruction. You know this, and yet it does not stop you from chasing after him.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

notes: well hello :3c this fic is part of a trade i did for some LOVELY selfship art with MOST BELOVED @rabbbitseason!! they asked for toxic bladie and reader and i come to DELIVER 🙏 setting and au are heavily inspired by my time in my local music scene and all of the 💀that came with it. i'm glad it can be all get repurposed into blade smut 🫶 THANK YOU!! to bitti for giving me so many fun wants to craft around!! THANK YOU!!! as well to @ofmermaidstories and @2kmps for beta reading!! now, please mind the tags on this one and enjoy <3

CW: dark content, band au, dubcon, pain during sex, bleeding during sex, toxic relationship between blade and reader, angst, hurt/a little comfort, manipulation, gaslighting by blade and the reader @ themselves, face slapping, spanking, spitting, reader smokes cigarettes, reader drinks, self destructive reader, past blade/dan heng, implied unrequited jing yuan/dan heng, kernels of jing yuan/reader

“Are you going to the gig tonight? Fu Xuan asks as if the answer isn’t obvious already.

You crane your neck back to look at her from your roost in front of your full-length mirror. Your knees dig into the carpet and the tips of your fingers are tinged with black. You’ve spent the better part of the last thirty minutes attempting to perfectly smudge the smoky line of eyeliner on your lower lash line. A tube of dark, red lipstick (his color) and sticky gloss rests on the fluffy carpet beside your folded knees.

“Of course.” You can’t make yourself smile, not when your stomach is in knots. “Are you?”

“I should if you are going,” she huffs, leaning against your doorframe. “You need a chaperone.”

(She’s probably right.)

“Please tell me you’re joking.” You grimace and turn away, unable to meet her gaze. She’s too good at reading you. “I’ll be just fine on my own, thank you very much.”

“... He’s playing, isn’t he?”

“I mean, yeah.” You rub more aggressively at the widening smears around your eyes. “But that’s not the only reason.”

“Sure.”

“It’s not, really.” You meet her gaze with a glance in the mirror. It’s hard to keep, her stare intense and full of judgment— (And worry.) “There’s a bunch of good bands tonight. There’s a touring group— all the way from Pier Point.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You have no faith in me, do you?” You pout, keeping your voice light, and hoping it comes off as a bit of a jest.

When you finally turn to face Fu Xuan fully, she dips to sit beside you, on her own folded knees. She plucks your soon-to-be-worn lipstick off the ground and uncaps it, just long enough to see the color, before sighing and closing it once more with a pop. 

“Not really, no.” Fu Xuan leans against your side, cheeks puffing out. “Not when it comes to him—”

“You can say his name, you know.” You smear chalky highlighter on your cheeks with your fingertips. “It’s not a slur. He’s just some guy.”

“‘Some guy’,” She groans. “If he’s really just some guy, why don’t we skip the gig tonight and stay home? We can order in some nice food, and I could invite Qingque.”

“... I—”

“You know that going is a bad idea, right?” Fu Xuan sighs. “We’ve gone over this before.”

“I’m aware of that.” You can’t suppress your scowl any longer, turning to face her. “Blade is fine—”

“He treats you like shit.”

“He treats everyone like that.”

“That doesn’t make it better. If anything, that makes it worse. You deserve better.” Fu Xuan sounds genuinely upset. “And you can do better. Easily. With literally anyone else, even if you find them at one of your nasty house shows. Try entertaining the thought?”

“You don’t have to be so—” You turn to her, fist balling up on your knees— “So mean about it.”

“It’s messy.”

“And it’s not your business.”

“It’s not!” Fu Xuan says, exasperated as she rolls her eyes. “I really shouldn’t even be bothering, but you are my friend. And it is painful to watch you chase the tail of a man who will hardly give you the time of day or bare minimum respect. Excuse me for showing concern.”

“Your concern is noted.” As it has been before. “But I’m fine. I wasn’t lying earlier— there’s other groups I want to see tonight. You... don’t have to come along just to babysit. I’ll be alright. I know you hate them.”

“I do.”

Fu Xuan crosses her arms and exhales, something angry and burning. “At least let me drive you. I can pick you up later too. Rather I do than some stranger or him—”

“Blade. His name, Fu Xuan.”

“Blade.”

“God, you do say it like a slur.” You roll your eyes, the pit in your stomach having become larger and darker. You swipe below your eyes and thank an Aeon or two that your eyeliner is waterproof. 

...

The house venue is a bit out of town, in the rural suburbs on a lot that’s big enough to host a crowd and not bother the nearest neighbors. Fields streak by during your journey, humming with junebugs and chirping with late- summer crickets. Low hills roll by as a harvest moon rises, waxing and half-full.

Fu Xuan drops you at the curb and idles as you collect yourself. A crossbody bag carries your essentials (your phone, your sticky lip products, a lighter to go with the pack of cigarettes that you actually don’t smoke, and two condoms shoved against the bottom). You fiddle with the strap against your shoulder.

“Call me when you need me to pick you up, okay?” Fu Xuan taps the steering wheel. “I’ll be awake.”

“Okay, mom.”

“I mean it—”

“I know.”

“Don’t go home with Blade. Or let him drive you home. He handles a car like he’s trying to kill himself.”

It’s a fair assessment but you still shake your head, trying to seem good-natured despite the rot you feel curling in the back of your throat. Bile, rising, before you have a drop of liquor in you. It’s a little pathetic; you’ll really think so in retrospect. For now, you walk toward the venue itching for a drink in your hand or familiar company. Thundering bass and ripping guitar vibrate from the basement windows, shaking the ground beneath your feet.

A crowd clusters at the back of the house. Folks swap cigarettes and clutch cans of cheap beer and flasks decorated with stickers. You quickly survey, looking for, searching for him—

(He’s usually out here before his set, hiding away somewhere with Kafka sharing cigarettes and glaring at anyone dumb enough to make a pass at her.)

A hand grabs you by the shoulder, and you nearly jump out of your skin. “Oh my gosh, you’re here! I didn’t know you’d be coming to the gig!”

It’s March, you know. She is easy to identify with the sweet, candy-like perfume she wears and the slight press of her almond-shaped gel manicure into your shoulder.  March turns you abruptly, throwing her arms around your shoulders and squeezing. Too tightly, knocking the air out of you in an instant. You give her a tentative hug back and pull away quickly. The contact scalds you.

“Have you seen—?”

“Blade?” March pouts and tilts her head. “You know, I feel like you only come to these things to see that guy. He’s nothing special. And I have seen him. He was off sulking a while ago, by the sheds in the back of the lot.”

“... I’ll have to check. Thanks, March.”

She sighs as you walk away from her, before calling out to Stelle (who is always a step or two behind her anyways.) 

You feel— bad about how you treat them. They’re both good people. So is the third in their trio, Dan Heng, a man with a beautiful face and an eerily calm demeanor, especially when compared to his companions. The group of them was introduced to you back when you first started attending these shows, hanging around the scene, and sweating in the basement of mildew-filled houses. They were some of your first friends, and easy to mesh with when you gave yourself the time and space to. Stelle always had a flask with lukewarm vodka or tequila, and March kept a case of seltzers in her trunk. Dan Heng was the ever-reliable sober cab. 

(It was nice back then. Before you had become so entangled with Blade and the subsequent social politics that came with chasing and occasionally fucking the hot, albeit emotionally-unavailable bassist of HUNTERS. It was far easier to hold those friendships than to orbit around a man who you can never tell if he hates you or wants to fuck you in his back seat.)

You find Blade tucked away around the side of the house, cloaked in shadow while taking long drags of a cigarette. The cherry glows in the dim light. From the basement window peeking out from the ground, a red glow pours out, illuminating the well-worn combat boots he wears. They’re crusted in filth, falling apart at the toe. 

(You’d still lick them if he asked you to. Hump them if he asked you twice.)

Another figure stands across from him. Serene, arms crossed, with storm eyes visible even in the poor lighting. Dan Heng keeps a perfectly neutral expression as he speaks, hushed, to Blade who wears a scowl so perfectly that it looks like he’s carved of immovable stone rather than not flesh. 

You’re not quite within earshot. You can’t make out their words, only their tone. It’s an angry exchange, one that’s charged with heat lighting and ire. Blade spits something at Dan Heng, venomous in his tone like he so easily is. Dan Heng replies back something so cooly that it’s like a low-tide wave lapping at your feet.

If you were better, you would turn around and leave. Neither of them know that you’re here, so close. It’s invasive to listen, but you know that there’s... history between Blade and Dan Heng. You’ve always wondered what it is, and considering that Blade has the emotional availability of a rotting vegetable, you won’t be getting those details out of him.

Maybe witnessing their dynamic (yet again) could provide you some clarity—?

(And maybe, if you know why Blade was so, so hurt by Dan Heng, you can do better. You can be the exact thing that Blade wants, and then he will want you, just as much as you want him.)

You listen more keenly:

“I’ve asked you to stop booking shows where the Express is already playing.”

“And I’ve asked you to get off my dick and stop being such a priss, but it doesn’t look like you’ll ever do that.”

“I’m asking you to be reasonable.”

“Sure, because clearly asking me to not play prime gigs is ‘reasonable’. Not to mention you should be taking this up with Kafka or Elio, not me. Did you just want an excuse to talk, Imbibitor Lunae—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What, have something else you’d prefer to be called? I remember plenty of things you liked hearing. Want me to name a few?”

“Hold your tongue—”

A stick cracks behind you and you nearly jump out of your skin.

“Bladie~” Kafka purrs behind you, hands sliding up over your shoulders, hot breath over the back of your neck. “We’re on soon. Soundcheck in five, Firefly has a vodka shot for you if you want.”

You’re frozen.

Blade grunts from around the house, and as he does, Dan Heng emerges from the shadows quickly, on hastened feet, and nearly stumbles when you see him. Your expression must be— fucking stupid. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed as Kafka runs her nails up and down your neck. 

As Dan Heng practically sprints off, Kafka croons quietly into your ear, “And what are you doing all the way back here? Looking for Bladie again?”

You don’t need to speak for her to know your answer. Blade’s steps thud against the ground over the short, dry grass. 

Part of you knows you should scramble away and pretend you weren’t just lurking like a stray dog begging for kitchen scraps. It’s humiliating to be caught by Kafka (yet again), doing the same shit on a different day. Another part of you, one which is much louder, more persuasive, and saccharine sweet, urges you to face Blade. If you get caught in his maw, good. 

Your hands shake as Blade emerges from the dark.

He looks like death. Ghostly pale skin with deep purple eyebags, like bruises. His eyes are cut carnelian, ethereal and volcanic against his parlor. A cigarette hangs between his plump lips, threatening to burn and melt the pieces of his fringe that hang around his cheeks. Long, wild black hair, tipped in faded crimson, falls down his back in frizzy waves. His arms bulge obscenely in the tight, black shirt he wears. A carved jade pendant hangs off of his belt.

Blade stares you down and his scowl deepens, turning even more sour. He mutters something under his breath, something unintelligible but cruel. It’s not the first time he’s spoken to you that way. He’s done so more loudly and more brutally. 

You—

(Hate it. You love it. Well, maybe not love, but you crave the way that Blade is awful to you. You’re horrible.)

“Better get inside now,” Kafka hands drift to your waist, tugging on the belt loop of your pants. You let out a little yip. “I’m sure the front row is filling up fast. No need to spy on Bladie if you get a prime spot during the actual set, hm?”

She’s right; she usually is.

Kafka leaves you with an elegant twirl, humming one of HUNTERS songs from their new EP under her breath. You know the tune. You’ve been playing it on repeat for the last two months. 

It’s easy to follow the jarring trills of soundcheck as you float inside the home, following the trail of people headed toward the basement. Descending down the rickety, railingless stairs into thick, humid air that reeks of sweat, beer, and fledging mold. Down, down, down you go— maybe to hell, where you perhaps belong.

...

Moon Drinker by HUNTERS

You taught me that the high moon 

Was our lovers’ sigil

How quickly did you throw away our runes

How empty is your cup

Moon Drinker

That you would break mine too

...

The gig is decent. That’s how these shows tend to be and you enjoy them just enough to tolerate the stench and humidity of grungy basements like this one. 

Three bands play, IP3, the Express, and HUNTERS. The interest you expressed to Fu Xuan about Pier Point’s IP3 was a lie, but they’re not bad. The frontman, a blond with eyes like inverted crystals, has a sultry edge to his voice that verges on sexual. It’s a cleaner sound that rips into something dirtier, filthier, as their set goes on. 

The Express follows IP3. You’ve seen them more times than you can count, but the trio is still nice to listen to, even now. March always plays with the crowd in between her harmonies in a way that riles folks up just enough without causing abject chaos. The band plays a new song you don’t know, one that is angry and loud and so unlike their normal sound. Dan Heng is on vocals, rather than solely on guitar, and you’re reminded of how mournful and melodic his voice can be. The exact words of the piece get eaten by the cement foundation of the basement, but you imagine that it’s an elegy.

HUNTERS is last on.

They usually are, as their music is the loudest and gnarliest, and they’re typically the most well-known (even if they have a shit reputation and their crowds leave trashed venues in their wake). You feel— insane when they start playing. You know all of their songs, even if you don’t really like their music. Kafka’s voice is hypnotic in a way that’s disarming, even on a recording. Silver Wolf is too good of a drummer for the caliber of band that they are, and Firefly shreds easily on guitar, trained on strings since childhood, but using her talents in a grunge band rather than on a world stage.

Blade’s bass playing is messy. Though his tempo is sure and unwavering, the actual rhythm drags and punches in intervals that verge on unnerving. You have never been able to place if this is due to whatever rage and poison he carries into music making, or if his fingers are as arthritic as Kafka jokes that they are. 

It doesn’t really matter, in the end. The sound blends together in a cacophony that sounds like the way bursted flesh looks. If you could taste the way their newest EP sounded, it would be the iron tang of blood and the acrid burn of bile. 

You’re fucked for it— for Blade. You’ve been since you first became tangled in this web.

A pit opens in the middle of the crowd, small at first, but rapidly widening, with more and more people throwing themselves into it. They bounce around and bash against the individuals at the sides of the pit, only to be shoved back in a moment later. 

You try to stay away from it. Instead, you watch Blade like a fucking pervert.

The basement has gotten hot. Steamy, if you look hard enough at the air that barely circulates against the low, pipe-ridden ceiling. Blade has thrown his hair up in a high ponytail, wisps of hair still cling to his neck and temples, sweat visibly rolling down his neck. His shirt sticks to his toned chest as the overclocked speakers try to keep up with the HUNTERS most recently released song— ‘MOON DRINKER’.

Blade doesn’t look at you. Not once.

His eyes are fixed elsewhere, deeper in the crowd, beyond the bodies in the pit and those who hang at the outskirts by the house’s ancient boiler. Blade’s attention is fixed on— something (someone. You can assume who.) Not once does his gaze drift down his instrument, and never does he acknowledge the way you stand in the front row, so close, with your attention squarely on him.

(This is normal. So normal, it’s painful.)

The pit expands even further, widening as more gig-goers jump into mosh as one song bleeds into the next. You almost get swirled in yourself as a stranger slams into your side with enough force to nearly knock you to the ground. 

A broad, warm hand catches you by your bicep, hoisting you up before you even have a chance to fall. 

“Be careful now,” It’s Jing Yuan (who is much too powerful and rich to be at a basement show, but yearning pushes you both to do stupid, nonsensical things) who speaks directly into your ear, so you can hear him even as your ears ring muffled. “Are you alright?”

You turn to nod at him, flashing him a thumbs up and nervous smile. The cologne he wears permeates the space around you, overpowering the sweat and mildew with ease. He gives you an easy smile and a squeeze, before letting you. He sidesteps your frame to be closer to the pit, crossing his arms over his chest and shielding you from the worst of the throng. 

You’re grateful for the cover; it would be embarrassing to topple over right in front of Blade.

It takes you a moment to recenter yourself, lost in Jing Yuan’s scent and the roar of Firefly’s final, aching guitar riffs. You look back to HUNTERS once more as they finish out their set in a loud, carnal flourish. The expensive speakers they’ve dragged with them are going to fucking blow out—

Blade is staring at you.

Not into the crowd, toward the placid face and cold heart that so clearly plague him, not to his bandmates or instrument, but looking at you.

In the red-lit basement, his eyes nearly glow, unnatural in their anger as they always are. It seemed more concentrated, feral and crystallized in its intensity. Rage. You want to cower under it while your insides feel hot and frigid all at once. He pierces so easily, so thoughtlessly. As the crowd erupts into cheers and shouts as the set ends, you cannot move. Staked in place. 

Not once does Blade look away from you, and his mouth does not deviate from the twisted frown he wears.

... 

Swordmaker by HUNTERS

If I were forged alongside you, 

Do you think I would forgive you then?

If iron was your skin,

Steel your lungs

and lead your heart,

You would be easier to hold.

Empty are memories

Full is the garden

And bloody is the blade.

…

You should be better than this.

Blade slams you up against the back of the shed, the motion jarring and far too fast to be pleasant. Your head knocks painfully against the wood and peeling paint, and despite how you whimper with the impact, Blade doesn’t react. He doesn’t seem to care. 

(You know he doesn’t.)

He hikes your leg up over his hip and grinds against your core through your pants. The motion is rough, clumsy and far too harsh to be pleasurable. The dry friction through your panties makes you squirm and dig your nails into his shoulders. Blade grunts in your ear. You think he likes the pain.

The gig was only let out half an hour ago, and plenty of people are still milling around. Whispers are circulating about if and where there will be an afterparty. You weren’t paying much attention to them— they’re easy to ignore— especially when Blade had been dragging you by the wrist just far enough away from the main house to fuck without being overtly noticeable. 

(Barely, though. Blade can be loud and you can be loud when you’re with him. You’re tempting fate to be caught, seen with him in this way. It’s an open secret that you’re the scraps that Blade entertains himself with, but you would rather not be caught with your literal pants down.)

Blade smells like cigarettes and sweat. The scent of unclean smoke tangles in his unruly hair as you get a grip on it and tug. The juncture of his neck has the faintest hint of some cologne you’re sure he doesn’t know the name of and stale sweat. You press your lips there and dare to drag your tongue across his skin and taste him. It’s not a good taste, not necessarily, but you love it. Salty and filthy. (It’s disgusting, but familiar and morosely comforting.) You are drunk on it and it makes you feel pathetic at the same time.

A growl sounds in your ear as Blade pins you with his weight to the shed. Dragging you back from his neck, he grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him fully. 

“Don’t leave marks.” He paralyzes you with his stare and sneer. 

“I’d never.” You try to sound earnest, even if it’s a lie. Because you would— you’d bite and tear at his neck (like he does at yours) until the skin there is black and blue. Happily, you would leave hickies above his collar. Split his lip and bite his jaw hard enough to bleed. You could wear his blood on your teeth and smile for once at these fucking gigs.

Instead, you do not bite him. You just let Blade maul you as he desires.

He grinds against your core. The pressure is unpleasant at this point, too much and too little all at the same time. When you whimper now, he just ignores you and slips his hands under your shirt. He grabs your waist in both hands and squeezes.

“Turn around,” says Blade, already twisting you himself, so your front is pressed against the shed.

“H-Here?” You laugh nervously. Despite your... reputation, something cold, unwelcome and uncomfortable settles in you. “C-Can’t we go to your car? Or inside?”

“Maybe later.”

(It’s awful. It’s sick, the way your heart flutters at the implications of ‘later’. ‘Later’ means more of him. More of Blade’s time, his touch, his hardly-there care. More scraps for you to gorge yourself on, more time to beg for more. It’s sick. It’s sick how fucked you are for him.)

Blade reaches around your front to undo the button at the top of your trousers. In a swift motion, he has them around your thighs. Just enough that he can bend you over and access your cunt with some amount of ease. He keeps your panties on at first (he usually does this. You’re never sure why. You can delude yourself into thinking it’s him taking his time with you, but you know that that is a lie). 

Blade places one of his hands on the back of your neck to flatten you against the shed, while the other must be unbuttoning his own pants to get his cock out, based on the jingling of metal and shred of a zipper. You swallow, your mouth dry. You’re dry, but you know that if you try to touch yourself to prep at this point, Blade will only be meaner.

The most he does is run two fingers over your slit, over your panties. It’s barely enough contact on your clit to be felt, but you gasp and shudder anyway. Canting your hips back, you try to encourage more contact. Anything he’ll give you.

He sighs behind you. Disappointed. Aggravated. It makes you want to cry.

Blade peels down your panties. The cold air shocks you, your core tightening up, but you hardly have time to adjust to the temperature before Blade’s equally cold hands fully part your folds. He sighs again, pulling away only to spit on his fingers, and smear his saliva around your hole. It feels dirty. You feel dirty.

When Blade pulls away, you whine at the loss of contact (at how cold it is, at how the crowd milling around smoking cigarettes and cheap weed is just on the other side of this dilapidated shed crows and laughs into the night). You swear you can recognize March’s giggle above the din of conversation.

You’re brought back to your entanglement with a harsh slap to your ass. Harsh and audible. The sound that escapes your lips is choked and high. 

“Don’t get distracted,” Blade huffs. He spits again, presumably on his dick. 

You nod, latching onto the pain radiating from slap to your ass. As if sensing it, Blade lays down another strike. This one is hotter, harder. He isn’t holding back. It is sure to bruise the tender flesh there. A mark. Something that will tangibly ache, something leftover from your tryst.

You could cry.

The velvety head of Blade’s cock nudges your folds. He brackets you into the wall, arms on either side of you. Heat radiates off his chest and sinks into your spine.

“‘Feels good?” He asks, voice hoarse as he coats himself in your meager slick.

“Y-yeah,” you lie. It’s not enough to feel good. You don’t care.

Blade seems content enough with your answer as he bears down on you. Flattening you to the dirt-covered shed, he hitches his hip down, then up, trying to fit the tip of his cock into your hole. He maneuvers your hips as he pleases, grunting when the tip of him catches on your cunt. When you dare to whine, even the smallest sound, he cracks his hand down on your ass again. Your vision speckles into darkness with the shot of pain and—

(The roar of anxiety and subsequent shame when you realize how much quieter the milling crowd nearby has become.)

“Hold still.” Blade's voice has sunk low, gravely with the cigarettes he’s been smoking all evening. 

The next time his cock touches your opening, he presses in without hesitation.

It’s—

It’s too fucking much.

It is, it always is, every single fucking time he fucks you. Any prep he gives you is perfunctory. Blade will never lavish you with attention, not in the way that you probably need. That you—

(Might even deserve.)

No, the most that Blade will do is fuck you filthy behind a shed, near some of his more well-adjusted peers and probably come inside of you. On past occasions, he has let you suck him off in the backseat of his car. He’s only accidentally (‘accidentally’) came on your face a few times. Less than ten, more than five. Once, he ate you out for a few minutes, but you swear to god he was groaning someone else’s name as he did.

(You’re fucking pathetic.)

This is always too much. Blade is too big. Too big, even if you were stretched and primed with a few fingers like would be right and proper. As tight and dry as you are, it’s painful. He has to grind into your cunt with rolling little thrust so he can fit himself in at all. Each one shocks a breath out of you, a shattering, fragile sound. 

When Blade bottoms out, he lays flat over your back. The weight of him is suffocating. His corded muscle is all dead weight above you as his cock twitches inside you. You can’t tell if he’s idling to allow you some time to adjust, or purely for his own leisure. You can’t be sure. You don’t want to ask him either.

“You’re tight.” Blade’s voice threatens to break.

(Of course you are. He’s the only person you will let fuck you, and these trysts only occur every few weeks, when there’s a show that you can be cornered at.)

He bucks into you, deeper still. The head of his cock is touching parts of you that shouldn’t be touched.

You whimper, “Blade—”

He growls in response. It’s a raspy and low tone that makes arousal burn in your gut and leak down your thighs. (You hope so anyway— it’s more wet and you don’t think it hurts enough that you’re bleeding.) Blade fucks you in earnest, then. There’s no delay, no waiting, no potential for momentary, perceived niceties. He pulls out of you almost completely, then thrusts back into you in one single motion. The friction burns and your vision wavers. 

(You still moan like a whore.)

You feel— dirty. Disgusting. Pathetic as he fucks you like. You don’t feel like a person as he fucks you; you never do. How could you? The grip he uses on your hips is too bruising and the force and strength he’s using to brutalize your cunt is just too much. He fucks you like he’s taking anger out on a piece of drywall. Blade shares physically with you in the way a dog shreds a chew toy to bits, then leaves it on the ground to fester.

Blade grunts next to your ear, nipping there.

He doesn’t kiss you— well, not often. He can’t with your current position. You wouldn’t expect him to anyway. Sometimes he leaves a ring of dark hickies across your neck, like a collar. You like those, but he always waits an extra long time to see you after he marks you like that.

(You presume to make sure that the bruises have fully yellowed, then faded. A clean canvas.)

Blade’s pace increases, just before he pulls out. His cock rests on the cleft of your ass and he tips his forehead to rest on the shed, just beside yours.

“You’re still dry.”

“Sorry—”

He cuts you off. “It’s fine.”

...

It apparently isn’t fine. 

Blade drags you toward the house. He barks at someone, then Kafka, to find a room. You feel dazed as he does. Out of your body, as you receive a number of knowing and unknowing stares from the lingering show-goers who cluster around a firepit. 

(How many of them heard you just now? How many know the exact sounds you make when in barely-there pleasure? In certainly-there pain? How many of them know the sound of Blade’s too-big cock slapping into your too-dry cunt?)

It makes you feel sick to think about.

A room must be found for the two of you, as Blade drags you up the stairs of the back porch. 

As he does, he hesitates.

(He has so rarely done this.)

His gaze is not on you; it pierces elsewhere in the dark. A floodlight off the back of the house illuminates a section of the yard, and just beyond its reach, nestled somewhere between the dark and light, he fixates. His jaw sets and locks. 

There are figures, you realize.

They’re easy to identify once you actually focus. One is lithe and short-haired, the other broad-shouldered and long-haired.  Dan Heng and Jing Yuan. Speaking on the outskirts. It feels private. Their attention turns from their hushed conversation to the two of you as Blade stares daggers and swords into them. As if he could pierce them with nothing more than his silent rage and angry eyes. 

You freeze.

Their expressions are obscured in the lowlight, but you can almost feel the looks they give you. Like a sickly mucus that gets stuck to you and rolls down your flesh in slow, cold globs. 

Dan Heng (once so dear to you, still probably dear to you—) looks guarded, thought darkened. Contempt twists his expression, anger following just after. You’d ever wager that he’s disgusted, maybe. Probably with you, because he knows you’re better than this. Beside him, Jing Yuan wears an expression of careful passivity, of geniality, as he always does, but it’s tinged with something sad and old. For all parties involved in this silent, momentary exchange.

Jing Yuan regards you directly, slowly blinking at you, as though he was a large house cat intent on making you feel safe, and not a presence that only drives the bubbling anxiety in you higher. 

It’s a seconds-long encounter that stretches for an eternity. You cannot make yourself move. You cannot feel anything other than rotten and small.

Blade lets out a harsh exhale and yanks you away. The scene breaks and you’re dragged inside. He whispers under his breath, vitriol-tinging his tone. Your panties feel sticky and wet as you walk.

Kafka had found a room for you, on the second floor of the house. God knows whose it actually is. You don’t get a good look at the room as Blade pushes you inside.. It’s dim, the only light is licking in from the dirty window, an afterburn from the raging bonfire outside. You hear muffled voices still, leaking in like a draft. 

Blade locks the door and pushes you onto the unmade bed.

It’s a cheap mattress with flannel sheets. It smells like old weed smoke and cheap incense. Fu Xuan would tell you that you deserve better than this. You think you might.

Blade climbs on top of you, jaw still locked, and eyes far away.

(You do wonder what happened between him and Dan Heng. Something did. Something gutting and heartbreaking— you hear it when Blade sings. A betrayal, an intangible knife cut but still so painful. Dan Heng has always spoken about Blade with a type of protective neutrality. He warned you to never get involved with Blade. To stay away, to not get on Blade’s bad side, and if something did entangle you with him, Dan Heng could sort it out. He has always cared so fiercely for those he loves; it’s a shame that you have squandered it.)

(Blade is a sentimentalist. Blade is so held in the past that it chokes him. It always has, during every moment you’ve shared with him. He lingers in the bloody past, he holds it in his hands with a grip that’s meant to snap bird wings and flay flesh. He hates Dan Heng. He still loves him, though. You see it on his face sometimes. You hear it in Blade’s music. The ache, the death, the unending grief and mourning and rage that the man simply won’t let go of.)

(It is obsession.)

It shouldn’t make you bitter to think about. Yet, it does. It’s not your place to hold those types of feelings, let alone express them. For so many reasons, Blade will never see you as anything more than a cheap fuck. You think Dan Heng is the primary one. Over time, you’ve grown bitter. Resentful. 

Blade pulls off your shirt in one swift move. He’s slower than he usually is. More deliberate. His hands are shaking, like how they do just after he finishes a set. It’s… off—

You hate it. You hate that the lingering pain of someone else will effect Blade more than you ever, ever could in the present.

You grab a fistful of his hair and tug. His breath catches as you do.

”What the fuck is your deal?” You sneer at him. There’s a cruel edge in your voice that does not sound like you. Blade brings out the worst in you, and you fall prey to it, so easily. 

Blade glances up at you, eyes sharp like cut gems. He says nothing.

”You and Dan Heng,” you laugh. You don’t mean to— you don’t, you don’t— and you yank Blade’s hair so he has to look at you better. “It’s pathetic, you know. How you look at him like a kicked fucking dog. What happened between the two of you, anyways?”

Blade freezes. So do you.

You’ve misstepped so brutally. So stupidly and tragically and idiotically. You’ve pushed too hard for what—?

Blade is on his haunches in an instance and he slaps you across the face.

Your head follows the force of the impact, forcing your face to the side. Your cheek smarts. It wasn’t— that hard. Blade is strong. He could do worse. Still, it shocks you. The pain is enough to make you gasp and reel.

”What the fuck—“

”Don’t,” Blade grabs your jaw, “open your mouth about things you know nothing about. You should know better.”

You should. You do.

”I could know more, if you ever told me, I don’t know— anything?” You laugh in his face, manic behind your eyes. You’re crushing the delicate nature of your cheap arrangement like how a child would crush a flighty butterfly’s papery wings. 

Blade shakes his head, smothering a laugh. He wrangles you forward, half-off risen from the bed, and parts your lips with his thumb. Before you can react, bite, claw— he is raising himself higher than you, dwarfing you in height, and spitting down into your mouth, onto your tongue.

”You don’t know when to shut up, do you?” He pats the side of your face, over the cheek that he struck. It burns. In another world, this touch would be tender. Here, you can only wince. 

Before you can reply, continue to run your mouth and rile him up further, Blade kisses you.

It shocks you, stuns you. 

He— he hasn’t ever kissed you before. It’s never been an explicit boundary, but never once during these trysts has Blade ever initiated this type of contact. It has felt dangerous to do so yourself. Something that’s too intimate, too personal to share. The core of your entanglement is the way he uses you. It’s impersonal. 

A kiss, you think, implies something more tender.

You gasp into his lips, and he takes the opportunity to all but violate the inside of your mouth. His tongue plunders inside, licking at his own spit that you have yet to swallow. A noise chokes off in the back of your throat. Something desperate and shocked that you hardly recognize. It’s filthy. He nips at your lips and pushes you back down.

Blade devours you. 

It’s too much, really. It’s a gesture of tenderness that has been so thoroughly mutilated, calling it a kiss feels paltry. The way his lips are on your own is much more like an argument and a subsequent conquest. One in which you lose ground. He nips at your lower lip, snags it between his teeth, and tugs it as he pulls away.

You pant, the sound of your own breath roars in your own ears. Your hands are still buried in his hair, grip unyielding, anchoring you.

Blade smiles, something poisonous and satisfied. You are too drunk on the singular kiss he gives you to care that much.

“That’s all it takes, is it?” He laughs, the sound dark and rolling, like the sound of an earthquake cracking the earth. 

He already knows you’ll beg for scraps. God forbid he gives you even a morsel more. 

The bed squeaks as he flips you by your hips so you’re laid flat, belly-down on the dirty sheets. Blade spanks your still-clothed ass for good measure before rustling around behind you. Assumedly to disrobe, just enough to fuck you. Assumedly, to ignore the condoms you brought (knowing he would disregard them—). Assumedly, to fuck you with every inch of your life. 

You want it. You want him so badly it physically hurts.

(Or, maybe you tore while he had you behind the shed. Who is to say?)

Blade clamors behind you, shaking, arthritic hands tugging your pants by the waistband. He doesn’t even bother to unzip them this time. Your panties get pulled down along with them, and they get tossed elsewhere in the barely-lit room. Blade spits behind you, and a sound of too-dry stroking follows. 

“D-do you want me to suck you off?” you ask with a hum. You’d let him fuck your face, if he asked. Or, if he wanted. Blade wouldn’t ask.

“No.”

“Just let me know.”

Blade sighs behind you, but you think little of it.

You brace yourself up on your elbows, lowering your upper half to be flat against the bed, and arching your hips as high as they’ll go. It’s as if to make yourself look appetizing. You hope it entices Blade, even a little.

(Please, you need him to want you. You need him to want you so badly. Please, please, please—)

The head of Blade’s cock rubs as your hole, down to your clit, then back up again a few times. He’s so hot, it’s like he is burning you. Contact that scalds. The contact against your clit is... nice. It’s the most warm up he has graced you with in a while. You could crave more, but settle for this. 

“C’mon Blade,” you whine. Your voice sounds airy. “Fuck me.”

He doesn’t reply, not with his voice. The rocking of his hips becomes more pronounced, and the slide of him against you becomes slicker. Still too big, too hot, but wet at least. Which is a bonus. Pre and blood are probably leaking onto the shaft at least a little bit too.

It makes it easier once he slides home in a single blow. 

It’s too fucking deep— especially with this angle. The head of his cock presses against your deepest parts, bruises them in a place where no one can see or feel but you. Blade is huge, the girth of him stretches you as his hips rest against your ass.

A wretched noise bubbles up past your lips. Something between a cry and a plea, for more, for less— to go home, to be in a warm, clean bed with someone who actually cares— you aren’t sure. Your desires have been twisted up and wrong for so long, you can’t tell what you really want. 

It makes you feel rotten, and then there’s only one thing you want.

(To hurt.)

Blade fucks you, then. Fully in, fully out of. Long and deep thrusts that carve out your insides in a brutal way. It’s violent. He leans over your back, and braces himself over you. You feel small, stupid, and hurt. A horrible swirl of things that make tears spring up at the corners of your eyes. You bury your face in the crusty pillow you’d manage to snag nearby—

And Blade tugs it away immediately. His big, calloused hand curls to hold your jaw up, so every pitiful whine and whimper you let out can’t be muffled. The bed squeaks as his thrusts slow.

“Don’t hide.”

“I-I won’t.”

“You were.”

“I won’t a-again—”

“You want this, don’t you?” Blade growls in your ears, then moves to the most fragile skin of your neck and bites. 

(You do, you do— god you do. You need this.)

You nod, and Blade keeps biting. His jaw nearly locks. You’re sure that you’ll be bruised for a week.

Blade scoffs and rears back, grabs your hips in both hands for leverage. And he fucks you.

That’s all it can be, really. You can’t get a solid hold on anything. The pillow has been thrown off the bed, and you struggle to find purchase on the sheets. All you do is take it. Pleasure, or something like it, builds in your core and goes nowhere. It simmers but never crests anywhere near orgasm. 

You don’t mind. This is enough.

Blade’s pace increases, never frantic. Never with him. Manic maybe, insane, tortured and damaged, but never frantic. Not with you. His rhythm falters as his cock slides in and out of you, slick beginning to stick to the inside of your thighs. 

His hand comes down on his ass. The other cheek, this time. It’s enough force to bruise again. You’ll have trouble sitting for a week.

As Blade nears his peak, his rhythm stutters. His breath grows harsher and more strained. His grip goes from bruising to breaking. You gasp with the pain, but don’t tell him to stop. His cock brushes against your cervix, and never your sweet spot. 

Blade flattens you to bed, prone, and puts his entire weight on top of you as his orgasm hits him. A strangled cry shatters from his lips into your ear as he fucks you too fast and too hard. A gush of warmth fills your insides, spilling to your outsides when there isn’t enough of you to hold all of him.

The bed frame slams into the wall with his final few thrusts. 

You lay there, in the filth, in the pain and the dissatisfaction of the tryst, and rot.

...

Blade leaves you there, at some point.

Not right away, but eventually. He rolls off you at some point, catches his breath for a while, checks his phone, then rises to right himself.

You cannot make yourself move. The only thing you can make yourself do is take slow, measured breaths. Each ache in your body is punctuated, loud and unignorable now that the fizzling pleasure of sex has dissipated. What’s left of it is this: carnage. 

“You have a ride home?” Blade asks. He must be near the door, based on the sound of his voice.

Fu Xuan’s warning words come to mind, and shame fills your belly. 

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

And he leaves.

You rot for a while longer.

This is not the first encounter that has gone this way. Blade fucks you like this and leaves. There’s no reverie or sweetness. There is using and being used, and the conclusion that always follows is this. Cooling, soon-to-be dry cum leaking out of you in thick droplets and a bite mark on your neck you’ll need to conceal for the next two weeks. Blade will ignore you like he doesn’t know you, next time he sees. But still fucks you like a toy.

It’s awful. It’s all you want.

You force yourself up at some point.

You’re surprised to find that your pants and panties are in a heap on the end of the bed. You are sure that they were tossed farther, but perhaps you misremember. Painstakingly, you rerobe yourself. Moving your legs in such ways hurts so bad, you could cry. You probably did cry while Blade fucked you. 

The quick stop in the squalid bathroom confirms this. Mascara smudges around your eyes and down your cheeks. The sticky gloss you were wearing has been smeared away. Not even a stain of the crimson remains. 

You feel hollow as you walk down the stairs, outside, toward the bonfire and its rapidly dwindling flames. A few folks still millaround, people you recognize, just barely, though no one you could call a friend remains around the pit. Stelle, March, and Dan Heng are long gone, probably. You’d feel too ashamed to look them in the eye anyway.

Someone offers you a warm beer and you take it. Your hands shake.

Hollow and wordless, you move around the backyard like a specter. Part of you wishes you were one, just something mostly formless and shapeless. Transparent. No one could see you make a fool of yourself that way. There would be no witnesses to your desperation and perversion.

You swallow back bile when it rises in your throat, and wash it down with a chug from the can.

You’re surprised to find Jing Yuan idling around the corner of the house. He looks up when you near him, and he greets you with the same genial smile he always wears. He nods to the space next him, already plucking a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket on his shirt. You take one, and he lights it for you in the next instant.

“It looks like you needed that,” he hums. He doesn't take one for himself, only tucking the carton away and out of sight.

“Maybe.” You want to vomit. Or slide down the wall of the house and rot there. 

He laughs then. It’s too... warm of a sound for how you feel. For how dirty these venues are, and for the company that you have come to hold, it feels dissonant. Jing Yuan is too kind, too patient. 

(He cannot be your friend because your ruin would spread to him, maybe.)

“Take as many as you like,” he urges with a hum, and settles next to you.

Silently, you ruminate. Descend into yourself. You suppose, given the events you’ve seen tonight, that you’re both stewing in something akin to yearning. 

(Jing Yuan is better than you for it. He, at least, doesn’t sleep with his unrequited adored in someone else’s bed after a messy house show.)

“Do you have a way home?” asks Jing Yuan, breaking you from your slow-rolling spiral.

You shake your head. It would be rude to call Fu Xuan so late. You— you hadn’t really thought about a ride. Not yet. 

Jing Yuan looks you up and down and his smile looks sadder, “How about a ride home?”

“Sure.” You nod. 

The ride back home in Jing Yuan’s (too nice, too expensive, too decadent) car is quiet. An album from a band you don’t recognize plays at a low volume. Soothing, soft voices, so juxtaposed from the venue you leave behind. Maybe you just can’t recognize the words because you’re decaying. Your phone lays in your lap, over your aching thighs. 

[no new messages]

(Because Blade never messages you after a fuck. You’re not worth that much to him.)

...

Gingerly, you unlock your front door and enter your little apartment. Fu Xuan lays on the couch, on her back, with her phone against her collarbone. Her mouth is parted in peaceful sleep, though her hair is still done up, all of her pins are still in.

(She waited for you, again. And you failed her, again.)

You don’t know how she puts up with you. Or why either.

Some part of you wants to vomit. Wretch, like it’ll purge the awful, disgusting thoughts warming you. They do not serve you. You should just—

(Know better. You gain nothing from entangling yourself from Blade. The sex is... enough. Because Blade doesn’t know his own strength sometimes and makes it hurt, unintentionally toeing the line between too little and too much. It’s still not worth it. It shouldn’t be worth it. You’d be better off never going to any gigs, ever again. You wouldn’t have to disappoint and embarrass yourself to your old friends then. You wouldn’t have to linger in the yearning of others while never having that affection given to you.)

You collapse atop your bed. Your makeup has been roughly scrubbed off with an old towel, and you can feel the crunchy remnants of mascara clinging around your eyes. You can’t make yourself care. Burying your face in your pillow, you burrow into your blankets. You’ll probably be sore and hungover tomorrow... today? The songbirds are just beginning to chirp their morning arias. It makes you sick to your stomach.

As you begin to doze, your phone vibrates. 

[one new message]

blade: did you get home 

Your mouth feels dry and your chest feels so tight you could die. 

you: yeah. jing yuan drove me. 

[seen: 5:11 AM]

You hold your breath as Blade begins to type. Then stops typing. Then begins again. It goes on for several volleys and you really do think you might puke.

blade: get some sleep

You drop your phone somewhere in your sheets. Giddiness fills your chest, despite the exhaustion and ache and bone-rotting fatigue. Elation causes you to smile, something wide and girlish that you have to hide in your pillow, lest it be beared to the world.

(It’s a scrap. It’s nothing. It’s worse than the bare minimum and the bar is already in hell.)

But, it’s something.

A morsel. Something to clutch onto and hold and cherish.

You want to put his words between your teeth and swallow. 

[tsukuyomii45]

Do you have any modern obito and madara headcanons

Yes I do, however, I intend to incorporate the Japanese culture into their modern HCs. Here we go:

-The basis of their relationship is "tough love", more on the tough, and less on the love xD. Madara raised Obito as a child when his parents died in a car accident.

-Madara is a traditional man. He definitely raised Obito to be persistent and hardworking, and to prioritize work and goals, and everything else comes second. While Madara is more aloof, Obito has a loud nature, opposing Madara's ideals, which completely irritates the older man - but the disciplines he instilled in Obito are completely there.

-Nothing pissed off Madara more than seeing Obito getting low grades in school; and when Kakashi moved into the same school and got high grades, Madara tutored Obito for hours while holding a metal ruler over his head. No Uchiha under Madara's wing is allowed to get low grades and drag the Uchiha name.

-Obito is the CEO of Madara's company. Madara retired to practice falconry and Tachi art (Japanese swordsmanship), and passed the role to Obito. Izuna owns a different company in case anyone wonders why Obito gets to be CEO.

-Madara put Obito in tachi classes when he was in elementary school, and when Obito became an adult, Madara practically forces him into a duel.

-As a teenager, Obito tended to challenge Madara's views and ideals and this led to a lot of explosive arguments between the two that required Madara to threaten Obito with his wooden tachi sword when the little shit crossed his limits with his smart mouth.

-Obito's development as a man grew a soft spot in Madara; given that when Obito became an adult, he became more aloof and mellow, and more focused on the success of the company and he developed an authority and charisma that was very similar to Madara - and this made the older man proud because he saw himself in Obito.

-Madara tends to tease Obito about his crush and love for his childhood best friend, Rin. When Obito starts to act like a little shit, Madara aggravates him by saying that Rin is too good for him and "can see why she fell for that Hatake boy."

-Madara also owns the Naka Shrine - a famous landmark in modern Konoha, and made Itachi and Shisui in charge of running festivals and events in that shrine. Obito also marries Rin there, in which they had a traditional Japanese wedding, which pleased Madara because "it is the sacred sanctuary passed down to them from their Uchiha ancestors, and marrying in that shrine results in abundant blessings from the gods (the god is Susanoo).

-Obito initially wanted to be a cop, but found that running a company suited him more since he always wanted to be acknowledged, and tended to shadow Madara when he worked.

-They shit on each other only in front of other Uchiha members, but when anyone outside of the family insults the other, the two of them turn into their worst nightmare and defend one another.

-Madara tends to be overly critical over little things. "Stand up straight. Don't slouch. You're really going to wear that? You could've added more salt to this. You added too much water into the pot, the rice is all wet. Who told you to add roe to this?"

-Madara lives in a traditional Japanese mansion after he retired, and owns two shiba inu dogs, whom he named Taru and Tatsu. He also tends to travel a lot. Madara seems to be a dog person, since he finds joy in their loyalty and obedience, while Obito is a cat person and owns a one-eyed black cat that he called "Tobi". Madara makes fun of him for naming his cat "something stupid when he could've called it something better like Yami or Kuro." Yes, they fight over pet names.

-Madara always lectures Obito and gives him unsolicited advice, which is something Obito totally hates. Madara is the type that would make fun of you and say that he is only "joking", but would actually kill you if you did the same to him. Obito however, tends to seek Madara's advice sometimes when it comes to the business and company matters.

-When Obito and Rin started dating, Madara consistently asked Obito when they're getting married and when they did get married, when are they having babies to "carry the Uchiha name", and tended to use terms like "plant your seed into her" and "coitus" or "sexual intercourse", and scolds Obito when the younger man uses more vulgar terms (even the word "sex" to Madara is vulgar and unclassy). "Such insolence! Have some class in your speech, boy!"

--

That's all for now! Feel free to add in your thoughts!

[villain-crown]

heart | @jegulus-microfic | words: 855

* I’m running late on the prompts whoops

critical care, part 6 (part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 7, part 8, part 9)

a Jegulus nurse!AU

“Wow, he’s mean.”

“I’m meaner,” Regulus replied and holy shit James believed him.

He could picture it now: Regulus, a relentless, demanding little thing on top of him, sinking onto James’s cock with a vicious hiss and riding him until he was spent. He would be so small but a force of nature all the same, wrapping James’s heartstrings around his little finger like a leash.

Bloody hell, he’s going to look amazing on our Christmas cards.

“Were you just waiting for me to get angry?”

“I was waiting to see if you could,” Regulus corrected, licking a bit of cream from his spoon. James watched the pink tongue dart out, give a good, long lick and disappear past plush lips once more.

I’m not meant to survive this lunch.

“So you and Riddle used to…?”

“Used to,” Regulus replied carelessly.

“What happened?”

“He asked Sirius if he could fuck the both of us at the same time. Not a good look.”

James gaped at him, thoroughly distracted from his lascivious thoughts. “What!?”

Regulus set his spoon to the side. “It was before Sirius got together with Lupin. He was sleeping with half the hospital and every now and then one of his conquests would decide they wanted the matching set. So now Sirius loses his shit at anyone that looks at me sideways and I get the pleasure of sneaking around behind his back like this.”

That… made a lot of sense actually. James had just assumed that Sirius was being baselessly paranoid but there was something a bit bittersweet about it now. Sirius loved Regulus more than anything or anyone. He must have felt very guilty for putting his little brother in that position.

“I’m sorry.”

Regulus frowned. “Why? It’s not your fault.”

“It’s just… what you say.” James cleared his throat, switching topics. “But why did you want to see if I could get angry?”

“I wanted to make sure I wasn’t wrong.”

“About?”

“You manifesting the right attitude to fuck me.”

Even though James had very blatantly been hoping for it, the direct statement made him choke hard. “What!?”

“I like it rough,” Regulus explained calmly, making James work hard to will the beginnings of arousal away. “With teeth and nails and words. I don’t see anything wrong with it, but I understand that not every guy can deliver.”

James suddenly pictured a naked, sweating, panting Regulus on all fours under him with James’s teeth digging into Regulus’s smooth, warm shoulder as he took him from behind in harsh thrusts. It wasn’t James’s usual style—he liked looking at his partner; liked a bit of connection. But he was only human and what else was he supposed to do but agree if Regulus wanted a little pain with his pleasure?

There was something else that concerned him, however.

“Do you think Riddle’s angry enough to tell people?”

Regulus looked disinterested. “Riddle doesn’t scare me. He understands that the only power he has over me is whatever I decide to give him. If he turns me in to HR, I’ll turn him in too.”

“Mutually assured destruction.”

“No, actually, because I can get another nursing job tomorrow. He’s in a competitive program that lasts two years. He can’t afford to get kicked out. He wouldn’t get another cardiovascular fellowship with a sex scandal on his record. If anything, he’ll try to protect me to protect himself.”

Gorgeous, vicious little thing, James thought admiringly.

“I’m not being unreasonable. If he doesn’t want any problems, he just has to keep his mouth shut. It’s not that hard.”

“And you’re good at that sort of thing, are you? Keeping your mouth shut?”

Regulus just looked at him. “I make a much better impression with it open.”

“I bet you do.”

“So?” Regulus picked up the spoon again, idly pressing it against his tongue. “I already know you’re interested, so let’s not kid ourselves there. The real question is if you’re too scared of my big brother to fuck me the way you obviously want to.”

And that really was the question, wasn’t it? Sirius would lose his mind if he found out, that was a given. If he didn’t take a hit out on James, he’d at least refuse to ever speak to him again.

Objectively, this was a very obvious choice.

He should be running away screaming at the very suggestion of engaging the Slytherin like that.

…But fuck, Regulus was fit.

Like, expensive fashion magazine meets dirty wanking material fit.

This is really sort of Sirius’s fault, he tried to convince himself. The way Remus had told it yesterday when James had struck up a very ulteriorly-motivated conversation on the subject, Sirius had practically raised Regulus and had no spine whatsoever when it came to denying him anything.

“He’s never even heard of the word ‘no,’” Remus had concluded with a fond roll of his eyes. “Sirius spoils him rotten.”

And James would be out of his fucking mind to say no to him too.

“…You know what? Fuck it. I’ll fist fight Sirius every morning in the parking lot for the rest of my life if I have to. We’re doing this.”

[bittersuitejacobs]

• an unhealthy obsession •

{Nate Jacobs/Original Character}

Ophelia is no stranger to wanting. For most of her life it's all she'd been allowed to do, trapped on the outside looking in, window shopping for normal experiences. Ophelia is also no stranger to obsession. Books, movies, TV shows; a terribly ill child who never even had the chance to make a real friend, she took what she could from fiction. All she'd ever wanted growing up, the thing she obsessed over, was someone who could save her, from her life, from herself. Someone who could make her feel alive.

So when her attention is caught by a beautiful, awful boy with a saviour complex, Ophelia vows not to remain a stranger to him either, no matter the cost.

Ophelia may no longer need to be saved, but Nate Jacobs makes her feel so damn alive, so she will turn herself into the kind of girl he wants, needs, and obsesses over too.

• in which Ophelia and Nate are somehow not the worst things to ever happen to each other. •

Warnings: Explicit Smut, Mutual Obsession, Stalking, Manipulative Behaviour, Possessive Behaviour, Infidelity/Cheating, Drinking, Violence, Non-Consensual Drug Use & Sexual Assault, Childhood Parental Abuse (Medical/Psychological/Emotional). Chapters will contain specific warnings.

{ fic playlist }

+ IN PROGRESS +

[ Season One ]

1. spectacle

2. the slate cleaned

3. knight in shining armour

4. according to plan

5. unexpected ink

6. daddy's angel

7. a week of turtlenecks

8. like and subscribe

9. dirty little secret

10. praise kink

11. deja vu

12. little black dress

13. fight flight fawn freeze

14. the aftermath of violence

15. boot theory

16. i quite enjoy ruining your day

17. mutually assured destruction

18. detriments of the modern age

19. justly serv'd

20. sanctuary

21. paper stars

[ Season Two ]

22. resolutions

23. bpm

+ ...

[ Alternate Universe ]

cool for the summer

Nate's been best friends with Lee Chase for as long as he can remember, and Lee's little sister Ophelia has always been... there. The best thing about her is how easy she is to ignore.

But everything changes between them when Lee and his dad go to Fiji for the Summer before their Junior year, and Nate and Lee's moms decide to spend that time holidaying together up the coast, taking the rest of their children with them.

So now, much to Nate's chagrin, he's forced to share a bed with his best friend's sixteen year old sister, who he's barely even had a full conversation with before in his life. But he quickly realises that she's bolder than he gave her credit for. Maybe it's a good thing her brother's on the other side of the world.

Warnings: Explicit Smut, Possessive Behaviour, Underage Drinking, Ongoing Parental Neglect/Emotional Abuse, Compulsive Over exercising as a Form of Self Harm, Mental Healthy & Unreality Struggles. Chapters will contain specific warnings.

1. Reintroduce

2. Reinvent

3. Recontextualise

4. Reconfigure

5. Realise

6. Revitalise

7. Reiterate

8. Reconnect

9. Restring

+ ...

Posting of completed chapters for the main fic will begin in the next few days.

Posting of the AU will begin after Chapter 10 of the main fic and will alternate.

THE TAGLIST IS ALWAYS OPEN !

(just message or comment to be added; I'll add you to the taglist for both unless you let me know you only wanna be tagged for updates from one)