#and people thinking they have a right to know aNYONE’S sexuality?? consider touching a patch of grass idk

[hellaephemeral]

people need to fucking learn what queerbating is and that real people cannot do it. even celebrities. people just existing and being themselves is not queerbating.

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

The Way I Am

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier Warning(s): virgin!geralt, loss of virginity, erectile dysfunction Rating: explicit

Summary: Geralt doesn't think anyone could ever want him because he can't perform sexually, Jaskier makes a point of proving him wrong.

Geralt has never been wholly comfortable with his body. It was essentially created to kill monsters and survive and for no other purpose and it does its job, but Geralt doesn't like it. And not only because now that he's older it's covered in scars and his left knee has never been the same since the injury, but his body doesn't function normally. He's not supposed to be human, not any longer, but he hates that his heartbeat is so slow, hates that he can't turn off the hypersensitivity when he's in a crowd. 

But the second round of trials brought with them an additional problem that he doesn't share with the others. When he was younger, it was his hair that bothered him the most, that set him apart even from the other Witchers who shared the rest of his maladies, but as he grew his hair became the least of his problems.

Geralt was fourteen when he realized his cock didn't work the same as everyone else's. Which is to say, it didn't work at all.

It wasn't unusual for the boys to mess around with one another; they were all learning and developing and with the heightened senses it could be a lot. But Geralt never had before and the very first time it went… badly. The other boy had been confused as to why he couldn't get hard and when Geralt had continued to struggle, the other boy eventually tired of waiting and went off to find someone else.

It hadn't meant much at the time, but Geralt had continued to dwell on it, thinking about the look on the other boy's face, how wrong it had made him feel. He hadn't tried again after that, afraid to face the same confusion and rejection a second time, afraid to even share his secret with those closest to him. Eskel, he's sure, wouldn't care that he was broken, but Geralt wasn't willing to take that chance.

So when they set out on the Path, Geralt makes a point to avoid sex in any context, bottling up the need when it arises and focusing on his job above anything else. He knows no one will want him because he has nothing to offer them in bed and that's just something he has to live with. But he still feels the need, still desires a soft touch, but even that seems beyond his reach because he's a Witcher and people have little love for Witchers.

Then, he meets Jaskier who is both a blessing and a curse. Because Jaskier is soft and sweet and beautiful and treats Geralt like he's no different than anyone else, but Jaskier is also stunningly beautiful and Geralt longs to get his hands on him. But he knows how that would end, so he keeps him at arm's length, and still, Jaskier just continues traipsing around after him. He takes his leave on occasion, but never longer than a few weeks at a time before he's bounding back into Geralt's life with some new wonderful thing to tell him about.

And Geralt, regrettably, falls hard.

He can't tell Jaskier how he feels because he knows the second they fell into bed together, the whole thing would fall apart. Because no one wants someone who can't perform and at this point, Geralt is so inexperienced, he'd be embarrassed to even consider sleeping with someone, even someone as caring as Jaskier.

So he keeps his feelings to himself for years, suffering through Jaskier's failed relationships and many more dalliances in between. And he tells himself he's okay with it because he could never be what Jaskier wants anyway. Then one night, they're in the city for a festival. Jaskier is performing and between sets he's ducking back to their table, chatting away happily with Geralt and sharing drinks with him. And by the end of the night, they're both a little drunk.

So when Jaskier saunters up and climbs into his lap, Geralt doesn't stop him. Because Jaskier's hands feel good on him and he so rarely gets to indulge in even the faintest of touches. Jaskier's sitting back, smiling at him as he twists his fingers through Geralt's hair and then he gently tips forward, pressing their foreheads together.

"Geralt?" he breathes, "Can I kiss you?"

Everything in him screams no because he can't let himself have this little bit of Jaskier and then never again, but he's already come this far. So he nods, slips a hand up around the back of Jaskier's neck and pulls him close.

And Jaskier's mouth slides against his own like it was meant for it, soft and needy and he doesn't seem to care that Geralt is a little out of his depth. He guides him, showing him how to move and Geralt copies Jaskier's motions as well as he can, licking lightly into his mouth and nibbling on his lip.

Jaskier moans against him, sliding forward so their bodies are pressed together, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging and oh he likes that. But then Jaskier pushes further, sliding a hand down Geralt's chest and pressing against his crotch, and Geralt panics.

He shoves him away without thinking, sitting back in his seat, and when he looks up Jaskier looks hurt and confused. And Geralt knows he can't tell but he doesn't know what to say to him, so he pushes himself up and hurries away, making for their room.

He shuts the door and locks it behind him, stripping out of his outer layers and curling up in the bed. He knows Jaskier will be back before too long or if Geralt's lucky, he'll find someone else's bed to sleep in tonight and Geralt won't have to worry about him until the morning.

But it isn't long before Geralt hears the clink of a key in the hole and the door pushing open into the room. He doesn't look up and he doesn't move from his spot on the bed, but he listens to Jaskier. The door shuts and Jaskier crosses to the other side of the room, carefully undressing, but what Geralt isn't expecting is to hear the sound of his footsteps coming back toward him. Then the blankets are pulled back and a gust of cold air hits his back before Jaskier climbs up into bed with him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, reaching out and tentatively brushing his fingers along Geralt's back. "I didn't mean to push, I thought it would be okay."

"It's fine," Geralt whispers.

"Obviously not, darling or you wouldn't have pulled away like that. I don't mind."

"It is," Geralt insists, "I… like when you touch me."

"Okay. What was bad about tonight, then?" Geralt just groans into his pillow, pulling it up around his face. One of Jaskier's hands comes up to settle on his arm and he leans up over him. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But you can, Geralt. You can talk to me about anything."

"It's just," he pauses, curling his fingers around the edge of the pillow in frustration. "I'm… broken." Immediately, he can feel Jaskier's despair and he doesn't know what else to say, he doesn't want to make it worse.

"You're not, love."

"I am," he snaps, frustrated by Jaskier's continued gentleness. "My fucking prick doesn't work, Jaskier."

"Oh," Jaskier says quietly and Geralt wants to scream, to throw something, but Jaskier just wraps his arms around him and holds him closer. "They have medications for that, enchantments."

"They don't work. I got desperate once and tried, even Yen- It was the trials, Jaskier, it's irreversible."

"The others-" he starts but Geralt cuts him off.

"Just me."

Jaskier nuzzles against his back and squeezes more firmly around him. There's silence for a long time, just the sound of Jaskier's breath, and Geralt focuses on the steady rise and fall, letting it soothe him.

"You know," Jaskier whispers at length, "none of that matters to me. I'm so sorry you were made to feel like you were somehow broken, Geralt, but it doesn't matter to me. I- I love you. For who you are, not for your cock, and I don't want you to think something's wrong with you because of it. You're too important to me." Geralt scoffs and Jaskier flattens his palm against his chest, sliding up over his heart.

"Don't argue with me, Witcher. "My love is mine to give."

"But I'm-"

Jaskier sighs softly, brushing his fingers against Geralt's skin. "Beautiful," he whispers, "kind, soft, loving. You're a wonderful man, Geralt, and there are already so many who refuse to see that. Don't be one of them. I'm not going to stop loving you, so you might as well accept it."

He presses his forehead against Geralt's back, kissing up his spine and Geralt shudders under the touch, biting back the insistence that he's not enough, that Jaskier will tire of him because he can't fuck him. Eventually, the soft brush of Jaskier's fingers and his lips calms him and Geralt drifts off, still wrapped up in his arms.

In the morning, he wakes to Jaskier's breath against the back of his neck. They've shifted during the night, so Jaskier is curved right around him, fitted against his body like he belongs there, and as soon as he realizes Geralt's awake, Jaskier kisses the side of his neck and slides an arm up his chest.

"Good morning," he hums.

"Mm, morning."

"How did you sleep, love?" Geralt hums but doesn't answer. He slept better than he has in a long time, but he doesn't know how to say that to Jaskier. "Can I ask you something?"

"Mm?"

"Does it still feel good when someone touches you?"

"I… don't know."

"Can I?"

"You don't have to," Geralt breathes, "I know it's not worth it for you-"

"Geralt," Jaskier interrupts gently, "I thought we went over this. I am in love with you and it's going to take a lot more than a soft prick to keep me away so unless you tell me not to, I will do everything I can to make you feel good."

Jaskier shifts behind him, and the arm wrapped around him slips lower, fingertips slipping through the patch of hair right above his waistband.

"Can I?" Jaskier asks again and Geralt can't bring himself to speak, too afraid to break whatever spell or dream he's trapped in. He nods against the pillow and Jaskier leans up, kissing his shoulder. "Tell me if it's too much, love."

Jaskier fumbles a little with the buttons on his trousers, getting them undone with one hand before slipping inside and wrapping around his cock. He squeezes a little at first, then moves on to stroking him slowly, letting Geralt feel him as he moves down the length of him. Sparks shoot up his spine and Geralt squirms, pushing into the touch and groaning softly because no one has ever touched him like this and it's overwhelming.

"I can't," he whispers and Jaskier immediately lets him go, but Geralt can feel Jaskier's cock swelling against his lower back and it only makes him feel guilty. "No one's ever touched me like that."

"Darling, I'm so sorry. Did it feel good?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Jaskier hums, "that's all I want." Jaskier smoothes his hand up Geralt's side, kissing his shoulders and humming against him. "Do you want to try again? It can be a little overwhelming, but I promise you it'll feel good."

Jaskier gets his hand around him again and Geralt groans as he strokes him, fingers slipping up around the head of his cock pulling back at the foreskin so he can touch him properly. Pressure builds as Jaskier touches him, squeezing around the base then pulling up the length of him again. And Geralt can barely breathe, he’s engulfed with pleasure as Jaskier kisses his neck and his shoulders and presses up against him.

And Jaskier is hard, digging into the small of his back and Geralt wants so badly to turn around and touch him, but he can hardly think through the fog of pleasure. His hips twitch forward, pressing himself into Jaskier's hand and Jaskier loosens his grip a little, letting Geralt fuck between his fingers.

"You're beautiful like this," Jaskier whispers, "Geralt you have no idea how lovely you are." He hums against him, pressing his nose into Geralt's hair. "Are you gonna come for me?"

"It feels-" Geralt gasps, but then Jaskier's hand is around him again, slipping to the base to stroke him quickly.

"Good?" Jaskier asks.

"Like I'm gonna split apart."

"Yeah, it will. You're so close, love, so close."

Geralt jerks in his grasp as the pleasure peaks and he's not certain how he can contain this feeling but then he's coming, spilling over Jaskier's hand and onto the sheets. And he's never felt anything like it before but it's incredible. Blood rushes in his ears and he's only barely aware of Jaskier talking to him as he whines and squirms against him.

Then it's over and he's left panting and hot, sweat gathering at the hollow of his neck and Jaskier's hand slips up his chest soothingly.

"How was that?" he breathes, pressing his lips to Geralt's shoulder.

"Felt good," Geralt mumbles, "really good."

"Yeah," Jaskier agrees, "it feels incredible. And just think of all the different ways I can make you come." His hips jerk, pressing into Geralt's back and he mutters a faint apology against his skin.

"What about you?" Geralt asks, turning in Jaskier's arms to face him. Jaskier tips forward, catching his lips in a brief kiss.

"This is for you, my darling, we can worry about me another time."

"I've never," Geralt starts but he feels awkward talking about it and ducks his head, staring instead at where Jaskier's hand reaches out to twine his fingers with his own. "I've never been with anyone and I know I can't, but…" he trails off and Jaskier presses in again, kissing his lips before tipping his head up.

"Geralt if you want me to fuck you all you have to do is ask."

"I didn't think anyone would want to."

"I do. Fuck, Geralt, the number of times I've thought about it… I've always wanted you ever since the first day. I don't care how your body reacts as long as you're enjoying yourself. So yes, Geralt, if you want me to fuck you I'd be more than happy to."

"Please?" Geralt breathes and Jaskier gets both arms around him, hauling him up against him and rolling onto his back.

Geralt settles quickly as Jaskier's hands slide down his back and over his ass, catching on the waistband of his trousers. When he tips his head up, Jaskier is looking back at him, his eyes dark with lust but somehow still soft and Geralt can't help but dip down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. And Jaskier hums against him, sliding one hand back up to the back of his head and deepening the kiss.

He presses one thigh between Geralt's legs drawing him in and Geralt lets out a shuddering breath as his cock grinds up against Jaskier's leg.

"That's it," Jaskier hums, "I'm here for you, too, darling just wanna make you feel good." He pushes his trousers down, encouraging the roll of Geralt's hips as he gets them off of him and then, as he brings his hands back up, Geralt's attention is diverted.

His cock feels incredible where he presses it into Jaskier's thigh, but practiced fingers slip up over his ass, spreading his cheeks and dipping between and Geralt holds his breath. Realistically, he knows how men have sex, has seen his brothers do it and has come across it more than once in his travels, but he never expected it to happen to him and he can barely think.

Jaskier reaches for something on the floor, fumbling with it, and the next time he touches him, his fingers are cool and slick. He drags them across Geralt's hole and Geralt whines at the sensation that flickers through him. He drops to his elbows, burying his face in Jaskier's neck.

"Feel good?"

"Mmhm."

"Good. Want more?"

"Please."

"Mm," Jaskier hums, "how could I refuse when you ask so nicely?"

He brushes his fingers over him again, letting them catch on his rim and pressing a little firmer when they do. He circles his hole, pressing against it consistently and then pushes the tip of one finger into him and Geralt nearly cries out. Jaskier's free hand comes up to the back of his neck, stroking slowly.

"Still good?" he asks and when Geralt nods he hums pleasantly. "Good. It's gonna stretch a little, especially when I get my cock in you, but just tell me if it's too much, okay?"

Jaskier presses in a little further and Geralt inhales sharply. He remembers all the calming techniques he was taught as a child and shuts his eyes, breathing slowly. It feels good, having Jaskier's finger inside him and he likes the stretch of it, but he's already creeping close to the edge again, the pressure within him building and he doesn't want it to be over yet, he wants Jaskier to fuck him.

And it feels incredible when Jaskier adds a second finger, when he presses all the way in and rubs into him. He finds a spot deep within him that has Geralt moaning wantonly and grinding hard against Jaskier's cock. And Jaskier groans under him, not faltering as he continues thrusting into him, sending sparks of pleasure up Geralt's spine.

"Fuck," Jaskier groans, "Geralt you're so fucking sexy and you know I'd be happy to make you come on my fingers ten times over, but I'm not gonna last with you grinding against me like that. Think you're ready for my cock?"

"Yes," Geralt rasps and Jaskier is quick to pull out of him, but Geralt doesn't have the chance to miss the fullness before he's being shifted and the head of Jaskier's cock is pressing against him, pushing in.

It's much bigger than his fingers, but Geralt just keeps himself steady, face pressed into Jaskier's shoulder as he takes all of him. And once Jaskier is settled, he shifts his hips slowly, allowing Geralt to adjust to the intrusion.

And it feels amazing, the absolute fullness and the pressure against his cock as Jaskier's thrusts rock him and the fact that it's Jaskier, that he wants him despite everything. Geralt can't cope and he shuts his eyes, burying his face in Jaskier's neck and kissing him softly, frantically.

Jaskier keeps up the pace, finding an angle that hits that spot and sticking with it until Geralt can only whimper and moan with every thrust. It's all so much and before long, he's moving with him, unable to keep still any longer. He pushes back onto Jaskier's cock and ruts against his stomach, whining at the sensitivity of his cock and then without warning, he's coming.

He spills over Jaskier's stomach, dropping against him as waves of pleasure crash over him and he's barely aware of Jaskier coming too until he's pulling his head up and kissing him hard.

They rock through it together and Jaskier doesn't let him go for a second, running his hands over him and kissing him eagerly. It takes longer this time before Geralt finds his breath again, and when he does, Jaskier is right there with him, cheeks flushed and bright, and he can't help but lean in to kiss him again.

He doesn't know how long it is that they lay there, wrapped up in each other just kissing and touching, but eventually, it's Jaskier who pulls away.

"As much as I'd love to stay here for the rest of the day," he hums, lips still barely an inch from Geralt's, "I think we should have a bath and get some lunch."

Geralt would also like to stay in bed for the rest of the day, but his stomach grumbles at him and he finds himself agreeing. Jaskier runs a hand down his chest, wrapping loosely around his cock and brushing his fingers along it. Geralt's eyes flutter shut and Jaskier hums softly.

"If you're amenable," he breathes, "I'd like to rent a room at the kingfisher, one of the nice ones, and stay for a while." He slips his hand back up Geralt's chest and around the side of his neck. "I think we both deserve a break and I'd like some time to… get to know you better." His lips curl up in a cheeky smile and Geralt scoffs at him but doesn't resist when Jaskier draws him back in for a gentle kiss.

A shiver runs up his spine and Geralt thinks, maybe, that despite its flaws, his body isn't so bad after all.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

The General (part 4): Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: escape sounds good. but is it better than staying?

wc: 2.6k

tw: sexual assault and death

a/n: please don’t kill me. This is plot. No smut to be found quite yet. I’m really trying to save up my smut cards for something really big lol

masterlist

 Everything is on fire. Everyone is running around you, because for some reason, you’re walking toward the flames. Screams echo in your ears and the feeling of something tugging you into the burning building that looked like your home is too strong to ignore. When you push the door to your house open, your mother is hovering over your father, who is bleeding out as you watch in horror. When your mother looks up at you, she’s crying fat tears of sorrow, then she whispers:

“You did this, y/n. You let that monster into our town, and now look at what you’ve done.” 

A hand smooths over your face as you twist and turn, but you don’t realize it’s the General until you open your eyes, the light from the moon blocked by his body. “You’re okay. Don’t worry; no one’s going to hurt you here,” he whispers, despite having hurt you before. You push his hand away and sit up, clutching your knees to your chest as you catch your breath. “Nightmare?” he asks, and for a second, you’re wondering if he’s saying that he had a nightmare. But then you feel the sweat around the nape of your neck and on your chest, and remember the feeling of helplessness you just emerged from. You nod, looking around the tent at the table, papers, the ink, the discarded haori near the seat…

“You’re up late,” you mention - trying to change the subject - and the General huffs a laugh, pushing back his hair like he always did before he launched into an explanation. Why didn’t he just tie it up? 

“I do my best work right before the midnight hours. You’d be surprised at the formations I can create with just a hint of alertness left in my body.” He turns back to you, touching your foot with a broad hand. “Do you want to talk about your dream?”

“No,” you answer quickly, hoping he would drop the subject. 

“Then let me have Kaori fetch you some water for a bath. I would hate for you to remain as sweaty as you are.” You slide off the bed, walking around to the little desk area that held stacks of papers and diagrams and sliding one free from the stack. 

“You draw maps?” 

“Cartographers are not cheap, little one. I’ve canvassed a massive effort to make a map of every place I’ve been to… Nanami is very helpful with this, as well. He’s so attentive to details that I might have missed, so I rely on his help more often than not.” 

“And Haibara?” 

“Yu? He’s pretty easy to get along with as well. He’s my mentee, if you really consider it. If I have no children, he will inherit the throne after me.” 

“What about Gojo?” you question, sliding a map of the surrounding area forward and examining it carefully. As he drones on about the blue eyed man, you make sure your eyes cover every inch of the map and memorize the routes in and out of the camp. If you could just find a way to get over to the edge of the camp, you could easily hitch a ride back to your hometown and tell everyone about the General’s whereabouts. And expose Yuko for the traitor he is. 

“But do you enjoy your time with Kaori? I purposefully made her the head of maids so she would tend to you and you alone.” 

“Ah,” you push the map away and smile up at Geto, having finally found your escape route. “She’s lovely.” 

And Kaori would be even more lovely once she helped you with your plan to run away. 

_______________________________________________________________________

“How do you feel today?” Kaori wonders as you dress in your standard blue kimono.

“Quite well,” you answer, smiling back at her. She raises a brow, a grin forming on her lips. 

“Might this have anything to do with Master Geto?” 

You look back at the maid, and give her your best fake grin. “Maybe.” Kaori hums in surprise, then gathers her things up before leaving you alone again. “Oh, I almost forgot,” you begin, tying the kimono closed. “Could you bring me an extra pear or two with lunch today? I have a craving for them right now.” Kaori nods and bows slightly before walking out of the tent. 

Map? Check.

Clothes? Check.

Extra food? Check. 

The entire morning is spent pouring over the map, tracking your path in and out of the compound. You would have to walk a considerable distance, but it was perfectly fine. If you could manage to secure a horse, you’d probably get halfway home before anyone noticed you were missing, and that was a considerable head start. 

Your plan went into effect as soon as they announced dinner, and you wait patiently for Geto to come fetch you for the evening meal, laying in his bed with a pained expression. When he comes inside, he sees you clutching your stomach and hanging over the side of the bed a little. 

“Are you unwell?” he asks immediately, stooping by the bedside and smoothing your hair away from your face. You shake your head slowly, all of it an act, and he grumbles something about ‘knowing the food was undercooked at lunch’. Little did he know that you had stowed it away, along with a spare kimono of his and rudimentary copy of the map. 

You fake a cough for emphasis, and his hands fly to your face, patting the tender flesh of your cheeks and forehead. “You’re warm. I’ll have Kaori come and attend to-” 

“I don’t want her to catch what I have,” you moan, rolling over on your left side. 

“You shouldn’t be alone like this,” Geto urges, eyes frantically looking around the tent space for something. “I’ll… I’ll eat dinner here, then. I’ll stay with you.” You shake your head weakly, ignoring his panicked expression. 

“I can’t bear the smell of food right now… I just need some rest.” 

“And you shall have it,” Geto whispers, placing a tender kiss on your left hand. “I’ll be back within the hour to check on you.” And with that, he leaves you in the tent. When you suspect that he - and as a result, his friends - are all gone to eat, you slide out of the bed and retrieve your sack of things hidden underneath it. 

It isn’t escaping the camp that’s hard.

It’s running through the dead of night with only a sliver of moon to guide you that is most difficult. 

Without the daylight, you could easily mistake a patch of trees for a forest and river for a ravine. But it doesn’t matter. Your father had taught you how to tell the North from the South and the East from the West, and you relied on those skills now to guide you out of the camp. First, you have to locate the brightest star in the sky and just follow it to get on the right path. If it is directly overhead, you’d be on your way to determining which way to go. The makeshift map you have is telling you that you should wander northeast to get out of the confines of the camp, and you would be well on your way to your hometown. 

Except… 

You look back at the lights dotted around the camp behind you. 

What if you stayed? What if you stayed and made friends with the General? What if you stayed, made friends with the General, and then lured him in with a false sense of security? You adjust the sack on your back and think for a moment more.

He had let you remain in the tent by yourself. Not only was it a sign that he was finally beginning to trust you while you were alone, but also while you had all of the opportunity to escape, like you were now. Either that, or he’s more than confident that he would be able to find you and drag you back so he could execute his plan properly. 

The only thing that would come from you attempting to run away would be a chase, and you would more than likely be caught without a horse. Then, Geto would not hesitate to discipline you and make you submit to his will, and possibly never trust you again. 

“Flattery is the best persuader of people,” your father used to murmur, but you didn’t believe it back then; rolling your eyes at his old sayings. But now… perhaps you could work this to your advantage by staying. 

You trek back with the pack, dumping everything except the kimono nearby to avoid any suspicion. The kimono is placed back where it had been before, and you slump onto the bed - facing away from the tent opening - groaning with exhaustion and anxiety. 

The General returns what feels like a few minutes later and runs a hand down your back with care, humming in the darkness. He’s unsteady on his feet, it sounds like, and he anchors himself on the bed with one knee, leaning over you to brush a lock of hair away from your face. 

“If there’s one thing I know about Yuko,” he breathes, words tumbling out of his mouth like a bucket of apples. “He didn’t lie about beauty or character.” Geto slides in next you, wrapping an arm around your waist protectively and nestling his face into the crook of your neck. He places a kiss below your earlobe, then almost instantly afterward, he’s asleep. 

And although you want to squirm out of his arms and give him what-for, you don’t. The resolve in your new plan has set you on a path of compromise, and you would see this through until the end.

_______________________________________________________________________

Lips. They’re everywhere. On your face, trailing down your neck and accompanied by touches that stoke the flames of a fire you didn’t realize you had burning inside of you. 

When your eyes flutter open, it’s still night, but the General has let the wine go to his head. You let out an involuntary moan at the feeling of his fingers gripping the skin underneath your kimono before you snatch yourself out of his grasp, tumbling to the floor below and remembering how much you hated him. 

“Y/n… are you..” he hiccups a little. “Are you alright?” You push off of the ground in a fury, dusting yourself off and facing away from him as you yell:

“How dare you go back on your promise to not defile me, you filthy swine! Touching me in my sleep is low for even you, Your Majesty!” You spit the last two words at him, then stomp towards the flaps of the tent, which open with a flutter before you can get to them. 

Geto steps inside, his eyes meeting yours in a confused stare. 

“I heard you yelling and I--” He looks over your shoulder and frowns, squinting his eyes at the figure in the bed. “Get up.” When the man stumbles to the floor, Geto pulls you in behind him, shielding you from who really occupied the bed. 

“M-Master Geto, I can expla--” 

“Silence.” The deep bass of the General’s voice is unmatched, deadly, and practically telling of the punishment to come. Haibara and Gojo walk past you into the tent behind Geto, making lanterns glow and illuminate the tent space. “Do you know this man?” Geto roars, pointing an accusing finger at the offender as he turns to you, throwing daggers with his eyes. You look at the soon-to-be dead man, nostrils flaring. But you don’t recognize his face, nor his body. Nothing about this person is familiar.

“No, sir,” you state, and Geto starts a little at the sound of the formality falling from your lips. 

“Has he touched you in any way?” Your skin is crawling with what feels like a thousand little bugs, and you clutch your elbows instinctively. In one smooth motion, Geto turns to Gojo, who nods his head once and grabs the man’s hair, dragging him past you and Haibara as his screams of pain echo into the night. You feel two hands resting on your shoulders as you stare at the tent flaps, the fluttering of them barely revealing the man’s fate. It’s only when the screaming stops that you turn to Geto. “Are you hurt?” he asks, dipping his head a little to look into your eyes with his piercing black ones. 

“No, I’m fine.” 

“Where did he touch you?” You look over to Haibara, and Geto does as well, before waving the youth off. “Make sure Gojo takes care of…” 

“Of course,” Haibara replies, and with a sad smile thrown your way, he departs. Geto turns his attention back to you, taking your wrists in his hands. 

“Show me.” You move a hand across your chest and down your right thigh, grazing the spot where the man had grabbed you roughly. Then you swipe at your neck and face. “My gods,” he breathes before pulling you close. Tears threaten to leak out of your eyes, but you hold them at bay, trying to maintain the hysterics for later when you were alone. “I should have stayed.” 

“I should have let you.” 

_______________________________________________________________________

You awake enveloped in Geto’s warmth, unsure of when you fell asleep for the second time, but thankful for the body heat that wards off the night-time chill. When you move away from him, he does not awaken, but does stir a little. 

And that’s when you see it. The dragon on his arm is moving it’s head back and forth, eyes blinking lazily. At first you think you’re hallucinating, but when you rub your eyes and peer closer, it’s still moving; the entirety of its body doing a little dance side to side. 

“You should see it after a battle,” Geto murmurs sleepily, eyes trained on your astonished face. “Dancing is just how it wakes itself up.” You stare at the mythical being in silence, unsure of whether the true beast was the man before you or the tattoo on his arm. “How are you feeling?” Geto finally breaks the silence, sitting up and pushing himself out of the bed. 

“I feel alright.” He takes your hand, lifting it up to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to the back. You pause, unsure of how to respond to such a gesture, but Geto keeps moving around the tent, adjusting the sheets and running his hands through his hair. 

“Have you ever thought about braiding it?” you wonder, and Geto looks over at you with an amused look. 

“I have; but no one here is skilled enough to braid - not even Kaori.” 

Wordlessly, you trek over to him and thread the locks of hair through your fingers. 

“How do you keep it so clean when you’re on the battlefield?” you wonder aloud, and Geto chuckles. 

“Water is a resource that I take full advantage of, little one.” He instinctively stops his movements and angles his head back so you can work the strands one over the other, finally ending the long braid with a simple strip of fabric from the edge of your kimono. 

“There.” Geto pulls the braid over his shoulder and examines it carefully, humming at the sight of your handiwork. 

“This is interesting, to say the least.” 

“It will keep things from getting caught in your hair, and I’m sure it feels much less ‘all over the place’.” 

“Indeed, it does,” he breathes, then reaches a hand out to touch your cheek affectionately. Without thinking, you lean into his touch, and after taking half a step forward, Geto places a kiss on your forehead. After this signal of affection, he leaves, making you wonder what was wrong with your face and if you actually had a fever - because your cheeks felt hotter than they had ever felt before. 

[skullrock]

the bath

pairing: Steve x Reader

summary: Steve goes through some anniversary-related trauma. Reader helps him through it.

word count: 2.9k

warnings: mentions of PTSD

===

You sigh heavily as you open the door to your apartment, dropping your bag at your feet and shrugging your coat off. It was too cold for October, and you shivered as you kicked your shoes off. You make your way into the living room to find your boyfriend huddled up on the couch. He’s wearing an oversized grey hoodie and sweats, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days - because he hadn’t.

You approach carefully, afraid to wake him if he’s finally slept, but he stirs.

“Steve?”

He makes a weak noise in response, cuddling into himself more. You frown and sit in front of his reclined body, running your hand over his clothed shoulder. His face is pale, under eyes dark and sunken. His perfect hair flopped lazily over his forehead, flat on the top, as he hadn’t washed it in days. He didn’t have the energy to. He didn’t have the energy to do much at all the past week, his trauma overtaking his body. All he could do was think.

“You feelin’ any better?” you ask softly, though you know the answer.

He shakes his head. “‘m tired.”

“I know,” you coo. “Have you tried the sleep aids?”

Steve shakes his head once more, jaw setting. He didn’t want to take them because of the nightmares - that’s why he couldn’t sleep. All he could see was Barb, and her parents, and his pool, and Dustin’s torn up cat, and Demogorgons, monsters in lab suits, doctors with drugs. He swears he can feel the punches, taste the blood in his mouth. His body genuinely feels like it hurts - like the bruises on his ribs have formed again, sprouting blue and purple clouds across the skin of his torso. He feels dizzy, just as he did after Billy beat him, and after the artificial high from the Russians had worn off. His bones creak when he stands, his head pounds. He feels weak and sick and disgusting, hopeless, anxious, worn. When you’re gone, he cries; when you’re here, he’s silent. He keeps all the lights on in the house all hours of the day and apologizes profusely for it; he just doesn’t want anything sneaking up on him.

You understand.

“What can I do to help?”

A single shake of the head. “Nothin’.”

You frown and lean down, pressing a kiss to his earlobe.

“I’m gross.” He says it as a statement.

“No,” you say simply, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re cute.”

He smiles, but only slightly. “Wish I had the energy to stay in the shower longer than five minutes.”

You perk up suddenly, back straightening. “I have the perfect idea.” You jump up, leaning down to kiss the top of his forehead. “I’ll be back.”

He reaches for you, pulling you down. “Don’t go.”

“I’ll be back so fast, you won’t even know I’m gone,” you promise, reaching for his pinkie with yours. “Half an hour, honest.”

Steve stiffens slightly. “Be safe.”

“You know I will.”

You run to the store, literally run, grabbing what you need. A couple bath bombs, some bath salts. A lavender scented lotion. Steve has hordes of high-end masks, so you skip on those, and run to get the ingredients for his favorite food and dessert. He usually likes to cook and bake, but you can manage. Probably. He was a damn good cook - you had nothing on him. But it’s the thought that counts.

You return with multiple bags, kicking the door shut with your feet. Steve’s brows quirk up as he hears you come in. “That was fast.”

“You know me,” you smile, rushing to put the food away before walking back to him. “I’ve got an idea.”

“I figured,” he says. He has the hood over his head so you can’t see his eyes or mouth, but you can hear the joke in his voice.

“What if I give you a bath?”

Steve stills, and then peaks through the hood. He stares at you for a long moment before asking, “Are you sure?”

“I want to,” you say softly, squeezing his hand. You press a kiss to his scarred knuckles. “Wanna take care of you.”

He pauses for a while longer before nodding gingerly. You help him up, first to sit and then to stand. He stumbles slightly and curses, his cheeks flushing from embarrassment. You stand on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

He reminds you so much of the boy he was, right now. His back hunches from the pain in his ribs. His shoulders slag from the lack of confidence. You can almost see the cuts and bruises on him, and it makes your stomach twist. Steve had pushed everything down quite well, all things considered - but when anniversaries come up, he reverts back into the scared and alone boy he was. And it kills you, because he’s the last person who deserves it.

You lead him to the bathroom with your materials and sit him on the toilet. You help him get his hoodie and undershirt off first, leaving him in his sweats. His eyes purposefully avoid the mirror, and it breaks your heart even more. You grab a washcloth and scrub his face with some water - he had, at least, been keeping up with washing himself. Then you grab one of his masks - a rose colored one, more expensive than your entire outfit - and begin to smooth it onto his face. He relaxes at the touch and smell, shoulders dropping, the crease in his forehead soothing.

“What’re you trying to say?” he quips. “Do I look that bad?”

“Christ, no,” you say. “As gorgeous as ever, Stevie. This is just… self care.”

He smiles slightly and you continue, washing the residue from your fingers when you’re done. You place two under eye patches onto him and he sighs, the smile growing.

“That feels so good,” he murmurs.

You can’t kiss his face, so you kiss the underside of his jaw, and his tension eases further. His hands flutter to your hips as you place another kiss onto the freckles that line his neck.

“‘m not trying to get freaky,” you whisper.

“Just want you close,” he replies.

You press one last kiss to his neck before pulling away and stepping to the bathtub. You run the water til it’s warm, and plug it. You sprinkle a few handfuls of bath salts into the water, and light a candle for him. You help hold Steve up as he steps out of his bottoms, and then help him step into the tub. A happy groan slips from his lips as he slides down, sinking into the water.

“Feel good?”

He hums happily and nods. He forces his eyes to flutter shut, knowing you’re at least here with him. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

“You should,” you say. “You really should.”

Steve stays quiet, because he knows you’re right.

The salts in the bath slowly ease the tension and aches from his muscles, and the scent of the candle combined with the salts makes him feel a little more alive. You sit and watch his body relax, your own relaxing with it.

After a while, you grab the washcloth again, wetting it with warm water and heading over to remove his mask. You peel the under eye masks off and gently wipe the mask from his skin, revealing more radiant and plump skin underneath. “How do you feel?”

He hums once more. “Prettier.”

You giggle and push his hair back from his face with your hand, leaning in to give him a kiss. Then you grab a nail file and begin to file his nails, manicuring them as he usually does. You work on the hand closest to you, and then the other. Steve watches you the entire time, his eyes soft as you bite the inside of your cheek to concentrate on smoothing his nails down.

Steve knows, deep down, that he is worthy of love. You tell him every single day; Robin, Dustin, and the others reinforce it. Hell, even Mike Wheeler, Steve’s sworn enemy, has been there for him. He knows he’s better off than he ever was, even before the Upside Down consumed all remnants of a normal life. But it still feels bizarre, somewhere in the pit of his chest, to have people care about him. To have people look at him the way you look at him. And he never thought, in a million years, someone would file his nails, apply a face mask to him, and wash his hair with no judgement. But here you were, and here he was, and it was liberating and scary and so, so good.

You finish with his nails and he examines them, smiling softly before mumbling, “Eh, they’re okay.”

“Keep it up, and I won’t make you chicken alfredo,” you respond, and Steve slides down the bath in surprise.

“You - what the hell? It’s so expensive to make that -”

“You’re worth it.”

“No -”

“Yes,” you say, and your expression shuts Steve up. You reach up to twirl your finger through a lock of hair. “You ready?”

He nods, pushing himself up. You grab a large plastic cup and fill it with water. You put your free hand under Steve’s chin to tilt his head back before gently pouring the water over his head. He sighs at the feeling, happy once again, the feeling of warmth on his head relieving. You do this a few more times before grabbing his shampoo, a special kind, one he insists on using - which, you don’t mind, it smells like him. Sometimes you even sneak some to use, because you want the lingering smell of Steve on your hair for the day.

You begin to lather his hair, and his mouth drops. He leans back, his shoulders hitting the edge of the tub, and you giggle as you follow him. Little moans escape his lips - nothing quite sexual, just blissful. The week washes off with the shampoo, leaving him feeling clean and more awake, more alive. It also makes him feel vulnerable. His hair is his favorite feature, and not just anyone can touch it. But he feels safe with you, feels safe for you to see it greasy and flat, clean and sky high. He lets his guard down for the first time in a week, and almost feels ‘normal’ again.

You rinse the suds out and replace the shampoo with conditioner, applying it lightly, careful not to make it too greasy again. Steve smiles, because you’re doing it correctly and he didn’t even have to tell you. After a moment, you rinse it out with clean water. He reaches up and runs his hand through it, happy that it isn’t so heavy anymore.

“Better?”

“Much,” he says quietly.

You stand and get a fresh washcloth and get onto your knees again. The tile of the bathroom hurts, but you’d do it for him. You grab his body wash and he sort of gasps, brows creasing.

“You don’t gotta - I - it was just my hair -”

“Let me,” you say gently, and he relaxes.

You lather the cloth and begin to wash him; slowly, in circles, over the expanse of his chest and shoulders, down his arms and into his hands. As you reach each part, you whisper praises - “your freckles are so beautiful”; “you’ve got the nicest arms I’ve ever seen”; “your hands are always so soft.” Steve fights back tears while you do it, sets his jaw tight so they don’t spill over, his tongue desperately pushing at the roof of his mouth. He wasn’t expecting this. Not that he doesn’t like it, he just wasn’t expecting the love that pours from you, even as you move over his ribs and legs and back.

You rinse him off with the cup again, running your hands over his skin, smooth and supple. Steve looks younger, like years have been washed away from him, and it makes you smile.

You help him get out, being sure that he doesn’t slip, as the water drains. You wrap a towel around him snugly and sit him on the toilet. You kneel in front of him and use another towel to dry his hair for him. He melts into your touch, leaning so far off of the seat that he almost falls. You push him back gently, smiling.

“Feels good,” he mumbles, smiling wider than he has in a while.

“I know how much you like your hair being played with.”

He nudges your foot with his. “You said you weren’t trying to get freaky.”

“I’m not!”

“Okay.”

“Just stating the facts.”

“Alright.” He smiles and leans in, catching your lips in his for the briefest moment. “If you say so.”

You pull back, frowning. “Hey,” you say softly, cupping his cheek. “Just rest, okay? You need to.”

He looks down. “I know.”

“I know it’s hard,” you whisper. “But I will be right beside you. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

“That’s not entirely it,” he whispers. “What if they… get you?”

You’d thought about it, of course. After Starcourt, you were a mess, keeping the lights on in your own house, calling Steve at three in the morning - he was always awake. You weren’t immune to your own weeks of worry and anxiety-induced nausea. But you put on a brave face for Steve.

“They won’t,” you whisper back. “It’s over.”

“That’s what we always say,” he mumbles, looking away from you.

You cup his cheek and bring him back to looking at you. “It’s true this time. We’re safe.”

“But what if we aren’t? What can I do? How can I protect everyone?”

“You can’t,” you stress. “And that’s not a bad thing. Everyone is more than capable of taking care of themselves. Especially the kids.”

Steve sighs. “They could probably kill Satan with just a slingshot, huh?”

“They pretty much already have.” You smile sadly. “So have you. Three times over. That’s a lot of practice for fighting interdimensional beings, don’t you think?”

He shrugs and softly adds, “I gave them Dustin’s address, remember?”

You pause, not quite sure what to say. “Dustin’s not mad at you.”

“I know,” he says, voice hardly above a whisper. “But what if they….”

He can’t even finish the thought. His eyes prick with tears and he squeezes his eyes shut.

You wrap him up into your arms, hugging him as tightly as you can. You feel him shake beneath you, and he finally lets out a sob. He hadn’t cried around you much before - you knew he did cry, you just never quite saw it. It makes your stomach drop, but all you can do is hold him, let him bury his face in the crook of your neck and cry.

“‘m sorry,” Steve hiccups.

You pull back. “For what?”

He looks like he has a hard time articulating. “For… for crying. For being like this.”

“Like the man I love?”

“Stop,” he hisses. His eyes soften immediately afterwards, welling with tears again. “Christ, I’m sorry - I didn’t mean -”

“I know,” you whisper. You wrap your fingers through his and squeeze. “I know, Steve. Can I get you dressed?”

He nods numbly and you lead him to your shared bedroom, grabbing him a clean pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He pulls them on gingerly, and you pull him to bed after, tucking him in.

“Stay,” he whispers, voice cracking and eyes pleading.

You slide under the covers with him, and he holds you closely, tightly, almost cutting off your breathing. He mumbles apologies into your hair, and you reach to his side to lightly pinch a sensitive spot.

“Hey.” You look up at him. “You better stop being sorry. I mean it.”

“But -”

“Genuinely nothing you do or say is going to make me get up and leave. Nothing. Not a thing. Because I know who you are, and I know who you’ve been. I know you don’t mean to snap. I know you’re scared. And that’s not grounds for apologies.”

He frowns. “I just don’t want to push you away.”

“I know it’s hard right now.” You reach up and push his hair away from his face again. “But I will be patient with you because I love you and you deserve it. You deserve the world.” He opens his mouth to protest again, but you press a finger to his lips. “No. I am going to go make you good food and dessert, and then I’m going to hold you all night. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says behind your finger.

You remove your finger and kiss him softly. “Take a nap, okay? I’m up, I’m here. I’ll protect you tonight.”

He squeezes you. “Promise?”

“Swear,” you reply. “Now let me go make you decent food, okay?”

“Okay,” he repeats quietly.

You don’t move for a moment. Finally you whisper, “I love you more than anything in the world.”

“I love you,” he whispers. “My everything.”

“No, you.”

Steve smiles and buries his face in your hair again. “No, you.”

===

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[anime-alyssa]

my ghost - dabi x hawks

Not a day passed by where Keigo Takami didn’t think of Toya Todoroki - his best friend that he fell in love with. One day, he swears he’s seeing a ghost - but it's not a ghost at all. 

i posted this on ao3 last night but forgot to cross post here cause it was late - my bad. 

smut below the cut - if you enjoyed consider a lil tippy tip

He remembered it like it was yesterday. 

The teacher coming in with a somber look on her face, eyes slightly glazed over as she told his class that one of their classmates had passed away. She had looked to Keigo sympathetically as he sat in shock - the news not quite hitting him until much later in the day, when the P.E teacher found him in the locker room crying.

Not a day passed when Keigo Takami didn’t think of Toya Todoroki - his best friend that he fell in love with. At the time of his death they were only teenagers, new to the idea of love and romance and not even sure what they liked. As the years went on and more people tried to advance on him, Keigo couldn’t help but let his mind wander back to Toya - making him realize that he was in love with his deceased best friend.

The publicists at his agency thought it would be best if he kept his sexuality a secret. Part of his attraction as Hawks was his looks, he knew that - imagine how much his attractiveness as a hero would go down if society found out he was gay. He always fought with them and told them that they could shove it - but he knew that they were right. There would always be one asshole who would try to tank him for it. 

Everything he did to become the number two hero, he had done with Toya in mind. They had always said they would become heroes together, run their own agency to protect the world from villains. But now here he was, standing on the stage next to the new number one, the person who could no doubtedly be blamed for the death of his best friend - Endeavor. 

Toya hadn’t said much to Keigo about his father - but the scars and bruises were enough to prove to him that the hero wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. But even now, what could he do about it? He had to just smile and put on the show for the cameras - something he was good at. He had been hiding his sexuality all these years, he could pretend to like Endeavor. 

Keigo couldn’t get out of there fast enough - answering the absolute bare minimum of questions that would get the publicists off his back before flying out to his patrol post. The sun was setting by now - the ranking announcement taking way longer than it should have. As much as he wanted to fly back to his penthouse and drink away some of his feelings, he had a job to do - the job that he and Toya always said they’d do together. He wondered how much things would be different if Toya was here - would they be heroes together? Would they be together? Keigo ached to know, even though he would never find out. 

Shouts of commotion from below got his attention as he sighed, standing up and flying downwards. There was a group of thugs confronting a singular villain - trying to go after him. One of them looked up wide eyed, dropping his weapon and dashing away. 

“Oh shit - it’s Hawks!” With a snap of his fingers, Keigo let his feathers fly free, injuring the thugs and letting them fall to the ground. Hawks pressed the police button on his costume to alert the police of the incident before turning his attention to the villain. He landed himself in the middle of them before turning around to face the villain that was causing all the trouble in the first place. 

“Well, well - if it isn’t the number two hero himself. Hawks, right?” he asked. Keigo turned around and his eyes grew wide, meeting the gaze of the villain. No, it can’t be - “What’s the matter, number two? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” the patch work cremator said with a smirk. Keigo knew the blue of those eyes anywhere - the snarky attitude, that face, despite all the staples and burns - he dreamt about it for years. Police sirens started to get closer and closer to the duo before he sighed. “Good talk. I’m gonna take my leave now - thanks for disposing of these worthless thugs for me. Using my quirk is a real pain.” with that, he turned on his heel and started walking away. 

“Toya!” Keigo shouted before he could stop himself. He saw the man stop for the briefest of seconds, turning back towards him. Keigo felt his breath get stuck in his throat - it couldn’t be him, could it? Icy blue eyes locked back on his, a small smile turning his cheeks upwards. 

It was him.

“The name is Dabi now, Keigo. I’ll be seeing you real soon.” Dabi rose his hand and within seconds, Keigo was up in the air avoiding the blue flames. The screams of the captured thugs echoed off the walls as the police arrived on the scene, calling in for back up. By the time some of the smoke and flames cleared, there was absolutely no sign of him. 

Toya’s alive. After all this time, Toya’s alive - 

“Hawks, thank you for calling this in. Where did the flames come from?” a police officer asked the number two. Snapping out of his trance, Keigo turned around to face the police officers, seeing the medical team retrieving the charred bodies of the thugs behind them. With a sigh, he answered.

“Dabi, from the League. Unfortunately, he got away this time. Flames were too quick.” He said back. The police officers looked at him with unease - Hawks was the quickest one around, too fast for his own good, but they didn’t question his answer. For whatever reason, today Hawks wasn’t quick enough to get Dabi. 

After cooperating with the police, he decided he was done for the day. He sent his sidekicks out to patrol some areas while he flew back to his penthouse, landing on the balcony outside the living room and strolling in. He shrugged off his jacket and threw it over a chair before walking over to his bar and pouring himself a drink. 

Keigo had spent the better part of his life trying to deal with Toya being gone - trying to deal with being in love with him - but he had been alive all along? To make matters worse - he was with the League? What the hell had actually happened that night? To his knowledge, Toya had gone up to the mountains to practice using his quirk, and just never came back - burning to death. There hadn’t even been a body found - so how in the hell was he here now?

“You should really have better security up here. Anyone could just… walk in.” Keigo’s feathers acted quicker than he did, several flying out and landing just inches before Dabi’s - Toya’s body. He let out a laugh as Keigo turned around to meet his gaze.

“How?” Keigo asked, voice cracking. He inwardly cringed at himself - if only the public could see him now. Hawks, the number two hero, a bloody mess because his best friend and love was back from the dead. 

“I lived. Clearly - but look at you! Number two hero, all buddy-buddy with Endeavor today. It made me sick.” Dabi said, walking over to Keigo and helping himself to his own drink at the bar. Keigo let out a snort as he refilled his own cup. 

“I meant how did you live. See your attitude is still the same.” Keigo said back to him, turning around to face him sideways. 

“Well, God didn’t want me and Hell didn’t either, so here I am.” Dabi retorted, drinking while eyeing the number two.  “So? Are you now best of buds with dear ‘ol dad?” he asked him. 

“I’d rather tell him to go kick rocks - but unfortunately, I need to pretend to like him. For the public’s sake.” Keigo admitted to Dabi, who hummed in acknowledgment. He watched the scar tissue on his neck bulge as he drank, clearing his throat as he put the glass down after drinking. 

“Yeah, that’d look real fuckin’ bad, right? I hear you’re great at pretending, anyway. If you can pretend to be straight, then I guess you can pretend to like my shithead dad.” Keigo almost spat out his drink at the comment, earning a raised eyebrow from the villain. “Something I said, Kei?” he asked, the two of them putting their glasses down and now looking at each other. 

“How did you find that out?” Keigo asked through gritted teeth. 

“Come on, like it wasn’t already obvious when we were teenagers. Every stupid 13 year old girl in our class threw themselves at you and you could have given a shit.” Dabi said to him smuggly, taking a step closer to the winged hero. “You know, back then - I knew I was too, you know. At first, it was going to just be spite to my old man - imagine him knowing his oldest son was not only a failed experiment, but also gay.” he said with a chuckle. 

“Oh really? Just spite?” Keigo asked, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Well at first - until after I ‘died’, when I started watching you from the shadows. Saw how bent out of shape you were, really, you were a mess. It actually hurt my heart a little, not gonna lie.” Dabi was walking closer and closer to Keigo slowly but surely, almost on top of him. Keigo made no sign that he was going to move, or was displeased, so he kept going. 

“Huh, so you still have a heart.” he said back with a smirk. Keigo tried to mask how Dabi’s close proximity was affecting him - his heart racing a mile a minute. “What do I have to do with this little story of yours? What, took one look at me and realized you liked men more?” he asked, keeping up the smirk. 

“And if I did? What would you do then?” he asked, voice gravelly as their chests were nearly touching. He could feel the heat coming off of him - body warm from his quirk, that’s how close Dabi was to Keigo. The tension could be cut with a knife, the air thick with it and surrounding the two men. 

“I’d tell you that you were my reason too.” Keigo said honestly, quietly. 

“Well, ain’t that a relief.” Dabi said back to him. Without a second thought, Keigo grabbed Dabi by the shoulders and closed the gap between them, the villain letting out a grunt as their lips met each other. Keigo’s hand went around the back of Dabi’s neck, pushing their mouths impossibly closer together as Dabi’s went around Keigo’s back to crash their bodies together. They both moaned into the mouth of the other as their hips met, each of their bulges harshly pushing against the other. “Where the fuck’s the bedroom, Kei?” Dabi hissed out in Keigo’s mouth. 

“Hold on to me.” Keigo said back, using both his hands to slightly lift Dabi off the ground and fly across the penthouse and into the bedroom. Their lips met once more after Dabi’s back hit the mattress, Keigo moaning as Dabi’s hips bucked upwards to meet his. Dabi used all the force in his body to turn Keigo over, flipping him on his back and panting for breath. His pupils were blown out, barely any blue left to his eyes as they stared down at Keigo’s, in a similar state. 

“Looks like you have a problem there, number two.” Dabi said, voice low and deep as his hand cupped the tent in Keigo’s pants. He let out a pitiful moan as the villain chuckled above him. “Allow me.” 

With that, Dabi unbuckled Keigo’s belt and started to unzip his pants. Once he had those shrugged down enough, his hand went under the waistband of Keigo’s boxers and pulled out his hard cock. Keigo let out a moan as he squeezed it gently, thumb gliding over the slit at the head and spreading the precum that had leaked out. Keigo tried to keep his eyes on Dabi, before they rolled back into his head as the villain’s tongue licked up the underside of his shaft. 

“Fuck…” Keigo moaned, feeling Dabi’s smirk as he took his cock in his mouth. Warmth encased his member as Dabi began to suck his cock, taking as much of his lengthy member into his mouth as he could before his staples started to pain him. What he couldn’t fit in his mouth he wrapped a hand around, starting to pump him. His tongue flicked over Keigo’s head with every bob as his hand pumped him and let out gentle squeezes to his balls, sending jolts of pleasure up his body. Every muscle in Keigo’s body simultaneously tensed up as he felt his cock harden more in Dabi’s mouth. “T - Toya - ” he stuttered as he started to twitch in Dabi’s mouth. 

“Cum, Keigo.” the villain said from below. Keigo let out a guttural moan as he felt himself release inside of Dabi’s mouth. The villain swallowed all of it as Keigo panted and moaned his way through his release, death gripping onto the sheets below him as he felt himself relax. When Dabi stood back up, he shrugged his jacket off and let it fall to the floor, bringing his lips back up to meet Keigo’s. They kissed with a sense of urgency, Dabi’s rock hard erection pressing into Keigo’s still hard cock. “Need you.” Dabi panted as their lips parted, the two men pulling each other’s shirts over their heads. 

“Then come and get me.” Keigo said back as he now tried to unbuckle Dabi’s belt, managing to get it completely undone and pushing his pants down and off. Dabi let out a moan at the actions as he pulled Keigo’s pants the rest of the way off as well and shoved him backward against the mattress once more. Their lips met again as the two were now naked, bodies pressed together and sweating as Keigo felt Dabi’s cock prod at his hole. Dabi guided himself in, pressing into Keigo gently as the latter hissed at the sensation. 

“Relax, Kei - fuck…” Dabi breathed as he continued to settle in. Dabi was losing himself in the feeling - Keigo was so deliciously tight around him and he had been waiting for so long to finally be able to fuck him right. He was inserting himself slowly, savoring the moment as he finally bottomed out.

“I’m not made of glass Toya, so how about you start - fucking shit - ” Keigo was cut short as Dabi started to thrust, a moan falling off his lips as the villain’s pace started out quick and deep. Dabi let out a chuckle as he pounded into him.

“What were you saying?” he asked, a moan of his own falling out of his mouth as Keigo squeezed down on him. “Shit Kei - you do that again and I’ll - ” Dabi moaned again as he felt himself harden inside Keigo, the other man’s cock twitching between their bodies. Keigo was still sensitive from his last orgasm, a moaning and desperate mess for the man above him. Dabi’s pace increased once more as he thrust into Keigo so deeply the hero was seeing stars above him, feeling his second orgasm starting to come up and almost at the bursting point. 

“Toya - I’m gonna - gonna cum - ” Keigo said. Dabi let out a loud moan as his hips kept slapping against Keigo’s ass, the sound of his name coming off the hero’s lips like music to his ears. Dabi’s cock started to twitch inside him and he knew that he was not far behind.

“Cum - cum with me, Kei - fuck!” Dabi cursed, bringing his lips down to meet Keigo’s. Keigo let out a loud moan into the villain’s mouth as he came over his stomach, Dabi moaning back as his hips stuttered into Keigo once more before releasing inside him. They moaned into each other as their releases continued, eventually kissing as Dabi slipped out of Keigo. After a few minutes, they laid next to each other in the bed, Keigo finally speaking up to cut the silence. 

“So, now you gonna disappear on me until you need a fuck again?” he asked the villain. Dabi scoffed as he rolled to face him, eyes narrowing. 

“You want the world to know you just fucked a villain?” Dabi asked back. Keigo humed in agreement as Dabi pressed a kiss to his lips again. He did have a point - obviously, no one could know. 

But even if it was just for a night, for that moment, everything felt… right to Keigo. 

[victoria-daydreams]

Till Kingdom Come

Chapter Six: Introductions

AN: When I first began writing this chapter I had an idea in mind, but seeing how long this chapter ended up being I decided to save it for the next chapter. Also, I was going to hold off on uploading this chapter, but I just finished watching the Lovecraft Country finale and now I’m depressed, so posting this is my boost of serotonin.

Word Count: 3.2k

Trigger Warnings: racism, racial slurs, dated/offensive terms, sexual assault

Chapter Seven: Target Practice

Two Months Later

The sound of a single gunshot cracked through the air, making the birds that rested in the nearby trees hurriedly fly away.

"You missed," Booker announced dryly, his breath a visible puff in the chilly, early December air that showed no signs of warming up.

Sabine eyes narrowed, "Thank you, for your wonderful commentary Booker," she said sarcastically, shooting him a glare.

"Just in case you didn't know," he retorted, lifted his hands.

"I have shot a gun before," Sabine reminded.

"So you've told me," he replied, moving behind her. "You aimed for the man's heart and somehow shot him in the ribs," he recalled, with a soft hum. "Great shooting there Sabine," he chuckled, and she could only envision the smug smirk on Booker's lips.

Sabine cursed under her breath, lowering the musket from her face as she stared at her target. Briefly, she wondered if the breeze had affected her aim, she had done everything right. The sudden contact of Booker placing his hand on her mid-back instantly made her body became rigid, her mind immediately flashing back to her time on the Martin Plantation.

"Don't get familiar," Sabine gritted out, looking over at him.

"I wasn't trying to!" Booker replied defensively, snatching his hand from her body. "Your posture was lacking and I was trying to correct it," he explained, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Well then find a way that doesn't involve touching me like that!" Sabine snapped, sticking her hand out to the side. "Matter of fact, just tell me next time," she suggested, with a slight shake of the head. Sabine exhaled and turned her attention back to the musket in her hands so she could reload. "What happened to Nicky and Josef teaching me how to shoot?" she questioned, glancing over at Booker before she brought the hammer to half-cock.

In the past two months that Sabine has known him, she's taken to calling Joe, 'Josef'. She liked the way it rolled off her tongue.

"It doesn't take two people to teach someone how to shoot a gun," Booker answered simply. "They were needed elsewhere," he added.

"And let me guess, Andy is busy as well?" Sabine asked rhetorically, and from the corner of her eye she saw him nod. "So, I'm stuck with you?" she asked, sliding the rifle down onto the butt.

"Sorry to disappoint," he quipped, a smile tugging at his lips. Booker unclasped his hands and began rubbing them together as he paced back and forth, trying to generate some warmth in his body. "You know, when I went looking for you in the wounded tent I had the strangest encounter," Booker stated, turning his head in her direction.

Sabine arched a brow, "And what's that?" she asked curiously, slipping her hand into the ammunition pouch.

"I came across this Irish fellow who warned me about and I quote, 'a she-devil, colored nurse'," he recalled, and Sabine's lips twitched up into a smirk.

Screams, yells, and moans of the injured echoed in Sabine's ears as she stood inside the field hospital tent. All around her, doctors and nurses were patching up anyone they could get their hands on. The air was thick with the smell of blood, bile, and other bodily fluids. The day was hard and encountering difficult and stubborn soldiers like the one in front of her, made Sabine's day more difficult than necessary.

Sabine went to reach for the injured Union soldier's leg again, but he jerked his body away from her.

"Get your nigg-" the soldier began to shout.

But Sabine was having none of it.

Before the man could finish his sentence, Sabine remorselessly jabbed her index and middle fingers into the gaping hole of the man's gunshot wound. The man let out a roar of pain and began thrashing in bed, unfortunately for him, nobody in the tent was paying attention to them because there were several men just like him screaming in pain. Only difference was, Sabine was inflicting it on purpose.

"Get my what hands off you?" Sabine questioned, staring down at the soldier as continued to scream in pain. "I'm sorry, I don't think I quite understood you. You said put my hands on you?" she asked again, pressing her fingers harder against the wound. The volume of the soldier's scream increased further more.

"Make it stop!" the man cried, writhing in pain.

"Say, 'I'm sorry, Miss,'" Sabine suggested, still maintaining pressure.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry Miss!"

"You wouldn't happen to know who that might be would you?" Booker wondered, staring at her with a knowing look.

"I bet that Irish bastard won't think to say it again when addressing me," Sabine remarked, grabbing a paper cartridge from the pouch a lot harder than necessary. "These ungrateful, Union bastards believe themselves to be all high and mighty compared to the seceshs," she continued, her grip growing tighter around the cartridge as her anger rose. "When they themselves, treat me like I'm some child who needs constant supervision or I'll hurt myself, disrespect me by calling me out of my name when I pass by them, or even as I try to help them. When they're the ones, bleeding out on the goddamn, blood soaked wooden floors of the hospital!" she seethed. "But hey, it's alright. Since the Union soldiers treat colored folks like me with a little more humanity than the Confederates would, I guess I should be grateful," she finished, sarcasm laced in her voice.

"Sabine,"

She looked over to Booker to see his hand hovering over hers. "Your hand," he said, and Sabine's eyes move down to where the packed paper cartridge once rested in her hand, but now there was nothing but black powder smudged all over her hand. "Here," he offered, digging inside his coat pocket and pulling out a handkerchief.

Slowly, she pulled the cloth loose from his fingers, "Thank you," she said quietly, lowering her eyes back to her hand. "I'm sorry," she apologized, shaking her head once more. "I don't know where that outburst came from," she stated, rubbing the cloth onto her palm.

"No, don't apologize," Booker replied, grabbing the rifle that rested on Sabine's body. "Your anger is righteous Sabine," he affirmed. "Let's take a break, eh?" he suggested, motioning to the grass where they could have a seat and Sabine just nodded in agreement.

She lowered herself to the ground, tucking the skirt of her dress underneath her as she went.

"Earlier...I snapped at you and I shouldn't have," Sabine commented, bringing her eyes away from her hand that she still cleaning the powder off from her skin.

"Don't let it trouble your mind, I deserved it," he defended, laying the rifle beside him. "You were right, I should've asked before touching you like that," he agreed, as Sabine slid her gloves back on.

She placed a hand on her forehead, "It's been a long day and it seems like nothing has gone right since the moment I woke up this morning," Sabine said, rubbing her fingers back and forth.

"Nicky and Joe told me about the nightmare you had this morning," Booker stated, looking over at her. "Was it about-" he started.

"No, it wasn't about the Orient woman drowning again," Sabine cut in, dropping her hand into her lap. "It was something much worse, if you can believe that," she added, a sardonic chuckle escaping her.

"Your time on the Martin Plantation?" Booker guessed.

"Yes," she answered, her voice suddenly becoming hoarse

"Do you want to talk about it?" Booker questioned, and Sabine remained quiet as she stared out in front of her. "Don't feel pressured-"

"It was three months ago," Sabine interrupted, craning her head to look back at Booker. "Only a month right before my death," she noted, feeling her arms raise in goosebumps.

Booker turned his body more to face her better, "What happened?" he asked.

"Have you ever heard of a mandingo fight?"

Sabine sighed as she sat in front of a vanity mirror, a look of pure disgust painted all over her face as she felt herself being pampered and doted on by Louisa and Joan, two female house slaves who were working on her "unruly" hair, as they liked to put it so. Tonight Master Martin was visiting the French Quarter for some "entertainment", but Sabine knew better, whatever Master Martin considered fun or entertaining was undoubtedly the exact opposite.

"Sabine, are ya payin' attention girl?" Louisa asked impatiently.

Her words snapped Sabine out of her thoughts and she shook her head, looking at the older woman who was no more than about thirty something years old, but already was sprouting gray hairs.

"What is it?" Sabine asked, irritation etched onto her features.

"I's was sayin' that ya hair and face is done,"

Sabine's gaze snapped towards the mirror on the vanity and she felt herself deflate. Her curls had been combed and brushed to the point that her hair was now in soft waves, styled into a middle part chignon. Instead of seeing her nude colored lips, she was greeted with the sight of them being painted a deep, sinful red. Her eyelids were blackened with eye paint, bringing attention to Sabine's dark brown orbs and making her appear more alluring, and her cheeks were tinged in pink rouge.

Who was the woman looking back at her in the mirror?

"T-this-" Sabine stammered out, looking at herself in horror.

She was never done up this nice for the Martin family parties, ever.

"Very pretty?" Louisa asked, with a bright smile.

"Lovely?" Joan offered, sharing the same expression as Louisa.

"No...not me," Sabine corrected, waving her hands in disagreement. "I am not this woman, and she is not me," she went on, pointing at her reflection.

"Yes, you are," a male voice objected. "You look more like a dignified negro gal now," he informed.

Sabine felt herself bristle as she saw the reflection of Master Martin leaning against the doorway. He was dressed in what Sabine could only imagine was a very expensive black suit, a waistcoat the color of sherry, and black patent shoes that seemed to have a small and mostly unnoticeable scuff on them.

"Ladies, will you give Cecile and I a moment?" he asked, giving a false smile towards both the house slaves who suddenly looked terrified at his presence. They both nodded and scurried out of the room, knowing it was good to leave Master Martin and his favorite slave alone.

Once the door closed Master Martin advanced onto Sabine who only kept her gaze on the mirror, her full lips drawn into a tight, straight line. He came behind her, placing a hand on her supple naked brown shoulder, a sickly smile on his face as he leaned down towards her, inhaling her sweetening scent. He chuckled lowly as he felt her shudder in repulsion, her eyes still hard as stone as she kept her gaze forward.

"Do you know how beautiful you are...?" he asked in a mocking tone, his hot breath on her ear.

"You have told me many times Master Martin," she replied curtly.

Master Martin would always call her beautiful, but she always knew those were words of spite and menace. He never saw her truly as beautiful. She was a mere toy.

His toy.

Master Martin then laughed lightly, grabbing a loose strand of her hair, tucking it hair behind her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. Sabine suddenly let out a loud gasp when she felt his large calloused hand roughly hold her cheeks, forcing her to look at him. Fear sparked into Sabine's eyes as she stared into the penetrating eyes of her Master. He gave her a tight lipped smile, his hand squeezing her cheeks, making her wince in pain.

"How many times have I told you to call me Aaron when we are alone?" he questioned, low and menacingly. Sabine knew not to answer, she could only stare into the face of evil. "How many?!" Master Martin shouted in her face, shaking her a little, making Sabine let out a slight yelp of fear.

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes as she felt him remove his large hand from her face and she squeezed her eyes shut, a few tears falling down her face as she waited for the pain to arrive. Master Martin never did like to hit her, however, on rare occasions he would. But the pain that Sabine was so anxiously awaiting, never came. Sabine cracked open an eye, seeing Master Martin, smiling at her ruefully.

"What...?" he asked mockingly. "Did you think I would hurt you?" he asked again, using the same tone.

Sabine nodded her head slowly, her body trembling lightly. Master Martin then tsked her, shaking his head lightly, walking over to her and then wiping her tears away from her face. The act seemed almost intimate, but she knew that it was far from it.

"Sabine, do you think I'm some kind of monster?" he asked, removing his hand from her face.

"Yes," she thought.

The thought of answering out loud had crossed her mind, but she was in no mood to be hit tonight. She just wanted to accompany him to this stupid outing and then go back to doing her duties as a house slave.

"You don't have to answer that," he said humorously. "Just come downstairs in the next five minutes. Our carriage will be ready soon," he informed, patting her cheek rather roughly. "Also, I want you to provide some music for this little get together we're going to. And none of that mongrel music I hear you sing. Sing something more dignified and more...white,"

Master Martin then cupped her cheek and gave her a soft and lingering kiss. Sabine resisted the urge to bite down so hard onto his lip that he would bleed or spit into his mouth. But she just simply kissed him back, though every inch of her internally was screaming at her to fight back. But she didn't. She couldn't.

She was scared.

Once Master Martin broke the kiss his gray eyes gazed into her dark brown ones in a very sickening love way and he smiled, running his thumb over her plump bottom lip. "Je t'aime…" he said softly, before leaning up and walking away from her.

And once Sabine heard the door close shut, she felt herself break down, tears running down her face as she choked back sobs that would surely bring Master Martin back to the room.

"In all the years I was on that plantation," Sabine began, tears flowing freely down her face. "He was never that physical with me until this year," she explained, with a sniffle. "And I-I don't know what triggered it. Maybe it was because Marc and Alain were gone, or m-maybe I-I did some-"

"Sabine there is nothing you did to deserve being assaulted," Booker cut in. "You hear me? Nothing,"

And Sabine just silently nodded in agreement, another sniffle coming from her.

"Now, go ahead and use my handkerchief to dry your eyes," Booker suggested, motioning to the cloth that rested in her lap.  "Be careful though, I'd hate to see gunpowder all over your face," he joked, a warm smile on his face.

A watery laugh escaped Sabine, "You liar," she responded, bringing the clean part of the cloth to her eyes. "You'd probably think its funny and let me walk around with my face all dirty," she pointed out, dabbing the fabric underneath her eyes.

"It did cross my mind," Booker remarked, with a chuckle. "Come on, we should get back to camp. We'll continue this tomorrow if all goes well," he said, before placing his hands on the ground to help him stand.

"No," Sabine answered, shaking her head vigorously. "We're not going back until I hit that target," she stated, pointing in the direction where the target was.

Booker let out a sigh of faux exasperation, "We'll be here till sundown if that's the case," he quipped, reverting back to his usual self.

Sabine's face broke into a grin and she balled up his handkerchief and threw it at him, smacking him right in the chest. Booker mirrored her smile, grabbing the cloth and stuffing it back inside his coat before pushing himself off the ground and dusting his coat off.

He stuck his hand out, "I'm only joking," he said, sticking his gloved hand out which Sabine took. "Well, only a little bit," he added, and Sabine just rolled her eyes.

She picked the rifle up from the ground and placed it on the butt as she did earlier. Taking out another paper cartridge from the ammunition pouch, she ripped open the top with her teeth and poured the pre-measured black powder into the barrel. Afterward, she pushed in the bullet, paper and all, into the barrel and began ramming the contents with the ramrod.

"Sabine," Booker called, and she glanced up from what she was doing. "That night you told me about, he didn't...he didn't..." he trailed off, struggling to finish the question.

"No Booker," Sabine answered, as she finished ramming down the bullet with the rod. "He didn't rape me, he was too drunk to do it," she informed, tossing the rod down. "The worst I got was some wet, sloppy kisses," she recalled, bringing the rifle to her face.

He cleared his throat and nodded to himself, a look of relief clearly on his face.

After a moment, Booker took a few steps back, "Alright," he started, clearing his throat once more. "Remember to stand up straight and stand your ground," he reminded. "That rifle is pretty powerful, so keep the butt of it pressed against your shoulder," he instructed. "And keep it steady," he added, eyes keenly set forward.

Sabine cocked the hammer back with two clicks, her finger curling firmly around the trigger of the rifle. A glossy bead of sweat formed on her forehead as she aimed her gun at her target. She used her other hand to steady the barrel, closing one eye in the process. Looking down the barrel, she aligned the sights toward the target, which was still slightly obscured by the midday haze. Tiny whispers of doubt began floating in Sabine's mind on whether or not she could hit what was in front of her, but those thoughts were pushed out of her mind as she squeezed the trigger.

First, there was a powerful bang, and immediately after a shuddering recoil pushed her back. Sabine kept her balance, albeit barely, but Booker rushed to her side and kept her grounded.

She blinked, "Oh. So that's what it feels like," she looked to the Frenchman and burst into a fit of laughter, seeing his lips twitch up as well. "Come on, let go see the damage," she giggled, after regaining her composure a little.

Lightly, she grabbed Booker by his sleeve and they made a brief journey to the makeshift target, a stump between a pair of bare trees. A few torn scraps of metal were all that were left of the tin can Sabine had been aiming for.

"Wow," she breathed, an awed look on her face, as she picked up a piece of the destroyed can. "I guess that was a lucky shot though," she added with a giggle, lifting her eyes to Booker's.

He sauntered up to her, hands in his pockets. "Don't sell yourself short," he commented, his mouth curving upwards. "There may be a markswoman in you yet,"

Chapter Eight: Tis’ the Season

[gunbrker]

i need a place to organize my thoughts on thancred so i will be posting this on here! take it as a meta dump or headcanons of sort that’re definitely going to be implemented into my portrayal. this is gonna be a bit messy so excuse any jumping around!

ARR thancred and HW ( and on ) thancred are both two different characters. this is something i want to set as a precedent for the next few hcs, bc i’ve been thinking a lot about the way he presents himself in ARR vs the later expansions, and i’m going to try and explain why and how they’re different, per my own perception of course.

ARR thancred has a different speech pattern from HW thancred. it’s more flowery. it’s more poetic. each line of dialogue is diligently woven, pleasant to the ears, exactly the type of thing he’d want to make others hear. it’s disingenuous. it’s a mask. it’s all to obtain information or seek some sort of gratification in escapades or flings that serve as him utilizing his own charm/silver tongue to obtain what he needs. information for the scions’ advantage, or just for nothing more than that, sexual gratification, something i’ll talk about later. what’s important to note here is that, through all of ARR, thancred has been accepted as the flirty womanizer who hits on any woman near his vicinity ( for the purposes of my portrayal, this is strictly exclusive to any woman that is not a lalafell. 1.0 shows him doing exactly that and i refuse to integrate it into my writing ). examples of such poetic lines he has, especially with regards to women, can be found below:

naturally, HW thancred is different from all of this. whereas ARR thancred is far more charismatic, flirtatious, and poetic with every line, HW thancred is, for lack of better word, a lot more blunt. this specifically becomes more apparent after patch 3.1. his lines of dialogue don’t have that glimmer anymore, each rose colored word is gone and replaced by dialogue that has him being more straightforward and forsaking any previous notions that identified him as a flirtatious character. one could surely say, well it’s because he isn’t flirting with people anymore, and while that’s definitely a part of it, i like to think it’s more than just him not flirting with people anymore. it’s because minfilia’s gone. it’s because he failed. i’ll touch on this more later on this post, bc i just want to focus on here that he’s more blunt because of the fact he’s dealing with his own grief. he’s a lot more standoffish, he becomes distant and it becomes difficult to tell if he and ARR thancred were the same characters. they are, of course! but both act drastically different because one still had what he was intending to protect, whereas the other had failed in his duty.

with that being said, i do want to expand on this idea that ARR thancred, despite being different from HW thancred, still deals with his own guilt from robbing minfilia of her only family, her father. it’s something that has followed him for a very long time, something that creeps around his mind and he doesn’t want to think about it. this is further supported by ShB thancred imparting to you that he practically threw himself into his work to become every dunkard’s best friend for information. in ARR, he was dealing with that guilt by being a workaholic. he flirted with women at times, not just for information, but because he wanted a high that alcohol couldn’t grant him. that is to say, both working endlessly and having multiple flings is what allowed him to move forward. it was his unhealthy coping mechanisms, ones that distracted his thoughts from wandering towards his guilt. it’s far more subtle to tell when his mask has been so reinforced, one could easily believe there’s nothing but a charming man before your very eyes.

i want to embrace the tragedy of thancred’s character the most, since i feel like these parts make up for the type of character he is. a man from bitter beginnings that has suffered greatly, lost what he’s held dear, attempting to sort out that grief he holds to move forward. this is why i will be holding his past as a street urchin dear, as he truly came from nothing. he had no family at first, the very meaning of the word was alien to him, as both his parents passed away. louisoix and minfilia, i’d say, are the closest people thancred considers family. while i do believe it’s difficult for him to create emotional bonds with those outside of the scions, i do firmly hold the belief that thancred’s appreciation of the scions and his bonds with them greatly increases after the end of ARR. 

i emphasize this a lot in my threads; thancred, after being separated from the wol and the other scions, will come to greatly care for them and see them more as mere companions/work buddies. this is before he’s aware of minfilia’s fate, however. he intends to maintain some emotional distance from the others after discovering what happened to her. it’s hard for him to convey how he’s feeling. he’s severely distressed by his failure and it’s indubitably affected how he interacts with others. he will not easily open up about how he feels. he doesn’t feel comfortable. it’s difficult. it’s hard being that vulnerable when the one thing he promised himself he’d do right went horribly wrong. this is why i choose to portray him with this veneer that’re nothing more but the vestiges of ARR thancred: the faux smiles, the half-hearted poetry he spouts that may be aggravating to others, these little gestures that are reminiscent of who he was as you once knew him. that’s all a ruse he dons to reassure others that nothing is wrong, that he’s fine, even if he truly isn’t.

thancred, i believe, shifts his unhealthy coping mechanics a bit here. from this tragedy, he chooses to fixate on drinking, working, and fighting. 

no drink can truly numb how he feels permanently, but he would rather try and drink anything that can intoxicate him enough to forget the past for a moment. no matter how transient, a moment where he can experience that high is far better than drowning in his own thoughts. this is intrinsically tied with fighting.

fighting with others becomes customary for him, it’s likely to happen in any tavern he comes across. he always escapes before he can be found, but it serves no purpose than to seek that high; nevertheless, it’s integral to mention he will avoid picking fights with those he holds dear even in an intoxicated state. needless conflict with those he cherishes would only make him feel worse than he’s already feeling.

there is a fair reason he maintains a safe distance from them, which becomes especially evident with how much he pushes himself into his work after he loses minfilia. thancred does not rest a lot, you’re more likely to find him with heavy bags under his eye that’re begging him to go to sleep. he’ll insist he’s fine, even if you were to try and pry him away from it, he’d obstinately refuse out of sheer desire to keep working. even if it’s an unhealthy coping mechanism and he’s aware of it, it’s the only thing he can fathom to not think about each mistake he’s committed.

 this is not to say that thancred will be an exclusively tragic character that you’re meant to feel bad for at all times. he is a layered character that is more than just what’s deeply impacted him negatively. he still appreciates those moments where he can give a bonafide grin and simply joke around with someone, those moments that’re a nice respite from the chaotic reality he lives in. even if his life is messy as hell, he still wants to try and partake in any moment he could truly love. thancred may deem himself a failure in his own eyes, but he will continue to try and live each day to the fullest, to be content with himself and with the bonds he has. to protect what he does still have. even if it’s a thorny, difficult road that’s filled with hurt, loss, and regret, he’ll traverse through it if it means protecting what’s still here. what he still loves dearly.

thancred doesn’t accept feet pics from anyone

he loves to take advantage of his height when he’s taller next to someone. needless to say, the 5′9″ manlet is not too content being shorter when he’s in a relationship but oh well!

anyway i’m so sorry for this being super fucking messy but i don’t have any thoughts and i. i don’t know if this shit is either common knowledge or me being melodramatic, but thancred is kinda fucked up and messy and i love him.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #359

“i’m only a crack in this castle of glass  /  hardly anything there for you to see”

Do you look better with your hair down or up? It's too short to go up. Has you mom ever directly told you that she favoured your other sibling(s) over you? Yeesh, no. Have you ever read The Outsiders? Seen the movie? Read the book, seen the movie. Adore both. What’s your favourite drink from Jamba Juice? I don't think we have those here. Can you stand eating the crusts of a slice of sandwich bread? I don't mind the crust at all. Do you do your homework at home or in class? Prior to college, I did my work right after getting home to get it out of the way. In college, I did it in-between classes or when waiting for Mom to finish class. Do you feel uncomfortable sharing drinks with other people? Yes, I never do it. Do you get jealous if your boyfriend hugs another girl? I'm single, but hypothetically, I wouldn't... It's just a hug. At least for me, it's just a friendly gesture. Is there something that happened in your past you hate talking about? A few things, yes. Is it hard for you to be “just friends” with the opposite sex? Nah. If you had to choose, what color is your favorite? Baby pink. How many times have you dated the person you’re with now? I’m single. Has anyone suspected you of being a different sexuality? Yes. Do you like chocolate or vanilla cake more? Chocolate. Does it bother you to have blood drawn or not so much? Nah. What color is your toothbrush? It's a white electric one. Do you normally fall asleep fast or slow? Ridiculously slow. Have you ever had a severe allergic reaction? No. What do you want to be for Halloween this year? I'd love to dress up as like a Ms. Oogie Boogie and take some cool pictures, but I highly doubt it'll actually happen. What color are your glasses, if applicable? Black. Do you still look in the toy aisle, or do you pass it by? I walk past it. What are your summer fashion essentials? I don't have fashion essentials for any season. Do you have your own website? For my photography, yeah. Do you think you would be a good salesperson? Ha, no. I worked in retail before and I fucking sucked. Do you like candy corn? NO. Just colored wax, ugh. Do you like to wear skirts? I don't wear anything that shows my legs. Were you happy as a kid? Yeah. That, talkative, and hyper. Favorite store to browse but not really buy anything? Haha, I LOVE going on MorphMarket now and again to browse the ball pythons especially, but boy if I had the cash and space would I buy like fifty of them at once. I don't really know about a store I like browsing but not buying from. Skittles or Sour Patch Kids? Both are great, but I guess Sour Patch Kids. BUT, if you throw SOUR Skittles in there... then it's a war lol. If tattoos were free, how many would you have? A HELL OF A LOT. I wanna be just about totally painted. Do you wear a retainer at night? Not anymore. I had one, but I stopped using it. Are you afraid of dolls, puppets, or clowns? I'm not a doll person, particularly porcelain ones. When you’re in your room, do you keep the door locked? No. It's not even closed. Do you think your face is mostly symmetrical? Actually no, and I'm self-conscious about it. Stupidest thing you have ever said out loud? OH Christ, I'm not retrospecting on this. What’s your least favourite ice-cream flavour? That I've actually tried, strawberry. It's disgusting. What was the last good news you heard? I got approved for TMS therapy! Who was the last person to comment on your Facebook status? My friend Lyndsey. How did you meet him/her? World of Warcraft. She's actually my guild master, and she is the sweetest damn person. Have you ever learned any self-defense? If not, would you be interested in learning? I haven't, but yeah, I'd like to. When was the last time you took a nap? How long was it? Yesterday. For some reason, I actually slept a LONG time, like at least three, but probably close to four, hours. I mean I was tired, but I didn't feel THAT tired. Do you like Gushers? YAAAAAAAAAAS What would you do if you could do anything without failing? Actually get a degree for SOMETHING. What is your native language? English. Do you have a younger brother or sister? A younger sister. If so do/did they really get on your nerves? No. We were very close as kids, but we've drifted apart. Now, she absolutely doesn't get on my nerves. I'm so proud of her. Name something that happened to you that was completely unexpected. Uhhh I dunno. Do you judge people that have multiple piercings? Lol wtf? No. Do you watch the Olympics? No. What did you have for breakfast this morning? I had Kix cereal. Do you like orange juice? Yes. So long as it doesn't have pulp in it. Do you think it’s cruel to keep an animal in a cage while you’re away? It depends on the size of the cage as well as how long you're away. Do you have a pet gecko? No, but I'd love a fat-tailed gecko. Are you scared of reptiles? Not at all, I adore them. Is your car messy? I don't have my own car. Mom's kinda is, though. It needs a wash badly, but because of her bumper literally being zip-tied on, she doesn't trust going into a car wash. And neither of us are about to do it manually, lol. Have you ever seen the show 16 and Pregnant? No, fuck that show. Do you buy expensive clothes? No. Does death scare you? Not really. What are your current goals? Conquer my social anxiety, get a job, lose weight, do something to strengthen my legs... Those are the four biggies. Do you clap or cheer when at a concert? I did both at the one I've been to. Do you drink coffee? What brand? No. Do you use a comb or brush? A comb. When you were younger, did you ever do that exclamation point that looked like an upside down triangle and had a really big dot? No. I loved the cutesy girl handwriting though, haha. I just could never do it. You’re locked in a room with the person you last dated, any problems? Well yeah, we're locked in a room lmao. What kind of relationship do you have with the last person you kissed? It's perfectly fine, we're best friends. Have you ever gotten burnt by a cigarette? No. Do you get mad when people smoke around you? Yes. Honestly, have you ever eaten raw cookie dough? Yeah, more than once. When was the last time you were on a city bus? Never. Do you have a garden? Does it have flowers, vegetables, or both? No. Where do you want to raise your kids? Who said I even want kids? Have you ever been to Cracker Barrel? Yessssss, good shit. Have you ever seen a ghost? I think I have. Have you ever burned an ant with a magnifying glass? No. Have you ever been to craigslist.com? Yes. Have you ever used Nair? Yes, on my legs. It works, I just have stupidly hairy legs that need so much to get it all. How many tabs do you have open and what are they? Two YouTube tabs and then Tumblr. What browser do you prefer to use? Chrome. What room are you in right now? My bedroom. Are you excited for anything this month? 1.) I get my tattoo on the 19th, and 2.) I start TMS next Wednesday. What language course did you take in school, if any? I barely survived one semester of Latin, then I did all four available German courses. What language would you most like to learn? I'd love to improve my German. What would you like to get a degree in? Photography. What book are you reading, what genre is it and do you like it so far? Wings of Fire: The Brightest Night. It's young adult fantasy, I think. Did you ever sometimes flip through your text books even when you didn’t need to? Yeah, mainly to just look at pictures because I was that bored in class, haha. What types of magazines do you read? None. Would you prefer to read a book, watch a movie or TV show, or play a video game? Play a video game. What’s your current relationship like with the person you lost your virginity to and do you wish it was different? We don't have any relationship anymore. I don't regret losing it to him, if that's what you're asking. If you mean our relationship stance, it'd be nice to still be in touch with him, but I know it wouldn't be healthy for me. Have you ever felt responsible for someone’s death? Pets, yes. No humans. What was the last book you recommended to someone? Idk. What’s the most difficult thing you and your current or last significant other have gone through? Distance was very hard. What’s your best memory with your ex? I'm going to assume this refers to "the ex." In which case, we were "play arguing," and I came storming into the kitchen after him to make a point, and I slid mid-sentence, and he caught me. We just held each other laughing our asses off. It's the simple things, man. Who was the last person that asked to hang out with you and what’s the story of how you met that person? Summer. My little sister and her were in pre-k together and became friends, but I gradually became closer to her than Nicole did when we were teens. Has anyone ever asked you out and you turned them down? Yes. Is there something you generally always ask for help with? Yeah. Like recently I've been having apples and peanut butter a lot, and I ask my mom to cut the apple because I'm terrified of knives. Do you feel comfortable telling people how much you weigh? NOPE. Have you looked at any old photos of yourself lately? No. In a relationship, have you ever been on and off with your partner? No. Do you consider cooking to be an art? Yes. Are you a fast or slow reader? I'd say I read at a moderate pace. Does it take a lot to gross you out? It depends on what it is, but I am actually more squeamish than I used to be.

[potatocrab]

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (15/18)

Chapter 15: The Liar’s Kiss That Says I Love You

A return to New England Medical Center finds Madelyn struggling with who she can trust. She and Deacon have a long conversation about the power of truth and lies, and she learns one more of his closely guarded secrets. At a Railroad safehouse, the two reminisce on their first operation and realize they may have fallen into a cliché after all.

“Kiss me, Mike. I want you to kiss me. The liar’s kiss that says I love you and means something else.” - Lily Carver as played by Gaby Rodgers (Kiss Me Deadly, 1955)

x-x

This chapter contains mild/not-so-mild sexual content. Proceed at your own desire! When you see the French language being used, you have reached the point of no return! 

Major thanks to @glowstickia​ for her help on the French resources. :)

[read on Ao3] |  [chapter masterpost]

May 30th, 1958

Madelyn had hoped she wouldn’t have a reason to visit the New England Medical Center so soon, memories of Nick’s hospitalization and near-death experience at the hands of Eddie Winter fresh in her mind. Yet there she was, struggling to ignore the sympathetic glances from the familiar faces of doctors and nurses as they patched up her arm and provided her with a tetanus shot—undoubtedly more painful than her injury, at least without the surge of adrenaline to dull her senses. Who would have guessed that a needle could hurt worse than a bullet?

The same medical staff allowed her to stay with Drummer Boy in his assigned recovery room, despite the fact she was of no relation. It was likely out of pity for all they had seen her experience in recent months. Between everything that had happened to her and Nick when they went after Eddie Winter in April, Jenny’s death when the hospital was ambushed thereafter, and now an attempted assassination at her own apartment—Madelyn was starting to think her luck—if she had any to begin with—was running out.

By the grace of God—or maybe Drummer Boy’s perfect timing—she’d escaped relatively unharmed. He wasn’t so fortunate, but the commotion of the shooting hadn’t gone unnoticed in her Cambridge neighborhood. When the Boston Police arrived, she was initially surprised to see Sergeant Sullivan, but considering he was the last trustworthy cop left in the city, she was grateful for his presence. He ensured that she and Drummer Boy got to the New England Medical Center in a timely manner while his task force secured the area. Madelyn wasn’t completely comfortable with the idea of strange men lurking about her apartment, but she had little choice but to agree.

In the quiet of Drummer Boy’s room, she finally had a chance to process what had occurred and how close she had come to death—again. An unknown assailant dared to attack Madelyn in her own home, where she was most vulnerable. The list of suspects in her mind narrowed down to one as she thought about the agency’s infiltration of Fort Hagen, and the smuggled documents on Kellogg. While there hadn’t been any sightings of him since the late 40s, his vanishing act did little to ease anyone’s mind. The proof was in the casefile—Kellogg had a way of finding the people he deemed unfit for life. It made sense that he’d come for her, especially if he really was an agent of the Institute—they were likely to have their own list of reasons for wanting her dead.

An unsettling notion entered her mind as she thought about the man who had stalked her and Deacon before and again at the Cambridge campus on the day of the demonstration. What if it was him who had attempted to kill her, and not Kellogg as she assumed? What if it was a random android, set up in a building across the street, programmed to shoot into her apartment window at a specific time? Worse yet, what if the would-be assassin was just another one of the Institute’s experiments? Just another name, another face to get lost in the crowd—just as Piper feared. That meant nobody was beyond suspicion, not when it was still unknown just how long the Institute had been performing these so-called brain augmentations—if they were even behind the attack in the first place.

Madelyn clasped Drummer Boy’s hand tight as the paranoia and anxiety settled in. She couldn’t live like that—constantly looking over her shoulder—living in fear. She couldn’t go through life wondering who was or wasn’t worthy of her trust. Not when she’d finally gained back her sense of security—her sense of sanity—her sense of self. After Nate’s death, after Eddie Winter, after everything—the last thing she wanted was to fall back into the endless spiral of despair.

You can’t trust everyone.

The words echoed in her mind like so many times before, her chest tightening under the painful realization of how true they were. Madelyn closed her eyes the moment tears clouded her vision, clenching her jaw so tight she feared her teeth might chip. Anything to prevent herself from crying. It didn’t matter that she was (mostly) alone—she was so exhausted from so many nights of crying. Perhaps it was her concentration that made it difficult to hear the echoing footsteps in the hallway or the soft knock. It wasn’t until the door began to creak open that she reacted, recoiling in a way that she nearly fell out of her chair.

“Charmer?”

“Deacon?”

Madelyn breathed out his name, relieved it was him and not anyone else. While the doctors and nurses provided some comfort, it paled in comparison to the intimacy they shared. Still undefined, still unspoken—but undeniably close.

He hesitated, quietly closing the door behind him as he observed her, eyebrows raised high above the frame of his darkened shades. For as stoic and pensive as she’d seen him be in the past, especially when reacting to various tragedies and disastrous events, he appeared to be faltering now. It was always difficult to fully discern his emotions when half his face was obscured, but he looked curious, if not concerned. His silence indicated he was likely worried too, but Deacon would never say it outright.

Madelyn’s pulse gradually settled, but she had a difficult time fully relaxing under his watchful gaze. In that moment, with her willpower drained, she looked away. She focused on Drummer Boy’s steady breathing, brushing the pad of her thumb across his wrist and hospital band.

“Danny—Sullivan,” Deacon corrected himself, slowly moving to stand near the end of the hospital bed. “He tracked me and Valentine down, took us back to your apartment.”

“I know,” she responded, barely above a whisper. “I had him do so.”

“Ol’ Nick took a lot of convincing to stay behind,” he explained, setting down the canvas bag and glass Tupperware he carried on the small table. “But he didn’t want to leave those cops unsupervised. Even if they’re Sullivan’s men—”

You can’t trust everyone—he didn’t have to say it.

“It figures,” she sighed, closing her eyes again. “Probably looked like somebody died, huh?”

Deacon remained silent, though she could hear him, feel him, approaching. Soon enough, he was standing at her side, causing a tingle to run up her spine—an unexplainable feeling—but her skin suddenly ached for the simplest form of touch. As if he could read her mind (and she wouldn’t be surprised if he could), he rested his hand over hers and Drummer Boy’s. Madelyn immediately snapped open her eyes with a sharp inhale of air, momentarily stunned by the contact.

She needed more.

In an instant she was standing, clinging to him with her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders as she pressed up on her toes, tired feet and aching shoulder be damned. Deacon was quick to return the embrace, holding her close as he kept his arms snug around her torso. Madelyn stayed there, face pressed against the soft wool of his coat—she wanted to tease him for wearing it so near to summer but now she was grateful for the comfort it provided. She didn’t cry, despite the fact that she wanted to, and probably needed to as well. Bristling with quiet desperation, the only thing Madelyn was sure of was that she didn’t want to be alone.  

“I just—” she started after a long stretch of silence. “I’d like to go home.”  

Deacon gradually pulled her away, easing her back so her heeled feet were level with the ground. He swept back a few errant curls behind her ear, fingers lingering along the curve of her cheek. At first, she thought he might kiss her, but he skewed his lips to the side instead. “No can do, Charmer.”

Madelyn sighed—she knew that, but it was worth a try. Her eyes danced over to the belongings on the table. Deacon sensed her curiosity.

“Codsworth insisted I bring you something to eat,” he explained, nodding his chin towards the glass container.

“Better left for Drummer Boy. I’m told hospital food tastes of despair,” she flashed a meek smile. “And the bag?”

“Some clothes for you,” he said. “Any chance to rifle through your naughty drawer.”

If it were anybody else, she wouldn’t have appreciated such an ill-timed joke. Deacon’s smirk relaxed into a gentler expression, his thumb tracing down the angle of her chin towards her mouth. “Let’s get you someplace safe.”

There was a hidden meaning to his words that had Madelyn equal parts excited and trembling with anxiety. He wanted her safe, but also alone—all to himself. They’d kissed, crossed that barrier two weeks prior. But whatever was to come next was to be determined, put on hold, as their focus quickly became centered on finding Kellogg and infiltrating the Institute. Romance could wait—or maybe it couldn’t.

What was she so afraid of?

Finally, she spoke. “Do you trust me?”

“You’ve asked that before,” he responded in a low, contemplative voice.

He was right—Madelyn had poised the question on more than one occasion. And the last time, just as before, he hadn’t given a straight answer. It was always easy enough for her to assume and take his presence for granted. But now more than ever, she needed honesty—if it was even possible. She wanted nothing more than to be engulfed in the flame they’d ignited, but she’d sooner snuff out the fire if he couldn’t give her this one answer.

“I know that lying is your profession. That you’d sooner court death than the truth,” she paused, reluctantly leaning away from his touch, noting the glimmer of disappointment in his features. “Against better judgement, I trust you.”

“But I need to know that you feel the same—that you trust me,” Madelyn expressed, doing her best not to sound like she was pleading. “Not just as your partner in the Railroad, but—”

She broke off, grasping his hand as part of her silent allusion. There was a subtlety to his reaction, but enough of one that told her he understood the inference. Deacon said nothing, eyebrows firmly creased together as he considered her words. The silence dragged on enough that she felt foolish for saying anything in the first place. She tried not to feel overly disappointed or react in a disproportionate way—the last thing Madelyn wanted was an argument.

“There’s an imbalance,” she mumbled, unsure of her train of thought. “You know so much about me, a fault of my own—Nick always said I wore my heart on my sleeve—” She was definitely rambling. Blame it on her grief—she couldn’t stop. “But you are and always have been an enigma, Deacon. Your face, your hair…hell, your real age,” her eyes darted over his face as her heart raced loud enough she could hear it echoing in her skull. “Your name.”

His reaction wasn’t subtle that time. Deacon pulled away, and Madelyn feared she’d crossed a line and offended him. But he didn’t storm out of the room—rather, he dug through his coat and jacket pockets, muttering something incoherent under his breath until he pulled free a leather billfold with a triumphant sort of grin. He placed it in her hands as if she’d asked for it.

“Go on,” he encouraged with a sideways smirk.

Madelyn didn’t move an inch, only taking a quick glance at the wallet before meeting his face again. “What—”

“You could’ve lifted that off of me at any time,” he interrupted, gesturing to the faded black material. “Looked at my ID and taken some money while you’re at it. All in a day’s work for a spy.”

She frowned—it seemed honesty for him was as bad as pulling teeth. Her legal studies were easier than this. Madelyn decided to call his bluff, turning over the billfold in her hand. “A spy like you would obviously carry more than one identification.”

“Obviously,” he agreed with a nod. “But one of them is bound to be legitimate. Even a no-good scoundrel like me needs a clean copy for official reasons—never know when you’re going to end up in a pickle or interrogated by some charming blonde.”

Madelyn, understandably, had doubts as her irritation lingered. Even if she wanted to take a look, could she really open what was akin to opening Pandora’s box? Did she really want to know? What if this was just another elaborate trick? Deacon titled his head just enough that she caught a glimpse of his eyes in the low light of the room. He was serious now, all trace of humor erased from his expression.

“I trust you.”

A shockwave rippled through her body causing a deep warmth to radiate in her chest. He might as well have told her—

Madelyn blinked hard, shaking the idea from her mind. One step at a time. Trust. He slowly circled around her to be closer to Drummer Boy’s bedside, and she turned to watch his movements, still hesitating to flip open the leather billfold. Deacon leaned over the hospital bed, as if to verify the agent wasn’t secretly awake and eavesdropping on their conversation. She sat back down in the nearby chair before giving into her curiosity.

She wasn’t sure what a typical man’s wallet was supposed to contain, but Deacon’s was full of various cards and trinkets—paper receipts and scribbled notes, raffle tickets of undetermined origin. Just as she predicted, and he admitted to, there were multiple state identification cards. Many were for Massachusetts, but there was one for Virginia, and one for Washington D.C.—unsurprisingly with the obviously fake name of George Washington.

Madelyn flicked through the paper cards, finding humor in some of the clever names and disguises—Horatio Williams from Worcester County, Simon Rock from Plymouth, Guy Granger from Richmond, and Harry Morgan from Nantucket. It wasn’t until she settled on a well-faded card that she gave pause. The Deacon in the black-and-white picture was recognizable, but only because she’d seen him without his usual pompadour wig and sunglasses. The full name wasn’t visible, worn from many years of handling but she saw enough of the bold lettering—Johnathan Daniel. She knew immediately it wasn’t a fake.

“Old testament,” she muttered, half-jokingly, under her breath. At least he hadn’t lied about his Catholic upbringing. Madelyn looked up to find him whispering—praying—as he gently held onto Drummer Boy’s arm, his other hand resting against the other man’s shoulder. The sight was unexpected, to say the least, and gave her insight that perhaps their relationship stretched beyond the Railroad too.

“Drummer Boy—Robby,” she corrected herself. “He wasn’t lying when he said John D formed the Railroad.”

Deacon shrugged, glancing at her over his shoulder, as if he expected her to say that. “He wasn’t,” he confirmed, plainly. He didn’t even ask when, or why Drummer Boy told her such information. “John D didn’t do it alone.”

“No,” Madelyn knew the history, thanks to the stories and a little digging of her own. “But Wyatt isn’t around anymore, now is he?”

“He isn’t.”

“And John D?” she asked tentatively.

Deacon grinned, if only for a fleeting moment. “He’s around.”

It was confirmation enough, and Madelyn decided not to pry for a straight answer—she’d gotten plenty from him already when he confirmed his trust. Now was not the time to cross boundaries, even as more unanswered questions rattled through her mind. With a deep and steadying breath, she allowed herself to become content with the knowledge that she was one of the lucky few—if not the only one—who knew this truth.

The silence was interrupted by a soft grumbling as Drummer Boy gradually regained consciousness. Madelyn abruptly stood, dropping Deacon’s wallet into the chair and rushing to the bedside to ensure he was okay. It took several moments for him to blink the exhaustion from his eyes, and he cleared his throat a few times before relaxing against the pillows again. The Railroad agent lazily glanced up at the two, flashing Madelyn a groggy smile. When Drummer Boy looked at Deacon, his face scrunched up, stuck between a frown and a glare.

“You still owe me,” he mumbled, causing Deacon to softly laugh. “Two dollars.”

The moon still hung high in the sky by the time Madelyn and Deacon left the New England Medical Center, though she wasn’t entirely sure of how much time had passed since she first left the agency, visited Nate’s grave, and returned to her apartment, only to be shot at by an unknown assailant—it had been a long day. All she knew was that her body ached, and that she was desperate for sleep.

After a short taxi ride into the Fens district, Deacon navigated the two through a nondescript area. She lacked the energy to comment on allowing handsome men to lead her into strange alleyways, but the amusement still brought a smile to her face. Outside an old, brick apartment building she noticed two Railroad insignias itched into the wall—one for safehouse, and another for ally.

“Mercer?” she assumed.

He nodded, escorting her inside the building. “Home sweet home.”

Unlike her Cambridge apartment, the elevators there were in working order. Madelyn couldn’t help but yawn as she leaned against Deacon’s shoulder, hoping the safehouse had an ample supply of pillows. He slowly guided her drowsy form down the hallway to the correct door, propping her under his arm as he fished through his pockets for his keys.

“Do you want me to carry you over the threshold?” he teased as soon as he pushed the door open.

Madelyn snickered, and snagged the bag of her belongings from his arm. “Haven’t you learned by now I’m a capable woman?”

He laughed, allowing her to enter ahead of him into the apartment. It was just about the same size as hers, with a mirrored layout and less furniture. Seeing as it was meant as a halfway-house for weary and temporary travelers, it made sense that it wouldn’t feel as lived in. There was a couch, a record player, and a small bookshelf with an assortment of books. The kitchen was modest as well—a small island bar with a few leftover coffee cups and newspapers, as well as a cardboard box from the nearby pizzeria.  

Madelyn followed the pathway of the hallway to the bathroom, glancing over her shoulder to find Deacon loitering by the refrigerator. As soon as she was alone in the tiny, tiled room, she took several moments to examine herself in the mirror. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the last time she found herself covered in blood—a macabre thought—the hospital staff had done a decent job at cleaning washing away the evidence from her skin. But there she was with another ruined dress, stained and torn from where the bullet had grazed her shoulder.

She thought to check her wedding ring for streaks of red when she realized she wasn’t even wearing it. A flicker of guilt washed over her as she remembered she’d removed it before the undercover operation at Fort Hagen. Maybe she should be relieved it was still safe and sound at her apartment—not like Deacon would’ve snagged it off her jewelry stand. Madelyn decided to look through the bag to see what he did grab. There were two dresses and stockings that complimented her current pair of heels, and she was grateful that they were appropriate for the May weather. Tucked beneath that was one of her silk nightgowns and matching robes, along with some undergarments. Rather than feel embarrassed, she could only sigh, appreciative that she had something comfortable to change into.

She quickly kicked off her heels, leaving them at the foot of the sink as she removed the rest of her clothes. She draped her discarded dress and stockings over the shower curtain rod before slipping on the pale blue nightgown, securing the robe around her body with a tight knot. She wiggled her toes against the cool floor and sighed. With one last glance in the mirror to ensure she hadn’t missed an errant mark of blood, she flicked off the light and left the bathroom.

In the kitchen, Deacon was preparing two glasses of whiskey as he stood by the island bar, pausing in his actions to watch her slow approach. “Well now I feel overdressed.”

Ironic, considering she’d never seen him so relaxed. He had discarded his wool coat and suit jacket, left hanging over the back of the living couch. Even his shoes were missing, and a cursory scan of the room didn’t give her any indication of where he’d placed them. Madelyn could only mimic his expression.

“You’re the one who packed my bag,” she replied. “I sense sabotage is at play.”

Deacon mocked offense. “I’d never.”

“Before you take the bed and resign me to the couch,” he continued, gaining her attention. He gestured to the freshly poured drinks and the pizza box. “I made a promise to a very pushy Mister Handy unit that you’d be fed, and I’m one to keep promises. Even if they are to robots with British accents.”

Madelyn laughed, imaging Codsworth’s worrying pestering. When her stomach growled, she decided that as tired as she was, sleep could wait. Deacon pulled out the barstool for her so she could sit before occupying the set next to her, sliding her the glass tumbler of whiskey and cardboard box of leftovers. She’d had worse meals but in that moment, cold pizza and alcohol was like heaven. Still, she could sense Deacon watching her carefully from the corner of her eye, and she sighed into her glass.

“I don’t want to talk about what happened,” she explained, nervously meeting his shielded gaze. “Not now, not when I’ll just have to repeat it all over again when we meet with the others in the morning or—” she glanced to the clock hanging on the wall and groaned. “In a few hours.”

Deacon didn’t push. “Whatever you need, Charmer.”

“How does the line go?” he mused. “You know how to whistle…”

“I thought I was Bacall,” Madelyn joked mid-chew. “Mr. Bogart.”

She hadn’t forgotten that conversation from their first meeting, a flirtatious tease of falling in love like two Hollywood starlets in the latest noir film. Madelyn would’ve never guessed that all these months later, it had played out exactly as predicted. She smiled, and so did he.

“Looks like we fell into the cliché after all,” she whispered, eyes darting across his face, lingering on his mouth. “What do you think?”

Deacon finished off his whiskey with a slow sip before answering. “Tu as de beaux yeux tu sais.”

Madelyn was momentarily taken aback, suddenly wishing she’d taken French as a foreign language in school instead of Gaelic—all her Irish relatives were deceased anyways, what was the point? Was Deacon deflecting again? Something about his tone and the way he turned towards her said otherwise. He used his legs to scoot her barstool closer to him, the movement causing her to lean forward and brace her palms flat against his chest so she wouldn’t smash her forehead against his nose. His hands came to rest on her waist as he gradually eased her closer.

“Si je te disais que tu avais un beau corps, tu m’en tiendrais rigueur?”

A question whispered against the shell of her ear that sent her heart racing, mind going blank as she only thought about Deacon’s heated breath along the column of her throat. Madelyn allowed herself to edge nearer to his body still until she was practically straddling his thigh, teetering on the edge of her chair, arms loosely wrapped around his shoulders.

He continued murmuring what she assumed were sweet-nothings against her skin—though they could be nonsense and she’d still be melting in his hands. “On devrait t'arrêter pour excès de beauté sur la voie publique.”

“Est-ce que tu fais partie du menu?”

What about a menu? She pondered if what he was telling her bordered on filth, but the idea only excited her. Madelyn sharply inhaled, angling her neck to give him greater access despite the fact his lips hadn’t made direct contact with her skin. When he finally reached her mouth, he paused, one hand reaching up to hold the side of her face steady.

“Dis moi ce que tu veux,” he said. After a beat, he repeated himself, this time so she could understand. “Tell me what you want.”

Madelyn didn’t hesitate to move her hands to his face, fingers wrapping around the metal frame of his glasses before gently removing them, setting them down on the kitchen counter. She held his face with her palms, taking a long moment to stare deep into his steely blue eyes. It had been more than a month since she’d seen them like this, and yet it felt like she was seeing them for the first time—brilliant, vibrant and beautiful.

“You,” she breathed the answer, the most honest she’d felt in years. “Deacon, I want you.”

There was a glimmer to his eyes she couldn’t place as he briefly smirked before wordlessly closing the distance between them with a slow, but needy kiss. It didn’t take long at all for it to grow heated, the hand on her waist silently encouraging her to scoot closer until she was fully seated across his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. Deacon balanced her against him as they hungrily kissed, a groan echoing in his throat as she frantically pushed the suspenders from his shoulders before moving her fingers to undo the buttons of his shirt. It seemed that now that the damn was broken, Madelyn couldn’t wait for the rush—patience be damned.  

He matched her fervor, one hand darting to the silken knot at her waist and blinding tugging until he broke away from their kiss to glare down at the confusing tangle. With a curse he pulled open her robe and she shrugged it from her body, softly moaning as his lips instantly collided with the outline of her collarbone before the garment reached the floor. As Deacon kissed a trail along her skin, Madelyn threaded her hands through his hair, breathing a laugh when she remembered it was a wig. He didn’t seem to mind as she removed it—too preoccupied with leaving patterns on her neck—exposing the ginger locks she admired. Just as she returned to run her fingers through those soft waves, he leaned back out of reach. She didn’t have time to be confused as he hoisted her into his arms as he stood, holding her as if she weighed nothing.

Madelyn gasped and still clutched his arms in the fear that she’d be dropped. At first, she assumed he would carry her to the couch, or the bedroom, but he simply placed her on the island bar instead. With a sweep of his arm, he pushed away the clutter to make room for her body, thrilling her to the core. She watched as Deacon peeled off his dress shirt, moving her hands to his belt on the assumption—and perhaps eagerly—that they were to make love right there. He covered her hands with his own, stopping her with a soft chuckle, but it wasn’t meant to taunt her.

“Lie back,” he instructed, voice laced with desire.

Madelyn complied, swallowing down the last traces of anxiety as she eased back onto her elbows. She was so entranced by his actions that she almost forgot to breathe, eyes locked onto his face as his gaze raked over her body and the length of her legs. Deacon’s hands were soft as they traced up from her ankles to her calves and eventually to her thighs, gradually spreading apart her knees to make enough space for his body. Those striking eyes of his found hers as his hands trailed further, past the lace trim of her nightgown until heated fingers traced the outline of her underwear. Those same deft fingers pulled away the fabric just enough so he could touch, an agonizing drag along her already dampened folds. It was enough for Madelyn to completely collapse against the cold tile of the counter, tossing her head back as she moaned loudly. Just how touch starved had she been?  

“Don’t close your eyes,” Deacon said, and she desperately fought to snap them open as he continued, and then stopped.

She whimpered, almost against her own volition. He was already gradually sliding her underwear down her legs until they slipped off and to the floor. Instead of his hands, it was his mouth that followed the trail up her legs, and Madelyn was sure her heart was going to burst right out her chest. It didn’t take a detective to know what he was planning, and the pure eroticism of it all—splayed out on a kitchen counter—made her skin prickle with arousal.

Deacon pushed up the silken fabric of her nightgown before hooking one knee around his shoulder, spreading her other thigh out so that his hand could easily trace along her skin. His fingers found her wet heat again, far from teasing as he probed her entrance, eliciting loader groans from her. Just as he found a steady rhythm, he replaced his hand with his mouth, and Madelyn could feel her stomach coiling at the sensation already. She was writhing, uncaring how unhinged she appeared, completely lost to the passion he was inflicting upon her. It was only fitting that the man who was so gifted at intrigue would be this talented with his mouth—Deacon was through, relentless.

Madelyn’s mind was a haze, and she couldn’t hear anything besides her own rapid pulse and intense breathing. No doubt she was chanting his name like a prayer, whispering quiet praises and pleadings that he wouldn’t stop because—oh God—she was so close, and—Jesus—she hadn’t felt so alive in years. There was more blasphemy and curses, and she was sure she was going to hell—maybe it was worth it—if this was what sin felt like.

When she came, it was blinding, and her entire body trembled uncontrollably as Deacon’s hands moved to cradle her, mouth unmoving from her core until she was spent. Madelyn still took several minutes to regain her bearings, staring up at the ceiling in delirious wonder.

“Deacon?” she titled her head to find him resting against the counter, arms draped across her body as his hands rubbed slowly up and down her sides. He glanced up at her with a lazy, self-satisfied sort of smile, and she decided he deserved it.

“I’m here,” he answered.

She softly laughed. “I’d like you to carry me now.”

Deacon was slow to move but eventually leaned back, grasping her hands to help her gradually sit up straight. He hooked one arm under her knees, the other around her torso and gave her a sideways glance so she’d hold onto his shoulder for balance. Madelyn again found herself amused at how easy he made it seem, pausing on his way out of the kitchen to turn off the front room lights. They made their way towards the bedroom in the darkness, though Deacon didn’t appear perturbed, as if he had every inch of the place memorized by touch.

Compared to the rest of the apartment, the bedroom filled more belongings and looked like it had a regular visitor. There were more books scattered there than in the front room, and several bags of clothes that had been diligently organized. Madelyn didn’t have to ask to know the regular tenant was Deacon. The shades of the window were open, allowing the light of the moon to cast a soft light of white into the room and across the unmade bed. He placed her there, and she stared up at him with curious eyes as he seemed to hesitate for the first time that evening as he slowly unbuckled his belt, sliding down his pants when there was enough slack.

“We can stop, if you want,” Deacon suggested. “The bed is yours. Couch is more comfortable than it looks.”

Madelyn was surprised, and while she appreciated the gesture, she’d expressed her desires. “No.”

“Thought you might say that,” he smirked. He removed his undershirt and tossed it to the floor before sitting on the edge of the mattress, reaching down to pluck the socks off his feet.

When he turned to her, Madelyn was struck by the man she saw in the glow of the moonlight, practically a stranger and yet somebody she trusted her entire life with. Against common sense she’d gone and fallen in love with a beautiful mystery of a man, and nothing thrilled her more. She sat up to meet his advances, kissing him desperately as he worked to lift her nightdress up and off her body.

Madelyn removed her own bra, uncaring if he could do it just as quickly. At this rate, she just wanted to be naked and beneath him as soon as possible. Deacon must’ve found the action amusing, softly laughing against her mouth as he broke away from their kiss to lift off from the bed to discard his briefs. She took the opportunity to lean back against the pillows, pushing back the sudden realization that she was about to have sex for the first time in years—the first time since—

No, she reminded herself, closing her eyes tight. There was no time for that kind of guilt, or for those kinds of memories to permeate this space. With a steadying breath, she blinked open her eyes to find Deacon perched over her, the warmth of his body causing her earlier excitement to spike anew. He lowered himself closer, and she let out a shudder at the feel of his hardened arousal at the junction of her thighs.

“Je t’adore,” he whispered against her ear.

Madelyn turned her head so that she could look at him, lock eyes—blue on blue. She wrapped one leg around his, silently encouraging him as she hooked her arms around his shoulders. “Deacon, please.”

That’s all it took for him to slowly sink into her, the air stolen from her lungs as he became fully seated within her. Deacon moved slow in those initial moments, almost agonizingly so, staying close to her body as he steadily rolled his hips against hers. It wasn’t until she let out a strangled moan and grasped the hair along his scalp that he dared to increase his speed, fully retreating with each thrust before pushing back in. There were more hushed, incoherent and foreign words exchanged, more silent prayers and whispered names against mouths between hungry kisses.

Eventually he leaned back onto his haunches and the angle created a delightful increase to her pleasure and judging by the way Deacon panted and struggled to keep his groans contained, he felt the same. Madelyn felt admired under his gaze, her skin aflame as his blown pupils darted across her naked flesh, fingers digging tightly into her hips as he gradually lost control of his thrusts. She’d been so caught up in her own past that she hardly considered—or remembered—that it had possibly been a long time for him as well.

“Come here,” she beckoned him back to her arms and he practically collapsed against her, their limbs tangling together as they lost themselves to each other.

It didn’t take more than one, two—three punctual thrusts for Madelyn to snap, crying out as she came with a trembling force. Deacon followed shortly thereafter, clinging tightly to her as he snapped his hips tightly to her with a guttural groan. The two stayed coiled together for the next several moments until the spasms passed, Deacon pulling away with a deep exhale as he withdrew to collapse at her side.

Neither said a word as they came down from their individual highs of ecstasy, the room slowly growing quiet as their breathing returned to normal. Madelyn was the first to roll onto her side to face him, and for all that they had shared in the past and just now, she felt strangely bashful. Deacon was already gazing at her with an expression she couldn’t place, the moonlight twinkling in his eyes. Still, the two remained quiet, only regarding each other with similar smiles. He silently urged her to snuggle close against his chest, wrapping their still warm bodies in a thin sheet.

Madelyn still wasn’t sure what the nature of their relationship was, but that was a conversation for another day. She wasn’t about to ruin the moment with a potentially tremulous conversation—not everything needed to be talked through, not everything needed an immediate answer. It was well enough to just be happy in the moment. And despite all the other worries in her life—God—was she happy. She could feel sleep finally calling her into the darkness.

Before she succumbed, she smiled, content to be wrapped up in his arms. “Goodnight, Deacon.”

She convinced herself she was dreaming when he responded minutes, or maybe hours later.

“Goodnight, Madelyn.” 

[trunkzbriefs]

Any Son and/or Briefs family headcanons? Spicy hot takes? Truths Toriyama and Toyotaro themselves can not handle? Straight up lies?

GODDAMN SORRY this took a while cause i suck at putting thoughts together. i apologize for my obvious briefs bias i have more hcs for them than the son family despite loving them both :pensive: anyway heres some random stuff

briefs hcs:

all of the briefs are pros at non-verbal communication. i hc that saiyans have their own language (and also in my own Mind Canon they still have their fuckin tails) and a lot of it is done through tail movement/body posture/grunts/etc. etc so theyve all sort of picked that up. even bulma, who doesnt have a tail, is pretty good at getting across what she means without actually speaking. they still do speak normally but it comes in handy sometimes considering that both trunks and vegeta are prone to running out of speaking energy or getting very frustrated with words, so having another way to communicate works very well for them

vegeta is fffffffffffffffffffurry. without getting too deep into my own General Saiyan hcs (thats why i made a whole ass four subspecies!!) i think that the entirety of planet vegeta tended to be very hot aside from the part where the castle was, where the temperature would drop. meaning that saiyans working in the palace would grow thicker fur around certain parts of their body, and in the royal saiyans theyd be Especially fluffy. he kept it down on earth, but he has thick patches of fur around the bottom parts of his arms and legs. kind of like snowy boots and gloves! he also has fur that grows in on his neck like a lions mane.

future trunks is an actions sponge, vegeta is a words sponge. vegeta will pick up words VERY quickly regardless if he fully understands the meaning of it or not (completely inspired by 'THATS RIGHT BOYS... MONDO COOL' in z) and future trunks will unintentionally mimic the actions of people - around people he looks up to he might take a few small mannerisms from but this extends to copying the disposition of anyone; he's just very adaptive. this is the most obvious (and funniest) when he's around vegeta bc it really shows like. yeah damn that sure is vegeta's son

vegeta & bulla have an intimidating bastard smirk naturally. their natural smiles are pretty frightening and they have to put effort into a 'normal' one. this also extends to current trunks, his default smile is the Vegeta Bastard Smirk but he learned to have a normal smile quicker than his father and sister. future trunks has a slightly unnerving natural smile (the fact that his pupils are always drawn so fucking small makes me hc that he just has a very intimidating look of 'cat thats about to pounce on an unfortunate trapped mouse' whenever he smiles) but he learned to look normal even quicker than current trunks since he's around humans a Lot and is sort of their uh, Hope. don't want to look scary to the people who depend on you!

bulma has some fighting knowledge and mildly good ki control. vegeta taught her it as a just in case so that she'd be able to defend herself against Bigger threats if he wasn't there and also so she could raise her own ki to alert someone to her if she had to.

vegeta is extremely clean and can not stand to have things disorganized for more than like... an hour before he has to tidy everything up. every time he goes down to the lab and bulma is passed out in a pile of bolts and circuit boards it kills him inside just a little bit

future trunks has little concept of power control. since his timeline was always in danger it wasn't really an important thing for him to learn. the amount of mugs he's accidentally crushed is impressive

vegeta tends to not sound like he's asking questions when he is. he doesn't add the proper infliction to the end of his questions and just sounds flat most of the time. it's confusing to people who dont know him well.

im not even gonna lie, im a BIG fan of the chill demon panchy headcanon so i love the idea that the briefs have a Lil bit of demon in them but just dont know it ghjnkm

[banging my fists on the 'hcs that not even got could take away from me' table] future trunks has OCD

vegeta doesn't really get labels but he's bisexual & "debatably a man", bulma is bisexal & bigender transfem (sometimes shes Wamen and other times its like "gender? no"), bulla is a nonbinary lesbian, current trunks is a bisexual trans man & future bulma forgot to explain the concept of gender and sexuality to future trunks so he's a little confused on that front and his gender & sexuality are "i have literally never thought abt these concepts in my life but i think men are nice. i refuse to think about gender though" (i actually have two main hcs for future trunks which are either gay trans man or more-feminine-presenting nonbinary bisexual)

son hcs:

goku is Not as fluffy as vegeta at all, but he does have fur on certain parts of his body. namely on the back of his elbows + ankles, down his back connecting to his tail, and on his shoulders. its inherented from gine!

gohan is learning saiyan language from vegeta! vegeta acts grumpy about it but he's glad to have someone to teach. when gohan learned that most of the history had been lost he basically wished shenron for a big ol book on saiyan culture and gave it to vegeta just as an act of kindness and vegeta was like [in an angry voice but very touched] "Ok. Sit down. You're learning." by extension gohan is also teaching the rest of his family!

i will take ox king being actually non-human to my grave so like, chichi has horns and a very short ox tail! gohan and goten both have horns, but they're hidden by hair. goten's horns are bigger than gohans.

goten also has a more ox-like tail, with a little puff of fur at the end. generally, gohan looks more saiyan-like and goten looks more ox/human-like.

although he keeps up his cheery demeanor very well, goku is still haunted pretty badly by like... everything that’s happened in his life. he still has frequent nightmares about cell & buu specifically.

gohan will freak out at worse, zone out at best, if he's even tapped on the neck. it reminds him of the whole 'getting his neck snapped on namek' so that area is pretty off limits to everyone

goten gets along really well with android 17. they both have a love for nature and 17s kind of like his chill uncle, so whenever he gets too stressed out or just needs a break you can find him face down on the ground outside of 17's place on monster island.

goku is really really good at remembering completely random shit. bulma uses this to her advantage whenever she's working and has him memorize random technology stuff. a week later goku can not remember what he had for breakfast that morning but as soon as bulma asks "hey do you remember what i told you last week" hes like "oh yeah sure i have no idea what it means but [blurts out three hours worth of technical garble]"

oh boy is this a headcanon that has a lot more depth to it than just a bullet on a tumblr post, but gohan has DID!

goku, like vegeta, doesnt get labels either, and does not even Try, ask him about any of it and hes like "i dont get the gender thing but i think lots of people look nice :)" gohan is gay and like vegeta, "debatably a man", goten + chichi are both bi nonbinary, & pan is a lesbian trans woman.

both:

bulla and pan are both into music! i think theyd mess around making their own stuff w/ launchpads

i have a general hc of ki mixing or shielding, essentially, if youre close enough to someone people wont be able to tell apart your ki and you can also 'shield' someone with your ki for a small amount of time. if vegeta has his energy low, his and bulma's energy are the same. same thing with goku and chichi! goten and trunks are near impossible to tell apart, and same thing with gohan and videl.

though goten and trunks are both protective over their younger siblings, gotenks is that protectiveness times a thousand. look at bulla or pan wrong for 2 seconds and you're going to have an angry gotenks in your face asking if you have any last words. i like to think that trunks and goten fused casually a lot, especially around the time where bulla and pan were young, so its basically goten and trunks own attachment to them PLUS gotenks' attachment to them as his own person combined.

i like to pretend end of z did not happen the way it did so uub, using nimbus, travels back and forth a lot. goku isn’t the only one who teaches him how to fight as goten, gohan and trunks all think of him like a little brother and love training with him!

fuck you letters to toriyama/toyotaro hot takes:

cell, as cool of a villian as he is, definitely should have had a creepier final form. or multiple- just something that really drives in the fact that he's made up of other's dna & fuckin ABSORBS people. also his first two forms should have had a different absorbtion method other than the tail thing (not the drinking thing thats fine) it just feels.   Weird. not good

it would have been far more interesting to keep the bitter attitude towards vegeta that future trunks had imo... in super trunks was going through a Lot granted but the fact tht he wasnt more confrontational to vegeta being a dick to him seemed kind of off considering his attitude in z i just.. think it would be interesting and far better if they had more of a back and forth 'family but lowkey hate each other' relationship

i dont want to rant about super so heres some super condensed takes, goku black arc specific because thats 90% of what ive seen of super:

mai is a fucking freak ass weirdo, why did they not just make another character to pair with trunks

trunks not flipping the fuck out at his timeline being erased feels... out of character. also trunks deserved the win against zamasu

future bulma did NOT need to die

trunks should have just stayed in the current timeline

please fucking let trunks and goten grow up. we SAW a version of trunks who looked 14 (history of trunks....) and the versions of goten & trunks we have r/n in super do not look 13/14 respectively what in the goddamn hell is going on in the character design department

super definitely should have taken place later down the line

supers version of bulma and videl look awful. why are they That stick like.

vegeta needs to kill frieza. just once.

fu has enough potential to be a very interesting mainline character and i am so sad he's not

i would actively enjoy a sdbh anime with more  budget that isnt just a promo anime and has a plot that makes sense... i think db should have more wild spinoffs

xenoverse deserved a better story that went FULL in on the 'what if' type of timelines- like they did in raging blast which is a FUCKING GREAT GAME

straight up lies:

dragon ball z is a good series

[iamcayc]

The Sounds of Gojo - Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Exchange Rating: SFW Word Count: 4292 Relationships: Gojo x OC (Kaya)

read here on Ao3

To say that you’re going to murder your cousin would be a vast understatement. Not only did you explicitly tell him to come pick you up after work promptly at 3:30 PM, but you also reiterated that you had zero interest in putting up with Gojo’s shit when you’re still feeling like you ran a marathon after being squashed by an elephant. It was a very reasonable request, and you had worded it very clearly to avoid any potential miscommunication.

So, one could imagine your immense disappointment and rage at the sight of white hair... and that smug-ass grin?

Kento Nanami is dead to you.

“Hey there, teach.” He’s wearing Ray-Bans today, his hair framing his face in a way that makes him look more youthful—and much to your chagrin, more attractive.

“Heard you could use a ride to collect your bike from the school, so I generously offered my services.” You notice that some of the girls are staring at him unabashedly, making you roll your eyes. Sexually-repressed teenage girls around Gojo is a terrifying thought, so you quickly usher him off the grounds and towards the front gate.

“What’s the rush?” he asks amiably. “It’s a nice day, after all. Wanna go get some donuts? There’s a new shop around here that I was thinking about trying.”

Your arms are folded across your chest as you glower at him. “Why are you really here?”

He pouts prettily at you. “Huh? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“Why on earth would that be my reaction to you showing up unannounced at my work, again?”

“Well, I still owe you compensation for helping me out last night.” He shrugs as he faces you. “Plus, I thought we had some chemistry going, but maybe I misread the banter. I mean, you brought up my dick the other night—”

Knowing full well that you won’t make actual contact, you cover his mouth with your hand anyway.

“Take me to get my bike so I can be rid of you sooner rather than later,” you hiss. His mouth stays covered until he nods, but your hands don’t make it away unscathed. No, just before you can yank your hand back, Gojo grabs hold of your wrist and you freeze. Not because he grabbed your wrist, but because you can actually feel his skin against yours.

He’s dropped Infinity, just long enough to stroke his thumb across the sensitive patch of skin inside your wrist. He makes actual contact just long enough to brush his surprisingly-soft lips against the back of your hand, all the while maintaining unwavering eye contact.

If you aren’t so stunned, you know your panties would be soaking wet at the intimacy of the moment.

But you are stunned, so you wrench your hand out of his as if burned.

Gojo simply smiles at you before gesturing at the sleek black car parked behind him. “Figured you’d want a ride, rather than warp.”

You sigh and head towards the car, shooting Kento a text.

You 3:30 PM What the actual fuck, Kento

kento-bro 🥐 3:31 PM I did NOT tell him to pick you up. I explicitly told him that the idea was a terrible one and would likely end with me dead. You can imagine his reaction to that.

You could, and you tried not to glare at Gojo as he held the door to his car open for you. The vehicle interior is surprisingly spotless; with his lackadaisical attitude, you expected random junk stuffed into the center console, at the very least.

It also smells just like him, sending a traitorous tingle down your spine.

“Are you cold?” Gojo asks as he slides into the driver’s seat. “I can turn on the heat, if that’ll make you more comfortable.”

You shake your head, tucking a few lavender locks behind your ear. “I’m fine, just a random cold chill. I’m surprised you even both to drive.”

Gojo shrugs as he starts up the car. “No reason not to learn. I’m more than just my techniques, you know?”

It isn’t as if you only saw him as a sorcerer.

Based on the flood of pure heat that you nearly drown in as he shifts the car into reverse and immediately places his right hand on your headrest, looking over his shoulder to pull out of the parking spot, you see him as a red-blooded man just like any other.

And that is something you intend to keep to yourself.

“So, have you decided?” he asks conversationally. Your irritation with him clearly doesn’t matter in the slightest, which only makes you exhale slowly. Traffic is touch and go as you try to make it out of Shibuya, so might as well make the most of the drive.

“You didn’t trigger an asthma attack, and me nearly passing out was due to my own idiocy, so I guess I’ll settle for a bottle of a decent red blend,” you reply as you settle into the passenger seat. Chill EDM and instrumental music hums its way through the car’s speakers from whatever satellite radio station he’s tuned into, your finger absently tapping along with the beat against your thigh.

“Hmm.” You feel his gaze on you for the briefest moment as he continues to drive. “I think I can make that happen. Seems like a pretty lackluster request, considering I practically gave you a blank check.”

You roll your eyes. “What did you think I was going to ask for?”

“I don’t know. Something more exciting, like a date, or even a kiss.”

“Sure you aren’t projecting a bit?” You cock your head a bit as you look at him. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the shifter. Your brain tries to reconcile the tall, charming, sexy as fuck man sitting next to you with the arrogant, pain-in-the-ass sorcerer that grated your nerves like no other. You can’t say why he rubs you the wrong way; it could be his carefree attitude towards absolutely everything, or maybe his continuous assumption that he can charm the pants off you, literally and figuratively.

Either way, it boils down to the simple fact that you don’t trust if and when he’s ever being genuine with you, or anyone, really.

“Would it really be so bad for you to admit you find me attractive?” he wonders aloud.

“I have no problem admitting you’re attractive,” you reply with a half-sigh. “It’s honestly a little disorienting, but then you start talking and all the allure just gets sucked right out, like a nasty little vacuum.”

“Why are you and Nanamin so mean to me?” Gojo whines. He makes the turn onto the campus, easing his way towards the parking lot where you had left your bike the night before. “Here I am, just trying to be nice...”

He parks the car right next to your Triumph, turning to face you with a pout. You simply stare at him, trying to decide how to best to inform him that he once again lost his head in his own asshole.

“Maybe if you tried to just be sincere instead of nice, people would stop being so ‘mean’ to you,” you point out. He pushes his sunglasses up and into his hair, regarding you with somber blue eyes.

“Would that work on you?”

You can tell he’s asking you seriously. The pitch of his voice has dropped, abandoning the air of frivolity and slipping into a velvet soft baritone that sends warmth through your center. It’s a tone you haven’t heard from him before.

“Yes.” Your mouth is spitting words faster than you can censor them. “I’d trust you, at the very least.”

Gojo leans towards you, his expression painfully neutral. “That’s important to you, isn’t it? Trust.”

His proximity to you, speaking to you in that lower pitch… it makes your heart thunder in your chest. You know there’s absolutely no way Gojo can’t hear it—it’s practically pushing out of your chest. What had been basic attraction is suddenly inching its way out of that easy to manage category and into dangerous territory.

Your brain doesn’t get the memo.

“Yes, it is,” you reply, your voice barely a murmur. “When you get fucked over enough times, trust issues develop. A basic psychological fact, as far as I’m concerned.”

He turns this information over in his mind. You can see the thoughts sinking into the vault behind his eyes. Gojo can be a brat on a good day, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t brilliant or observant.

“Can I have your number?”

You blink, reeling from the whiplash of his question. You fully process the moment and realize his charmer’s grin and bubbly tenor are back. The moment of honesty is gone.

A scoff is forming in your mind when you catch Gojo’s eyes again. The dissonance between the honesty swimming in the azure blues of his eyes and the mask he’s presenting is so clear, it takes you a second to quell your retort and hold out your hand.

His mask softens just a fraction as he gives you his phone, but his eyes never waver. You only break the stare to glance at his phone while you enter in your number, calling your own phone to save his number before handing the device back.

You’re typing out his name when you see a text come through from that number.

Unknown Number 4:18 PM this is Satoru, fyi 🤗

The use of his name feels intentional. You focus your energy and let your aura slip along the edges of his, luring it out for you to see. It’s a halo of cerulean blue, humming softly to you.

Your fingers hover over your keyboard for a moment before you save the number under just Satoru.

“I’ll text you when your bottle of wine’s ready,” Gojo says brightly. “But you have to promise that you’ll follow the instructions I send, too.”

That sounds like a trap and you immediately narrow your eyes as you start to exit the car. He just drops his shades with a too-innocent smile. Bickering with him wouldn’t end up being productive, so you just shake your head.

“Thanks for the ride, Gojo.” You step out of the car and unlock your bike, the tiny bit of anxiety you have about leaving it unattended somewhere unfamiliar easing away as you zip up your leather jacket and pick up your helmet.

“Hey, teach.” You see that Gojo’s window has rolled down as you swing your leg over the bike. “Ride safe, alright? Let me know when you get home, too.”

You can’t help but smile a little. “What are you, my dad?”

His smile turns feline. “Why, feel like calling me ‘daddy?’”

Your eyes can’t roll harder than they do right then. Refusing to deign that with a response, you snap your visor shut and take off back towards your apartment in Yoyogi.

The moment he let you past his Infinity replays in your thoughts the entire ride home. The feel of his skin against yours felt so… nice. The internal cringe at the lackluster adjective is unavoidable. It hasn’t been that long since you’ve had sex, for fuck’s sake. Are you really that starved for attention that you’re willing to play with the giant bonfire of fuck-boy that is Gojo just to satisfy your curiosity — among other things?

You ease your bike into your garage and head back into your safe space. Shedding your jacket, you glance at your phone before you move into the kitchen to start dinner.

Satoru 4:53 PM what perfume do you wear??

Satoru 4:53 PM also, have you made it home yet??? 😰😰😰

Your brows knit at his first question as you pour yourself a glass of wine while last night’s takeout reheats.

You 5:09 PM Just got home. Why do you want to know about my perfume?

Satoru 5:10 PM whew, i was worried!!

Satoru 5:10 PM it smells lovely in my car, the same way you did when i carried you into your place last night. call me curious 🤔

Suspicious, that’s what you’d call him. You let the text sit while you stir your leftovers, distracted by the sense of a blush forming on your cheeks at the thought of him enjoying your perfume in his car as much as you enjoyed his scent.

“And those are the thoughts of a complete weirdo,” you mumble as you stick your leftovers into the microwave for another minute.

You 5:12 PM It’s called Wisteria Blue by Nest

Ordinarily, you’d have silenced your phone and left it somewhere beyond reach to completely disconnect while you unwind from the day. And ordinarily, you’d have your attention focused on some murder docuseries instead of thoroughly grading assignments.

Yet, your phone remains face up and on ringer as it stares at you from the coffee table. You’re half-paying attention to the new show on a crazy cult in the States during the 1980s while nibbling on leftover fried chicken and rice, your peripheral honed in on the screen of your phone and diverting your focus like a fucking teenager.

And, just like a teenager, your stomach flips when your phone chimes and lights up again.

Satoru 5:22 PM do you trust me now?

You 5:23 PM Not completely, no. but I am more inclined to try and trust you

You 5:23 PM Besides, not all of us have Infinity to ward off folks we don’t want hurting us

When he doesn’t immediately reply, you attempt to refocus on your dinner. It’s not like you think Satoru plans on hurting you; that moment in the car before you left gives you a tiny bit of peace of mind there. No, your reactions are purely automatic defense mechanisms, ingrained into you after years of gaslighting and emotional manipulation.

Nope, not going to think about all that. You turn up the television to drown out your own thoughts, just as your phone lights up again.

Satoru 5:31 PM got any good stories about nanamin? 😈

The cackle that bubbles up is pure petty bitch. Boy, oh boy, do you have stories? Since you steadfastly believe that the white-haired demon’s appearance in your life is all Kento’s fault, you feel absolutely no guilt in arming his friend with some solid ammunition.

You 5:33 PM Did you know that he’s terrified of moths? Not like, ew that’s gross, but little girl screaming terrified. He’s even had nightmares that they suck his face off if one lands on him

Satoru 5:35 PM you’re my new favorite person 🤣🤣

----

“It’s getting there, you just need to pay attention to your tempo, Ichigo.”

The third year frowns at her hands, as if their lagging is under someone else’s control. You smile at her, squeezing her shoulder gently.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” you tell her kindly. “It’s easy to get wrapped up in how your music makes you feel that you lose sight of little things like your speed or technique.”

“Does that happen to you, when you play, Ms. Nissen?”

An iron curtain drops on the memories of performing that her question pokes at. Instead, you just keep smiling, though it’s lost a little bit of its warmth.

“I don’t play too much anymore, but yes. If my heart is driving me to play, even I lose sight of my tempo,” you reply as you stand up from your perch by her keyboard station. You glance around the room, pleased to see that some of the girls have started to get a head start on cleaning the room after their check-in.

“Great job, all of you,” you say loudly over the low cacophony of music. “Don’t forget that your reports on your chosen pieces are due tomorrow at the start of class.”

With that, the girls go about their daily chore while you collect your things from the podium in the corner. As expected, you see that you have a string of messages from Satoru, which makes you smile a little, despite your best efforts.

Satoru 2:02 PM what made you want to be a music teacher?

Satoru 2:03 PM and why do you have sound proofing in your apartment?

Satoru 2:10 PM i’ve been to the states a few times. where did you live while you were there??

The last few days followed this pattern of intermittent texts from a perpetually curious Satoru, his questions rarely relating to each other as he fires them off during school hours. You understand his students’ dismissive attitude about his authority over them, especially if he’s on his phone most of the time.

You 3:11 PM I’m surprised you haven’t coerced Kento to tell you all of that 🙄

Your warning shot of the moth story did its job, bringing your cousin to his knees for forgiveness after Satoru released a few dozen moths in one of the classrooms while locking Kento inside. The pair of you reached a truce, agreeing to have dinner again this Saturday, without Satoru.

Satoru 3:12 PM he’s still not talking to me 😅

You 3:13 PM I always had a thing for music, since I was really little. My parents decided to capitalize on it and got me all kinds of private lessons… piano, cello, violin, voice, etc. When I decided to stop performing, I didn’t want to leave it totally behind, so I decided to teach.

Satoru 3:16 PM how did you avoid using your technique? it had to have shown up by then

You 3:17 PM Kento would teach me bits and pieces of jujutsu when I visited over the summers, but before he even started going to Jujutsu Tech, all my feelings and intentions were directed inward, rather than to my audience

You slip your phone into your backpack and put on your helmet. There is plenty about jujutsu that you don’t understand, and you wonder if anyone truly does, but you’re still grateful for Kento and Yaga. Without either of them, you’d have drowned in your own self-loathing.

It occurs to you that you haven’t seen Yaga in awhile, so you decide to pay your respects soon. Maybe he would have some tips on how to manage a certain snowy-topped idiot.

After locking up your bike, you drop your things on the couch and head straight upstairs to your bathroom. A hot shower sounds blissful, as opposed to finding out what other questions Satoru has in store for you.

The steaming spray soothes your tense shoulders as you consider the chessboard of conversation in your head. You’re used to answering personal questions with the bare minimum information needed, but Satoru isn’t your average pedestrian poking around. Besides, it doesn’t escape you that you’ve played the trust card, only to be a perfect hypocrite in terms of honesty.

You sigh as you work shampoo into your hair. The simplest solution is to acknowledge that there are things you aren’t ready to talk about, which is always so much easier said than done. A coil of anxiety tightens in your stomach but you dismiss it.

As you dry off, you make a mental note to dye your hair again soon. The color is fading a little too close to silver for your liking, and the last thing you need is for Satoru to start saying that you’re trying to steal his look.

Dressed in only boybriefs and an oversized sweater, you pad back down the stairs to fish your phone out of your backpack.

Satoru 3:29 PM what’s with the sound proofing then?

Satoru 3:43 PM did you die? do i need to come do a wellness check? 😱

You roll your eyes as you plop onto your sofa.

You 4:03 PM I didn’t die. I got home and showered, and didn’t feel like bringing my phone along

You 4:03 PM I put up the tiles to dampen any sounds I might accidentally make at home. Sometimes I start singing along to my Spotify, or hum while I bake. It’s just for my neighbors, really.

Checking work emails keeps you from watching his typing bubble from bouncing. There’s an upcoming faculty meeting that you pray has nothing to do with the school festival that’s coming up in a couple months. Last year, the girls in your class tried to convince you to perform in their faculty talent show — to the point that you had to dodge them in the halls in case they tried to use the power of their puppy-dog eyes.

Satoru 4:06 PM ooo… i bet you smell amazing. should have invited me to join 😏😏

You 4:06 PM Why’s that?

Satoru 4:07 PM i could have helped you wash up the hard to reach spots! instead, i’m just daydreaming about it instead of training the kids

You 4:08 PM Somehow I doubt me in the shower is what’s really preventing you from doing your job

Satoru 4:09 PM why are you so mean to me??? 😭

You 4:09 PM I’m not mean. I’m honest 😇

Satoru 4:10 PM i don’t believe you’re an angel for one second. no self-respecting angel rides around in tight pants and a leather jacket on a motorcycle, especially not one with a voice as pretty as yours

You 4:11 PM Please stop before you dig yourself into a deep chauvinistic hole that you have no hope of getting out of

Satoru 4:13 PM siiiiigh. fair point. so, where in the states did you live?

You 4:14 PM New York City. My dad works on Wall Street at an investment firm. Have you ever been?

Satoru 4:15 PM nah, i’ve only been to California and Hawaii. nyc seems cool though. did you like it?

You 4:15 PM I guess… I was a kid when I lived there. I moved to Japan when I was 15, so I think I missed out on all the really cool things that New York has to offer

Satoru 4:16 PM we should go together then!! you can show me around 🤗

The idea of playing tour guide to Satoru makes you smile but also makes you shudder. He strikes you as the kind of sucker who goes to all the tourist traps purely because that’s where everyone goes. Him in Times Square? Fuck that.

You 4:21 PM Hmm. I don’t come cheap, you know.

Satoru 4:22 PM name your price 😘

You 4:22 PM Do you always offer up blank checks to people you barely know?

Satoru 4:23 PM no, only the breathtakingly beautiful ones

You choke on rice, coughing roughly as you recoil from such a bold compliment.

You 4:26 PM Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you? How do I know that you aren’t just treating me like another conquest?

Satoru 4:29 PM who says you’re a conquest?

You 4:30 PM Don’t act like you don’t literally charm the pants off women whenever you feel the need. There’s no way a man like you doesn’t have a string of fuck-buddies

Satoru 4:31 PM i’m not, i’m asking why you think i see you as a conquest

Satoru 4:31 PM because if you were, i’d have already hit it and quit it

You honestly can’t decide if you’re flattered or more affronted at his honesty. To let yourself cool off, you finish up your dinner and go pour yourself the last of your favorite red blend.

It’s hard to disagree with his logic, the more you let it roll around in your head. You’re just as guilty of doing the same thing, when the dry spells go a little too long for your liking. And you’ve definitely gotten your share of lectures from Kento about being “so reckless” with strangers.

You 4:40 PM That’s fair. I apologize for making assumptions.

Satoru 4:43 PM wow, didn’t expect you to own up to that so quickly 😳

You 4:44 PM Why?

Satoru 4:44 PM getting nanamin to admit he’s wrong is like pulling teeth!!

You smile, knowing how utterly true that statement is.

You 4:46 PM Well, I’m not my cousin… besides, it’s wrong to shame someone for casually hooking up with people when I do the same thing. I’m not interested in being a hypocrite 💁🏻‍♀️

Satoru 4:48 PM glad i’m not flirting with nanamin. that’d be awkward 😳😳

Satoru 4:48 PM ughhh. gotta run and kill some curses.

Satoru 4:49 PM before i forget, your wine is ready! so be set for dinner at 7pm tomorrow night. dress to impress 😉

Beg your pardon? How did getting a nice bottle of wine turn into a dinner date?

You 4:50 PM What the fuck? Can’t you just give me a bottle of wine, like a normal person?

He doesn’t respond, likely because he’s actually doing work, for once. You glare at your phone for another minute before you drain the last of your wine and start updating grades to keep yourself from texting a string of extremely rude curses to the subject of your ire.

It doesn’t escape your notice how he conveniently had to disappear and exorcise curses after dropping that bomb on you, either.

Huffing, you stomp upstairs and into your bedroom. Because, despite it all, you refuse to show up to dinner looking anything less than your best. As the thought settles, a little grin lifts the corners of your lips while you open your walk-in closet and survey the options.

“Time to fight fire with fire.”

[you-a-southpaw-doll]

Buzzed - A Negan One-Shot

Summary: After an incident in the Sanctuary, Leigh takes matters into her own hands. What will Negan’s response be? 

Warning(s): Language. Angst. Attempted rape. Violence. Death. Slight Panic Attack. Anxiety. Leigh being a badass. Negan caught off guard (no pun intended). Mentions of what could be considered self-harm. Daddy kink, but not really. You’ll see. Protective Negan. Fluff. Sexual Innuendoes. Puns (Sorry Not Sorry!). Happy ending. Not Beta’d. I just finished writing this and had to post it! Sorry for any errors.

Author’s Note(s): 

I cut my hair myself, usually every 2 weeks, but no more than 3 weeks. I just can’t have my hair touch my ears; it makes my anxiety 10 times worse, and in a way, I kinda explain the reason behind that in this story. I was cutting my hair tonight, (it’s now 2:30 am, 5/24/2020) and I thought of this story idea and Negan’s reaction to the main character having short hair. 

Also, if any of the warnings are triggering for you, please don’t force yourself to read. The last thing I’d want to do is trigger someone into having a panic attack. Feel free to give me any feedback, thoughts, questions, comments and/or concerns you have with the story. I love hearing from y’all! 

As always, if you’d like to be added to my taglist, just let me know and I’ll happily add you!! 

Word Count: 5,301. (A lot, I know, but I think it’s worth it, and I just couldn’t get everything I wanted across in less words, so enjoy!)

Relationship(s): Negan x Leigh Sullivan (OFC)

Characters: Negan. Leigh Sullivan (OFC). Simon. Dr. Carson. 3 unnamed Original Male Characters. Sanctuary People.

Taglist: @negans-network @prettyboynegan @mychemicalimagines @spnnnxangelsx @rockinkel21 @misskittycat02 @band--psycho@ofxallxwexlost @iron-halt @thamberlinawrites @ravenwings73 @lettherebepink @stoneyggirl

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Story Time:

Leigh’s P.O.V. ~ Then

They’d caught me off guard, for once. 

Normally, I never let anything or anyone catch me off guard. Or at least...I tried not to. Due to having anxiety, I was usually hyper-aware of shit going on. But, today, my anxiety had eased off after the relaxing morning I’d had with my husband. We’d spent the morning, snuggled up in his big king-sized bed, just shooting the shit and goofing off. 

He didn’t have to go out on a run today, so there was no need to rush the morning like we normally had to 95% of the time. Eventually, though, the day had to get started. Dwight came knocking on the door, interrupting our relaxation time, saying he needed my husband for something. Being the man my husband is, he grumbled, cussed Dwight out, and then got outta bed while apologizing to me for the interruption and assuring me we’d finish relaxing when he got back later.

After a kiss, and a soft “I love you,” he was gone. Off to do what he did. It was my day off, so I laid in bed for a little longer before I too got up, dressed, and made my rounds. As the top female Savior, something I’d worked my ass off, fought for, and took seriously, I said hi to who I needed to, did what I needed to, and finally, sat down under my favorite tree out by the greenhouses. 

I laid my leather jacket on the ground next to me, leaving me in my usually black t-shirt, holey but patched up and well worn blue jeans, and faded brown leather boots. Strapped to each thigh was a holster. In the right one was my signature gun, a .357 Magnum, 6-shot revolver. In the left holster, I kept my handcrafted 6 inch blade that I made back when I was 15, well over half a decade, shit closer to a decade ago, considering I was almost 25.

Bending my knees, and pulling them close in a comfortable position, I propped up the notebook I usually kept in my leather satchel with two backup knives, an extra gun, ammo, and a spare notebook for work along with several pens and pencils. The writing equipment was a rare commodity these days, so I always kept them close to me.

As I was writing a story I’d started a few days prior, I zoned out just a bit, focusing on it. I’d started writing when I was just 12 years old, and kept the habit up, even now, 3 years after the world ended and the dead started walking back in 2020 after the Coronavirus outback after the new year, new decade had started. 

I was writing, losing myself in the words I printed on the paper in my chicken scratch. I say chicken scratch ‘cause, well...that’s basically what it was. As a lefty, my handwriting wasn’t necessarily the best, and a doctor’s prescription note was probably more legible. It was a mixture between slanted and curved print and semi-elegant at times cursive. 

But, it was my handwriting, and I could read it. My husband sometimes had difficulty reading it, but he’d always put his black-rimmed glasses on, and fuck if they didn’t make him look sexier than he already was. Because of that, I sneakily wrote a little sloppier when I knew he’d have to read something from my notes about the runs I went on.

It was all an excuse to see him with those glasses perched on his nose, giving him that sexy professor look. He thought they made him look ridiculous, but I loved it. Since I was writing and zoned out, I wasn’t nearly as focused on my surroundings. I didn’t think I had to be. The tree was my safe spot when I wasn’t with my husband.

The Sanctuary was a relatively safe place, and that was thanks to the rules that were in place. So, it’d make sense that I wouldn’t focus on my surroundings as much and relax a bit as I wrote. But, boy was I wrong. I just didn’t realize it till it was far too late. Before I realized what was happening, I was being punched in the right side of my face, slinging my head to the side, as my notebook and bag were jerked away from me and my hair was roughly pulled, jerking my head backwards.

I went to grab my gun and my knife, but they’d already been taken from me. My eyes flirted back and forth in front of me, trying to process what was going on. But, everything was blurry and I was dizzy from the hit. I could barely make out three men close to me, far too close to me. They were basically on top of me. 

Fuck. One of them actually was. I could feel the weight of him straddling my thighs, keeping me from standing. I couldn’t hear anything as the beating of my heart flooded my ears. I tried to fight back as best as I could, but the other two men grabbed my hands and jerked them away from my body and pinning them to the ground as they shoved my upper body down.

When they jerked my arms away, I felt, more than heard, my left shoulder dislocate. I clenched my jaw. The pain wasn’t anything new. I’d been dealing with a shoulder that dislocates when I fuckin’ sneeze since I was 13 years old. The pain, when it happened, was now at a tolerable level since I was so used to it happening.

I didn’t cry out. I knew not to. Plus, the wasn’t the type of person I was. I knew what was ‘bout to happen. It, like my shoulder, was something I’d had to put with for years growing. It wasn’t anything new either. But, that didn’t mean it was enjoyable. It was anything but. I barely processed my jeans being jerked down my hips and past my knees. 

I could just barely hear the men laughing and joking around with each other, talking ‘bout what they were going to do to me and wondering why the fuck I was wearing two pairs of boxers under my jeans. I watched them, as best as I could with my vision being what it was. When the blurriness faded just enough, I could make out their features and recognized them as members of the new group that was brought in last week. 

Members I’d brought into the Sanctuary. Into my house. I dropped my head back down to the ground and groaned to myself. I let my body go slack, waiting for the perfect time. When the men realized I wasn’t struggling anymore, they laughed and the two dumbfucks holding my arms down eased up on their grip.

The man on my legs lifted himself up just enough push his own pants down. Their easing up on their grip was their mistake and ultimately what led to their demise. Since they weren’t paying attention to me, thinking I’d just given up, and instead focusing on getting their baby carrot sized dicks outta their pants, I was able to strike back. 

I immediately brought both my hands up, fingers curled in to form perfect fists without worry of possibly breaking my thumbs, ignoring the protest of my left shoulder, and cocked both the men on my sides straight in the noses. I internally smiled at the sounds of their noses breaking and their screams of pain. 

They stumbled back just a little bit, hands covering their faces as they clutched their noses in an attempt to stop the extensive amount of blood falling. Clearly, I caught the man on top me off guard with my actions and he was shocked for a moment. It was perfect. I bucked him up off me, managed to jerk my pants up as I stood. 

All one fluid motion.

Since he was still obviously in shock at me suddenly fighting back, he stumbled, tripping, and falling backwards on the ground. He tried to scurry backwards as fast as as he could. Despite being 5’3”, I was able to stay with him. I slammed my boot down on his stomach, making him howl in pain and wheeze as he struggled to get the air back that i’d just forced outta his lungs.

I kept my foot on his gut, putting most of my weight on it, digging the worn sole into his abdomen. He let out a sad excuse for a grunt as I did. I just smirked. This fucked had no idea who he’d fucked, or tried to fuck with. I leaned down and started pummeling the shit outta his face, keeping him in place with my foot.

Since he couldn’t get fresh air back into his lungs because of the position of my foot, he was too weak to try and fight back. To say I was a little disappointed at not having a challenge, would be like saying the dead weren’t walking around. It was a lie. I was disappointed, and I fueled that disappointment in with the anger as I literally beat him to death. 

He kept trying to apologize, tried to plead with me, to not kill him, but I didn’t give a fuck. He was ‘bout to rape me, and I’d had ‘nough of that in my life. I wasn’t putting up with it. I eased up just before I knew he was about to die. Gave him false hope into letting him think his words had affected me. I let him get one last breath in as I completely lifted my foot off his torso. 

“Than-” He started to say, but I cut him off as I slammed my boot into his face, effectively crushing his skull. 

“Don’t fuckin’ thank me, prick.” I muttered to him as I wiped my boot off on his once clean but now bloody clothes. “You fuckin’ ruined my goddamn favorite fuckin’ pair of boots, asshole.”

Before I turned away from him, I spit on his crushed skull. Since it was destroyed, I didn’t have to worry ‘bout him coming back as a dean’un. I was a little sad that I wouldn’t get to kill him a second time, but he’d gotten what he deserved. Turning to the other two dumbfucks, I repeated my actions, and did to them exactly what I’d just done to their friend.

I knew my husband was going to be pissed that I killed these men, instead of letting him do it, but I’d deal with that. I wasn’t going to let these fuckers back inside the relatively safe concrete walls of the factory that was the Sanctuary. By the time I was down stomping in the skull of the third man, I looked up, as I finished, and noticed that I’d gathered quite an audience.

Including Simon. The right-hand man, third person in charge of the Sanctuary. His, and everyone else’s, eyes were wide, and everyone was silent. I knew I was gonna be in trouble since they’d just seen me stomp the life outta three men, but I didn’t give a fuck. I had shit to do. I gathered up my weapons, my jacket, and bag after shoving my shit into it and stormed inside the Sanctuary, flipping everyone off, not wanting to deal with their gawking.

Not caring ‘bout my bloody appearance, I made my way to the commissary, needing to grab a few things before I went back to my room. I found what I needed: a new pair of jeans identical to the ones i was wearing, a new t-shirt, undergarments, a pair of boots and a special item, an unopened, brand new boxed set of hair clippers. 

Once I had what I needed, I stormed up to the room I share with my husband, stripping down to my bra and one pair of boxers when i get there.

Leigh’s P.O.V. ~ Now

“What the fuck was that fuckin’ shit out there, Leigh?!?” 

I sigh as I hear my husband storm into our room, the door slamming shut behind him. I look at myself in the mirror as I lay the scissors down on the bathroom counter by the sink and pick up the clippers. Turning them on, I don’t reply to my husband. Not wanting to explain to him what happened at the moment.

I stare at myself in the mirror as I bring the clippers up to my shortened hair. I press the #2 guard to my head and move it backwards from my forehead to the back of my head, sticking to the once familiar hairline I used to see and live by religiously. I watch as the hair falls, joining the rest of my once long, curly locks, on the floor by my feet. I use my fingers to guide my movements, making sure I don’t go too high and completely fuck up my hair.

Once I have the hairline visible, separating what I want to keep and what I want to shave off, I move the guard down below my ear and with practiced ease, I shave the sides and back of head, getting rid of the hair. Keeping an eye on myself, making sure I don’t fuck up my haircut, not that I would since I used to do this every 2-3 weeks, I watch as my husband steps into the bathroom.

I watch as his eyes nearly bulge outta their sockets when he sees me. I watch as the anger vanishes from his face and body, being replaced with worry, sadness, and a hint of curiosity. I watch as his eyes traveling over the reflection of my face in the mirror, taking in my black eye, bruised and split open cheek, covered in blood and even the nasty black eye I’m now sporting.

I watch as he slowly moves his eyes up to meet mine in the mirror. 

“What...what are you doing?” He asks softly. 

My left eyebrow shoots sky high as I look at him. My husband rarely says a sentence without cussing every other word. And yet...he just asked a simple question without one sentence enhancer thrown in. 

“What the fuck’s it look like I’m doing? I’m cutting my hair.” I say. “Decided I needed a new fuckin’ look. Don’t you fuckin’ love it?” 

I know I’m being Captain fuckin’ Obvious at the moment, and a bit harsh, but I’m not ready to tell him what happened. That’s for after I get done. Cutting my hair is the only thing keeping me from completely shutting down and giving in to the panic attack that’s trying to take over. I watch as he lets out a deep breath as he slowly steps into the bathroom, padding across the tiled floor to me.

He places his hands on my shoulders and I do my best not to flinch. But he still sees it and quickly lifts his hands off me, holding them up in a surrendering pose. I know he’d never hurt me, and he was the one to save my life after this shit hole of a world started three years ago. But, I can’t help it. The feeling of those fuckers’ hands on me, plus the fact that my shoulder is still dislocated, keeps me from wanting to be touched.  

“Can...let me help. Please, sweetheart.” My husband’s soft drawl meets my ears.

“No. I need to do this myself.” I reply, tightening my grip on the clippers.

I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat as he swallows deeply and nods. I keep my eyes on his in the mirror and finish cutting my hair. It’s been three years since I’ve cut my hair, but the muscle memory is still there. It’s like riding a bike. My husband watches as I finish shaving the sides of my head down to where there’s just a bit of peach fuzz. 

Switching the clippers off, I replace the guard with a #1 and go back over the bottom hairline on the base of my neck. Once I have that done, I take the guard off completely and just put the metal of the clippers to the back of my neck doing my best not to flinch at the burning heat coming off it as it meets my skin. 

I take that little strip down so there’s no hair there, running along along the hairline on my neck. I use the blending guard and even out the area, making the hair have a fade. Replacing the blending guard with the #7, I bring it up to the patch of hair on my head, and trim it down. When I finish, my feet are covered with a mountain of what used to be the long, thick, curly hair on my head.

My neck and shoulders are also covered with the little strands of hair that I buzzed off. Setting the clippers on the counter, I run my hands over the buzz cut I now sport and take in a deep, shaky breath. I let my head drop down, pressing my chin to chest and take another shaky breath in after letting out one. 

“Baby?” My husband asks softly.

I lift my head and look up at him. My eyes roam over the unzipped black leather jacket he’s wearing over his standard white t-shirt and down to the grey jeans he’s wearing, held up by two leather belts. I let my eyes rest on his feet, no longer hidden by his own pair of black combat boots, but rather a pair of white socks. 

Taking in another deep breath, I bring my eyes up to meet his. I can see the worry swimming in his muddy water brown eyes. I shake my head as i start to take my bra off and push my boxers down, stepping outta them as the pool ‘round my ankles.

“I need a shower.” I mumble and step ‘round him to walk to the stunning shower we share.

I grip the knobs tightly as I turn the water on, as hot as it’ll go. I need to feel the pain of the burning water over my skin. If I don’t, I know I’ll give in to that panic attack that’s already  on the verge of consuming me. Stepping into the shower, I glance back at my husband over my shoulder. 

“You can…” I mumble.

He nods as he understands what I’m trying to say. I look away, for the first time since we met, and eventually became intimate, not wanting to watch him undress. I know that if I were to watch, I’d see those assholes tugging their pants down, and I don’t want that. I don’t want my husband to be mixed in with them.

Standing under the burning hot water, feeling it flow over and pelt my skin, I bring my hands up and tightly grip what’s left of my hair, tugging on it. I feel Negan step into the shower, behind me. I don’t have to look.  I know he’s there. I can feel the heat rolling off his skin, along with the worry and helplessness. 

He hasn’t seen me like this in three years, and even then, it wasn’t this bad. I blindly reach for the bottle of men’s body wash he and I share and I vigorously scrub my body with it. Trying to get the touch and the blood of those men off me. It takes four harsh washes and rinses before I even begin to feel clean. 

Negan just stands behind me, leaning against the back wall of the shower. He’s giving me my space while still letting me know he’s right there if I need him. The bottle slips outta my hands when I go to pour more of the soapy liquid into my palm. I’d leave it there, but Negan gently reaches around me, picking it up. 

I hear the bottle open and can tell he’s pouring some into his own hands. I figure he’s just gonna wash his body until I feel his soft and gentle touch on my skin. I flinch and tremble at first, but eventually give into the feeling of him touching me. He takes his time, gently washing me, letting me get clean for the final time. 

Letting me know that it’s ok. That it’s over. That’s he’s got me. That he’ll take care of me. Neither of us say a word as he takes the removable showerhead from it’s dock and gently rinses me off after he turns the cold water on, letting the temperature of the water mix until it’s no longer burning, but rather warm and gentle.

He lets the showerhead drop and dangle as he turns the water off and steps out. I keep my eyes closed and feel him wrap a soft towel around me. I open my eyes and bring them to meet his, only to find him staring at my dislocated shoulder. He blinks and his tongue darts out just a little from between his lips.

“Want me to put it back in place, sweetheart?” 

I nod slowly. 

“Put your right arm ‘round my waist, baby, and I will.”

I follow his soft command and a moment later, I feel his palms against my left shoulder. He’s helped me pop my shoulder back into place enough over the last few years that he knows what he’s doing. I suck in a deep, shaky breath right as he pops it back into place. I bit my lip to hold back the whimper from the pain.

As soon as he’s done, he wraps both his arms ‘round me and just holds me close as I bury my face against his wet chest. We don’t say another word for a solid 10 minutes. He just holds me as we stand in the bathroom, water pooling ‘round our feet. Eventually, he gently scoops me up in his arms and carries me to bed. 

Sitting down on it, he just holds me in his lap, not saying anything. I know it’s his way of helping me get outta the panic attack and also letting me know that he’s listening when I’m ready to talk. It takes me a hot minute before I get the words out, and even then they’re just a whisper.

“They...they were trying to rape me.”

I hear him let out a growl and his arms tighten ‘round me, protectively. That’s his number one rule. Rape is not allowed. Followed by the prohibition of abusing women and children. He doesn’t say a word, letting me continue. I tell him everything that happened, as I tremble in his arms. He just holds me close, softly rubbing my back and taking even breaths to help me subconsciously focus on keeping my own breathing even.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there, baby.” He finally murmurs after I finish recounting the events. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. They got what they deserved. I just wish I could’ve introduced them to Lucille.” 

My eyes flirt over to the barbed-wire baseball bat propped up against the wall by our bedroom door. She’s surprisingly clean. I guess Negan didn’t have to dish out any punishments today. Only I did.

“I’m so fuckin’ proud of you, though, baby.” He whispers in my ear.

I look up at him, confused. “Proud?”

He nods. “Mmhhmm. You shut that shit down, and kept your cool until you were up here. I don’t know how you fuckin’ managed that, but I’m not surprised. I heard what you did, heard how you described it, and fuck, baby. I wish I’d seen you go Rambo on their asses. You’re my badass girl. I’m proud of you.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. Despite the events of the day, and me doing what I did, my husband still manages to make me smile. He slowly brings one hand up, keeping it in my line of sight, and cups my good cheek. 

“Will you let me send Carson up here to stitch your cheek up and get you checked out?”

His eyes search mine, waiting for my reply, and hoping I’ll let him. I nod against his palm, and he lets out a deep breath. He reaches over to the nightstand and plucks his radio off it. His thumb pressed against the side button.

“Carson. Get your fuckin’ ass up to my room now, and bring your bag. Fuckin’ now.” He growls into the receiver.

“Yes, sir.” Comes the doctor’s reply not even  a moment later.

Negan then pushes the button down again and talks.

“Simon. Bring two plates of food up to my room. Now. And make sure it’s some good shit too.”

Simon replies in the affirmative and Negan sets his radio down. He looks back at me and places his palm back against my good cheek. A gesture that always makes me relax.

“Can I ask why you cut your hair?” He asks softly.

“I refuse to let another man tug me around by hair, guiding me to do his bidding,  especially during a situation like earlier. It was a flashback to my dad doing what he did. It’s why I’ve also cut my own hair. It’s the one thing I about my body that I can control. So, I keep it short and no man will ever be able to use my hair against me again.” I say, the truth just spilling out. “Plus, having it touch my ears, always made my anxiety ten times worse.”

He knows what my dad did, and he’s known that tugging on my hair was a hard limit for me. So, he never did it, which is why I let my hair grow out. I felt safe around him. I still do. But, having long hair is just a liability, and I refuse to be put in that situation again. He nods in understanding.

“I’m gonna miss your curls, though.” He says. “And waking up with a mouthful of your hair in my mouth.”

I can’t help but giggle at that. It’s true. Most mornings, he’d wake up, sputtering to spit out the strands of my hair that ended up in his mouth as we slept next to each other.

“I left enough on top so you can still play with my hair, babe. And, there’s still enough to run your fingers through it.” I assure him.

“Can I?”

I nod and a moment later, I feel his fingers on his other hand stroke through my wet hair, lightly massaging my scalp as he does. I let out a soft moan at the feeling and lean into his touch on my cheek, closing my eyes. He chuckles as he plays with my hair.

“If that’s your reaction to me doing that every single fuckin’ time, I could get used to it. And I’ll just have to get used to having an even stiffer hard on from the soft moans.” He smirks as he looks at me.

I blush and open my eyes looking up at him. “You're my husband. I think I can manage helping you out with the baseball bat you have in your pants.”

He laughs softly. “Yea?”

I grin. “Mmhhmm. You’re fond of Lucille. I’m quite fond of your own bat.”

He grins, showing off his dimples. “I’m fuckin’ fond of you, baby. Have been since we first met in the woods. Why else do you think I got rid of the wives years ago?”

I try not to grin as I shrug. “It was the only way you were getting in my pants and scoring a homerun.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Not the only reason, baby. It was because I love you, Leigh.”

I grin from ear to ear and turn my head to place a soft kiss to his palm. “I love you too, Negan.”

Before he can say anything else, there’s a timid knock on the door.

“Come the fuck in!” Negan calls out, holding me close.

Dr. Carson comes in. He’s no longer as nervous as he used to be when I first showed up. But he’s still a little nervous around the man. I’ve gotten Negan to ease up on the fear of himself he’s instilled in people, and gotten him to be nicer in the way he treats folks. He’s not the bat-wielding lunatic he was when we first met. 

He’s the man I always knew he was.

A soft, 6’2” teddy bear wrapped in leather. 

My soft, 6’2” teddy bear wrapped in leather. 

After Carson checks me out, determines nothing’s broken, assures me that everything is good, and stitches my cheek up, he leaves. Negan helps me get dressed in a pair of his boxers under my new jeans and one of his shirts before he pulls on a pair of sweatpants. Simon comes in shortly after I finish getting dressed, holding a tray of food for Negan and I. 

His eyes widen as he looks at me, taking in my new appearance.

“What, Si? Never seen a girl with short hair before?” I ask, teasing.

He shakes his head. “I have. I just wasn’t expecting you to have cut your own. It looks good on you, fitting.”

I smile. “Thanks, Si.”

Leaning up, I kiss his cheek and then kick him out before Negan can Lucille him for staring at me. My husband knows Simon’s like a dad to me, the dad I never had, and that there’s nothing there. He just gets jealous and protective over me, not liking other men to stare. And, for once, I’m thankful, given the events of today.

As we eat, Negan and I stay on the bed, me snuggled up to his side. When we’re finished though, I look up at him. 

“I have to tell you something else.” I say.

His eyebrow raises and he looks at me, grining. “What’s that? You planning on buzzing anything else?” 

I laugh and playfully slap his bare chest. “No, asshole.”

He pretends to be hurt and rubs his chest, grinning. “Damn, girl. That hurt.”

I laugh and kiss his chest where I smacked him. “Feel better, Daddy?”

He grins that dimpled grin again and nods. “Mmhhmm. Now, what else you gotta tell me, babygirl?”

I smirk. “Well, Daddy…you see...”

He growls low in his throat. “Don’t tease me, little girl.”

I giggle. “I’m not, Daddy.”

I bring my hand down to rub my tummy. 

“You full from eating?” He asks, covering my hand on my tummy, rubbing what he thinks is a food baby.

“Nope. But, it’s nice to see you already rubbing my tummy. I can happily get used to this over the next 7 months.”

“7 months?” His brow creases in confusion for a moment before his eyes widen. “You...you’re...we’re…?”

I giggle and nod as I lean up to kiss him softly. 

“Yes, honey. I’m pregnant.” I say. “I’m 2 months along, and found out a few days ago. I was working on a story earlier, and that was gonna be how I told you, but shit happened, so I figured I’d just tell you.”

He lets out a high pitched squeal that I never would’ve expected from him, and pulls me right back into his arms and his lap. His beard tickles my neck as he grins against it, placing a soft kiss there. I giggle and wrap my arms ‘round him. Like I said, he’s a soft, 6’2” teddy bear wrapped in leather. 

My soft, 6’2” teddy bear wrapped in leather and I’m his buzzed haired girl. 

[aroworlds]

The Vampire Conundrum, Part One

When Rowan Ross is pressured into placing an aromantic pride mug on his desk, he doesn't know how to react when his co-workers don't notice it. Don't they realise he spent a weekend rehearsing answers for questions unasked? Then again, if nobody knows what aromanticism is, can't he display a growing collection of pride merch without a repeat of his coming out as trans? Be visible with impunity through their ignorance?

He can endure their thinking him a fan of archery, comic-book superheroes and glittery vampire movies. It's not like anyone in the office is an archer. (Are they?) But when a patch on his bag results in a massive misconception, correcting it means doing the one thing he most fears: making a scene.

After all, his name isn't Aro.

Contains: One trans, bisexual frayromantic alongside an office of well-meaning cis co-workers who think they're being supportive and inclusive.

Content Advisory: This story hinges on the way most cishet alloromantic people know nothing about aromanticism and the ways many trans-accepting cis people fail to best communicate their acceptance. In other words, expect a series of queer, trans and aro microaggressions. There are no depictions or mentions of sexual attraction beyond the words "allosexual" and "bisexual", but there are non-detailed references to Rowan's previous experiences with romance.

Length: 2, 951 words (part one of two).

Note: Posted for @aggressivelyarospec‘s AggressivelyArospectacular 2019.

What is pride merch for if not petty passive-aggression in response to allo folks’ amatonormativity?

Beset by dizzying anxiety, Rowan places a green mug, printed on one side with a five-striped flag, on his desk. Done. He exhales and takes another furtive glance around the poky ten-desk office, but only Shelby sits close and she’s too busy peering at her computer to notice him. There: mug at work! Right where people can see! He grabs his phone, snaps a quick photo to send as proof to Matt and then, before anyone can ask about the mug or Rowan’s behaviour, moves it beside his pen caddy, the handle angled to hide the stripes.

Why does he have to be this scared? Everyone knows he’s trans. Hormones aren’t yet magical enough to give Rowan cis-unquestioned masculinity; coming out felt less damaging than constant misgendering. At the same time, being trans is why he feels like to pass out from nervousness. The initial slew of queries, concerns and clarifications, followed by daily episodes of cissexism, isn’t something anyone should care to repeat!

Trans identity, after the passing of marriage equality, at least possesses the dubious state of being the new conservative-favourite punching bag. Before he sent Damien his “I accept the position, by the way I’m trans” email, few people here would have been ignorant of Rowan’s theoretical existence.

Aromanticism, by contrast, requires more than revelation: it requires conceptualisation.

He thought he was prepared, last time.

Rowan Ross, master of whiteboards and planners, came for his first day armed with a list of resources and print-outs of an article he wrote for his university’s student magazine. He’d written out answers to likely questions and rehearsed them at his mirror. He wasn’t going to have another panic attack when faced with questions he couldn’t answer. He was going to be fine.

Instead, he learnt again that one can’t prepare for all the shapes of cis ignorance.

Hesitating to mention his aromanticism because being out as trans already ramps up the difficulty of his working life shouldn’t be cowardly. Why can’t Matt see that?

He stares at the mug, dizzy. Damien may not notice the striped flag, but Shelby uses anything as an opportunity to provide unneeded reassurances. Melanie has enough enthusiastic, unrestrained curiosity for ten people!

I read that trans men bind their chests. Is it comfortable? Do you do it every day? Are you allowed to wear a bra when you don’t?

Rowan shudders. No. He’s survived her interrogations; can’t he survive this, too? He practiced a short explanatory speech, made an email-ready digital PDF booklet and packed printed versions inside his satchel. He rehearsed his responses to as many provocative and prying questions as possible, including the line I’d rather not answer that. Maybe it won’t be as bad, this time! Maybe they won’t notice immediately, giving him more time to prepare and anticipate. Melanie doesn’t come back until next month; perhaps this mug, so bright and green, will pass unremarked until then.

Does the want to return it to his bag make Matt right?

Rowan touches the handle for luck and wonders if this will go better should someone not Melanie ask first.

***

“Good morning, everyone!” Melanie breezes through the office in an aura of floral-with-vanilla perfume, making a beeline for Rowan’s desk. She’s small, curvy and grandmotherly-but-modern in appearance: coloured slacks and loose floral-print blouses worn with dangling gold pendants and stacks of bangles over freckle-dusted forearms. Aside from her pixie-cut grey hair, she looks to him like a walking Millers advertisement. “Rowan, can you tell me how to put the new logo in my email again? Please? I know you told me last time.”

Rowan doesn’t understand why people who send emails on a daily basis don’t take the time to learn these things, but he’s worked here long enough to accept this lack as a fundamental truth of the universe. He turns to face her, his flag mug held in his right hand. “Do you want the instruction PDF I wrote, or do you want me to just do it for you?”

A few months ago, caught up in a fit of hopefulness inspired by a new SSRI and the less-inspiring reality of being the youngest person in the office, he spent his spare time typing up Rowan Ross’s Ultimate Guide to Basic Office Computing—a guide languishing unread by anyone not Rowan.

“Just fix it for me now.” Melanie beams at him, paying his mug no attention. “Thanks, Rowan!”

What will it take for someone to notice? Pouring his coffee on their shoes? He swallows the dregs, stands and follows Melanie to her computer before setting his mug on her desk, flag facing outwards, to take up her mouse and open her email settings.

To think he worried about someone’s asking questions! Rowan didn’t consider the problem of a lack of interest, but he’s spent the last five weeks drinking from a flag mug without as much as a passing glance.

“You’re a doll, Rowan!” Melanie hesitates; Rowan holds back a sigh. Here it comes. “Wait. Is that offensive, even though there’s male dolls, like Ken? And gay men collect dolls, don’t they? But gay men like feminine things and you don’t when you’re trans-gender, do you? You’re a darling? I know! You’re a treasure.” Melanie grins, as though she didn’t make an easily-overlooked statement into a thing shaded with too many queer microaggressions for one bi trans man to untangle, and grasps his mug. “I’ll get you some more coffee! One sugar, a dash of milk! Thank you so much!”

Her pink-painted nails and beige hands cover the flag, only a small section of black and grey visible at the edge of her pinky finger.

Maybe she’ll notice when she fills the mug.

Maybe she’ll notice when she brings it back to him.

Maybe pigs will fly and she’ll stop placing that too-long pause between “trans” and “gender”, too.

This way, there’s no need to endure alloromantic absurdity or criticism. No suffering the pain of being unable to explain or correct, given how often cis people dismiss even small gender-related requests. He did what Matt demanded; he left the mug on his desk. How is it Rowan’s fault that nobody’s knowledgeable enough to express curiosity? That he forgot to factor in the remarkable cishet tendency to avoid anything suggestive of unknown queerness?

Going ignored, somehow, doesn’t feel like a victory.

***

When Rowan sees a mug online featuring a shield in aromantic colours behind a design of crossed arrows in pride colours for other aromantic-spectrum identities, he snatches one with frayromantic blues. He also buys an unneeded but matching pencil case followed by a journal covered with rows of arrows coloured in aro stripes.

If he needn’t fear curiosity or question, why not pride up his desk? At least he can gulp coffee from a frayro mug emblazoned with an aro shield every time Shelby asks him if he’s found a partner yet.

What is pride merch for if not petty passive-aggression in response to allo folks’ amatonormativity?

A fortnight later, he arranges his mugs on his desk, stashes his decorative paper clip collection in the pencil case and ponders, just for a moment, if anyone’s made a pride-themed whiteboard.

“Rowan!” Damien appears out of nowhere and claps his hand on Rowan’s shoulder. He’s a raw-boned giant of a man with an improbable ability for stealth; Rowan, cursed with a body that reacts to unknown stimuli as though lethal rather than first checking, still can’t keep himself from jumping out of his chair on Damien’s approach. “I’ve got this photo from last night I want for Facebook. Can you crop out an arm from the side for me? I just sent it to you.”

“Sure,” Rowan murmurs, once his heart stops threatening to burst from terror. “I’ll do it right now.”

“Thanks. I’ll get you a coffee.” Damien snatches up the new mug, tiny in his oversized hands. Rowan doesn’t care to imagine how much of Damien’s pay goes to custom tailoring, but his pinstripe suits are the living dapper embodiment of every How to Dress Like a Professional Man guide Rowan has read and failed to implement. “Huh. I didn’t know you were into archery. One sugar, little bit of milk?”

“Yeah. I … uh...” Rowan blinks, struggling to find an answer, but Damien heads for the hallway and the kitchenette they share with the rest of the floor. Archery? Surely none of the arrow designs are realistic enough for any archery enthusiast to regard them as an expression of interest for the sport? Not to mention the stripes?

How do cishets cultivate their air of continued obliviousness? They’ve all seen Rowan’s trans pride phone case and bi pride pin; nobody won’t have seen the rainbow flag in the news. Shouldn’t one of them catch on to the concept of pride flags?

Why complain when their ignorance is easier than their questions?

He shakes his head, opens his emails and finds the photo from yesterday’s event, complete with a stray arm on one side and a half an empty chair on the other. He crops out the arm and the chair before adjusting the contrast and colours, until the photo appears as though only maybe taken on a cheap phone, indoors, by a man with his back to the window.

“Hey, did you know that Rowan’s really into archery?”

Rowan looks up. Damien stands by the door, showing Melanie Rowan’s newest mug.

He should say something before he gets archery gear in the office Secret Santa. He should say something even though they’re on the other side of the room and a lifetime of good manners, parental expectation and disabling anxiety says one doesn’t intrude on someone else’s conversation. What if someone in the office secretly likes archery and asks him questions? But corrections mean doing the one thing Rowan hopes he can continue to avoid, so...

He slides his hands under his legs and inhales slowly in a vain attempt to head off the giddy anxiousness. Does this mistake desperately need fixing? Can’t he wait to see what happens first?

“Archery? How does anyone get into archery?” Melanie shakes her head. “You don’t do it in school. Is it a country thing? Or a rich kid thing?”

“I did. Year nine, I think? And my school wasn’t that fancy. I think kids do more of that stuff, now, than real sport.” Damien shrugs and heads towards Rowan’s computer, setting his mug down on the desk. “You fixed the lighting! I don’t suppose you can make my face less red? It isn’t that red in real life.”

It is, but that’s easier to fix than the burgeoning fear that this archery misconception won’t be a one-off incident.

***

Another awful conversation with his housemates pushes Rowan into getting out his sewing box, despite a Melanie-induced fear that showing himself to be good at a traditionally-female art will result in another expression of cis nonsense. Too many friends still ask why he buys plain T-shirts from the women’s section (better fit) or has lavender-scented shower gel on his shelf in the bathroom (he likes it). He’s a man to the not-completely-cissexist people in his life if he meets a boring, insecure definition of manhood. “Oh, great God of Trans Men,” he mutters, “please pardon me for the crime of unmasculinity, because everyone knows you don’t allow true men to embroider.”

How is cross-stitch not just analogue pixel art, anyway?

He flips off whomever it is Melanie thinks “allows” him to defy gender norms before sketching a pattern, struggling with the shape of the R. His embroidery floss stash doesn’t allow him to perfectly colour-match the greens, but after the best part of a weekend Rowan produces a patch reading “ARO” in aromantic stripes against a background of allo-aro yellow and gold. He needs another hour to stitch it to his satchel beside a cluster of badges (trans pride, pronouns, bisexual flag), but the finish is worth the late night and sore fingertips.

Surely this will tell people that those five stripes mean something more than a liking for archery or the colour green?

He fists his hands, lips trembling. What call does an allo cis gay like Matt have to mock the idea of coming out as aromantic when Rowan, who lost his home, his family and his dog to the mistakes he made in coming out, knows exactly what those words mean? Why did Matt have to say that “someone like Rowan” only put a lousy mug on his desk because he knew nobody will ask? Yes, he owns a collection of anxiety disorder diagnoses, illnesses fairly earnt, a disability unchosen. That doesn’t make him cowardly!

Matt doesn’t emerge from his bedroom before Rowan dashes to catch the train, so he lacks even the questionable satisfaction of seeing his housemate note the large patch on his bag. He’s just left with a mood bouncing between frustration, anger and the quieter, sickening fear that making the patch didn’t challenge Matt’s opinion as much as validate it. Should Rowan have done that? What else can he do?

Why does Matt have to be so damn allo?

By the time he arrives at the office, Rowan focuses just enough to concentrate on the distraction waiting for him in the kitchenette. The walls need painting and the air conditioning smells like mice, but sharing the floor with four other sub-governmental community projects meant everyone pitched in for a decent coffee machine without too many hassles. Damien needs to stop taking terrible work-related selfies, but he does enforce a cleaning rota so Rowan can enjoy avoiding the horrors of instant coffee.

“Aro?”

Groggy annoyance fades into a heart-pounding, palm-sweating, vibrant wakefulness. Rowan wheels to face Melanie; she peers at the satchel hanging off his hip. Matt’s wrong about Rowan. This will prove it!

“Uh, yeah,” he says, fighting to sound casual. “I’m aro.”

There. He said it!

“Oh, like the movie vampire?”

The movie vampire? What vampire? There’s no obviously-aromantic vampire in a well-known movie; someone online would have said so! “I’m sorry?”

“The Twilight movies! You know the ones the teenage girls liked, with the family of glittery, vegetarian vampires and the human girl? And it was supposed to be romantic somehow? My daughter had posters and a quilt cover and T-shirts and Barbie dolls.” Melanie pulls a face, her lips twisting. “But she loved them, and there’s a vampire called Aro.”

Belatedly, he remembers a joke that posts about a minor character used to turn up in aro hashtags. “I suppose? But it isn’t a name when—”

“Damien! Rowan’s called Aro now! Should we hold a meeting telling everyone? Or just send an email around?” Melanie looks out into the hallway dividing the floor into its suites of offices: Damien stands outside their door, his battered phone held to his ear. “I didn’t know trans people were allowed to change names twice! Although I don’t suppose there’s a limit, is there? If I married someone five times, I could change my last name five times, couldn’t I? Is it really that different?”

“It,” Rowan says into the barest break in sentences, “isn’t—”

“Damien! Stop gasbagging about golf or whatever … I swear, that man never listens when you want him. Always on the phone! Damien.” She bustles out into the hallway with the determined stride of a woman on a mission. “Rowan’s Aro now!”

Panic spurs him into running after her. “Melanie!”

“Aro!” Shelby grabs his forearm as Rowan skids into the hallway, her brow furrowed in concern. If Melanie seems like the plump, huggable sort of grandmother, Shelby looks like the muscular, marathon-running grandmother who hits the beach every morning. Salt-coarsened long hair in a single braid, a fashionable black blazer worn over a T-shirt, hiking boots. “Is that European? Don’t worry, we’ll all do our best to remember, and you’re allowed to growl when we don’t. We said there’d be no problem, and we meant it. You’re allowed to growl at us when we make mistakes, okay? Okay, Aro? Promise me that you will correct us!”

The self-appointed protector figure of the office, she was kind during Rowan’s first week. Kind in a way that draws unnecessary attention, given her inability to correct someone else’s misuse of pronouns without crafting a production of hushed voices and pointed nudges—followed by scathing lectures that never happen far enough outside his earshot.

Why are the only options complete stealth or queerness front and centre in a way that never lets him be just a different shape of normal? Where exists a blessed middle ground?

Melanie reaches Damien and stares up at him, waving one hand and tapping the opposite foot, until Damien lowers his phone.

“Uh … thank you, but my name isn’t—”

“You absolutely must correct us.” Shelby squeezes Rowan’s forearm in a firm grip. “We’re not used to all this, but that doesn’t mean we won’t try. Aro. Do you people usually choose unusual names like that? You know, you trans people? Promise me that you’ll correct us. You need to know that we don’t mind in the least, truly we don’t!”

“I’m not—”

“Anyway, how was your weekend? You didn’t stay at home, did you? It worries me that you haven’t found a girl yet. Or a boy!” Shelby clasps his hand between hers, looking into his eyes as though hoping to impress upon him the depth of her sincerity. “You do know, Aro, that any girl—or boy!—will be lucky to date a sweet boy like you, don’t you?”

What does it mean, Rowan wonders in irony-fuelled despair, that returning to Births, Deaths and Marriages now feels like the easiest option?

[ultravioletsoul]

Virgo Shaka x Reader - N/S/F/W Alphabet

Oh dear lawd, I’ve always found it a little (ok, terribly) difficult to imagine Shaka of all people in a romantic relationship. Out of the twelve gold saints, he’s probably the least likely to be in one. It was already too much effort for my brain to picture him holding hands with anyone, let alone expressing any interest in doing the do, but here I am… writing an adult post about him. 

I need to clarify that these headcanons are about Shaka post the Twelve Houses story arc. Honestly, he would have zero interest in anyone before that since he was a little of an arrogant and vain jerk or, if he did, he would be too proud to admit it because how can a god-like figure like him feel that way?? Ludicrous!

Anyways, yes, after the fight with Ikki (what an absolute mad lad that guy is, bless him), Shaka would be more open to the idea of a romantic relationship but I still feel it’d happen under some special circumstances. And he’s going to be a peculiar boyfriend.

This is a very belated birthday gift for an amazing friend because she loves Shaka, ever since I dragged her into Saint Seiya hell ♥♥. Forgive me if it’s terrible *le cri* 

Warnings: Sexual content. Possible OoC. Unbetaed. I have no idea how this happened. 

                                                             *  *  *

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

Despite his serene appearance, how collected he acts around others, and the way he carefully reins in his emotions to the point he may come off as cold and detached, Shaka can be surprisingly caring and soft with you after an intimate session between the sheets.

Considering he would only do it with someone he deeply cares about and that it’s not a decision he’d take lightly (people just assumed he was asexual until they learned about you and then were confused as heck), you have to mean a lot to him.

So of course he wants to share the warm afterglow of lovemaking with you, lying together in complete bliss.

He may not be very talkative afterwards, but don’t take it as a sign he is troubled or displeased about something. Your most recent experience is still sinking in his mind and he’s not used to feeling so many strong emotions at once.

Little actions such as playing with your hair, kissing your forehead, letting you snuggle against him, or draping a protective arm around you to bring you closer, are ways in which he would show his affection.

He’d also like to make sure you’re both clean and refreshed before a good night’s rest so don’t be upset if he scoops you up in his arms and takes you straight for a warm bath. 

Just let him pamper you while he’s in the mood for some touching and cuddling ;)

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s):

Not actually a favorite part of his body, but he likes it when you gently run your fingers or place feathery kisses across his abdomen. If you tease him and “innocently” draw closer to his cock, he’s going to have hard time resisting you (no pun intended :v) and may turn the tables on you.

Shaka loves everything about you but his favorite part of your body would be your eyes because of the beauty of soul he sees in them. 

As a saint who fights to for Athena and justice, he knows there is evil in this world but you are a lotus flower growing in the mud. And it’s because of people like you why the goddess he serves believes humanity is worth saving.

He can easily get lost in them when he’s making love. It’s one of the few times he wouldn’t want to close his eyes and he would gently encourage you not to break eye contact either. He loves gazing into the depths of your soul as you both reach new heights of pleasure in each other’s arms.

Nothing but that moment with you matters to him. When you’re two alone in that room, you’re the only deity he worships in mind, body and soul.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically):

Sorry to break it to you guys, but Shaka wouldn’t do cum play or anything of the like.

He’d actually be weirded out if you even suggested the idea to him, and he wouldn’t understand what’s so attractive or exciting about it.

He’s a guy who has always been meticulous and methodical in everything he does given the teachings he’s received from his mentor (the Buddha :o). As someone who has engaged in lots of meditation to clear his mind from fears and doubts, personal hygiene and cleanliness are important to him, so he would prefer to keep the mess to a minimum if possible. So no, he isn’t in a hurry to see you doing stuff with his semen.

Shaka likes coming inside you. It’s the only place he ever wants to be when he makes love to you.

It’s a wonderful, intimate moment and he would hold you tightly against him as your souls mesh together into a single being.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs):

It has never interested him before but, after starting a relationship with you, out of curiosity, he might have read some texts on the subject of erotic love. It was for science, tho!

Now now, of course he isn’t oblivious to the intimate affairs of couples, and nobody has to explain to him how babies are made. You can rest assured Shaka knows perfectly well how sex works. 

He wants to be a better partner for you but, for all his knowledge and wisdom, he’s aware he’s not exactly the most versed man in such matters. 

Despite this, Shaka adamantly refuses to ask anyone for advice, so you bet he’s gonna do the research on his own. He can figure this out.

Shaka would keep it classy, however. Nothing pornographic or vulgar is acceptable. That’s not how he wants to treat you.

Shaka’s approach is purely analytical and educational, and he reads it all with a straight face. The others would never guess what he’s actually up to.

It’s a serious matter for him. He wants to make sure he’s got what it takes to make you happy not only on a physical but emotional level as well.

In the past, the thought of sex wouldn’t have even fazed him. Shaka cared very little about it and honestly he didn’t see what the appeal was.

He still doesn’t much care but when it comes to you, he’s not against the idea. 

Fine, he digs it.

But he’s a little embarrassed to admit it.

As someone who has trained to let go of his attachment for sensual pleasures and desires, it baffled him a little that the thought even crossed his mind.

That hasn’t stopped his curiosity for learning more about how to please you.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?):

Shaka is a virgin. Don’t @ me. 

That’s the real source of his power. Geddit? *fingers guns*

On a more serious note, it is no surprise that he’s not very experienced.

It’s not that he thinks sex is something dirty or bad per se. He just never had the time or any interest in the pursuit of such trivialities. Lust and sexual craving are not traps he would fall prey to. He devotes himself completely to his duty as a saint of Athena, and so he avoids distractions that would hinder the fulfillment of his mission.

You’d most likely get to be the first sexual experience he’s ever had and it’s no simple feat to seduce the man who’s closest to being a god. He believed himself to be above such worldly affairs until he met you and boy…

He was wrong once again.

Finding ecstasy in your arms is nothing short of divine.

Shaka would take his time to be intimate with you, though. He doesn’t do casual sex and needs to be absolutely certain of your feelings for each other first.

However, don’t let his virginal status fool you. He has made his research beforehand (see letter D), he has prepared and knows where to go.

If he doesn’t get it right the first time he’ll try again and again until he has you writhing in pleasure. His own satisfaction is secondary to yours.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying):

Lotus. I’m sorry for being so cliché OMG.

Pic (NSFW)

He spends a lot of time in this position when he meditates, so don’t be surprised if at some point he wants you to sit on his crossed legs and ride him.

Shaka would enjoy the intimacy and closeness this position provides. 

It’s not a position that allows for frenzied love-making, but that’s precisely why he likes it so much.

Buried deep inside your wet core, he can feel your heart beating against his chest in unison with his as he holds you in his protective embrace, and there’s nowhere else he would rather be.

He loves it when you shower small kisses on his face and happily surrender yourself to him.

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

The first times, Shaka would wear a serious expression because he’s concentrating on learning what you like, what makes you tick and curl your toes.

He’s studying you not just on a physical level. Intimacy is beyond simple carnal pleasure for Shaka. It’s a matter of spiritual connection.

He’ll get more playful and cocky (no pun intended) once he learns how to push your buttons.

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

He doesn’t have a lot of body hair and always keeps his face clean, shaven and moisturized.

His nails are well trimmed. His hair nicely brushed and scented. His body devoid of bad smells. 

That being said, he’s not very hairy downstairs (he’s got mostly a patch of soft blond hair), but he keeps things well groomed. Shaka doesn’t like sloppiness.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect):

It’s gentle lovemaking with Shaka and nothing less.

However, he can get too caught up in the details and in delivering a good performance that it may be a little difficult for him to really get lost in the moment.

He’s too worried about being perfect and bringing you pleasure that he sometimes forgets about the most romantic aspects.

Reassuring him he’s doing a good job will put his mind at ease. Be appreciative of his efforts and give him your undivided attention.

He’ll be the most doting lover ever because sharing his bed and body with you are very special to him.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon):

Shaka has an unbelievable control over his sexual urges and, even if he’s in a relationship with you, that wouldn’t change a lot.

He doesn’t usually masturbate, even when he’s been deprived of your touch for long periods of time (which would be when he’s away on missions for the Sanctuary). He can handle it no problem.

That doesn’t mean you’re not on his mind. Shaka always thinks about you with the deepest love and respect.

Masturbating can never compare to the bliss he feels when you’re in his arms. It’s just empty pleasure and would leave him even more frustrated, aching for you.

He would rather show you how much he loves you and missed you the next time he gets to see you.

Mutual masturbation is something he wouldn’t mind doing, if given the chance.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks):

In all honesty, Shaka is not overly kinky and he’s perfectly content with vanilla sex.

However, he lowkey enjoys being dominated so if you flip him on his back and mount him, he’ll find it a nice game changer.

Ride that boy, seriously. He gets off on being a bottom and the sight of you enjoying yourself so much would drive him to the edge.

Tease him all you want, deny him release or keep him from touching you, he’ll endure it like a good boy.

But if you think you can run the show for too long, get ready because Shaka will get his due.

You’ll have to learn you can’t play dirty and expect him to show you mercy.

Bad girls like you deserve divine punishment  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

L = Location (favorite places to do the do):

He’s a bit old-fashioned, so he prefers the privacy and quiet of his own bedroom. Discretion is Shaka’s middle name.

It’s very practical and convenient too.

There’s no better place than his bed: clean, fresh, comfortable and quiet. He can relax and get in the mood without worrying about anything else.

He also won’t mind doing it on the floor, provided it’s pristine and there’s a plush mat with lots of cushions on it.

If he’s in your place, your bed and environment have to be clean and neat or else he’s not going to feel up for any sexy times.

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

As someone who spends a lot of time inside his head, he needs a stimulating conversation to get him going.

It doesn’t even have to be sexual. You could ask him about his life as a saint or engage him in some philosophical talk. He’ll be happy to share his knowledge with you and will be interested in what you have to say.

Stroke his ego a little but don’t make it obvious.

On the other hand, witty banter turns him on, too. He’s got a sharp sense of humor but if you can turn around his jokes and roast him, leaving him speechless, he’ll want to get even through other means.

And you can imagine how  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Shaka loves foreplay. The more foreplay you have, the more aroused he’ll be. He can spend hours just kissing, cuddling and touching.

A nice bath with him can also get him in the mood. He’ll feel more comfortable if you’re both clean and fresh. It doesn’t matter if you’re about to get dirty again.

If during foreplay or sex you whisper sweet nothings in his ear and praise him, that’s a sure way to turn him on. Praise that boy if he’s doing an amazing job, he’ll try to do it even better.

On the other hand, don’t be shy to tell him if something isn’t working for you. He’ll know if you’re faking it and that will kill his inspiration. He’ll start doubting himself.

He likes it when you talk dirty to him, even if your words make him blush, but refrain from being vulgar. He will find it in bad taste.

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

Anything that involves humiliation or degradation of you or himself.

Any weird kinks.

Don’t ask him to get into hard-core BDSM. He won’t do it.

Edgeplay. Anything that would hurt you is a big no for him. He loves you too much and wouldn’t bear the thought of bringing any harm upon you even if it’s consensual.

He won’t do it in public places.

Poor hygiene will definitely turn him off.

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

He may not be very keen on the idea of oral sex at first, whether it’s giving or receiving. Poor bb is still shy even if he doesn’t want to look like it.

But he may be open-minded about it once he gets more experience with you.

He’ll get there with gentle guiding and reassurance, but don’t rush him if he isn’t ready yet. Let him go at his own pace.

Once he gets past his initial shyness, he’ll be more confident to go down on you.

He won’t mind receiving but he prefers not coming in your mouth or any other part of your body.

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

Let’s be honest. Shaka doesn’t fuck. Ever. He’s not gonna rip off your clothes or manhandle you or use you like his plaything. That’s not his style.

Don’t get the wrong idea. Despite his cool exterior, he’s still a passionate man. It’s just that his passion burns slower than most.

He will take his time to make sure everything’s perfect so you both can take delight in the experience.

His mindset is one of enjoying the build up and the journey rather than desperately rushing to his destination.

He wants to relish in every kiss, every caress and every sound of pleasure you make, he wants to feel all of you— to reach into your soul.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.):

Quickies aren’t his thing. Shaka’s sex life isn’t very spontaneous, so suggesting him to pull off a fast one isn’t going to appeal to him.

He can control his urges and expects you to do the same. He can wait until a more appropriate time for intimacy.

Shaka needs preparation to have sex. He wants to be in the right state of mind, he needs to plan the details of that special night with anticipation, he doesn’t want to leave anything to chance or else he’ll find it difficult to be at ease.

Let him have it his way, it’ll be worth it.

Conversely, you can teach him how to be less uptight and not to fret over being flawless.

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

Shaka is game to experimenting as long as you talk about it beforehand, but don’t expect him to go outside his comfort zone. It’s a feat in itself that you even managed to get him laid.

He prefers sticking to what works for you both, so keep in mind he’s not very adventurous. 

But he’ll do his best to please you and will be open to suggestions on how to spicy things up in the bedroom.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?): 

It may not look like it but Shaka has a surprising amount of stamina.

Though he’s a bit slow to warm up, his passion will burn longer.

He won’t tire out easily but if you’re exhausted already he’ll let you rest. If you want to go another round, he’ll be happy to oblige.

He can last for a very long time without releasing inside you, but he’s also learned to have orgasms without ejaculating.

All that meditation and self control stuff? Well, turns out it’s helped him have a wonderful sex life with you :v

Bae can keep going all night long. You’ll sooner get exhausted before he does.

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

He doesn’t own any toys. The only toys he knows are the ones kids use to play.

Blindfolds and restraints are okay. He’ll use them on you if that’s what you want.

He still prefers simple, intimate, vanilla sex. Less is more for him.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Shaka can be a big tease when he wants to so don’t expect him to be very merciful if you provoke him.

He loves it when you beg him like a god tho.

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

He’s not very loud. Shaka is always restrained about how vocal he is, but you’ll definitely hear him grunt and sigh and moan often.

He prefers listening to the sweet sounds you make.

Once he’s close to an orgasm, he can get noisier and will try to muffle his moans by biting his lips or kissing you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character): 

At times when tending to his garden in the house of Virgo, he’s thought about making love to you under the night sky and among the flowers he’s cultivated.

Your hair covered in petals as the light of the universe shines in your eyes is a sight he wants to see in this life.

Though maybe he’ll never have the chance to tell you.

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

Ideal size. Not too big, not too small. Proportional to the rest of this body. 

He’s got a pretty cock, honestly. Its texture is silky and when he’s hard it turns a rosy color. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?):

Shaka’s sex drive isn’t very high actually and, if it’s up to him, he won’t have sex very often. He’s for quality before quantity.

You may start wondering when was the last time you even had intimacy.

Don’t be surprised if it’s been 84 years.

He might as well look at the calendar and think “we haven’t done it in a while, next week may be a good time to get it on”.

His training taught him not to grow attached to his desires and he’s tremendously disciplined at that.

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t have sexual desires. He just doesn’t let them control him and is not animalistic about them.

Sex isn’t the most important aspect to have a fulfilling relationship. It’s just the icing on the cake, so to speak.

What truly matters is the emotional bond you two have forged. 

You’re not an object for him.

He can live happily without any kind of sexual intimacy if that’s what you want. He won’t love you any less for it and you’ll never hear complaints or reproaches from him.

Shaka doesn’t feel guilty about wanting to make love to you. Just don’t expect him to be a sex beast ready to pounce on you any time. That won’t happen.

Shaka would have no problem if you have a higher sex drive than he does. He’ll strive to make you happy. 

If you take the initiative and try to get in his pants, as long as he’s in a private and comfortable environment where he can let go, he’ll give in. Otherwise forget it.

Plan ahead if you intend to get naughty with him. Shaka will appreciate the thoughtfulness.

Just don’t take advantage of him because as much as he enjoys sleeping with you, he’ll quickly get bored if all you think about is undressing him when you’re with him.

Don’t reduce him to a sex object for your personal gratification, he won’t be comfortable with it. Respect and love him like he does with you. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards): 

Shaka doesn’t fall asleep immediately.

He likes cuddling after making love.

He may have his eyes closed but he’s still awake and he’s listening to your every breath, your heart beating, he’s basking in the warmth of your gentle and blissful cosmos.

He can’t believe he has the most wonderful person in the world by his side.

Even if you both know it may not last, that the next holy war approaches fast and he’ll have to fight, you’ve made peace with it. You accept what the future holds in store for both.

However, that thought still keeps him awake at night.

But he’ll never tell you. He’ll just kiss your forehead and stroke your hair until you’re fast asleep.

                                                          * * *

Well, that’s it. I can’t believe I did this. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed (?

[envy-fallen]

( Alex Hogh Anderson, Seven hundred and seventy-three, Male, He/Him, Fallen,) It’s been a while since we’ve seen MALAKIAH. I hear they’re a FALLEN and they reside on the EASTSIDE. They’re known to frequent HYPNOS (when they’re not busy OWNING THE UNDERPASS) and have made a place on THE EDGE OF THE BELWYN FOREST. Some may say they act IMPULSIVITY & CONCEITED while others claim they are ARDENT & PROLIFIC. With that being said, they’ve found the State of Calamity.

                             TW: Anxiety, claustrophobia, murder, gore.  

Name: Malakiah Age: Seven-hundred and Seventy-three Birthday: November, Eighteenth Birth place: Unknown Sexuality: Homosexual

Place of Work: Owner of The Underpass Place of Residence: Edge of the Belwyn Forest, Eastside

Tattoos: Chest piece of roses and thrones, American Style Swallows on his hands, and ‘Hellish’ tattooed in script across his right ass cheek. Scars: Large, thick, scar that comes around his right cheek bone, down across the right side of his lip. He also has a lot of scarring on his left leg, around the hip area.

Hair Colour: Black Hair Style: Short on the sides, longer down the middle. Normally pushed back. Curly when not styled. Eye Colour: Blue

Hobbies: Hiking, Generally working out, Drinking, Smoking, Messing with People, Going Out, Guitar, Piano. Introvert or Extrovert

Good Traits: Charming, Ardent, Prolific, Good Humoured, Blunt, Out-Spoken, Independent, Flirtatious, Laid Back,  Dedicated, Creative. Bad Traits: Impulsive, Conceited, Vicious, Anxious, Emotional, Forgetful, Jealous, Possessive, Controlling, Selfish, Temperamental.  

History:

  For Malakiah, being young, a child, isn’t something he can remember. He simply remembers being. That in his first moments he was given a task as an angel and that was that. A duty to fulfil perfectly. That was all he was going to do for the rest of eternity. He was placed with a fairly simple job. He was to sit and write down the names of every human that died in a single day. It was incredibly boring. All Malakiah knew for about a hundred years was a single room and the sound of voices repeating names in his head. Names that needed to be written down. That was it. His life, day in and day out. Even if he wanted to leave or see something else, wanting such a thing was considered a sin. At the time no one really knew what would happen if an Angel sinned. At the time, Malakiah feared that if he rebled, he would simply stop being. Although, as the years ticked on, and nothing changed, Malakiah began to wonder if no longer being would be better than spending even a second more writing names. 

And then the first of the Angels began to fall. 

Watching them fall was one of the first things outside of his room that Malakiah ever saw. He hated them deeply for having the freedom he had begun to crave. What would they do with their lives? Would they explore the whole of the earth? What would they feel? Taste? Touch? See? Malakiah grew jealous of all those who had cut ties with the other Angels and gained freedom from it. His envy grew and that was his first sin. Craving freedom turned into a hatred for those who had it while he did not. Malakiah can still remember the moment that thought ran through his head. The moment he didn’t push it aside but embarrassed the envy. Feeling Envy freely lead to his fall. 

One moment he was doing his work, the next he was in pain. Twisting and ripping through the air. His wings twisting in ways they shouldn’t have ever moved. He could not do anything to stop himself and yet there was no fear. In fact, Malakiah couldn’t help but laugh. Was this it? His wish for freedom was going to kill him? He had wanted so badly to do anything else but his duty and now he had just that? And the best part? He had chosen this. The rush of it all caused a smile to cross his lips, and a laugh to leave his lips. He tried his best to take in the surrounds that washed around him as he fell. See everything he could see. Feel the wind around him and smell the earth. Sometimes, even to this day, he has dreams of that moment. 

When Malakiah hit the ground, the pain came. His left leg shattered, and hip dislodged from its normal resting place. Strange enough, Malakiah did not scream or cry. This new feeling called pain was something altogether new. He could not help but enjoy the rush of his blood. The way his heart pounded in his chest and his head spun. The enjoyment did wear off and the tears came shortly after he realized he could not really move. What was left of his wings were useless and his leg was wrecked. Thankfully a human family stumbled across Malakiah and took him in thinking he was an angel. He did not fight them or correct them as they helped set his leg as best they could and patch him up. 

Being bed ridden might have driven others crazy but in that time Malakiah experienced so much. He continued to feel that pain, that discomfort that was still fresh. He felt the heat of fire for the first time and the cold of night. He ate food and talked to the family that had saved them. He asked so many questions about the earth and how they lived. The helped Malakiah get back on his feet and gave him the space and time to get a hold of his new found powers that came with being on earth. He tested himself in many ways as he healed. Although, he did not fully heal. Malakiah still has pain in his left leg and walks with a limp. If nothing else it reminds him of his fall. Of his life before freedom. Before envy. 

While staying with the family, Malakiah witnessed violence for the first. He was out in the yard with the eldest male of the family when their neighbor got into an argument with him. The argument broke out into a fight that ended the eldest man's life. Without much thought, Malakiah killed the neighbor by stabbing him over a hundred times before taking off. He never returned to the family but is still rather grateful for their care. 

From then on, Malakiah went on a journey to experience everything that he could possibly experience. He has lived a great many lives and done some truly disturbing things as his mind generally wonders towards the darker pleasures. For the most part, Kia is outgoing and relaxed about things. He is, however, extremely claustrophobic. He cannot stand feeling as though he is trapped. The first time Malakiah felt that way resulted in what the humans called a panic attack. They still strike him when the thought of being trapped enters his mind. Control is very important to Malakiah. The only time he likes to be out of control is when it comes to sex. Even then he will only allow someone he truly trusts to restrict his movements or tie him down. Kia does not like to talk about the fact that he has problems when it comes to small spaces, closed in areas and being tied down. Kia hasn’t come to terms with it in himself so going over that with someone else isn’t exactly on his to-do list. 

He has lost a great deal of people he has let himself care for over the years and has become rather wary of caring for anyone who isn’t immortal. Watching people age and die that he likes kills a little part of him. Kia, after all, does not get along with a great deal of people. He has gone to great extremes to save those who have gotten close to him. Sometimes Kia does regret saving them and other times he cannot help but know he’s right. One of the things that creates a great deal of envy in him is a couple that lives without fear and is just happy being together without any worry. Malakiah has never really felt that. He doesn’t think he ever will. While some things do really get to Malakiah, he is generally very happy with doing his own thing. He owns the Underpass and is out every night drinking far too much. He smokes like a chimney and loves to get in a bit of trouble. Whether that means sleeping with a married man or setting fire to someone's home really depends on the night. Nothing is off the table with Kia. 

Three Songs:

Overwhelmed By Royal and The Serpent  Young and a Menace by Fall Out Boy Rootless Tree by Danaine Rice

[holdthosebees]

Memento Mori

A/N: Here we are again! Reposted w/out the horrifically embarrassing typo, which I’m sure y’all would have forgotten about if I hadn’t just mentioned it. Shoutout to @screechfoxes for reminding me! Anyway I’m still thinking about Mike Crew/Oliver Banks, and I will be until I die. Fic is rated M for mild, nonexplicit sexual content and canonical character death. 

It’s storming on the day that Oliver meets Michael Crew, which feels appropriate enough. Later, Oliver jokes that, if Mike were more of a drama queen, he’d think he’d done it on purpose: the lashing rain, the heavy wind, the crack and roll of thunder shivering through the air. A summer storm, out of season. It’s driven away most of Oliver’s usual customers, the alternative kids and the middle aged hippies; he’s rearranging a display of cat-themed tarot cards for the fifth time for want of something better to do when the bell above the door rings.

The vertigo is immediate. Oliver raises his eyebrows as his stomach lurches; it had been a while since something impacted him like this. Ever since point Nemo, physical sensation has been... not numb, but dulled, certainly. Even the anxiety, once a constant companion, doesn’t leave him nauseous the way it used to. Then he registers the smell of ozone, and he sighs.

The man in the doorway is short and narrow, with a friendly, square face and sandy brown hair dripping rainwater onto his forehead. He’s dressed down for the weather, no raincoat or umbrella, and above the collar of his plain blue button-down Oliver can see a branching white scar.

“Good afternoon,” Oliver says, to be polite. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Oh, I’m just browsing,” the man says. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers, as if to indicate how uninterested he is in touching anything. “I’ll try not to drip on your stuff.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” Oliver says. Then, because he feels a little silly, playing retail associate with a fellow monster, “Sorry--you’re Michael Crew, right?”

“Guilty as charged,” Michael says, with a quirk of a smile. “But please, call me Mike. Who was it that told you about me? Simon? Jude?” He looks at Oliver’s expression, and laughs. “Figures it would be Jude. She’s such a gossip, that one.”

“I suppose,” Oliver says. His conversation with Jude hadn’t been long, but it had left an impression. He’d felt rather like she was trying to recruit him into some sort of alliance, and when he hadn’t been receptive, her demeanor had been... unpleasant. She’d mentioned Michael--Mike--as something of a casual acquaintance, and so he’d expected him to be somewhat like her: so full of gleeful malice that it oozed out the edges.

“Anyway. I figured I’d drop by, see the man who hijacked Harriet’s plans for Point Nemo.” Mike punctuates this with by giving Oliver a slow once-over, up and down. Oliver smiles reflexively. It’s hard to tell whether he’s being threatened or checked out; neither option is as daunting as it might have been, once, but if Mike is planning on starting something he’d rather they not do it in his shop.

“Oh,” Oliver says, “sorry about that. I wasn’t exactly thinking much, at the time.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sea water under the bridge.” Mike says, and smiles, taking a hand out of his pocket to wave the matter away. He has a nice smile, Oliver thinks. Not too wide, not the tooth-baring threat that most of the avatars he’d met seemed fond of. Nice. “To be honest, I don’t have much to do with what the Fairchild’s are up to, these days. I don’t really bother with the macro. Yes, I know, ironic.”

“Seems very reasonable,” Oliver says.

“I thought you’d approve. Your lot doesn’t bother with that sort of thing, right?  Everyone dies, after all.” His smile quirks up at the corner; a shared joke between two dead men.

“Memento mori,” Oliver says. He’s beginning to suspect that he actually is being chatted up, a suspicion confirmed when Mike asks him out for a pint a few minutes later. He considers saying no, citing the shop: it’s too early in the day to close up, after all. But there aren’t any customers coming, and Mike’s cute enough, and it’s not like he has many options. And it’s been a very, very long time.

They talk shop a bit over drinks--”Most people just don’t understand how big eternity actually is,” Mike says, all quiet intensity, and Oliver finds himself nodding along--and then, tentative, like he’s actually nervous, Mike asks Oliver over to his flat.

Oliver hesitates. He hasn’t gotten mixed up in any of the inter-avatar politics; he’s had no need to, and an entanglement just seemed like a pointless bit of risk. Besides, he’s always found the delight in death and pain paradoxically distasteful. He loves it, worships it, recognizes it as the truth that underwrites the universe; that doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it.  

But Mike seems reasonable enough, and he’s handsome in an anemic sort of way. And there’s--something, in his eyes, the tilt of his jaw, an echo of defiant exhaustion, a coldness that Oliver recognizes. He is fairly cold himself, after all.

Going to bed with Michael Crew is--well, it would be overwhelming, if Oliver were capable of being overwhelmed. Touching his skin is vertigo, is free fall, the first crack of thunder when a storm breaks. Oliver licks the scar on his chest and tastes ozone. He can only imagine what Mike feels, touching him. They aren’t human, anymore; their bodies are vessels for something monstrous and huge, beautiful in their horror; but they can still sweat, and bite, and gasp so gently at the shock of sudden pleasure. Afterwards, Oliver lays his head on Mike’s chest and is relieved when he doesn’t feel a heartbeat.

It becomes almost a regular thing. They don’t date. They don’t have a relationship. The part of themselves that could be given to another person was already dedicated to something else; Mike will never look at anyone the way he looks up at the night sky, and Oliver will never feel as sadly tender about anything as he does when he sees the soon-to-be-dead walk past. The secret that Mike keeps is that the world is very big; the secret Oliver keeps is that your experience of it will be small. The space they make fits somewhere in-between.

The truce that they keep between them is simple. Mike comes by the store every few months or so. They make smalltalk, discuss the state of the powers, have sex sometimes. It’s nice. Mike, it turns out, is just as much of a homebody as Oliver; he lets the silences between them stretch on, doesn’t both texting ahead, doesn’t make demands of Oliver’s time. This is, of course, ideal. It is hard to care about investing in another person when you keep in the center of your heart and in your bones the knowledge that they, too, will die.

But still. It’s nice. One evening Mike swings by the store just before closing, and Oliver looks at his grey eyes and narrow shoulders and feels--something. It isn’t joy, and it isn’t exactly lust, and it’s certainly not love--Oliver does remember what it was like to be in love, although the memory feels like a reflection in water, murky and warped and far away. But something unclenches, somewhere in his chest, and he smiles without thinking when he says hello.

“Hey,” Mike says. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all kinds of windblown directions. It suits him. “I brought you something.”

“Oh?” Oliver says. Mike isn’t the gift-giving type; they aren’t exactly in a gift-giving business. Mike nods, rooting through the pockets of his faded grey trousers. What he pulls out looks at first like a lump of pale rock, but Oliver can feel the cold emanating from it, familiar and soft. He holds out his hand, and Mike presses the lump into it.

A chunk of bone, worn smooth, the pockmarks of its structure exposed all along one side. A piece from the spine of a sea creature long extinct. Oliver can feel the layers of dead things condensed on the ocean floor, the sediment of thousands of years of endings. It was, not the last of its species, but second to last. With it died the last chance they had.

When he closes his eyes, he sees the dark ocean stretching out forever.

“Thank you,” he says. He rolls the bone back and forth, savoring it. “It’s--very nice.”  

“You’re welcome,” Mike says. He sounds uneasy. He puts his hands back in his pockets, shoulders hunched. He doesn’t seem self conscious, not exactly, but--this isn’t something that they do, and they both know it. Still, Oliver smiles as he tucks the bone into the pocket of his work slacks, and after a moment, Michael relaxes again.

“Drop by my place, yeah?” he says. “When you’re done closing?”

Oliver doesn’t ask why he doesn’t want to linger. When Mike opens the shop door the is a rush of wind strong enough to tug at the covers of the paperbacks on display. Then the door shuts and the bell rings, and Oliver is left in stillness.

He rings up his last customer, a middle-aged woman buying a crystal pyramid and a book on chakra manipulation. There is a black tendril wrapped around her middle, and Oliver allows himself a moment to feel the soft, cold whisper of his god. It feels good. He knows, intellectually, that he might have felt guilty about that, once.

He closes up, and goes to Mike’s flat. Mike has a cup of tea and some takeaway already waiting for him. While they eat Mike tells him, in dreamy snippets, about his trip to the ocean. The sea, he said, that was big, but the sky--the perfect black, stretching on forever, unmarred by light pollution, the incredible, indifferent distance of the stars--that was something else. He closes his eyes while he speaks, savoring the memory. Oliver doesn’t ask what happened to the sailors he was with. He doesn’t have to. All the avatars serve the End, in their own ways.

They go to bed. When Mike removes his shirt Oliver sees a new scar, a patch of raw red skin in the shape of a handprint on his shoulder. Mike’s mouth twists when he notices Oliver looking.

“Had a bit of a disagreement with Jude Perry,” he says, wry. Then he frames Oliver’s face in his hands and kisses him, all sudden intent, and Oliver feels the vertigo again, twisting with arousal in the pit of his stomach. He smiles.

Afterwards, they lie together, Mike’s head on Oliver’s chest, Oliver’s fingers tangled in Mike’s hair. This is another thing they don’t usually do, the cuddling. Mike’s not a cuddly person, just like he’s not a clingy person, or a gift giving person, or--arguably--a person at all. Oliver finds himself remember the last time he did this. Years and years ago. In bed with Graham, who he didn’t let himself think about for so long that it became an unconscious habit to repress.

But his memories are hazy and confused, another life, full of feelings that no longer fit in his body. And there are details that he can’t line up: what color was Graham’s hair? His eyes? It’s all fading away, now, tangling and strange, like an old movie in a foreign language. Oliver gives up. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift, listening to the quiet rush of Mike’s breathing.

He dreams. In his dreams he is in the middle of the ocean, water like black glass stretching out in all directions. Forever. And above it the sky, the black and endless sky, full of cold and distant stars.

The water rolls. A huge wave, a wall: the back of some great creature, larger than a ship, than a whale, its bulk enough to change the entire landscape without breaking the surface. Oliver sees miles of barnacle-ridden skin, a single sunken eye. And around it, familiar as breathing: the tendrils of death, black and fleshy, like the arms of a kraken drawing it down. The behemoth groans, and the world shakes.

Oliver wakes up. At first he thinks he is still sleeping: he smells salt, and can feel the press of one of the death-tendrils against his hand, fleshy and cold. But no. He is awake, in Mike Crew’s flat. The smell is Mike’s hair; he hasn’t been able to wash the sea off of him, yet. And the touch--

There is a tendril around Mike’s neck.

There is nothing else to do. Oliver presses his mouth to the top of Mike’s head, closes his eyes. Then he slides carefully out of bed and begins to dress. Mike won’t wonder why he left. He won’t notice anything amiss, not until tomorrow, maybe, or the day after that. However many days it takes. Oliver pulls on his trousers and feels the lump of bone press against his hip. He does up the buttons on his shirt, pulls on his coat. It is raining. A soft, light rain, streaking down the window in the grey dawn.

He stops at the doorway, looks back at Mike’s small frame curled up under the comforter. One hand grasping at the pillow.

“Rest well,” Oliver whispers. Then he turns, and closes the door behind him.