#art motivation and free time when I fucking get you *shakes fist*
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I got too busy to prepare anything new this Valentines so take one I did last year but never shared here
bonus:
#twst#twisted wonderland#jamil viper#twst oc#lizette teller#bibi art#art motivation and free time when I fucking get you *shakes fist*#kinda sad I didn’t complete any (cleaned) art this time around but it is what it iiisssss#it’s still early in my time zone maybe I’ll do something but just in case—
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Bridge Over Troubled Water • R.L
(Gif not mine)
Requests: can you do a blurb with Remus where the reader is nervous and anxious, maybe has a tough week and he gives her a massage and helps her relax? — anon and Hi! can you write an imagine where the reader is dating Remus and is disappointed in her school grades / results and is overall doubting herself and is disappointed with herself? — @emmaev
Summary: Things are getting really tough. Remus is here for you.
Warnings: mention of food, not eating/skipping a meal, hunger, depression, anxiety, a bit of a panic attack, homework, school, self deprecating thoughts, kinda take how we’re feeling in this pandemic and that’s kinda what this fic is, Snape being an ass for like two sentences, crying
Word Count: 1.7k
A.N: I hope it’s alright that I combined your two requests. But, I decided to make it longer with a lot more comfort. I really hope it’s ok with you guys ❤️ Kinda a vent fic? So that’s why it’s lowkey all over the place and the ending is sorta..abrupt? I hope you like it, though. I wanna say that I’m always here for you guys. This whole thing has been kicking my ass and school has been extremely tough for me, so know that you’re not alone. Know that you’ve got this. I believe wholeheartedly in you. Love you all. ❤️
Title: Simon and Garfunkel - Bridge Over Troubled Water
****
You trudge up the stone steps to the boys dorms, your bag dragging heavily behind you. With your robes slipping from your shoulders and your tie dangling loosely around your neck, you almost consider letting your bag go. Watching the heavy sack of books tumble recklessly down the spiral staircase seems like a great idea to you. However, you make it to the sixth year dorms before you’re able to loosen your grip.
The oak door was closed but not locked. What use was a lock when the door was charmed to singe off the eyebrows of any unwelcome visitor? Thankfully, the boys granted you complete access to their room in third year, so the door couldn’t harm you.
Turning the brass doorknob and stepping through the threshold, you’re greeted by somewhat organized chaos.
Sirius and Peter’s side of the room was a complete disaster while James and Remus’ side was at least nicer to look at. Sure a few books were scattered on the floor and James’ red and yellow underwear was hanging from his bedpost visible to anyone who walked in, but that’s nothing compared to whatever the other two have going on. You don’t even want to look at it, knowing full well that just one tiny glance would make your already terrible day worse.
The room is empty and completely quiet, the boys, just like every other person in the castle, were down in the Great Hall for dinner. At the thought of dinner just downstairs, your stomach grumbles before quickly churning in agony.
Quickly, you dump your bag next to the door and go through Remus’ drawers, searching for that one specific jumper.
It’s the deep blue cable knit one that always smells like him. The jumper is soft and warm and the perfect piece of clothing to cuddle into when you needed a good cry. And Godric, you needed a good, long, ugly cry.
After finding it and throwing it on, you barely lift up your feet walking to your boyfriend’s bed to get swallowed up by his blankets.
The weight of the day hits you full force the moment your head collides with his pillow, and your lips wobbles, the day replaying in your mind.
Your morning started with a Transfiguration exam that definitely was not on what you studied all night for.
Then, your potion bubbled out of your cauldron and started disintegrating the stone flooring, making Slughorn shoot you very disappointed look that made you want to disappear into the Forbidden Forest forever.
Defense Against the Dark Arts turned into a complete disaster as well when Professor Bluebell handed back your essays on inferi, and yours ended up with a spikey red D scrawled angrily on the top. D, which stands for Dreadful, as Snape snidely reminded you from over your shoulder. He flashed you smug little smirk along with the delicate O that adorned his own essay.
And to top it all off, you had to meet up with Flitwick right after classes to go over the vinegar to wine charm that for some reason wouldn’t work for you no matter how hard you tried. And you still weren’t successful.
This was becoming a common occurrence.
You always knew that your N.E.W.T. year was going to be tough, but Merlin, you never expected it to be this awful.
Classes were longer and harder and your professors were relentless and unforgiving with the amount of homework and exams they started handing out.
Sure you had more free periods, but those were filled with research and essays and studying, you had no free time at all—it was all a lie.
You couldn’t escape it. Sleep was just more time to be plagued by anxiety to the point you barely even slept at all. Most of the time you stared blankly up at the ceiling thinking about all the assignments you could be doing instead.
It’s this torturous and vicious cycle that you just can’t get out of.
And your motivation was quickly disappearing.
It was getting tougher and tougher each time to even do your homework. Lifting up your quill and taking out a stack of parchment was just difficult. It took too much energy out of you.
Smothering your face in Remus’ pillow, you groan out your frustration, balling your fists around the frayed sleeves of the jumper.
You’re so wrapped up in your despair and panic that you don’t hear the door creak open and four sets of footfalls and laughter bounce around the room.
“Damn, what’s up with you?” Sirius chuckles. You hear him flop onto his own bed.
You bury your nose in the fabric of the jumper, inhaling the sweet and comforting scent of chocolate and old parchment that always accompanies Remus Lupin.
“Don’t be a git, Pads.” Remus scoffs, making his way towards you.
He crouches down by your head, placing a delicate thumb on your cheekbone.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” His tone turns soft, drenched with concern.
You squeeze your eyes shut tight, tears trickling down the bridge of your nose and dripping down to the white sheets.
“Alright, darling, hold on.” Remus whispers, placing a dainty kiss on your forehead.
He straightens up, knees creaking the way no sixteen year old’s should.
“Alright, lads, clear out.” Remus declares to his friends.
“You can’t kick me out of my room, Moony. No way.” You hear James whine.
“Yes, I can, Prongs, c’mon. Go play chess with Peter or something.”
“But he always beats me.”
“C’mon, Prongsie, we can scam the first years by making them place bets on you winning.” Sirius suggests. His boots click against the floorboards, trailing towards the door.
Peter’s light footsteps follow after them.
“Fine.” James huffs dramatically. “But I’m not sleeping on the couch again, so no funny business.”
The door slams shut and once again you’re met with silence, though you do hear Remus changing out of his uniform and into more comfortable attire.
The bed dips underneath Remus’ weight and his hand gently starts to stroke through your hair.
“Tell me what’s wrong, my love.” Remus mumbles just loud enough for you to hear.
You try to swallow down the lump in the back of your throat.
“Just a very shitty day, Rem.” You manage to croak out, the words choppy and wavering.
Tears begin to flow freely, warm salty streaks making their way down your face in rapid succession.
“Oh darling.” Remus coos, practically pulling you into his arms and between his legs. You bury your face into his neck, tears dampening his scarred flesh. “It’s alright, let it out.” He continues to run your hair between his fingers. “Let it all out...”
“I-I’m just so stupid!” You sob, choking on spit. “Everything’s just getting too much and I can’t fucking take it anymore!”
He squeezes you closer to his chest, opting to stay silent so you can vent everything off of your chest. His cheek is pressed to the top of your head and you’re vaguely aware that you’re being rocked gently back and forth.
“It’s so hard!” You continue to wail, lungs constricting rapidly. It’s a struggle to keep breathing and your words barely come out fully, instead broken fragments are the only things spewing out.
“I’m a failure!” You spit out, face wet with tears.
“You’re not a failure, my love. I promise.” Remus tried to soothe, his voice adopting a small but noticeable waver. His hand rubs your back.
“I am! I’m a disappointment!” You sniff, taking in deep gulps of air.
“Shh...” Remus pulls you back a bit so he can see your entire face.
You already know you look disgusting. Eyes blotchy and red, tears streaming down your face. Snotty, spitty, wobbling, and watery features taking up his entire vision.
“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours, hm? Let me help.” He consoles you softly.
You gaze into his warm honey brown eyes, glistening with his own tears.
You sniff, rubbing the sleeves of Remus’ stolen jumper across your face in an attempt to dry yourself off.
“Everything’s slipping, Rem. My grades, my mental health, everything. And I’m so lost I don’t know what to do anymore.” You confess. “What am I supposed to do?” You bring your hands up to you hair, tugging at your scalp enough for you to feel sparks of pain.
Quickly, his own trembling hands take yours. He stops you from tugging, instead bringing them to rest on his jumper clad chest.
You swallow harshly.
“I’m going to help you, (Y/n)—“
“You can’t help me, Remus! I’m beyond help—“
“No, you’re not.” He retorts lightly. “I’ll help you with homework and help you ask for a few extensions...we can get you back on track.”
“Remus...” Your voice trembles at his kindness.
“I’m sorry.” He rasps out, a tear or two slipping from his waterline. “I’m so so sorry that I didn’t see you suffering like this. Merlin, (Y/n).”
Shaking his head at himself, he brings his forehead down to your own.
“I’ll be better. I’ll be better, I swear.” Remus keeps repeating in a pained mutter.
“It’s not your fault, Rem. I got good at acting like everything was fine.” Your voice cracks.
“Still! I should’ve realized!” He mutters angrily.
“I love you, Remus. I love you so much, please don’t beat yourself up over this.” You plead.
He bites his lip, deciding to drop it, instead focusing on you.
“Why don’t we try to relax, hm? Just take a nice night off?” Remus suggests, pulling away to brush strands of hair away from your sticky face.
“But what about homework—?”
“Tomorrow, love. I think we deserve a break, don’t you?”
You shlyly nod, and he presses his lips to your forehead.
“You’re beautiful, darling.” Remus whispers.
“I just bawled my eyes out, Rem, I’m sure I look like a swamp hag.” You snort.
He brings his hands to your shoulders, rubbing deep circles into your back muscles. The knots start to dissipate.
“Never seen a swamp hag as angelic as you.” Remus flirts. But his voice is so sincere and honest, you have no choice but to somewhat believe him.
“Thank you, Remus.” You smile. “It means so much to me.”
“Anything for the love of my life.” He confesses, trailing his pink lips down your neck. “Now let me hold you close.”
He lays down, resting his head on his pillow, your head resting on his chest.
Things are going to get better.
Probably not tomorrow.
Probably not this week.
But things will.
•
All Character Taglist: @aspiringsloth20
#Remus Lupin#remus lupin x reader#remus lupin imagine#remus lupin fanfiction#remus lupin angst#remus lupin fluff#the marauders x reader#the marauders
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Who the Fuck is Philippa Eilhart?
I don’t know if you’ve been following Witcher news lately but Philippa has just been cast!
Of course, many show-only fans might not be familiar with her character and game-only fans might not know how different her story is in the books, so I’m here to give a relatively brief overview of her plot line in the books. Warning: lots of book spoilers ahead as well as the standard graphic violence that is the norm in the books.
With that, Hi! I’m Aaliyah and this is Part 6 of my WTF Series - a crash course in subject from The Witcher books.
The first time we meet Philippa in Blood of Elves, she is an advisor to the King of Redania. Dandelion is brought before The Redanian Secret Service because they wish to know Geralt’s whereabouts.
Excerpt:
Dandilion glanced at the fourth person present at the meeting, who until then had remained silent. Philippa Eilhart must have only recently arrived in Oxenfurt, or was perhaps intending to leave at once, since she wore neither a dress nor her favourite black agate jewellery nor any sharp make-up.
She was wearing a man’s short jacket, leggings and high boots – a “field” outfit as the poet called it. The enchantress’s dark hair, usually loose and worn in a picturesque mess, was brushed smooth and tied back at the nape of her neck.
“Let’s not waste time,” she said, raising her even eyebrows. “Dandilion’s right. We can spare ourselves the rhetoric and slick eloquence which leads nowhere when the matter at hand is so simple and trivial.”
Here are some of Dandelion’s thoughts on Philippa:
Dandilion divided women – including magicians – into very likeable, likeable, unlikeable and very unlikeable. The very likeable reacted to the proposition of being bedded with joyful acquiescence, the likeable with a happy smile. The unlikeable reacted unpredictably. The very unlikeable were counted by the troubadour to be those to whom the very thought of presenting such a proposition made his back go strangely cold and his knees shake.
Philippa Eilhart, although very attractive, was decidedly very unlikeable.
Apart from that, Philippa Eilhart was an important figure in the Council of Wizards, and King Vizimir’s trusted court magician.
She was a very talented enchantress. Word had it that she was one of the few to have mastered the art of polymorphy. She looked thirty. In truth she was probably no less than three hundred years old.”
Then, Dandelion leaves to go back to Geralt and Philippa follows him in the form of an owl:
A big grey owl glided down to the sill without a sound. Shani cried out quietly. Geralt reached for his sword.
“Don’t be silly, Philippa,” said Dandilion.
The owl disappeared and Philippa Eilhart appeared in its place, squatting awkwardly. The magician immediately jumped into the room, smoothing down her hair and clothes.
“Good evening,” she said coldly. “Introduce me, Dandilion.”
“Geralt of Rivia. Shani of Medicine. And that owl which so craftily flew in my tracks is no owl. This is Philippa Eilhart from the Council of Wizards, at present in King Vizimir’s service and pride of the Tretogor court. It’s a shame we’ve only got one chair in here.”
Geralt is trying to hunt down a wizard, Rience, who is trying to get Ciri. When Geralt is about to kill Rience, Philippa lets Rience portal away and Geralt, Shani and Dandelion are quite upset:
“Philippa!” shouted Dandilion, still holding the weeping Shani. “Have you gone mad?”
“No,” said the witcher with some effort. “She’s quite sane. And knows perfectly well what she’s doing. She knew all along what she was doing. She took advantage of us. Betrayed us. Deceived—”
“Calm down,” repeated Philippa Eilhart. “You won’t understand and you don’t have to understand. I did what I had to do. And don’t call me a traitor. Because I did this precisely so as not to betray a cause which is greater than you can imagine.
A great and important cause, so important that minor matters have to be sacrificed for it without second thoughts, if faced with such a choice. Geralt, damn it, we’re nattering and you’re standing in a pool of blood. Calm down and let Shani and me take care of you.”
Of course, this is all a part of Philippa’s larger plan to hold a coup and gain political power. Vilgefortz hired Rience and if Geralt had found that out then Vilgefortz would be revealed as a traitor to the Brotherhood and Philippa couldn’t have that happening before her coup.
The next time we see Philippa is in Time of Contempt at the banquet on Thanedd Island. She talks to many of the guests, here is a short conversation between her and Geralt:
“There’s no caviar.’ (Geralt)
‘One moment.’ (Philippa)
She looked around quickly, waved a hand and mumbled a spell. The silver dish in the shape of a leaping fish immediately filled with the roe of the endangered shovelnose sturgeon. The Witcher smiled.
‘Can one eat one’s fill of an illusion?’
‘No. But snobbish tastes can be pleasantly titillated by it. Have a try.’
‘Hmm… Indeed… I’d say it’s tastier than the real thing…’
‘And it’s not at all fattening,’ said the enchantress proudly, squeezing lemon juice over a heaped teaspoon of caviar. ‘May I have another goblet of white wine?’
‘At your service. Philippa?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m told etiquette precludes the use of spells here. Wouldn’t it be safer, then, to conjure up the illusion of the taste of caviar alone, without the caviar? Just the sensation? You’d surely be able to…’
‘Of course I would,’ said Philippa Eilhart, looking at him through her crystal goblet. ‘The construction of such a spell is easy as pie. But were you only to have the sensation of taste, you’d lose the pleasure the activity offers. The process, the accompanying ritual movements, the gestures, the conversation and eye contact which accompanies the process… I’ll entertain you with a witty comparison. Would you like that?’
‘Please do. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘I’d also be capable of conjuring the sensation of an orgasm.”
She is quite ruthless and cutting and while Geralt remains upset about Rience, Philippa, in true sorceress fashion, has already moved on. As well, she is explicitly queer in the books which I talk about here
Later, Geralt gets up in the night to go to the bathroom and stumbles upon Philippa attempting a coup. Triss temporarily blinds Geralt and Philippa and Tissaia exchange tense words. Philippa sends Geralt away with Dijkstra, offering him mercy despite him finding out about her coup.
However, Geralt gets away from Dijkstra and goes back to Thanedd where a full-battle is going on.
Turns out, Tissaia and Philippa’s fight cumulated in Tissaia releasing Vilgefortz and lowering the barrier as seen in this passage:
“They’re still fighting,’ said Carduin, grinding his teeth. ‘It’s hot down there, one spell after another…’
‘Spells? In Garstang? But there’s an anti-magic aura there!’
‘It was Tissaia’s doing. She suddenly decided whose side she was on. She took down the blockade, removed the aura and neutralised the dimeritium. Then everyone went for each other! Vilgefortz and Terranova on one side, Philippa and Sabrina on the other… The columns cracked and the vaulting collapsed… And then Francesca opened the entrance to the cellars, and those elven devils suddenly leapt out… We told them that we were neutral, but Vilgefortz only laughed.”
Geralt then runs in Keira Metz who was thrown out a window and she explains that after Vilgefortz was released the Scoia’tael (Elven and Non-human fighters who are allied with Nilfgaard sort of) attacked:
“Sorry. How did the Scoia’tael get here?”
“They were hidden in the cellars. Thanedd is as hollow as a nutshell and there’s a huge cavern under it; you could sail a ship in if you knew how. Someone must have told them the way—Ouuuch! Be careful! Stop jolting me!’
‘Sorry. So the Squirrels came here by sea? When?’
‘God knows when. It might have been yesterday, or a week ago. We were preparing to strike at Vilgefortz, and Vilgefortz at us. Vilgefortz, Francesca, Terranova and Fercart… They conned us good and proper. Philippa thought they were planning a slow seizure of power in the Chapter, and to put pressure on the kings… But they were planning to finish us off during the Conclave… Geralt, it’s too painful… It’s my leg… Put me down for a second. Ouuuch!”
Later, there is a flashback to Philippa and Tissaia’s fight:
‘Enough!’ Philippa slammed her fist down on the table. ‘I shall satisfy your curiosity, Carduin. You ask who is preparing a war? Nilfgaard. They intend to attack and destroy us. But Emhyr var Emreis remembers Sodden Hill and has decided to protect himself by removing the mages from the game first. With this in mind, he made contact with Vilgefortz of Roggeveen. He bought him with promises of power and honour.
Yes, Tissaia. Vilgefortz, hero of Sodden, sold us out to become the governor and ruler of all the conquered territories of the north. Vilgefortz, helped by Terranova and Fercart, shall rule the provinces which will be established in place of the conquered kingdoms. It is he who will wield the Nilfgaardian scourge over the people who inhabit those lands and will begin toiling as the Empire’s slaves.
And Francesca Findabair, Enid an Gleanna, will become queen of the land of the free elves. It will, of course, be a Nilfgaardian protectorate, but it will suffice for the elves so long as Emperor Emhyr will give them a free hand to murder humans. The elves desire nothing so much as to murder Dh’oine.”
Tissaia states, “That is a serious accusation. Which means the proof will also have to be as weighty. But before you throw your proof onto the scale, Philippa Eilhart, be aware of my stance. Proof may be fabricated. Actions and their motives may be misinterpreted.
But nothing can change existing facts. You have broken the unity and solidarity of the Brotherhood, Philippa Eilhart. You have handcuffed members of the Chapter like criminals. So do not dare to offer me a position in the new Chapter which your gang of traitors–who have sold out to the kings, rather than to Nilfgaaard–intend to create.
We are separated by death and blood. The death of Hen Gedymdeith. And the blood of Lydia van Bredevoort. You spilled that blood with contempt. You were my best pupil, Philippa Eilhart. I was always proud of you. But now I have nothing but contempt for you.”
I won’t go into detail for the sake of brevity, but Philippa ends up escaping Thanedd unharmed after her failed coup and we don’t see her again until Baptism of Fire when she is forming The Lodge.
Here is an excerpt of her pitch speech about The Lodge to the other mages:
Philippa Eilhart stood up, her dress rustling.
‘Distinguished sisters,’ she said. ‘Our situation is grave. Magic is under threat. The tragic events on Thanedd, to which my thoughts return with regret and reluctance, proved that the effects of hundreds of years of apparently peaceful cooperation could be laid waste in an instant, as self-interest and inflated ambitions came to the fore.
We now have discord, disorder, mutual hostility and mistrust. Events are beginning to get out of control. In order to regain control, in order to prevent a cataclysm happening, the helm of this storm-tossed ship must be grasped by strong hands.
Mistress Laux-Antille, Mistress Merigold, Mistress Metz and I have discussed the matter and we are in agreement. It is not enough to re-establish the Chapter and the Council, which were destroyed on Thanedd. In any case, there is no one left to rebuild the two institutions, no guarantee that should they be rebuilt they would not be infected with the disease that destroyed the previous ones.
An utterly new, secret organisation should be founded which will exclusively serve matters of magic. Which will do everything to prevent a cataclysm. For if magic were to perish, our world would perish with it.
Just as happened many centuries ago, the world without magic and the progress it brings with it will be plunged into chaos and darkness; will drown in blood and barbarity. We invite the ladies present here to take part in our initiative: to actively participate in the work proposed by this secret assembly. We took the decision to summon you here in order to hear your opinions on this matter. With this, I have finished.’
Then, later on in Baptism of Fire at the first official meeting of the Lodge Philippa discusses how she wants to make Ciri Queen of the North.
“Who, then, is to be this Queen of the North?’
‘A girl from a royal family,’ Philippa calmly replied, ‘in whose veins flows royal blood, the blood of several great dynasties. Very young and capable of producing offspring. A girl with exceptional magical and prophetic abilities, a carrier of the Elder Blood as the prophecies have heralded. A girl who will play her role with great aplomb without direction, prompt, sycophants or grey eminences, because that is what her destiny demands.
A girl, whose true abilities are and will be known only to us: Cirilla, daughter of Princess Pavetta of Cintra, the granddaughter of the Queen Calanthe called the Lioness of Cintra. The Elder Blood, the Icy Flame of the North, the Destroyer and Restorer, whose coming was prophesied centuries ago. Ciri of Cintra, the Queen of the North. And her blood, from which will be born the Queen of the World.”
After this, Yennefer, who was brought to the Lodge agains her will (although she is a member) escapes with Fringilla’s help in order to find Ciri and Philippa is furious.
The next time we see Philippa is in The Tower of the Swallows and it is when Yennefer is hunting down Vilgefortz and contacts Philippa for help:
Philippa stared at her from under lowered eyelids. “If you believe,” she said finally, “that you've won peace, time, or security with this declaration, then you've miscalculated. Make no mistake about it, Yennefer.
When you fled from Montecalvo, you made your decision. You chose to stand on a different side of the barricade. If you are not with the Lodge, you are against the Lodge. Now you're trying to forestall us from finding Ciri, and the motives that guide you are opposed to ours.
You act against us. You do not want to allow us to use Ciri for our political purposes. You shouldknow that we will also do everything in our power to make sure that you cannot use the girl for your sentimental purposes.”
“So, it’s war?”
“Competition.” Philippa smiled toxically. “Competition only, Yennefer.”
“Decent and honorable?”
“You must be joking.”
“Obviously. Though on at least one specific issue, I would like to have an honest and genuine conversation. And, incidentally, it involves a favor to me.”
“Speak.”
“Over the next few days, maybe even tomorrow, events will occur whose consequences I cannot foresee. It may happen that our competition and rivalry suddenly has no meaning. For the simple reason that one of the competitors will not be there anymore.”
Philippa Eilhart narrowed her blue-shaded eyes. “I understand.”
“Ensure that I posthumously gain back my reputation and good name. I will no longer be held for a traitor or an accomplice of Vilgefortz. I ask this of the Lodge. I ask this of you, personally.”
Philippa was silent for a moment.“I deny your request,” she said finally. “I'm sorry, but your exoneration is not in the interest of the Lodge. If you die, you die a traitor. You'll be a traitor and criminal to Ciri, because then it will be easier to manipulate the girl.”
“Before you do something that could be fatal,” Triss said suddenly, “leave something behind for us…”
“A will?” Yennefer said.
“Something that allows us to… continue. To find Ciri. Because we are primarily concerned for her health! For her life! Yennefer, Dijkstra has found some traces of… some traces of certain activities have been found. If Vilgefortz does have Ciri, then the girl faces a horrible death.”
“Be quiet, Triss,” Philippa Eilhart hissed sharply. “We are not trading or bargaining.”
“I will leave you the information,” Yennefer said slowly. “I'll leave you the information on what I've found and what I plan. I’ll leave a trail you can follow to her. But not in vain. If you will not facilitate my exoneration in the eyes of the world, then to hell with you and with the world. But at least grant me exoneration in the eyes of the witcher.”
“No,” Philippa denied the request almost instantly. “That is also not in the interest of the Lodge. You will also remain a traitor and a mercenary sorceress to your witcher. It is not in the interest of the Lodge for him to furiously attempt to avenge you. If he despises you, he will not attempt to take revenge. By the way, he's probably already dead or will die any day now.”
“The information,” Yennefer said dully, “for his life. Save him, Philippa.”
“No, Yennefer.”
“Because it's not in the interest of the Lodge.” A purple fire kindled in the sorceress’ eyes. “Did you hear that Triss? There, you have your Lodge. You see their true colors, their true interests. And what do you think of them? You were a mentor to the girl, almost – as you put it – a big sister. And Geralt…”
“Do not attack Triss’ relationships, Yennefer.” Philippa retaliated with her own fire in her eyes. “We will find and rescue the girl without your help. And if you succeed, that's fine, a thousand thanks, because you will have saved us the trouble. You tear the girl out of the hands of Vilgefortz and we will be happy. And Geralt? Who cares about Geralt?”
“Did you hear that, Triss?”
“Forgive me,” said Triss Merigold dully. “Forgive me, Yennefer.”
“Oh, no, Triss. Never.”
I know this is a long scene, but it’s so important and isn’t one I felt right in slicing up. This establishes Triss’ true betrayal of Yennefer. Just prior to this, it is practically stated that Triss and Philippa slept together and despite Triss’ love for Yennefer her loyalty to Philippa is stronger in this moment which makes this hurt so much more. Philippa is also so cruel to Yennefer in this scene, denying both Geralt and Ciri the truth of her motivations as to better manipulate them. It really showcases how her lust for power overrides her empathy.
The final time we see Philippa is in Lady of the Lake when Ciri is brought before the Lodge. Here, Philippa describes what their plans are for Ciri:
“You are coming with me,” Lady Owl (Philippa) said, breaking the heavy silence, “and Sile to Kovir, to Pont Vanis, the summer capital of the kingdom. As you are no longer Cirilla of Cintra, during the course of the audience you will be presented as an adept of magic, being protected by us.
At that audience you will meet a very wise king, Esterad Thyssen. You will meet his wife, the Queen Zuleyka, a person of singular nobility and goodness. You will also meet their son and heir, Prince Tancred.”
Ciri was beginning to understand and rolled her eyes. Lady Owl did not miss that detail.
“Yes,” she confirmed. “First of all you must impress prince Tancred. Because you are going to become his lover and give him a child.”
“If you were still Cirilla of Cintra,” Philippa continued after a long pause, “still the daughter of Pavetta and granddaughter of Calanthe, you would become Prince Tancred’s legal wife. You’d be the princess and later the queen of Poviss and Kovir. Unfortunately, and I tell you with genuine regret, fate has deprived you of everything. Including your future. You will only be his mistress. His favourite.”
Then Later:
“Your’s and Tancred’s child,” Philippa watched here with dark eyes, “will ensure the future and status of this Lodge. Take note that it will be a great thing. You will be a part of it, because right after the birth you will sit with us at this table. We will teach you. You are one of us, even if you do not want to admit it yet.”
“On the island of Thanedd,” Ciri overcame the tightness in her throat, “you said I was a mindless tool, even a monster, Lady Owl, and now you say that I am one of you.”
Then, the Lodge asks Ciri what her last name will be, Philippa and others offering theirs but Ciri declines in favor of choosing Yennefer’s:
“Thank you, Lady Philippa,” Ciri said after a few moments, squeezing the head of the sphinxes in her hands. “I also feel honoured with the proposal to take the surname de Tancarville. However, it seems to me that my new last name is the only thing that I can choose for myself, I thank the two mistresses. But I want to be called Cirilla of Vengerberg, daughter of Yennefer.”
Ciri requests to go and see Geralt and The Lodge votes on this and Philippa is the deciding vote. At first, she is hesitant but then Ciri shows her a vision and Philippa says this:
“This Lodge,” Philippa said at last in a firm voice, “is to decide the fate of the world. So, this Lodge must reflect the world. Here, equilibrium and wisdom does not always mean cold and selfish, calculation and vileness, and sentimentality is not always naive. On one hand, iron discipline and on the other responsibility, resistance to violence, gentleness and trust. Cool reason… And heart.”
“I,” she said into the silence that reigned after her introduction, “cast the last vote. I will take into account one more thing. An element that without balancing anything, balances everything.”
“Following her gaze, everyone looked at the wall, to a mosaic of many multicolour tiles depicting the snake Uroboros, biting it’s own tail.
“That thing,” she continued, staring with her dark eyes at Ciri, “is destiny in which I, Philippa Eilhart have only begun to believe in recently, which I have only recently begun to understand. Destiny is not the way to providence or comfortable fatalism. Destiny is hope. I am full of hope that it will become what we want to happen, so I give my vote to Ciri - Child of Destiny, Child of Hope”
In the pillared hall of Montecalvo the was silence for a long time. From outside of the window came the hunting cry from a sea eagle.
“Lady Yennefer,” Ciri whispered. “It means…”
“Come, my daughter,” Yennefer whispered back. “Geralt is waiting for is and it is a long road ahead.”
This is the last time we see Philippa, but based on what we hear at other parts of Lady of Lake, we know she does not have a happy ending. After this, the Witch Hunt begin, a period of time when the Clergy hunted and murdered sorceresses and destroyed their pictures and images. The Witcher Hunts themselves could be an entirely separate post there is so much there.
Many sorceresses, Philippa included as later considered Martyrs but she was killed viciously by the clergy as described in this passage from Lady of the Lake:
…As well as many of the other faithful, St. Philippa was also besmirched with betraying the Kingdom, inducing riots and plotting a coup. Willemer, a heretic and sectarian, unlawfully appointed himself the title of archpriest, and ordered St. Philippa to be thrown into a dark dungeon, and to plague her with cold and hunger, until she confessed to her sins of which she was accused and repented.
Also various instruments of torture were used to try and break her spirit. But St. Philippa with disdain, spit in his face and accused him of sodomy.
The heretic had her disrobed and whipped her with barbed wire and placed sharp splinters under her nails. While unceasingly preaching about his faith and denouncing the Goddess. But St. Philippa laughed at him and recommended to him to heal his sick mind.”
“Willemer then gave the order to have her taken to the rack and stretched, while tearing her body with sharp hooks and burning her with candles. Although thus tormented, St. Philippa showed no weakness in body and indeed her resistance and endurance seemed almost superhuman.
The executioner’s arms went limp and with fear they retreated from her. Then the filthy heretic, Willemer, began to threaten them and told them to continue the torment. They burned St. Philippa with red-hot irons, pulled her limbs out of their joints and pulled at her breasts with blacksmith tongs. And although she passed away from this torment, she confessed nothing.
The shameless heretic Willemer, we read in the books of our holy fathers, later suffered for this punishment and it was that lice and worms began to eat him alive, his entrails rotted away and he died miserably.
His carcass carried with it a foul stench and nobody wanted to bury him, and so he was dropped in a swamp.
For the suffering and death of St. Philippa the eternal memory of a martyr’s crown rightfully belongs. Let us give the Great Mother Goddess praise for her lessons and teachings. Amen.
The Life of St. Philippa, Martyr of Mons Calvus
The Book of Martyrs Compiled in the Breviary of Tretogor, For the
Contemplation of the Holy Fathers and Mothers.”
Needless to say, Philippa’s hunger for power and The Lodge end in ruin. There are very few happy endings in The Witcher and this is just another example.
So that’s my overview on Philippa! I had to cut some scenes and moments in the hope of keeping it short, but I hope it was still an enjoyable read. If you want another character/topic WTF post leave something in my inbox and I will get to it when I can.
#I tried to keep it as short as possible while still doing justice to the character and this is still so fucking long#Philippa is so goddamn ruthless#I love how people say that Yennefer's character int he show is like Philippa's because like...damn#Yennefer in the show is empathic and kind and sometimes too trusting and it just hurts#I am interested to see how they bring in Philippa considering how she wasn't in S1#perhaps she was a student of Tissaia's from before Yennefer's time that she didn't want to talk about#or perhaps she was a student and Tissaia just didn't want to say anything#either way she's a very important character to the plot of the books#Philippa eilhart#the witcher#meta#The Witcher books#the tower of the swallow#lady of the lake#time of contempt#baptism of fire#blood of elves#the lodge#myposts#wtf series
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the one with the morning classes
summary: you don’t really want to go to class, and Yangyang half-agrees.
↛ ↛ ↛ psych major!Yangyang x art history major!reader
↛ ↛ older female reader, college au, mentions of alcohol, yearning, best friends to lovers/ish, smut (18+) - there is literally sex in every scene, best friend!ten on both sides, study dates, love confessions in bed
↛ word count: 11,9k (I am so sorry lmao)
part one > part two > part three
if you are under 18 and interact with this at all, i will block you
An obnoxious ringing interrupts your day, way too early, and you whine at it, suddenly reminded about the terrible decision that you made last year with the on-call academic advisor: selling your soul to Satan, or, as they phrased it, taking an 8 A.M. class. The default iPhone ringtone seems especially heartless right now, even though you have a class at this time every semester.
Still, it takes Herculean effort to pull your hot, sweaty face out of the pillows and actually get a breath of fresh air. You inhale once, twice, then support yourself on your elbows, tossing all your messy hair over your bare back, like a curtain, to draw it away from your cheeks. The sunlight makes you squint, not having given you enough time to adjust to it yet, because laying in bed, naked, is so much more enticing than actually waking up. Unfortunately, the ringing persists, getting louder, you think. You find yourself clawing through the sheets again, in search of that damn alarm. And when you do find it, screen faced down, you hit snooze via power button, giving yourself extra time before class.
After the annoying sound stops, Yangyang leans toward your naked shoulder, his d!ck thrusting in you at a further angle. He kisses the tip your spine with slightly parted lips, peppering more along your deltoid muscles, directed by his trailing tongue. You cannot tell was tingles more – the goosebumps left in his wake, or the blood rushing to your vulva, caused by the nipping at your skin. Yangyang finds a more permanent spot (that would be hidden by a shirt) above your collarbone and sucks deeper for a few seconds. Instinctively, you drop your cheek into the sheets again and swirl your ass up, before propping your lower body on your knees. His groans fall with you, and he nearly did too, but he stands on his hands. You are very aware of his strength, especially now as you close your eyes and he reverses your moves, grinding his hips forward. One of his hands reaches forward to grab your face and finally kiss you. He is slow and head spinning, and he continuously inclines his head at varying degrees to keep the embrace going.
Then, your phone goes off again and you break the kiss.
“We need to get – Oh, God.” Your forehead redirects onto the mattress, and your breath becomes shallow, cracked by sharp whines blurring out the alarm. As far as you are concerned, Yangyang is all consuming, from the way he kisses you to the way he makes you feel. “Ah, right there, please.” He squeezes your ass, fingers drilling deeply into your skin. His touch feels better than a massage, you think, almost loosening up all your muscle tension.
“So naughty,” Yangyang whispers, strongly. He sounds masculine without being so aggressive. It is very sexy of him. You try to show him, too, that he is hot, by reacting more enthusiastically. Unlike him, you say it silently and hope he knows. He replies, slapping your butt again, and smirks when you moan. “Wanna play hooky? You still, fuck –“ His breath drops, voice getting lower, huskier. He propels his d!ck shallowly, at the same pace your mouth widens in an ‘O’ shape. “- remember your manners.”
“Mmm hmm,” you agree. You roll your hips side to side, slowly stretching as if coming out of child’s position in yoga. It similarly feels satisfactory, like an injection of morphine. “We really need to get up. I have class; you – shit –“ His thrust pushes you forward, muting your counterarguments. “- you have class soon.”
Yangyang combs your baby hairs onto your opposite shoulder, gently nibbling around your thyroid, and you whine, knowing that you have an easily swayed mindset right now. “It doesn’t sound like you want to get up yet.” He guides your hips like a figure eight motion. His hand comes around front, between your thighs, holding on in a way that allows him to stimulate your clit with his index and thumb. Every movement gets more intense: the speed, the pressure, even the direction of his fingers, as he elongates all the sensations. It feels like he gets bigger too, lunging more alert with his thrusts. “You need a good wake up call, huh?”
You nod, eagerly, biting your lip. “Mmhmm, my morning ritual is, is really long, fuck.”
Yangyang smirks, motivated even more by the double entendre. And the way his tip rasps against your walls, oh god. You ball the sheets into your fists, putting a protective layer between your nails and palm because he gradually becomes erratic. He comes down to your ear, using his lips to bite at it while whispering, “Wanna turn off the alarm?”
“Hmm?” You open your eyes. “Oh, right.” It doesn’t feel like it has been nine minutes. So, after you pick your phone up again, you turn it over to look at the alarm settings, but it is replaced by the call acceptance slider. You blink a couple times and try getting a clearer look – which is difficult, considering that your head keeps bouncing as he grinds harder and harder, and harder. Then, the call restarts. “Shit.”
Yangyang stops moving to glimpse at what’s wrong. His chest brushes against your back and you can feel his erect n!pples graze your spine. You turn the screen at him, contemplating whether to answer it. Thank God, though, that Ten isn’t asking to FaceTime. You honestly don’t know how you would recover from him seeing Yangyang lay naked on you, especially after that comment at the Halloween party about feeling ‘too comfortable’ with him like this.
“I’m gonna answer it.”
“What?”
“I have to answer it,” you argue. “It’s Ten. He’s going to suspect something if I don’t.” The call ends again, and the notification center shows six missed calls. You turn over your phone again. “Shit, he’s been phoning all morning. I have to answer it.”
You partially expect Yangyang to get up. Instead, he comes down, brushing your hair over your shoulder and pushes you into the blanket. You stretch your arms away from him to redial Ten’s number, although your hands (and thighs) start shakily with his moves. The line rings four times before Ten answers, and you sigh, half-disappointed, half-orgasmically.
“Um, hello?” Ten answers sarcastically, on speaker. “Are you ready? ETA 20.” You hear rustling on the other end that sounds similar to Yangyang ruffling your bedsheets. He is trying to get at your t!ts and you let him, propping up into a true doggystyle. Ten doesn’t appear to discern anything, so you keep the phone on mute – which is necessary because you buck your hips at Yangyang, getting his tip angled on your g-spot. He outlines your n!pples, fingers squeezing over your areola. You almost moan again, but Ten reminds you about his presence: “I’m getting in my car right now.”
“Hmm?” Why?
The silence is deafening, all excess noise stopping, until it is just your heavy breaths and small wet noises. You widen your eyes, thinking that Ten discovered your current … entanglement, so you grab Yangyang’s hand, to suppress anymore sounds. It makes you lose balance temporarily, but expectedly he catches you, by the waist. He waist a few seconds, then drops his wrist to your clit, lightly sliding up and down without thrusting his d!ck. You let him continue, panting with your lower abdomen quivering. He has to stop though, because his exhibitionist tendencies might expose you two. You take his hand off your clitoral hood and kiss his inner wrist before sucking his fingers clean. He shudders his hips. You bite your lip. He smiles. Then, he takes his hand back, planting it into the mattress for extra support so that you can actually answer this call, that the two of you keep forgetting about.
“It’s my treat, remember?” Ten tries to jog your memory, nearly shouting. You can hear him breaking through your bubble. It is just that you are a bit distracted at the moment to really recall any memories. You cannot be entirely held accountable for Yangyang’s big d!ck.
Yangyang starts sucking on your neck again, pushing his pelvis slowly into your ass harder, to give you a better reminder: that you are currently being a good girl for him, to make up for being so naughty this morning (even though he also seemed pretty close to ditching class earlier).
“For breakfast yesterday, after the party,” Ten outwardly tells you. Right, it’s Monday, and you often grab coffee with Ten on the way to campus because 8AMs are hell – you have to absorb new information when you can barely see through all the crap in your eyes, and he can barely comprehend his notes from the night before without the morning bean juice. There is some shuffling on his end again, similar to shaking his wrist free of a sweater to get a better look at his watch. It isn’t enough to hide the moan trapped in your throat. So, you try biting your fist as Yangyang swirls his hips, grazing the ends of your nerves. You roll your eyes to the back of your head and hit mute, in order to moan. “Unless you want to walk? I don’t think you’ll make it though. It’s, like, almost 7:20.”
“What?” your voice cracks. You are still muted though, so you un-mute and repeat the exclamation, whining a little when Yangyang tries to get you to orgasm faster, also having heard the time. Hopefully Ten does not notice anything. You think that you were quiet enough to push it off as a complaint.
“I’ll be outside your apartment in 20.”
Yangyang pulls your chin to make you look at him, staring at you to ask what is going on. You mouth a quick explanation: Ten. Ride. Coffee. 20 minutes. He is so close, warm breath enveloping your skin. You take the distance, initiating yet another kiss, essentially in front of your best friend, although the latter cannot hear or see either of you. Yangyang holds onto your chin, possibly afraid of being swept away or falling again. But you have enough support for both of you, and you know that if you fell, he would catch you. So, you kiss him again, and again.
“Hello?” Ten calls into the void. “Did you lose signal again? See, I told you not to choose the shitty complex on Main because the connection is so bad there.”
You put a hand above Yangyang’s heart and clear your voice, turning to the speaker. “I’m still here. Just, hold on a second.” You hit mute again, then turn to Yangyang. “Do you want a ride too?” Yangyang contemplates for a second, and you drop your forehead into your elbow, biting your lip because, after all, he is still inside you, inside your clenching and very aroused p.ussy, where you want him to finish. He nudges your shoulder with his nose and confirms that yeah, he needs a ride. You kiss him a few more times, unsure why, just wanting to be close – something about want to say in his presence, enjoying his presence. He swirls his hips. It feels really good to be with him. “Yeah, so Yangyang is in the neighborhood.”
“Wha-“
“A huh,” you whine, more at Yangyang than Ten. “He just texted me. He’ll meet you – us! He’ll meet us at my apartment. I’m going to get ready now, bye!” you say everything in one breath, hanging up as equally abruptly before Ten could insert his two cents. You drop the phone and turn around, kissing Yangyang deeply. As he returns your affection, you enunciate slowly, “Five minutes, then we have to get ready. Ten is getting too suspicious.”
Yangyang finishes a little bit after five minutes, not that you mind. Non-residents have to get buzzed into your building, and Ten doesn’t have a key to your front door. You indulge the moment, laying on your arm bent under a pillow. He looks at you with all the care in the world, no longer that suave fuck buddy from a few moments ago but a young romantic who caresses your inner thigh and talks big game about all the connections you two have in common, or don’t. Your hand dips to the top of his head, combing a small section with your nails to his ends. Yangyang asks you for the time, and you almost don’t give it to him, preferring to spend time with him here than overanalyzing some stupid thesis statement that you wrote at 4AM. You pout, and pull his phone between the two of you, showing him that Ten will arrive in ten minutes – ironic, you think.
Yangyang approaches your face, millimeters from your lips. He waits for you to flutter your eyes closed, anticipating a kiss, then runs into the shower. It takes you a minute to join him, and when he sees you, smirking, like you have some dastardly revenge plan in the works, Yangyang shuts the glass door, isolating himself in the cold shower. He holds on extra tightly so that you cannot get in. You look hot when you are annoyed though – he needs to annoy you more. It is even more fun to mollify you. He pulls you into the shower next to him by grabbing your ass and makes out with you against the wall for a few seconds, until you start stretching at the lavender body wash on the shelf behind him.
This time, Yangyang finishes first, hopping out to sprinkle the roots of his hair with dry shampoo so Ten does not get too suspicious. If he has wet hair, then it would be obvious that he stayed over. He puts the powder back on the shelf and wanders into your room, towel wrapped loosely around his waist – even though it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. There are a few of his clothes in your closet from all the time you stole them, or a couple mini getaways that you two have taken. After he changes into an outfit that he can actually wear in public, he picks out an extra one of his over-sized shirts and drapes it on the towel rack for when you get out. He knows that you really like his clothes, especially the organic band tees. It is another plus that you share the same music taste. Hopefully, none of his friends catch onto the coincidental similarities.
Yangyang likes that you spend a lot of time in his clothes. They always end up smelling like your lotions. It is comforting and reminds him of all the nights ‘studying’ until 3AM. You know, not that he would actually say it out loud (mostly because he also likes to wear his favorite shirts), but you look cuter than him, in his Kendrick Lamar concert tee. And besides, there is a secondary reason as to why he rummaged through your underwear drawer: he wanted to choose your panties for today. It might be a black lingerie set, but how is he supposed to know the difference between a t-shirt bra and a balconette? :^)
Yangyang makes his way into the kitchen, snagging a mini muffin off the island. With the work out he just had, he needs protein but there isn’t enough time to cook anything, not that he actually could; eh, he’ll end up buying something on campus. He tosses two more muffins into his backpack for later – one chocolate for him, one strawberry for you. On Mondays, between classes, he usually catches you in the student experience center, finishing some last-minute assignments. You always end up pushing lunch until after four, ergo he tries to bring you some snacks, whenever he can. Once, his research methods class got cancelled and you didn’t have any pre-lecture materials to work on, so he brought two cups of ramen. You two had a semi-date then. He wonders if it can happen again, today. Ten interrupts the thought though, before it can develop into a real plan, and he sighs. He doesn’t know why, but he keeps thinking about defining this relationship at the worst possible times.
“Yellow?” Yangyang answers, mid-bite. He shifts the phone to his shoulder so that he can check your notification center for any missed calls. You have three. Ten has been going to voicemail all morning, Yangyang deduces, and if he was Ten, he would be damn suspicious at this point.
“Hi, baby,” Ten coos. “I’m outside. Buzz me in, yeah?”
Yangyang reflexively pouts. “I’m not your baby. I’m 20 now.” Still though, he complies, letting Ten into the building, and his friend is upstairs within a minute – not that it is too far. You live on the second floor.
“So,” Ten sings while glancing around the apartment. Yangyang wonders what for – hopefully, not searching for his secret relationship. Ten closes the door, his eyes landing on Yangyang and eying him down suspiciously, in a curious way. “What are you doing in the neighborhood, anyways?”
“I, uh, bought breakfast at Allen’s coffee, down the street,” he lies, “And I didn’t feel like walking back to the frat.” He shrugs too, trying hard to be as nonchalant as possible.
“A huh.” Ten does not seem to accept it, but he lets it slide when you walk into the room, wearing Yangyang’s t-shirt tucked into a pair of black jeans. Yangyang cannot see why Ten would recognize the top because you also happen to like Kendrick Lamar – one of your favorite songs is King Kunta, even though you cannot sing along to save your life. Yangyang finds it endearing that you enjoy rap music, even though you cannot match the flow or pitch.
His gaze is still endearing when you walk into the kitchen, beelining for the last mini muffin. Yangyang catches how intensely he was staring at you, after you blink at him (and Ten).
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing,” they mutter, looking away.
“Okay,” you drawl suspiciously, swallowing half your breakfast. You fold the rest of it into the front pocket of your backpack and pick up your textbook. Yangyang meets your gaze but you immediately flicker to Ten. “Can we grab something at Starbucks really quick?”
Ten stares at Yangyang. You just got coffee for yourself, even though you were coming here? Yangyang waves a hand, unsure how to respond. This whole secret relationship has gone on longer than he thought it would. It was supposed to be a one-night stand kind of thing when he first kissed you, the night that Ten introduced you two back in March after Renjun’s birthday party, and not even a one-night stand! He just expected you to make out with him, not give him a blowjob in Kun’s bathroom then let him take you back to his room at the frat.
“What?” You look between them. Yangyang shakes his head, nothing. You stare him down and give in, then turn back to Ten. “I haven’t eaten anything. Please?”
“Alright, fine,” Ten cedes. He holds his hands up in surrender, his keys waving like a white flag. As you all file out the door, Yangyang jokingly asks if he can drive. Ten deadpans at him, protective over the car, and smacks him on the back of his head. “Let’s go.”
Yangyang barely notices when they pull into the drive-thru on 1st, too busy scrolling through Instagram while you and Ten talk about an EDM festival coming this weekend. He only picks up his head when you lean over the gear shift, blocking the GPS from his view (in the middle seat) – he was monitoring the distance to make sure that you get to class on time.
“Can we get two breakfast sandwiches, an iced coffee with 2% milk, and an iced London fog latte, extra pump of vanilla, with coconut milk?” You turn to ten. “Want anything?”
Ten furrows his eyebrows. Neither of them looks at Yangyang, and he lowers his phone, knowing that he is about to be caught in a lie. He didn’t think that Ten would ask anything because of the time crunch. Evidently, he was wrong, and now he doesn’t know how to unspin the lie.
“Who are you ordering all that food for?” Ten asks.
You look at him skeptically, a what the fuck hanging palpably in the air before you point to the backseat. “For the baby.”
“Not a baby,” Yangyang pipes up, voice cracking. He tugs on the collar of his shirt, smiling embarrassed.
Ten turns on his side, back facing the window as he stares between the two of you, ultimately settling on Yangyang. “I thought that you said you already got breakfast at Allen’s.” Ten rotates to you. “That’s why he’s in the neighborhood, right?”
A huh, yeah. Yangyang almost tells another lie but the monitor clerk asks if they want anything else, and they are holding up the line with an empty lane in front. Saved by the bell intercom. Ten orders an extra americano, then you all persist through the awkward silence until reaching the front window. You pay with the app as Ten passes out the round of drinks like a bartender. Yangyang pokes his paper straw through the lid. You can’t baby him if he does everything himself first.
“Uh, are you good?”
Yangyang looks up. You have your iced latte between your legs, holding it at the top of your thighs on your crotch like an ice pack.
“Yeah, what do you mean?”
“I mean,” Ten enunciates, putting this drink in the cup holder, “people only put ice on their private parts when they’re sore.” He widens his eyes, posture stiffening and he points at you. “Did you have that guy over? The best y-“
“You don’t –“ You hold up a hand, physically interrupting him. Yangyang should have known that Ten would never seriously suspect him as your fuck buddy; he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or offended. “- have to repeat it. I just feel sore.”
Yangyang smirks at that, but he has to hide it when Ten looks at him, pinching his cheeks down like a Tim Burton character. The look in Ten’s eyes is confused again, and he knows that one of two questions is going to come out: if he met that guy that you’re sleeping with, of if he is the guy that you are sleeping with. Fortunately, Yangyang sees the navigation touch screen, and the time is two minutes until eight and you are five minutes off campus. Ten has to drop the conversation and speed to the art building so that at least you get there on time. The extra few minutes he has to spend alone with Ten gives him the idea to cool things off with you for a few days.
That sounds bad, like he is blowing you off, but honestly, you agreed.
Yangyang caught you in front of the communal office space for linguistics GTAs, a few minutes before office hours ended. He snatched you into a supply closet, dragging you by the waist, and covered your mouth to prevent you from screaming bloody murder. You two acknowledged the thin ice that has been melting for a couple weeks now. And he brought up taking a break from seeing each other for a while. At first, you thought that he was breaking up with you – or as close to breaking up as possible, because still, you are not dating. But then, he saw your face and reassured you that he does want to keep seeing you, even in secret; maybe next time, you two should talk about your relationship.
Friends do not need to see each other every day, you know. Or, like, at least, casual friends don’t. Sure, you FaceTime Ten all the time and Yangyang lives with Xiaojun so he sees his best friend daily by default, but you two are not similarly close friends, especially not when other people can perceive how you two interact. No one has to know just that you see Yangyang just as often, in person. And you do it because, well, because you like him – which explains how he ends up back in your bed by Wednesday.
“I’m gonna be late again.”
“No, you won’t.”
Yangyang reaches around your collarbone, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip until he can comfortably hold your jaw. He draws you in for another kiss, his eyes mirroring yours - distracted, enamored, aroused. You cautiously spin around, throwing your arms around his neck to avoid getting swept away, which seems impossible because he holds you securely, at your mandible and the beltloop on your waist. He inhales upon the next embrace, closing his pretty mouth over your philtrum like a slow bite – like several slow bites. You meet him, every time, at the end of each kiss when he shifts onto his toes, getting too tall for your lips, and pull him back on the ground to get more. He moans, after you start roaming your hands under his shirt, running your nails over the crevices in his body like a memorization technique for an early class you don’t have.
You feel hungry, for love, wanting to feel warm. The sun will not rise for another half hour, but he is the warmest thing in the room, even though you are fully dressed, not expecting to be late like two days ago. He copies your moves, unbuckling his hand like a belt, sliding it under your shirt and palming your b.oobs. Then, you squeal, giggling breathily, when he spins you around again and smacks your ass, pushing your thighs into the mattress that you two are standing over.
“Do you trust me?” he whispers in your ear, sucking upward on your external jugular vein.
“No.”
Yangyang stops, deadpanned. He hits your butt again, like a punishment – his favorite kind of punishment, it seems because he repeats it every morning like a bad kind of player, the rich one who goes to bars and unexpectedly falls in love with an attendee, as if it is a coming of age Netflix movie. He repeats it again until you fall on your hands over the bed. You look behind your shoulder at him, jaw dropped. And he takes no time to interpret it, stumbling next to you.
You roll over, led by your hips, so that you can match him, latching onto his face with your hands on his cheeks. “Of course, I trust you, dummy.”
He looks down still, picking at the seams of your jeans. And you detect his teasing tone, easily, because he goes directly to your inner thighs, tracing up along the thread until he reaches your zipper. “Really?”
You roll your eyes, then make him look at you. He has that kicked-puppy expression in the way the outline of his eyes falls below his eyebrows, but the glint and the gummy smile have you knowing otherwise. “Yes.”
Yangyang pops your pants button undone, mischievously pulling his lips into a dramatic pout. “And you’re not lying to me?”
“No,” you emphasize. You brush his hair back, scratching your nails along his scalp, behind his ears. His smile cannot help itself, breaking out in a way that has you completely immersed. It reminds you of that time when you went go karting with Ten and a few others. You were undoubtedly a bad driver, bumping into the track walls, even during the straight lanes. One time, you made a particularly excellent sharp turn, surpassing Johnny to the finish line. Unfortunately, you were completing lap 3 of 5 and him 5 of 5, but Yangyang still congratulated you afterward – in bed. He also lit up, when you two were just laying under the covers, staring at the ceiling because the stars were too far away. You held onto the arm around your waist, laying on his naked shoulder as he told you about wanting to be a race car driver as a kid, then an automotive or aerospace engineer as a teenager, before he settled on psychology. He kept talking, as if crafting this beautiful galaxy. That is when you knew.
“Prove it.”
“What?” You sit up and straddle him. “How do you want me to prove it?”
Yangyang starts begging for affection, slithering his hand down your stomach, into your underwear. He pulls you into his chest, giggling when you topple him into the pillows, clearly not having estimated the force. You like that you never have to beg for his attention. He always, for some reason, notices you, and it is so hard not to pick up on it. You wonder just how no one has learned about you two yet. It’s not like you are being subtle. Although, the smallest acts he gives you can be found under subtle in the dictionary. Like now, he tucks your hair behind your ear, gaze flickering from his hand across your cheek to your eyes. You kiss him again – only a brief peck, because he inserts two fingers inside you, making you gasp sharply enough to break.
“Can I confess something?” you ask, suddenly braved by an idea to prove that you do trust him.
Yangyang stops fucking you, his fingers flexed still. He scans your face for an actual lie but knows that he will never find one, mostly because he already knows the next few words out of your mouth; he has felt the same way for months. And maybe, at this point, he owes you some explanation, for keeping his own confession unspoken. He wants to give it to you first, before your own declaration. It is something that he thinks he should do, like a societal norm for the guy to confess – that is what all the romantic movies say, right? Well, there is Princess Leia and Han with their whole I love you and I know dynamic, and while that was really cool in the scene, Yangyang has a fixed scenario in his head.
“I love you,” he blurts, quickly, sitting up.
“You love me?”
His heart drops. You are not supposed to surprised. He was nearly 100% confident that you had fallen in love with him, too, but this might confirm that so much was in his head. You keep staring at him, jaw slacked and hands on his shoulders. Only when he starts pulling away do you react, catching his hand.
“I really like you,” Yangyang reiterates, self-pouring salt into his bleeding heart. He hesitates for a second, unsure if he should even be vulnerable again, but what does he have to lose? “I –“ He swallows, still looking into your eyes – “I love you.”
Then you kiss him.
And he lets you kiss him.
He lets you kiss him because of the way you cradle his face, like he is made of glass, like he is the most precious crystal that you have to protect. Your lips get softer when he wets them with his tongue, after feeling confidence in your embrace. You kiss him in a way that takes away the word the love, wrapping him in a security blanket to return the warmth.
“I love you,” you whisper slowly, barely audibly enough for him to hear it over the smack of your tongue as you lower to him. You pause, mouth slightly ajar on his. “Too.”
Yangyang peers at your closed eyes, almost willing you to open them so he can tell you, again, that he loves you, so he can see your reaction when he really tells you. He grabs your face and sits up again. You roll your head to the side, like you anticipate his kiss. He gives it you, simultaneously returning his hand into your pants.
“What time is it?”
“What?”
“What time is it right now?” Yangyang asks you with a sense of urgency.
You turn around, fumbling around for your phone, which is now somewhere mixed in your sheets. The two of you had spent a good ten minutes remaking the bed after the night you had, and currently, blankets are strewn across, folded into messy piles. With the thought distracting you, Yangyang slips two fingers past your underwear again, twisting the crotch area with his thumb for easier access. You pause, sighing heavily, hand bunching up the linen as he scissors you.
“I asked you a question,” he reminds you, slightly stuttering at the end, hesitant to add a term of endearment. Even with the confessions you both just gave, it does not define your relationship and he doesn’t know how to broach it just yet, only wanting to kiss you closely and hear all the love sounds that he feels deprived of.
“It’s 6:21.”
“Good,” Yangyang whispers in your ear as he prepares you to take him. “We have time.”
Yangyang redirects your face to his, tilting your chin up as he leans to the side, almost inhaling your lips. Upon another kiss, he adds his tongue, tired of the light pecks. They don’t express his affection as much as he wants, because small embraces end quicker, causing you to withdraw – which is the furthest desire from his mind, especially considering that he just confessed, multiple times. He curls his tongue, placing only the tip beyond your lips. You check him, trying to catch his tongue but merely snagging his spit. He smirks because you whine again. Was that not enough? Obviously not, he notes after you pull back, breathing on his lips, making him chase you. Your breath sounds rapid and rough, and he wants to alleviate your nerves. Yangyang extends his neck again, craning to meet your lips. He gives you a second to recover, to prepare, panting the faintest ghost kisses across your lower face. Your hand comes above his shaking heart, stopping there as you bite your lip coyly. He wonders if you want to stop. Both of you just acknowledged a lingering more-than-friends adoration.
But then you slide your hand under his chin, making him really look at you.
“I love you,” you repeat.
The repet!tion exceeds his own confession, and he isn’t sure whether to confess again, but you take the initiative for him, rocking side to side like ridin’ d!ck bicycle. Yangyang parts his lips just enough to blow small, uneven breaths. He feels you open his jeans while shifting over one of his thighs, his fingers still trembling inside you. Sex with you always feels so reciprocated. Your nails graze his c.ock erect, your hand tightening at the tip, where you push your thumb on his pre-cum. It gives almost the same sensation as your tongue and the sensation gets more intense. He starts thrusting in tandem, making you clench, around his bicep, for support. When you start flicking the flesh on the underside of his penis (the part that connects the shaft to head), he stops your hand.
Yangyang comes forward, caressing your mouth and massaging your clit. “I’m gonna cum.”
“So cum,” you taunt him, smirking into the kiss.
Your resolve temporarily falters, dripping into a moan that he swallows up wholly. He keeps sinking his fingers at different depths, at a fast and shallow pace, waiting for you to reach the same point. You certainly feel wet enough. He touches that spongey tissue area in your p.ussy that has you seeing stars. You moan his name over and over again, until the two syllables become a tongue twister. He disentangles your tongue, using his own. All those years tying cherry stems in his mouth as a teenager really paid off. He starts making a come-hither gesture, simultaneously flirting with your lips. After your hand ceases, exclusively squeezing his base, right above his balls, Yangyang slows down, slipping his fingers away from your G-spot, up and over your clit, your orgasm weakening.
“Ugh,” you grumble.
“We have time,” Yangyang tells you, “to have sex.” He looks at you through his eyelashes, gradually lowering his head under your shirt, his shirt. After Monday, he wondered if you ever owned any shirts yourself, or if you donated all of them once you ‘discovered’ his closet. “Tell me you want it too.”
“I want you.”
He doesn’t know whether to clown you or flirt with you. The first option would make you laugh, but the second would get him laid. Luckily, you decide for him, shimming out of your jeans and panties, then you slide his pants down to his ankles. He wraps his hand around your throat, drawing you to his lips, and he unintentionally squeezes when you settle on the tip of his c.ock. As you ride him, your walls hug his d!ck nicely, giving it a nice tight feeling that he can’t help but moan at. You straighten your back to gain some height over him and slip your tongue in his mouth. His hands reach out to your ass, guiding your hips forward in waves. He starts breathing heavier and his grip gets stronger.
“Shit, I’m gonna cum.”
Yangyang kisses you, pulling your words into his mouth, “So cum.”
“Fuck.”
He chases after your high, under the guise of helping you ride out this orgasm, getting his d!ck to twitch deeply inside you. When his hold gets too firm, you whine, suddenly over stimulated. Your nails dig into his bicep roughly, barely soothed by the t-shirt he still wears. He thrusts asynchronously with you before coming undone and dragging you into his chest. You feel warm and sweaty in this post-sex glow, your hand and head resting on his chest. He traces little hearts on your inner wrist, not wanting to let you go completely.
“You need to stop picking my underwear if you’re just going to destroy them,” you joke, kissing him on the cheek. “I have to double wash these thongs you know.”
“Can we –“ Yangyang swallows a lump in his throat. He feels like he is pulling you impossibly close, even though you are not moving away. “Can we go back to that thing you were saying earlier?”
“Hmm?”
“The,” he pauses, indecisive whether he actually wants to bring everything up right now. He ultimately decides for it. “Part with the ‘I love you’?” He knows that his voice sounds smaller than normal and that his eyes are shifting nervously at yours, but he wants to hear it again, wants the validation.
“Right,” you understand, nodding your head equally slowly. You straddle his lap again, and he immediately balances you by the waist, wanting to keep that impossibly close distance. “I’m – I’ve fallen –“ You swallow, looking away, but he needs you to look at him. Because if you can’t say it to his face, how does he know that you’re not just saying it out of obligation? Thankfully though, you see to be on the same wavelength, returning to his eyes, and his breath hitches, abs shaking in anticipation. You confidently give him the sentiment, “I love you.”
Yangyang tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, watching the way his fingers finish, stroking along our cheekbone. “I know,” he whispers coolly, leaning into your ear. “It’s hard not to love me,” he changes the subject, “I’m the best.” You scoff and push his chest, but he fastens an arm around you as equally fast, smiling too wide. He is a little sorry, for ruining the moment, but his laugh isn’t convincing at all. “I love you too.”
Sex, you think, feels infinitely better once the weight was lifted off your chest, once the spoonful of love was added. And the way Yangyang keeps kissing you, absolutely obsessed with holding your waist, tells you that spoonful is a misnomer, too small. The measurement for an entire ocean might be a better description. Still though, you would never call describe sex as love making, especially not to his face. At that point, you would be faced with an ‘oh, my god; that’s disgusting, man’ – not that you mind entirely, because the teasing smile he uses is so, so important to you, and sex feels just like that – the love part, not the disgusting thing. Although, sometimes he can be quite disgusting, yanno. Ah, he just makes you want to skip class and stay in bed beside him all day.
Except, both of you know how bad of an idea that is, with midterms are right around the corner.
Despite that, he spends the night at your apartment again, staying up until 3AM even though he has abnormal psych at 8 on Thursdays.
“I need a study break.”
You roll the cover of your design textbook towards your spiral notebook and toss the pile onto the floor, kicking the blankets off your feet. Yangyang barely spares you a glance, too absorbed in his case study. It is the last of five, and he only has the results, psychometrics, and summary statement left to write for this one before he is completely done for the week. Similarly, you have an exam on Joseon architecture later today and you are a third of a chapter away from catching up on reading, but honestly, fortresses get annoying to look at, especially when you have to compare militia structures against lower-class housing. So, you infiltrate Yangyang’s personal bubble, sliding an arm over his hips and your head into his lap.
“Does this mean I have you join you?” he teases, already putting away his pens. He pushes all his study materials by his feet, never leaning too far up, to keep your head in place. It gets even more comfortable when he relaxes again, resting across the pillows. You close your eyes, melting, when he massages your scalp, like he immediately knows where every knot or corner of tension are.
“I would really appreciate it, if you joined me.” You sigh. His touch is heavenly, and it makes you tighten your arm over his pelvis.
Eventually, Yangyang goes back to his homework, this time reclining in a way that lets you curl into his side. And you aren’t actually asleep, just mildly daydreaming with your eyes shut, thinking about literally anything (Yangyang) other than structures. When he raises a book midair, in front of his face, you move positions, sprawling across his chest, leg coming between his thighs. You (purposefully) annoyingly stick your head under his cheek, to ensure that you, at least, moderately block some of the passage.
Yangyang giggles. “Am I officially joining you now?” He puts his papers on your nightstand and wraps an arm around your shoulders, luring you to his lips. Your leg slithers above the waistband of his joggers, and he helps you straddle him again, sinking into the mattress to get a good view of the way you look in his oversize hood, in only his oversized hoodie. “You’re clingier.”
“Than what?” you ask innocently, rubbing his shirt fabric along his chest. You start pouting, as a response to his silence. Does he not want to cuddle? You shake your head. No, he does, given the way he pushes up the hoodie and yanks you further up his lap. “We cuddle the same amount.” You lower toward his ear, holding his neck in place, and whisper, “Do you not want to? Because I can leave.”
Before you can even think about getting off, he kisses you, sitting up. “Don’t go.” His hands come under your ass, squeezing as your arms circle around his neck. “It’s just –“ He bites his lip, suppressing a whine, which you can feel clog his throat. “You can’t sit on my lap like this. I’m getting hard.”
“Again?” you taunt. He slaps your butt, rather harshly, leaving a warm tingling sensation that he kneads away. You grind into his touch and kiss up his neck. “We can try the Pomodoro method.” You blow into his ear, shakily, as his hand presses particularly rougher. “I’ll set a timer for 25-minutes.” You look at him with chaste, despite the way you are purposefully making his blood rush. His fingers move to the edge of the hood, lifting it slightly. “Think we can have fun in just 25 minutes?”
“Mmmhmm,” he agrees early, nodding his head forward to kiss you. You don’t let him meet you though, not that you think he really noticed, what with being distracted by your very naked legs. He slowly sits up, all the way, and you feel his d!ck twitch against your thighs.
“Or do you think we won’t be able to finish?”
Yangyang throws you onto the bed and removes his shirt in one fell swoop. “Bet?”
“Missionary?” you ask, almost sticking your tongue out at him. “You’re getting more vanilla.”
Yanygyang gasps, then whacks your butt. “Take that back!”
You prop yourself on your elbows, eying all the naked parts of him up and down, from his low waisted briefs to his well-defined pecs to the rather cross sulk on his lip. “Make me.”
“Don’t have to.” He takes away your smirk, displaying it across his face. You tilt your head to the left, expression slacking blankly, but you catch on, feeling his fingers outline your sides. He slips his thumb between your lips, pushing it slowly until you basically give him a finger job, like a preview to the actual head he wants. “You’re already prepped.”
Your eyes flicker up, purely, as if he is about to ruin you for the first time. It’s his favorite part whenever you blow him – you looking into his eyes, taking every inch of him. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, dragging your lip down until he lets go, your lips smacking together. You bite your lip, suddenly feeling empty, even though neither of you have really done anything yet. “Are you going to fuck me then?” Your voice sounds so harmless, now lacking the bite as you mentally anticipate his d!ck to stretch you open right now. He shakes his head, no. “So what –“
Yangyang spreads your legs a little wider, strictly, darting in the direction of your main bullseye point. His touches remain light and teasing, not getting there yet, responding to all the little mannerisms that make your lower body so rhythmic. He rubs a finger, swirling the ends of his movements to get your hips riding his digits. You whimper breathily, voice cracking at such a high pitch. He sweeps your bottom lip, pressing his tongue softly, making you wish that he would fuck you already. It is insanely evil, for him to give you a preview of the intense foreplay without actually doing it, barely giving you the imagery of it all. You clutch his shoulder, to steady him for a constant kiss and to actually get on his slender fingers. But he never lets you. Instead, he pulls you by your ass, one-handed, forcing you to roll your hips on the silhouette of his d!ck. Fuck, how can you even feel his c.ock? His joggers are so thick. He maintains the stupid, inhumane taunts, kissing the air between you two, caressing everywhere along your hole. A few minutes pass without him changing the routine, so you reverse the positions, throwing him on your mattress and straddling his lap like a stripper. And with almost the same level of experience, or confidence (you hope it’s confidence), you seesaw over his d!ck. He swiftly locks your arms around his neck and his behind your lower back, palming your ass. You look into his eyes for a second, then kiss him roughly, smashing your lips on his.
“You’re. So. Eager. Today,” he says, muddied by elongated spit noises. His eyes are flittered closed as he smiles smugly, accepting your style of manhandling. Your embraces are light and rapid, doing everything in your power to prevent him from straying too far. But his abs get too shaky, too firm, the familiar build up washing over him, so he has to pull away. When he does, you try chasing him and he brushes your hair behind your ear, slowly stroking your jugular vein like ticking baby hairs. “I love you.”
You smile. “I love you too.” You peck his lips, now sitting sticky on his lap. He looks so pretty, eyes glazed and lips slightly parted. You just have to kiss him again.
Yangyang bends your back to the comforter, guiding you by the throat, simultaneously pushing his pants mid-thigh, c.ock bouncing more freely. It slaps your p.ussy, naturally twitching aroused. He is so close that when he pumps himself a few strokes, his knuckles rasp along your clit and you buck your hips for more touches. You feel his wet tip run along your slit, and you just know that his hand locks above his balls, right around his base, ready to push in. But you stop him.
“Let me ride you,” you pant, slowly opening your eyes.
He nods his head enthusiastically, and you pop off his head. You turn around, back facing him as you take off the hoodie, leaning down to graze your n!pples on the blanket.
Yangyang wails. “That’s not fair. I want to see.” He takes off his pants, to be as equally naked.
You redirect his attention back to your p.ussy, using your first two fingers to pinch your clitoral hood and gently tug it up and down, over his d!ck as you back into him. He lets out a loud moan at the sight; it takes everything in him to not thrust, listening to your command ordering him to wait. You brush your hair over your shoulder again and look at him behind your shoulder, sultry. Your mood changes are so sexy. His body moves automatically, hunching over your spine to litter you with kisses, his hand trailing behind his saliva. You take that palm and put it on your t!t as you grind his c.ock between your ass cheeks, sliding it to the most sensitive nerves of your p.ussy. He aids your building orgasm with two fingers, leaning his metacarpal inside of your thigh to rub circles specifically under your nub.
“Oh my god,” you exhale, walls throbbing in a vacuum of emptiness, needy.
You sit up and push him onto the pillows by his chest, then reach behind to grab his c.ock erect. His breath thunders, encouragingly. He waits for you to do something, scanning your bare back for every little love bite and mark. You slowly descend and use your knees to bounce, ass swirling between his thighs. Your hips oscillate from outward jumping to figure eights, to rocking sideways. And his favorite position seems to be when you take all of him, gyrating shallowly, letting only about an inch leave your p.ussy before you slam back down on him. You mimic his slaps, taking your hand off his inner thigh to grip your ass, dragging your nails up, leaving a tingling sensation. He rolls his eyes to the back of his head, recording the moment in his brain forever, then slaps your jiggling flesh several times. This position gets his big c.ock deep within your p.ussy, causing his balls to bump against your labia. Then he starts thrusting with you, pounding his hips up.
“Fuck, Fuck, Yanygang. Mmhm.”
He copies your expletives, adding some bad girl’s and other lewd nicknames, before slamming with some finality. You think that he is about to cum, but he withdraws, making you whine sharply. Yangyang flips you onto your back, immediately attacking your chest. His hands support you like a wired bra and shakes them, pushing the pads of his thumbs into your sternum so that your hardened n!pples remain level with his mouth. He licks one lightly, circling around the areola, then latches on, sucking with his tongue flattened under your skin. You arch your back to him, drawing him close. He repeats the action on the other, but longer, as he pinches and kneads your b.oob.
“Come on my d!ck again, you dirty little girl,” he orders, voice low and hoarse.
“Then stop pulling out,” you whisper, similarly breathless.
“Okay.”
You lean away from him, supported with your hands on his thighs, spinning your hips in circles and side to side. His hands squeeze your waist, jostling you to his chest brutally.
“Don’t do that,” he growls, teeth barring before he kisses you again, croaking the moan in your throat. He drags you close, fingers digging into esophagus so that his tongue and reach inside.
Your grip scratches on his triceps, pink lines haunting his skin. You keep bouncing up and down, until his chokehold drops. His mouth falls open, releasing strings of curses after gasps. He spanks you hard, twice, then grips your ass, jerking it savagely. You change the motion, grinding in tiny, little, miniscule circles. Your thighs shiver, your entire body following. He rotates his d!ck, thrusting asynchronously. And you claw through his hair, tugging the strands rougher and rougher as your abdomen keeps tightening.
“Almost, almost,” you whimper. “I’m so close.”
Yangyang pulls your bottom lip with his teeth. “Me too.”
You begin slowing down, no longer able to bounce up and down, choosing to rock back and forth. Then, everything stops for just a second, your walls compressing his springy c.ock until you break. All of his muscles grate against you, making you feel each ridge and movement. He follows your orgasm, feeling the way you milk every drop out of him, sucking his entire length balls deep. Your whine sounds like a treble, harmonizing with his lower moan. And you two spend another moment in cowgirl position, collecting your breaths, basically fused together.
“I love you,” Yangyang repeats. Ever since yesterday morning, he has been throwing out the sentiment spontaneously whenever he can: during sex, after sex, while cuddling, in the middle of study dates, behind his cup of coffee at the physics café in the afternoon when no one else is nearby. He follows up with another confession, “I want more than 25-minutes.” And it catches you off guard, considering his previous statement and the other, in the midst of sex, or love making, as some people would call it.
“The 25-minutes is just for right now,” you reassure him, gently patting his cheeks. “We have to study. I still have part of a chapter left to read.”
“Then say it back.”
You pull his face to yours, brushing your noses together. “I love you,” you tell him slowly, enunciating every syllable.
“So, spend the night at my place tomorrow,” he requests. His arms come behind your lower back, his eyes pouting like a lamb.
“Of course,” you answer impulsively, immediately going to kiss him after. Then you pull away, stopping him on the shoulders. “Wait. You have roommates. You have six roommates.”
“Four,” he corrects you – Sicheng graduated last year and moved in with Yuta. “We’ll be fine. Dejun is going with Kun to some conference; I don’t remember what. Hendery is staying at an AirBnB before the EDM festival this weekend. Lucas is …” Yangyang bites his cheek, trying to recall his roomates’ schedules. “I think he’s going on a date. I don’t know, but he bought roses and they’re sitting in the fridge. And Renjun … Renjun …” Yangyang swallows. He almost forgot about the tidbit that he learned at the Halloween party last weekend.
“Renjun what?” you ask, pecking him lightly and chastely.
“Won’t be there either.” Yangyang stops you. “Can I ask you a serious question?”
You sense the serious tone and straighten up, clasping your hands around his neck. “What’s up?” you prod slowly.
“Did you really like him?” he questions so softly that you almost do not hear him. “Renjun?” he clarifies after you stay quiet (even though it was just a few seconds).
“Yeah,” you answer quietly, not entirely sure if you even want him to hear you, the ambience settling into something melancholier. “But I love you.”
It seems like he ignores you.
“Why didn’t you get with him?”
“You don’t mean that.”
You shake your head, pulling back, your eyes painfully dry. All the fuzzy spots from your orgasm earlier connect the dots in your head, and you wonder what this is, if he doubts you, doesn’t trust you.
But he agrees, “You’re right. I just … I mean, why are you with me instead?”
“Instead?” you ask. You come back to him – it’s always him, and you hold his face, making him look at you. “I’m not with you instead of Renjun. There’s no compet!tion. I love you,” you enunciate the confession again to really emphasize it.
“But –“
It doesn’t seem to stick. And you sigh with your entire body, slumping away from him. “Does it really bother you that much?” You shift around, biting your lip while his soft c.ock scrambles inside you. He meets your eyes this time, scanning your pupils for more reassurance. “You are kind and smart and hard-working and insanely talented, and … and I love you.” He stays quiet, and you almost throttle him, needing a bit of affection too. “Say it back,” you beg, differently from minutes ago. You drop your forehead on his shoulder. “Please.”
Yangyang seems to understand and reciprocates, “I love you too.”
You pull yourself to face him and beam, mirroring his tender gummy smile. Then, you kiss him again, toppling him into the pillows. He rolls you over, causing you to giggle loudly as he peppers small bites along your cheeks, across your nose, and whispers the same confession on loop.
“I love you,” he ends, kissing you deeply. He comes up for air, inhaling sharply. “So, stay the night with me tomorrow – tonight. At my place.” He brushes your hair away from your face, to get a better look at the sweet glaze in your eyes. You think that you fall in love a little more, especially with all his domestic acts.
“Okay,” you agree.
“Okay,” he repeats. “Okay.” He nods his head, smiling wider, if possible, and kisses you over and over and over again.
Funny thing about Fridays: Yangyang doesn’t have a morning class, doesn’t have class at all actually; meanwhile, you have another art history class, at eight. The damn class is 90-minutes, so it is held three times a week. His lectures, you recall bitterly, go on for 2-3 hours each, granting him the three day weekend that every college student desires, pushing his classes to the first four business days of the week. That means he can stay up all night Thursday to Saturday, gaming for long hours into the night – not that you get to see it often, because when you do stop by the frat house, you spend time with anyone else. And usually, someone is visiting at the same time. You know, you write yourself into Xiaojun and Sicheng’s pool compet!tion, or watch moves with Lucas, but tonight (really morning, considering that it is 1 A.M.), you sit with Yangyang in his wide gaming chair, thumbing at The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (BotW) while he plays Overwatch with Haechan and Jeno. Thankfully, you don’t have any major assignments due later or any in-class presentations, so you can just curl up next to your boyfriend and pull an all-nighter, stealing snacks and drinks from his new mini-fridge so that you can avoid accidentally bumping into one of his roommates. Although, you Uber’ed to his place with a box of friend chicken and side dishes.
After the same gold lynel kills of Link for the third time in a row (the one in the Hebra region, outside the shrine, that has a sword you want), you lazily toss the controller onto his desk. Dying again and again gets frustrating, and you need to relieve the buzz. So, you turn to Yangyang, who looks to be in the middle of a campaign (is that what his levels are called?), and start asking him questions about his video game. Like, you know how sometimes people get so desperately horny that they ask their partner to explain Overwatch to them? Yeah, that is exactly how this feels, as Yangyang’s distracted voice describes his location and next move. And it is no wonder that he is a psych major – he is good at communication.
“What does that character do?” you whisper-ask, while the screen refreshes after he wins a battle.
“That’s an attacker.”
“A huh,” you nod along. You vaguely know what that means, based on the t!tle and all your years of the Club Penguin Card Jitsu game. “And that one?”
Yangyang removes his headset to around his neck and faces you, grinning sideways. “Are we sharing interests right now?” He pushes your legs apart, then straddles you over his thigh. His desk separates you and the game, pressing a fine line between the bones in your spinal cord. He turns the microphone down, muting himself from his friends. It is one thing for the two of you to be alone in the frat house and another for his close friends to physically hear you in his arms. “Or are you just needy for my attention?” Yangyang pulls one hand on your skin, rubbing small soothing circles. “That’s a sign of a relationship, you know.” He leans into your ear, whispering, “Like a date.”
You push him against the chair cushions, scrunching your nose at his laughter. “As if we haven’t done that already,” you say sarcastically, rolling your eyes for emphasis.
“What?” he asks. “Go on a date?”
You nod your head. Neither of you really call these types of things dates, but they are. Sometimes you also hang out in public, alone, maybe holding hand or kissing, even though lately it seems like you stay inside and study and have sex all the time. Actually, there is a rave going on this weekend with one of your favorite DJs – one shared equally by the two of you. You have yet to invite Yangyang, but now seems like a good time.
“You don’t really care about my games,” he pouts, “Do you?”
“I’m sorry,” you agree, pouting with him. “I don’t speak nerd.”
Yangyang gasps, sitting up straighter. “It’s not a nerd thing! It’s a game of strategy!”
You shake your head, still not understanding. “I don’t speak virgin either.”
He slaps your ass. “We both know that isn’t true.”
“Am I supposed to be the virgin, in this scenario?”
“Are you becoming a born-again virgin?”
You shrug. “What would you do if I did?” You completely straddle his lap, scooting up his thighs until his d!ck sits at attention between your abdomens, and you whisper in his ear, “Would you leave me?” You bite his ear, softly licking the external side then blowing on it. “Would you ruin me? Take it away?”
“Virginity is a social construct,” he reminds you, growling. He slips his hands into your underwear. “I’ll ruin you right now.”
Except, another round on his game loads, and you find yourself leaning onto his shoulder opposite the microphone so that he can play, despite the insane wetness soaking your underwear right now. Then, two more games go by and you want his attention. He asked you to stay the night with him, and this doesn’t necessarily feel like that. So, you get off his lap, slithering down his legs onto the ground, onto your knees.
First, you untie his pants and spring his d!ck out. It’s not difficult, because (1) he has pyjama bottoms on, and (2) he manspreads like a motherfucker, giving you easy access. Then, the blow job starts. You lick your palm a couple times and angle his tip in your mouth, starting soft. His legs tense momentarily, making you consider stopping, but a hand appears, pushing you halfway down his length.
“You look so pretty down there, angel.”
He obviously did not actually look at you; you know because he usually makes eye contact when he is close to cumming, enjoying the way your eyes glass over. And because his keyboard continues clicking.
You continue on that way – keeping one hand squeezed halfway down his d!ck; hollowing your cheeks, adding extra suction all over his tip; flattening your tongue on the underside and rolling it like sushi at the very top. Despite his d!ck being fully erect in your mouth, his attention is less than enthusiastic, fingers working diligently on those numbers. It gives you an idea. You start bobbing your head faster, in tune with his typing, egged on by his compet!tiveness. And when his voice goes up an octave, your grip gets tighter, only slacking when you drop back down halfway. His groan echoes in your ear, sounding like he lost (whatever that means), so you pull off. He breathes a little bit harder after the smacking sound falls from your lips, preceding all the fluttering little kisses down his shaft. You hold his d!ck up and lick one stripe up between his balls, and he shouts at his friends:
“Alright! I’m done for the night. Play tomorrow. Bye!”
Yangyang pulls you to your feet, standing with you. He scans your eyes, pulling you closer and closer, debating whether to kiss you or not; he never really kisses you after you suck his d!ck, unless he eats you out too.
“Bed now,” he orders you in whispers, patting your butt a little too hard. You fall onto his queen-sized mattress stomach down, bouncing with his fluffy duvet. He kneels next to you, lifting his sweater off your thighs and spanking you again, three times. Each smack precedes a loud, high-pitched gasp. “You’re so needy.”
“Fuck,” you mutter at a particularly hard hit, his hand slipping to the wet p.ussy lips that need some friction. “Is that a bad thing?”
A door shuts loudly down the hall, making you two straighten up in attention. You prop yourself forward on your elbows, staring at the door. Yangyang watches your reaction, his ears alert and back facing the door. You hear Hendery walking up the stairs, something jangling with him, like keys or plates. A second pair of feet march with him, making you look at Yangyang. He shrugs his shoulders, shaking his head; he thought everyone was going to be gone this weekend, which does not apparently start on Fridays for his roommates.
“You’re going to need to be quiet,” he whispers. This is nothing new. The two of you constantly fuck, like rabbits, regardless if anyone can hear you, but Hendery is two rooms down and Yangyang is sliding two fingers knuckle deep until hitting the urethral sponge. His curling has your thighs tensing to the point of shaking. As he settles between your legs (not letting up on the pressure), he taps your sternum twice, telling you to keep still and quiet.
But you moan. It just comes out, not something that you can control. Especially when he nips all around your clit, lip biting at your skin and sucking small bruises. He keeps going like this, nodding his head for more vibrations everywhere except the most sensitive spot. Your breath gets more labored, breaking loudly.
“You need to be quieter,” he reminds you.
“Mmm, I can’t. You’ll have to move slower.”
Yangyang speeds up his fingers. “Not a chance.” He swipes his thumb across your clit once, then twice, then harder, giving it a little pinch. “Even if you cum, I’m still going.”
You whine, disagreeing. “Mmm mmm, you can’t say things like that. Fuck –“ He starts crawling over your body, peppering light touches along your stomach, around your b.oobs, above your collarbone. “- I want to cum.” You mewl, again frustrated, because he pulls his fingers out. He gestures you to shush, putting them in your mouth. With his hands occupied around your face and throat, his d!ck jostles, sliding between your p.ussy lips without actually entering. “Please,” you beg, “I want to cum so bad.”
“Ugh,” Yangyang moans in your ear, this time guiding himself inside your warm and aching hole. “I know,” he tells you. “I can feel it.” He rotates onto his side, propping up one of his legs to get into an easier position where he can pound you better. You grab one of the pillows, briefly arresting it with your nails acting like handcuffs before settling it under your oblique. The new angle puts Yangyang right back at your G-spot, his tip abusing the sponge harshly. “You’re milking my c.ock, huh? You’re – You want me so bad, huh?”
“Mm hmm, yeah,” you agree. His gaze fixates on the way your ass claps against his pelvis. He doesn’t even have to lead you anymore; you start backing up on him, motivated the rougher he tugs your hair. “Please, please,” you chant in whispers. He spreads your cheeks, obsessed with the disappearing act you pull, needing to see it more.
“Fuck,” he groans. He cups your b.oob off the mattress, supporting the other one with his arm, and pinches at your n!pple, swirling it around between his thumb and index finger. “Come on, pretty girl. You need to cum?” You nod your head fervently, face warming intensely. “So, cum on my c.ock. You can do it; come on.” He drops your chest for your neck, pushing your head into the blankets so he can kiss you again, incoherently vibrating broken praises on your lips.
“Yangyang, Yangyang, I’m – I’m – Harder, please. I’m so – Oh, fuck.”
He moans your name seconds after, spilling into your pulsating core, and relaxes, chest falling into an equilibria rhythm with yours. His c.ock softens, finishing its workout, so you swing your leg away from him and spin around, placing a hand on his chest. You stare at him for a little bit, like watching the sun set. He peaks an eye open, then closes it quickly, teasing you because he knows that you saw it.
“You’re going to get cross-eyed staring at me,” Yangyang jokes.
“Then let me get cross-eyed,” you counter, slithering an arm under his head like a neck cushion.
“That’s disgusting.”
You scoff, pulling on the ends of his hair. “You’re disgusting.”
He smacks your butt lightly. It is definitely his favorite punishment. “And you can call it a kink, fyi.” He opens his eyes in time to see you pout, and in return, he pecks your lips, pulling away just as fast.
You look over his shoulder at the time: 2 A.M. and bury your face in his chest. “We need to stop sleeping so late. My body can’t handle this.”
“My body can handle yours.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, even though he would not be ready to go again, at least for twenty minutes.
You chew on your lip a little bit, then repeat a post-sex tradition (well, it has essentially become a tradition this week). “Can I ask you a question?”
Yangyang kisses your shoulder, wrapping a leg around yours to keep you locked nearby. “Of course, anything.”
“Do you want to go to the rave with me, this weekend?”
“Like,” he processes, still hidden the crevice of your neck, “as in a date?” He lays across your arm, and you notice the glint in his eye. “Are you asking me out? I was supposed to do that!”
“Oh?” you return the tease. “We can just not go then, and I’ll wait for you to ask me out.” You start getting up, but he drags you back down, tugging specifically on your hand. He kisses you as a confirmation that yes, he wants to go; he wants nothing more than to go on a real date with you.
#wayv#nct yangyang#wayv yangyang#yangyang#yangyang smut#wayv smut#nct smut#yangyang fluff#wayv fluff#nct fluff#yangyang imagines#yangyang x reader#liu yangyang#wayv imagines#nct imagines#wayv scenarios#nct scenarios#/mine
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The Weight of the Knife, Part 3: Beveled
Part: [1] [2] [3] | Read on: AO3 | WC: ~11k | Please excuse any typos.
Main Tags: BadBoy!Tony, Highschool AU, NFF, Angst, TW:Mentions of Blood, TW:Abuse, TW:Graphic Depictions of Violence, TW:Bullying, TW:Underage Drinking and Smoking, Bruises, Hangovers and Mentions of Puke, [Read all tags on AO3]
Dedicated to @starker-stories, whose love for this AU kept me motivated to write more.
~*11*~
For the remainder of the day, Peter and Tony stayed in their room, save for the occasional bathroom break or a food delivery courtesy of Ned. They chose to relax together, underneath the covers, in each others’ arms, far away from everything and everyone, especially the aggravating presence of Quentin Beck. Peter wondered how he, once again, fell for a false earnesty and Tony lamented about being an absolute wreck over his father’s conniving behavior. It was almost therapeutic to realize that they were being toyed with; to realize that their fights had been exaggerated by outside forces; to finally see it had not all been their fault.
And after hours of emotional exhaustion, Tony had fallen asleep, snug against Peter’s stomach, arms wrapped around the younger’s torso. Peter, however, was wide awake. Despite his hangover, he was determined to fulfill his promise. He would protect Tony at all costs, even if it meant staying up into the night, fighting his headache, and sifting through the plethora of files in the Stark Industries database.
With Jarvis, Peter was able to compile some very damning evidence about the company, including its dealings with terrorism and the various transgressions of its CEO. He even had security cam footage from the Stark mansion. Some clips were so heartbreaking that he couldn't bring himself to watch them. Video after video of his most precious person being abused by someone who should care for him the most.
Peter sighed and placed the phone against the nightstand, running a hand through Tony’s hair as he did. His boyfriend was so innocent when he slept, his eyelashes gently twitching in dreams and his soft snores vibrating against Peter’s abdomen. It was almost a shame to have to wake him, but he needed him for what came next. “Tones,” Peter whispered, softly tapping his fingertip against Tony’s cheek. “Wake up.”
Tony stirred awake, yawning as he spoke, “Is it time?”
“Yeah.”
Before Tony’s nap, they had discussed what to do about Quentin. Tony’s anger did not go away. It was just sharper, more focused, not as unhinged as before. He wanted payback in the form of violence and, if Peter was honest with himself, he did too.
Quentin had played Peter for a fool. He tricked him into defending their fabricated friendship; tricked him into believing that friendship – that stupid, insignificant friendship – was somehow worth all of the arguments with Tony. Peter didn’t just want payback – no, he wanted some fucking retribution. He wanted Quentin Beck to regret what he had done.
And he wanted it to hurt.
So Peter shared his plan, in whispered breaths during their lazy day, convinced by the devious smirk it brought to Tony’s face, that it would please them both. And it started there: right outside of Quentin’s door.
“Beck?” Peter spoke as he knocked, his free hand restlessly clutching the handle of his suitcase. “Are you awake?”
The faint sound of footsteps approaching the door made Peter’s heart race but, surprisingly enough, especially to Peter, it wasn’t because of nerves. It was the adrenaline of knowing what was to come coursing through his veins. As the door swung open, he put on a terrified expression, attempting to sell his distress with wet eyes, a furrowed brow, and a frown. “Beck,” He let his voice tremble like he was on the verge of tears.
“What’s wrong, kid?” Quentin asked, moving to place a hand against Peter’s face, thumbing at the tear that escaped his lower lash. “Why do you have your bag? What’s going on?”
Peter clenched his teeth and leaned into Quentin’s touch, trying to be as persuasive as possible, “We need to leave.”
“Why-?”
“Tony hit me,” Peter lied, feigning his sorrow with a sniffle and a stressful hand through his hair. “You were right about him. I should’ve listened, I should’ve-”
“Shh,” Quentin pulled Peter into a hug. “It’s okay. We can leave. I’ll pack my stuff.”
“Okay, but be quick,” Peter urged, shaking as he prevented himself from flinching out of Quentin’s grasp. “Tony doesn’t know I’m leaving.” An extra lie, coated in a frantic tone that made Quentin pack in a hurry, carelessly throwing his belongings into his suitcase before zipping it up and grabbing his keys from atop the dresser.
“Okay, come on,” Quentin whispered, following Peter into the hall as he closed the door behind him.
That was easier than Peter thought it would be. And with one task complete, Peter moved onto the next: the keys. As they reached the top of the staircase, Peter made a show of how heavy his bag was; struggling with two hands as he slowly took the first step, and then an even slower second, and a third at a snail’s pace…
“Here, let’s trade,” Quentin offered, handing Peter his keys in exchange for the suitcase.
And as he clutched the keys, watching Quentin carrying both bags down the stairs, Peter couldn’t stop himself from smirking. The next part of his plan began once they made it outside and walked down the driveway, far enough away from the house that what followed wouldn’t be heard.
Quentin stopped at the curb, turning on his heel, “Hey, kid, unlock the car, would you?”
Peter shook his head, face expressionless as he stared into Quentin’s puzzled eyes. “No,” He said as he reached into his pocket, pulling out Tony’s butterfly knife and flipping it open. “I can’t do that, Quentin,” He added as he held the knife forward.
Quentin gave a slow, confused laugh, “What’s going on, kid?”
“You know exactly what’s going on,” Peter glared at him, his anger starting to seep out. “How much is Mr. Stark paying you, hm? Enough to buy a fancy new car?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Quentin immediately denied, a feeble attempt at maintaining his ruse.
Peter sighed, reaching into his pocket, switching the keys for his phone. “Quentin Beck, 18, works for Mysterio Incorporated as a professional grifter,” Peter snorted at the next line. “A prodigy in the art of the con. A bit of a stretch there, no?” He continued, “Official job assignment: sever all social, physical, and romantic connections between Peter Parker and Tony Stark.” He said, pointing the phone screen towards Quentin. “Still don’t know what I’m talking about?”
Quentin immediately dropped his gaze but then he laughed, slow and a bit dismayed, “I’ll give it to you, Parker, you’ve surprised me.” As he lifted his head, he seemed to relax in a different, less-friendly persona like a chameleon donning its natural color. “How’d you find out?”
“I heard you on the phone.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have taken that call,” Quentin shook his head, “You know, this was supposed to be an easy job,” He pointed out, “Break up a scared little kid and a violent asshole.” He kicked the suitcases onto their sides, “But, of course, you turn out to be just as crazy as he is,” He snapped, “You two are fucking perfect for each other!”
Peter was unfazed by Quentin’s anger – in fact, he was indifferent to it; there were no trembles or fear, not even a flinch. “That’s very nice of you,” He nodded and looked over his shoulder. “Don’t you think, Tones?”
“Yeah,” Tony spoke as he stepped out of his car, cigarette and lighter in hand, nonchalantly having a smoke as he leaned against the car’s hood. “We are perfect for each other, baby.”
“Fuck this shit,” Quentin rolled his eyes, holding his hand out. “Give me the car keys, Parker.”
“Come and get them,” Peter taunted and tightened his grip on the knife.
Quentin scoffed, taking a step closer to Peter, “And what the fuck are you going to do with that?” He shook his head and took another step. “What? Stab me?” Another step. “A scared little bitch like you would never .” Another step; inches away from the knife. “Now give me the goddamn keys!” Quentin yelled, lunging towards Peter to snatch the keys, but his efforts were fruitless.
Peter slid his foot back, angling his body so that the pocket with the keys faced away from the impending grasp. He inhaled fast, his hand reactively flinching, swiping the blade of the knife against Quentin’s outstretched arm. And as he pulled away, he exhaled and glanced down at the knife, its beveled edge now streaked in a thin layer of blood. Then his gaze flickered to Tony, who was puffing gray into the latenight air, watching the interaction without an ounce of worry. The sight kept Peter calm as his focus moved back to Quentin, who had recoiled backward with a hiss, clutching his arm.
“You stupid little- you cut me!” Quentin snapped, fists balling in anger. “I’m not fucking playing with you, Parker!” He dashed forward, so caught up in his rage that he paid no attention to his biggest threat. Not bothering to notice the cigarette that had been flicked against the pavement; not even glancing up to see how close in proximity the looming threat was. It was a grave mistake.
Tony wound back his fist and clocked Quentin so hard in the jaw that he stumbled backward, tripping against a crack in the pavement. His hands shot down against the warm concrete, palms scratching on the abrasive surface as he broke his fall. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth and the cuts on his hands and arm, but there was no time to focus on the pain. He rolled over, quickly shifting to get back on feet, but the bad boy had descended, pinning him against the ground. He had no choice but to brace himself as a flurry of quick jabs were unleashed on his face, the force of which would no doubt break his nose if he did nothing. So he pushed, wrestling Tony onto his side, trying to flip them entirely and turn the tides of their fight, but Tony’s knee in his gut threw that plan into the water.
On impulse, Quentin clutched his stomach, letting out a pained grunt, watching as Tony stood and poised himself to kick the same place he had kneed. Acting quickly, Beck rolled, dodging the kick and finally managing to get back on his feet. Much like the fight against Loki, Quentin fought passively, fists squared to protect his face as he waited for Tony’s next move.
Tony laughed, brimming with a refined rage like he had dragged all that unhinged anger to an anvil and forged his next attacks. He was light on his feet, taking a boxer’s stance and closing in to throw a couple of jabs at Quentin’s openings. There were a few misses to the face, but a single hooked punch to the side had Quentin hunched over.
And from there, it might as well have been decided. Tony grabbed Quentin in a headlock, letting loose a whirlwind of punches to his side, reveling in the way Quentin collapsed to his knees in pain. It was when Tony grabbed Quentin’s arm and positioned himself to break it that Peter finally interjected.
“No bones, Tony,” Peter stepped towards them, placing a hand against Tony’s shoulder. “We are still kicking him out. He has to drive.”
“Didn’t you say that piece of shit car was self-driving?”
“I did, but-”
“A rib?” Tony asked, his eyes dilated from the adrenaline of the fight as he held Quentin in place.
Peter glanced down at the bruised boy, whose eyes were teeming with a spark of defiance, and he found himself wanting to watch that spark get extinguished. “That’s fine.”
What followed was a kick to Quentin’s ribs so forceful that he screamed and started to give in, gasping and wincing in pain, “Fuck you, Parker!”
“Tony,” Peter whispered. “Another.”
And Quentin couldn’t get a word in before the pain of having a rib broken blended with the pain of having an already broken rib kicked. “Okay!” He grunted out, fear glazed across the tone of his voice. “Okay, fucking stop! Stop!”
“Tones,” Peter said it like a command and Tony followed it by holding Quentin still in a kneeling position. Then, Peter stepped in front of Quentin, squatting down to match gazes, “Are you ready to apologize?”
“What the fuck?” Quentin growled, weakly struggling against Tony’s hold. “No! I was hired!”
“Tony, I didn’t hear an apology, did you?” Peter asked as he hovered the butterfly knife in front of Quentin’s throat. “Maybe he needs a little more. How many ribs do you think you can break before a person passes out from all the pain?”
Quentin’s eyes went wide. Even with a knife outstretched and poised at his throat, the words that fell from Peter’s mouth were somehow sharper and more perilous. “Fine!” He broke, voice cracking under the force of Peter’s threat. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry for what I did, okay? I’m sorry.”
“See?” Peter smiled, hovering the knife upward and pressing it gently against Quentin’s face. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
And Quentin let out a defeated laugh, “How are you even the same person I saved last week?”
“I’m not,” Peter stood, pulling the car keys from his pocket and throwing them into the sand. “Now fetch and don’t come back.”
~*12*~
“Did you get my email with the security cam footage?” Peter spoke into his phone, pacing back and forth in the sand. “Yeah, it’s really bad. Did you call the lawyer? Do you think he can do something with it?” He asked, stepping into the wet sand, enjoying the feeling of warm water splashing against his feet. “Thanks, May. Yes, now I’m having fun. Yeah, Tony too. Nope, there’s no alcohol. No, I’m not lying. My voice doesn’t have a tone. It doesn’t!” He laughed, turning on his heel, surprised to find Tony walking towards him with two drinks in hand. “Oh, May, I’ve got to go. Yeah, Tony’s here. Okay, okay, I’ll tell him. Bye!” Peter hung up the call, smiling as he took a cup from Tony. “May says hi and that she misses you.”
“Auntie called?” Tony’s eyebrow shot up. “Why didn’t you say so? I could’ve talked to her.”
“You can talk to her when we get back,” Peter waved it off, taking a quick sip of the fizzy mixed drink, face scrunching from the burn of vodka. “What did you put in this?”
“Nothing much, just vodka and soda.”
Peter groaned, looking at the drink like it could kill. “How much exactly?”
Tony smiled, looking Peter up and down, “Did you get sexier since the last time we spoke?”
“In the few minutes I was on the phone? Absolutely.” Peter playfully retorted, returning the smile. “But no avoiding my questions. How much vodka, Tones?”
“Not that much,” Tony laughed, taking a large swig of his drink. “Just don’t drink it too fast, okay?”
Peter gave a light huff, “What about you? Two more of those and your cup will be empty!”
Tony scoffed, “I’m not a lightweight like you.”
Without warning, a water balloon exploded against the back of Tony’s head, covering his back in cold water that had him cringing. Peter erupted into laughter, matching the energies of Rhodey, Pepper, Bruce, and Happy, who had pails of water balloons filled to the brim, fully prepared for war. “That’s what you get for talking shit,” Peter joked.
Tony grinned, turning towards his friends with a fire in his eyes. “Now I’ve got to show these fuckers who’s boss.” He took another large swig of his drink and pressed a kiss to Peter’s forehead. “Hold this for me, baby. I’ll be right back.”
Peter grabbed the cup, watching with a smile as Tony ran towards his friends. Seeing him like this was refreshing, like the stress of the previous week never reared its ugly head. In fact, just relaxing with friends without Quentin around had proven cathartic for them both. Peter spent his morning swimming with Ned and MJ while Tony helped Rhodey and Pepper make breakfast. The adrenaline of last night’s events had simmered and the vacation part of their vacation had truly set in.
Peter carried the two drinks up to the deck, where Bucky, Sam, and Steve were chatting and lounging on chairs. As he took a seat, he laughed at the excited way MJ and Ned prepped their buckets, readying themselves to join the water balloon fray. “You two don’t stand a chance out there in the trenches,” He joked.
“You just watch,” Ned exclaimed, dramatically thrusting a balloon into the air, “I will emerge victorious!”
MJ laughed, shaking her head as she kicked off her sandals. “You should join us, Pete. We can emerge victorious together.”
“No, thanks,” Peter smiled, placing the cups on the ground and slumping against the back of the chair. “But I wish you luck on your conquest.”
“To victory!” Ned yelled, running down to the beach with a water balloon poised to kill.
“Suit yourself, dude.” MJ grinned as she followed, beaming a water balloon from the top of the stairs to one of the unsuspecting teens below.
“Your friends are wild, Pete,” Sam said with a soft laugh. “But they’re alright.”
“Agreed, I really liked them,” Bucky nodded. “I liked Quentin too. Did he ever say why he had to leave?”
Peter shrugged, leaning to grab his cup and take a sip, feigning ignorance. “All he said was he had a family emergency.”
“Shame he had to go,” Steve said with a playful grin. “With all that flirting he was doing, you could’ve been just like me.”
Peter raised an eyebrow, “Like you?”
“He means having two smoking hot boyfriends,” Sam explained, gesturing to himself and Bucky.
“Oh!” Peter shook his head, a small pink tint flushing his cheeks. “It wasn’t like that with Quentin. We were just friends.”
“Were?” Bucky squinted.
“Are! Are.” Peter gave an awkward chuckle and sipped his drink. “Anyways, me and Tony are fine with just each other.”
“Yeah, you guys seemed fine the other night too,” Sam wiggled his brow. “Really fine.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Bucky gasped as he recalled what happened. “You two must have crazy sex.”
Those words made Peter’s small pink tint turn into a fully-fledged blush, “No, we actually haven’t…”
“You guys haven’t had sex?” Steve’s jaw dropped. “Really?”
“We’ve like...fooled around, but yeah, no sex...um- actually, we were supposed to during this break,” Peter admitted, taking another sip of his drink to quell his embarrassment.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Sam questioned.
“Nothing really,” Peter shrugged, glancing down at the beach and all the balloon carnage scattered across the sand. “We just haven’t had the time yet.”
“I think you guys should fuck tonight,” Bucky pointedly suggested. “You’ve got to seduce him, Peter.”
Peter scoffed. “I don’t have a single seducing bone in my body.”
“Drunk Peter had my dumbass fooled then,” Sam spoke under his breath, causing Steve and Bucky to giggle.
Peter gave an awkward laugh, “Can we please forget about that?”
“You sucked on his finger like it was his dick,” Bucky interjected.
Peter groaned, dropping his face into his palm. “Excuse me, I’m going to wither away now and transcend this plane of existence. Don’t wait up for me.”
“See ya,” Sam quipped.
Steve laughed, sitting up from his lounged position, “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Pete. There’s no judgment here.”
“Yeah, don’t worry, doll,” Bucky waved it off with a smile. “I’m sure, one of these days, you’ll catch us finger sucking too.”
“That’s comforting,” Peter rolled his eyes with a smile. “But okay, I’ll revert the withering process for now. Still, I don’t think I can channel drunk Peter on command.”
Sam nodded, reaching beside his chair to grab his own drink and holding it out, “Then, instead of channeling him, why don’t you just be him?”
“In moderation this time,” Bucky stressed, holding up his drink as well.
“To Peter getting fucked,” Steve offered a toast.
Peter giggled, holding his cup up to complete the cheers, “To getting fucked!”
~*13*~
Getting to this point was easy. After dinner and a bit more drinking, Ned roped everyone into a mini dance party with loud summer tunes and plenty of drinks. And something about the unintentional cardio mixed with the assortment of alcohol really made Peter’s haze set in. It was not nearly as strong as before – his motor functions were definitely intact – but that teeth-numbing warmth and indiscriminate confidence was alive and well. With all the sloppy dance moves, Peter could tell that everyone was somewhere on the drunk spectrum, even Tony, who was sporting tinted red cheeks and a very uncharacteristic smile as he moved to fall against the couch.
So, as he danced, Peter locked eyes with the seated bad boy, attempting to be seductive as he rocked his hips to the music as best he could. A little sway here, more hip in that move, add a bit of shoulder to that one; he was putting in a lot of effort. Yet, judging by the obvious snickering his boyfriend was doing, it probably wasn’t reading as sexy – he was trying his best, okay! He gave up, pouting as he rounded the couch, standing behind Tony and leaning in to whisper against his ear. “How dare you laugh at me. I was trying to seduce you.”
“Oh, really?” Tony snorted, leaning his head back against the couch. “I couldn’t tell.”
Peter blushed, lips still pursed in a pout, “Not even a little?”
Tony smiled, reaching his hand backward to pat his boyfriend’s hair. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“That’s good,” Peter whispered as he pressed a kiss against Tony’s cheek. “Did it turn you on?”
Tony inhaled sharp, “This definitely is.”
“Really?” Peter was surprised but moved to speckle more kisses against Tony’s cheek, jaw, and neck. “You like this?”
“Of course, baby,” Tony smirked, tilting his head to lock gazes with Peter. “I fucking love it when you touch me.”
A whine escaped Peter’s throat but, with his goal of seduction still at the forefront of his mind, he managed to contain his excitement. Instead, he leaned in, licking the space beneath Tony’s ear and whispering a fervid, “If you come to our room, I’ll touch you wherever you want.”
Tony didn’t need any more convincing.
They made their way to the bedroom, exchanging affectionate touches as they went. A hand on a hip, circling fingertips against exposed skin, the brush of an arm; innocent gestures that turned fiery the moment they stepped beyond the threshold and closed the door. Peter was the first to latch on, pulling Tony by the collar of his shirt into a messy kiss. One that tasted of vodka and smoke and, among the residual heat of dancing and arousal, it felt like a solar flare against his lips. He moaned into it, moving to jump up into his boyfriend’s arms.
Even in his buzz, Tony didn’t miss a beat. He caught Peter by the waist, stepping to press him against the wall but diverting towards the bed when Peter whined, a very needy, the bed, Tones, the bed. It was confident and sensual and made Tony hard enough to feel through his jeans.
And Peter could really feel it, especially against his own growing hardness as his boyfriend walked them across the room. He hummed pleasantly as he rutted against it, moving to trail kisses down Tony’s flushed neck, biting down against the skin of his collarbone and sucking to leave a deep red mark.
Tony inhaled through his teeth and groaned at the sensation, muscles flexing as he slowly lowered Peter against the duvet and climbed up between his legs. Then he smirked, staring down at his boyfriend with lust clouded eyes, “So we’re in a biting mood today, hm?” He whispered, leaning down to reciprocate the bite, leaving a mark of his own and enjoying the little whimper that spilled from Peter’s throat.
Peter busied his hands against his boyfriend’s toned stomach and in his wild hair, caressing toward the nape of his neck and around to the small of his back. He moaned, arousal flooding his core as Tony kissed his jaw and brought a hand up his shirt, rolling his fingertips against his nipple. It felt amazing, even more so when mixed with the heady feel of alcohol in his system. He found himself soaking in the closeness, lifting his hips for more and whining when the pleasure of the contact shot up his spine.
But then Tony’s hands snapped to Peter’s waist, pushing him back down against the mattress. “You’re so fucking eager,” He whispered, unable to hold back his pleased grin.
“It’s because I want you to fuck me,” Peter shot back, reaching to push Tony’s hand away and continue his impatient rutting.
“ What? ” Tony looked startled for a moment, then his expression turned pleased, then guilty, then worried. “Fuck, wait,” He shook his head, sitting back onto his knees and pushing down against Peter’s hips. “We can’t.”
Peter pouted, gently brushing his fingertips up Tony’s forearms. “Why not?”
Tony sighed, staring at Peter’s hands like they were torture devices. “You’re drunk, baby.”
“Am not,” Peter lied, putting on his best sober face. “I’m perfectly fine, so please,” He pleaded with a smile, moving to unbutton his shorts but pouting when Tony grabbed his hand to stop him. His expression fell into a frown, insecure feelings starting to surface in the form of anxious words, “Are you saying you don’t want to?”
“No, I do!” Tony said, his eyes glancing across Peter’s body. “I do. A lot ,” He took a deep breath, “You have no idea how much.”
“Then why?”
“Because I want you to be here when I fuck you.”
Peter rolled his eyes, shifting to prop himself up on his elbows. “I am here, Tones.”
“Not completely,” Tony shook his head. “I want to see the face you make around my dick when you’re sober.”
“Me too,” Peter whispered.
Tony let out a light huff, raising his brow, “You too?”
“No, I meant-” Peter blushed, averting his eyes, “That I want to w-watch you get off inside me.”
“Yeah?” Tony’s voice cracked a little, Peter’s words hitting him like a gunshot to his sanity. He inhaled slow, his gaze momentarily turning indulgent, “What else do you want, sweetheart?”
Peter bit his lip, nervously staring up at his boyfriend and whispering, “F-For you to- um... choke me.”
Tony grinned, leaning forward and ghosting his hand against Peter’s throat before pulling it away, “What else?”
“I want you to be r-rough,” Peter mumbled. “And um- use me... however you want because… I really just want to be good for you.”
Tony inhaled through his teeth, shifting to adjust himself through his jeans, “You are not making this easy for me, baby.”
Peter quietly gasped, “That too, that’s- I want you to call me baby,” He admitted, his face cast in a red hue. “Or baby boy. I like that more, but not all the time, just sometimes, like when we’re alone.”
“Okay, noted, I’ll be sure to tick these boxes later,” Tony smirked, “Anything else?”
“I don’t know,” Peter whispered, slumping back against the bed. “You’re going to think it’s stupid.”
Tony shook his head, “I doubt that.”
“It is!” Peter closed his eyes, looking more embarrassed by the second. “It’s a bunch of stupid first time stuff that’s completely unnecessary because this shouldn’t be such a big deal.”
“Come on, just tell me,” Tony gently urged. “Let me decide if it’s unnecessary.”
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
“Promise.”
Peter paused, covering his face with his hands and taking a deep breath. “I want-” He slid his hands away, revealing his expression, earnest and vulnerable, “I want you to say you love me.”
Tony froze, his jaw all but falling to the center of the earth as he was absolutely floored by Peter’s words. Moments of silence passed and then some more, where Tony just stared, gazed, focused solely on the boy in front of him, seemingly trying to find his words.
But Peter couldn’t take the silence, so he gave an awkward laugh, “N-Nevermind, you’re right, I’m drunk, ignore me, I’m being stupid, I’ll just go to sleep now.” He shifted away from Tony, moving to hide beneath the covers, fully prepared to wallow in his embarrassment.
But then Tony laid down beside him, pulling Peter’s covered body against his, whispering a comforting, “That’s not stupid, Peter.”
~*14*~
Spring break ended after a night of fireworks and group photos on the beach. The following morning brought a group effort clean-up, promises of summertime get-togethers, and friendly number exchanges. Packing the cars turned into hugs and ‘ see you later ’s, which turned into their long drive home. The trip ended perfectly but, as he watched the coast disappear behind them, Peter couldn’t help but feel sad. He already missed the early morning swims, the hilarious conversations around the fire pit, and the drunken late-night antics. As he settled into his sadness, a notification from Ned popped up on his phone: New Group Chat Invite from ‘Petey’s Mutuals .’ The name alone was enough to turn his mood around. He immediately dropped a laughing emoji in the chat, smiling at the flood of memes.
“Who’s blowing up your phone? Auntie?” Tony asked, his eyes trained on the road ahead.
“No, Ned made a group chat with everyone,” Peter giggled and reached for Tony’s phone, “You got an invite too. Want me to accept it?”
“Sure, if you want, but you know I’m going to mute it later,” Tony quipped.
Peter rolled his eyes with a smile, “I know but they’re asking for you. You’ve already been dubbed Petey’s number one mutual.”
“Petey?” Tony repeated with a smirk.
Peter laughed, “I don’t make the rules.”
The remainder of the drive was peaceful, filled with an atmosphere of playful banter and spontaneous jam sessions as the greens of the coast turned into the greys of the city. As the fresh air became stagnant and the windows were closed to give rise to the open vents, their laughter became crisper, easier to hear without the rush of outside sounds. The sun was beginning to set as they turned onto Peter’s street. It was there that their pleasant moment faltered.
Standing in front of Peter’s building, like some kind of treacherous final boss, was Howard Stark, with his sleeves cuffed to his elbows, a sway in his posture, and a five o’clock shadow. He looked furious and a bit drunk, evident in the way his car sat askew against the curb.
“What the fuck?” Tony whispered under his breath as he parked his car across the street. “Why is he here?” He stressed, pulling the keys from the ignition and dropping his head against the steering wheel.
“Don’t worry, we’re in public, he can’t do anything,” Peter assured as he pulled out his phone, quickly texting his aunt before placing his hand in Tony’s. “We don’t have to get out of the car if you don’t want to.”
“He’s been drinking, Peter,” Tony sighed, lifting his head to reveal his conflicted expression. “I don’t think being in public is going to stop him.”
Peter brought Tony’s hand up and pressed a kiss against his knuckles, “I’ll go and tell him to leave.”
And before Tony could protest, Peter was outside the car, bravely crossing the street and calmly approaching the apartment building. The slam of the car door let him know Tony was behind him but he didn’t glance back. He kept his eyes trained forward, locked on target, “Why are you here?” He asked, knowing the answer but starting there anyway.
“You!” Howard yelled, reaching forward and yanking Peter by his collar. “What the fuck did you do you little shit?”
In a breath, Tony was there, warily stepping between them and trying to pull Peter out of Howard’s grasp. The defiance angered his father and, just like before, the moment was fast. A hand was raised and swinging, aimed for Tony’s face. The only difference was, this time, Peter didn’t freeze. He held out his arm, using it to shield his boyfriend from the abuse. This time Peter was not paralyzed by his fear, he was motivated by it.
As his hand landed against Peter’s arm, Howard seethed, preparing for another swing, “You fucking-!”
“I see you got our email,” Peter interrupted, smirking despite the pain throbbing in his arm.
“Email?” Tony repeated, distracted by the sight of his usually skittish boyfriend standing up to his abusive father.
Howard’s eyes went wide, instinctively reaching to grab Peter again but stopping when the young boy spoke. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Peter warned. “Don’t forget that we’re in public and it’ll only help our case.”
Howard hesitated, glancing down the sidewalks, reluctantly stepping backward as his eyes met pedestrians. “How did you do it?” He fumed, the scent of alcohol billowing off his breath, “How did you break my encryption?”
“I didn’t,” Peter snorted. “Tony did.”
Howard’s attention shifted, zeroing in on his son with a vehement rage. “You gave this slut access to our company!” He screamed, “Do you even know what you’ve done? Did I not teach you better than this?” And, without warning, he grabbed Tony by his upper arm, “You goddamn waste of space!”
Peter clenched his teeth and, much like his boyfriend had just done for him, he shoved himself between them, trying to pull Tony out of Howard’s grasp. “Keep your fucking hands to yourself!” He snapped, surprising even himself with the outburst but having no time to process it before Howard’s hand was locked in his hair, harshly yanking his head forward.
“What the fuck did you just say, you little shit?!” Howard seethed, ignoring the glances from passing bystanders and, when his son flinched to stop his violence, he yelled an imposing and threatening, “Don’t even think about it, Anthony!”
Peter hissed at the pull, hands shooting up, struggling to get free. The pain was sharp on his scalp and, for a moment, he wanted to call out to Tony. Call out to be protected; to be saved. He wanted to rely on him but, with one glance at his boyfriend’s terrified face, he knew he couldn’t.
Because Tony was relying on him this time.
“You’re dumber than you look,” Peter spoke, laughing through his pain. “We were going to keep this quiet in civil court but you seem so determined to let everyone know what an abusive asshole you are.”
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” Howard retorted, yanking Peter up to face him. “You have no idea who you’re making an enemy of!”
“A businessman.”
“What?”
“I’m making an enemy of a businessman,” Peter repeated, his eyes stinging from the pain but his expression remaining calm. “I’m not an idiot. A rich person like you doesn’t fear court or prison or lawyer fees. You don’t care about anything but your bottom-line and keeping your company out of a scandal.” His brow furrowed then, “So I suggest you let me go before I circulate the files online and burn your precious company to the ground.” Peter’s words were venomous and deathly serious, enough to convince Howard Stark into releasing his hold.
“Anthony, what have you done?” Howard turned his attention to his son, “Son, they want to take you away from me. They’re blackmailing me in court. Do you know that?”
“I-” Tony was frozen, struggling to find his words, his hands trembling, “I’m-”
Peter’s face softened as he stepped beside his boyfriend, gently interlocking his steady hand with Tony’s shaking one.
“Is that what you want? Stark Industries is yours too, son,” Howard continued. “You’ll inherit billions. They’re trying to take that away from you.” Then he pointed to Peter. “He’s trying to take that away from you. Don’t let this one mistake ruin your whole life.”
“Do you even hear yourself?” Tony finally spoke, his voice cracking as tears started escaping down the contours of his face. “I don’t give a shit about the company. You do! That’s the only fucking thing you care about! So stop pretending you care about what I want! All you do is control my life and beat the shit out of me!”
“I do that out of love, Anth-! Tony , you’ll be the perfect successor. You’re brilliant, son. You got through my encryption. You’ll take Stark Industries so far if you would just listen to me ! All you need is a little tough love to keep you in line. Keep you away from mistakes like him. I’m guiding you-!”
“You’re abusing me!” Tony yelled, “Just like you abused mom and chased her away!”
“I did not abuse that bitch!” Howard shot back. “She left! That’s on her!”
Tony inhaled through his teeth, averting his gaze to the ground, “I want them to take me away from you.” He looked up, his eyes red from all the tears but his voice clearer than ever. “Fuck you. Fuck the company. Fuck that fucking house and fuck your dirty money.” He gently squeezed Peter’s hand as he continued. “You always say I’m just like mom, so I’m leaving too.”
“No,” Howard’s voice was taut, “Listen to what you’re saying, son! You’re giving up everything, and for what?” He questioned, gesturing to Peter and the old apartment building. “This?”
“Yeah,” Tony nodded, stealing a glance at Peter, “For this.”
“You fucking useless child! You need me!” Howard screamed.
And he would have continued too, if it weren’t for the flashes of red and blue and the sirens rounding the street corner.
“Boys!” It was Aunt May, hurrying down the apartment’s front steps with her hands outstretched, beckoning for Tony and Peter. “Boys, come on inside!”
~*15*~
“Why on earth do you have so many boxes of clothes?” Peter promptly complained as he opened yet another box filled to the brim and labeled Tony’s Closet . “And I swear it’s all the same black shirt!”
“It is not,” Tony laughed as he worked at unpacking a box into his nightstand. “I have at least one white shirt in there.”
“And this!” Peter stepped out of the closet, donning Tony’s cap and gown from graduation. “You looked so cool walking across the stage, getting your diploma—”
Tony snorted, “I got the folder for the diploma.”
“— and, after summer school, you’ll look so cool getting your diploma in the mail.” Peter corrected, smiling as he slid the gown off and started to fold it. “The school was not so lenient about Tony – puts the T in Truancy – Stark, huh?”
“Yeah, turns out you actually have to go to class to graduate, who would’ve thought?” Tony jested, pausing as he pulled a picture frame from his box. For a moment, he stared at the photo, distress clouding his previously content expression, but then he dropped it back into the box, sighing before picking it up again.
“What’s that?” Peter asked as he walked over, kneeling down to get a better look.
Tony shrugged, “A picture of that painting from my old man’s place.”
“You have a copy of it.” It was more of a statement than a question. Still, Peter was stunned that Tony would hold onto it after everything that’s happened.
“Yeah,” Tony sighed again as he placed it back into the box. “But I don’t even know why. I just...”
“You just?”
“I just feel weird being in a place by myself, I guess, and it’s the only thing I have with the three of us together,” Tony sighed, shaking his head. “It’s fucking stupid, I know. He’s in it so I don’t want to put it up but she’s in it so I don’t want to get rid of it.”
Peter smiled, leaning to press a kiss against Tony’s forehead. “Then, while you decide what to do, I’ll get some pictures of us that you can put up.”
Tony smirked, deciding to leave the picture in the box for now. “Can I have that one in your living room of you at the science fair? You know, the one with your hair sticking up?”
“Absolutely not,” Peter laughed, playfully pushing against Tony’s shoulder. “That one of us during spring break is still in the group chat though.” He mentioned, returning to finish unpacking the closet. “I’ll print it out and frame it for you, okay?”
“Thanks, baby,” Tony happily responded, then his voice dropped low and uncertain. “Do you think I should bring up the picture thing next time?”
“Next time?” Peter asked but quickly realized what was meant. “Oh, for your next session? That’s up to you. If you want to talk about it, then go for it. That’s what they’re for.”
“Yeah,” Tony agreed. “You’re right.”
Since spring break ended, a lot has happened. Tony’s dad agreed to let him move out, especially with the looming threat of a child abuse scandal above his head. More litigation was scheduled but they recently got the restraining order approved, which Aunt May called a ginormous win against that battalion of corporate lawyer dickheads .
In the meantime, May let Tony stay in their apartment. Though, despite Peter’s promises to keep his door open at night, May refused to let Tony sleep in his room. So for the next couple of months, Tony slept on the couch, and ate dinner with a smile, and watched movies that made him laugh. He sang rock ‘n’ roll when he washed dishes with May and flirted when he helped Peter carry baskets of clothes to the laundry room. His toughest days were his therapy days, when he would come back emotionally drained and tired, but even on days like that, he still managed to smile.
After graduation, Tony surprised everyone with the announcement of his new start-up business. It was a tech company of his very own, built from his progress with Jarvis and his endless technological imagination. One good payday turned into two and soon, he was even making enough to put himself through university. May suggested MIT but Tony said he would see how he felt after summer school ended.
Moving into his own place was Tony’s next big step. Aunt May demanded that he buy the studio apartment down the hall because no eighteen year old should be all on his own, young man . All in all, things were going well and they only seemed to be getting better.
“Hey, Tones, what’s this?” Peter stepped out of the closet, holding up a brown leather jacket that seemed much too small for his boyfriend’s body. “Is this an old jacket? From before you fell into your all-black-everything phase?”
Tony laughed, shaking his head, “No, that’s actually for you.”
“What? For me?” Peter’s eyes widened as he stared at the jacket, his fingers grazing the high-quality fabric. “But why? What for?”
“Our six month anniversary extravaganza,” Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t get a chance to give it to you then and, now, I guess the surprise is ruined.”
“I’m surprised,” Peter smiled as he threw on the jacket. “It’s a perfect fit.”
“Happy eight and a half months, baby.”
“Thank you, Tony,” Peter grinned, biting at his lip before he spoke. “After we’re finished unpacking, how about I give you your gift too?”
“My gift…?” Tony squinted but then his eyes went wide. “Really? Today? Like today today?”
Peter giggled, “I mean, I’ll have to take a shower first, but yeah.”
“Let’s fucking hurry up then,” Tony joked, making a show of his rush to unpack.
After another hour of diligent work, every box was emptied and every piece of clothing was folded and put away. Posters were hung, and kitchen cabinets were filled, and the couch was angled perfectly in front of the TV. They even carried the boxes down to the recycling bins. Everything was perfect and, when there was nothing more to do, they glanced at each other with blushing faces and simultaneous offers of you can shower first. Then awkward laughter as they corrected with a You can go ahead. No, you can, baby. Are you sure, Tones? Yeah.
It was an exchange that left Peter laying in the middle of Tony’s bed, fresh from his shower and wearing nothing but a black t-shirt from his boyfriend’s closet. Waiting anxiously as he listened to the sounds of the shower water and the hum of evening traffic pouring from the window. Scents from the soaps he had used and the lingering smoke from Tony’s ashtray wafted in the air and filled his nostrils. The only light came from a small nightstand lamp that left the room basked in a dim hue.
Peter’s heart was racing from thoughts of what was to come and it only quickened as the water shut off. He jolted up, sitting with his calves tucked beneath his thighs, tugging at the shirt’s hem as he stared at the bathroom door. A few more minutes ticked by – where he listened to the sounds of towel drying and moisturizer bottles and toothbrushing – before the doorknob turned and his boyfriend emerged, drying his hair and wearing nothing but boxers.
Tony took a few steps before glancing up from beneath the towel, smiling when he laid eyes on Peter, “That’s a good look on you, baby.”
Peter blushed, tucking a stray curl behind his ear, “It’ll look better off of me.”
Tony gave a light laugh as he tossed the towel against the back of his desk chair, his hair unruly and damp as he made his way to the bed. “I don’t doubt that,” He said as he climbed up onto the sheets, moving to sit cross-legged in front of his boyfriend, putting their bodies only inches apart. “Hey,” He whispered, reaching to clasp their hands together. “You’re sure about this, right? You know I don’t mind waiting for you.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Peter smiled, idly caressing his thumb against the back of Tony’s hand. Fresh shampoo scents filled his nose as he scooted closer – close enough to feel the warmth of Tony’s legs against his. “Are you?”
“Fuck yeah,” Tony grinned, lifting Peter’s hand to his chest so he could feel how fast his heart was beating. “I’ve never been more excited to fuck someone, can’t you tell?”
Peter giggled, rolling his eyes with a smile, “No way that’s true.”
“Of course it’s true,” Tony assured, smiling as he reached upward to place a gentle hand against the younger boy’s cheek, thumbing at his jawline and the underside of his chin and against the front of his throat. “You’re the first to make me so fucking nervous.”
“Good,” Peter let out a light huff, grinning, “At least we’re both on the same page.”
For a moment, Tony laughed – and Peter joined, the sound of their laughter blending together in the modest space – but then he was silent. His eyes flickering between Peter’s big brown eyes and soft inviting lips, his breath going a bit shallow as he leaned forward and his eyes fell closed.
And Peter met Tony halfway, capturing his lips, which tasted of spearmint toothpaste, in a tender kiss. One that morphed into an innocent flurry of pecks that he smiled into and took his time with. Only deepening when hands traveled to bodies and lips began to part and Tony’s grip at Peter’s sides pulled him onto his lap. And Peter dragged his hands through his boyfriend’s still damp locks, not caring about the moisture that clung to his palms as he draped his arms over Tony’s shoulders and pressed their bodies even closer.
The brush of their arousals sent a spark of pleasure to Peter’s core, reminding him of just how exposed he was. Spreading his legs caused the t-shirt to hike up, so the only thing that separated his hardness from his boyfriend’s was a thin layer of cotton boxer fabric. The friction left him whining into the kiss. The right angles had his lips stalling like the sensation threw his mind off balance and the wrong ones had his hips grinding to chase what felt so right.
Tony gripped the underside of Peter’s thighs, skimming his fingers against sensitive skin and stopping to cup his ass, pulling his body closer to incite more of that sweet friction. Then, he broke their kiss, opting to bite the younger’s bottom lip before pulling away with a smug grin, “Getting off just on this, sweetheart?”
Peter’s face flushed but he breathed a playful, “No, not at all.” Confidence was abundant in his tone but his lie was so evident in the way he continued moving his hips and showed no hesitation in letting his little moans free.
“Oh, and if I do this?” Tony asked, moving one hand to Peter’s erection, squeezing ever-so-slightly and stroking slowly from base to tip.
The sudden touch brought a breathless moan and a raspy Tony to Peter’s lips. His body tensed and his head lolled backward as the buzz of stimulation brought a bead of pre to the tip of his erection. And when Tony did it again, Peter started stammering, “I-I’ll c-come, T-Tony, I-”
“I know, baby,” Tony whispered, halting his movements to wait for Peter to calm down. “But you know better than that, right?” He grinned, a smug grin that made Peter’s already flushed face go a deeper shade of red.
“Yes,” Peter whimpered, excited by the way his boyfriend was talking to him. He liked this part of Tony – the part that was in control and confident.
“Then say it,” Tony demanded as he thumbed slowly at the head of Peter’s length.
“I-” Peter groaned, his nails digging into Tony’s shoulder blades as he fought against the urge of release. “I d-don’t come unless you say so.”
“That’s right,” Tony smiled as he went back to stroking. Watching as Peter got dangerously close to the edge and then abruptly slowing down just before the younger boy had a chance to lose it. And then he would do it again, and again he would watch his boyfriend’s wanton reactions; the sweet shaky breaths, the whole body flinches, the high-pitched moans.
Soon, Peter was sweating, skin glistening in the low light as he was mercilessly teased and edged. It was torturous but it was nice; after all, this was something they had done before. The familiar territory helped him relax, helped him cast off the anxiety and the unease, helped him to be confident and stay in the moment. Helped him find the courage to steer them towards the next step.
“Tony, I want you inside of me,” Peter moaned against his boyfriend’s ear, adding a breathy please because his body urged him to.
And Tony’s muscles tensed and his breath hitched and his eyes near dilated at the sound of his boyfriend pleading for him. "Okay," He nodded and tugged at the t-shirt. "Then take this off for me," He instructed as he halted his hands and shifted off of the bed, moving to grab a bottle and two condoms from his dresser drawer.
As Peter pulled off the t-shirt and realized what the bottle was, he blushed. He found himself embarrassed that he didn't have his own – especially when he was the one asking for his boyfriend to be inside him – and he also wondered how Tony remained so unfazed when he carried those things to the bed.
Peter wanted to ask but he was already being pushed down against the pillows and sheets, his mouth once again being overtaken by his boyfriend’s lips. This kiss was more carnal than the last, a mix of swirling tongues and an urgency akin to hunger.
Tony hovered downward then, trailing sloppy kisses against the younger's now bare chest, taking a moment to lick circles against each of his nipples before continuing south. Peppering more wet kisses across Peter's abdomen and, when he reached his waist, he licked his way down Peter's length, savoring the startled moan that ripped itself from the younger's throat. He smiled as he spread his boyfriend's legs and went even further, kissing beyond the base of his twitching erection, all the way to his untouched hole.
Peter could feel the heat burning in his face and he would be lying if he said he wasn't a little nervous, especially when Tony kissed him there . “Tony?” His voice cracked.
“Yes, baby?”
“Can you tell me- um ...what you’re going to do?”
Tony blushed at that, pausing his kisses and sitting up on his knees. One hand keeping Peter's legs splayed open and the other reaching for the bottle. “I’m- uh… I’m going to finger you with this first,” He explained, the redness in his cheeks still visible as he popped the cap open. “I'm going to use a lot, so I don't hurt you too much." He brushed his fingers against Peter's entrance, "You’ve never touched here, right?”
“Never,” Peter admitted, his heart thrumming as he watched Tony coat two of his fingers with lube.
“So it’ll probably hurt a little but I’ll be careful, okay?”
“Okay,” Peter breathed, eyes squeezing shut as he felt the cold slick push against him. He held his breath and, with a little more pressure, a single finger was pressing into him, sliding into his tightness with little resistance.
“How’s this?” Tony whispered, eyes frantically searching Peter's expression for any signs of pain.
Peter exhaled slow, checking in with himself as he did. It didn't feel good or bad, just foreign and unusual. He opened his eyes, gazing up at his boyfriend and speaking an honest, “Uncomfortable.”
“Should I keep going?”
“ Mhmm ,” Peter nodded, giving Tony the go-ahead to continue.
So Tony pushed his finger deeper before pulling out slow, then he repeated, keeping his motions steady and smooth and careful. For the most part, Peter was silent, save for the small whines that escaped on the tops of his heavier breaths. In the lack of stimulation, his erection had started to soften but he was still very much aroused. The feeling of Tony's eyes on him was enough, especially when he was staring like Peter was the only thing in the world worth looking at. And between the sultry gaze and the gentle finger fucking, Peter's arousal was burning hot. It's not that bad , he thought, but the addition of another finger had him wincing.
“Wait-! Tones,” Peter flinched, reactively tensing at the pain of being stretched but fighting against the impulse when the tension only made it hurt more. “I-It hurts.”
“Okay, okay,” Tony eased, stopping his motions but keeping his two fingers halfway inside. “Is this fine?”
“Yes,” Peter’s breath was sharp on the inhale and shaky on the exhale. “J-Just don’t move.” He instructed as he forced his body to relax. The pain was not unbearable but, as a couple of minutes ticked by, the panicked thoughts swarming his mind started to be. Why do two fingers hurt like this? How am I going to fit more? Is Tony getting impatient? Is he bored with me? Is this supposed to feel good? Is something wrong with me? Peter shook his head, whispering a quiet, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, baby,” Tony immediately retorted. “If it hurts, it hurts.”
“I know but I-” Peter struggled on his words, trying to ignore his insecurities. “I just really want to make you feel good.”
“You are,” Tony leaned down, smirking as he pressed a kiss against Peter’s lips, pulling away just enough that the tips of their noses barely brushed together. “I could come just from watching you.”
“ Tones ,” Peter whined, averting his eyes, trying to hide his flushed face. “I’m serious.”
“I know but just don’t worry about me right now,” Tony asserted as he sat back up, careful to keep his fingers still. “We’re on your time, sweetheart. Take as long as you want.”
Peter locked eyes with Tony’s patient ones, feeling his anxiety ease as he did. The older boy really was just waiting, one hand gently massaging the sensitive skin of Peter’s inner thigh and the other exactly where he was told to leave it. Peter took a deep breath, actively convincing his muscles to relax and realizing that the pain was absent when he remained calm. So he breathed a quiet, “You can move them.”
And Tony nodded, wordlessly moving to squeeze more lube at Peter’s entrance before pushing his fingers in the rest of the way. Falling into the same steady pattern as before, attentively watching as Peter relaxed around the gentle finger fucking. And once Peter felt loose enough, Tony added more lube and another finger. This time, it was a painless stretch.
“Baby, you look so fucking gorgeous right now,” Tony praised as his eyes glanced across Peter’s pliant body. “You’re doing so good, you're taking my fingers so good.”
Peter’s entire body reacted to Tony’s words – even his waning erection twitched at the sound of them. “It’s for you,” Peter breathed out, his voice low and airy.
“Hm?” Tony asked, his brow slightly furrowing.
“I’m doing good for you, Tony.”
“Fuck, sweetheart, you can’t talk to me like that. It’s gonna go to my head, make me lose my patience.” Tony gave a sly smile as he started curling his fingers, slowly prodding upward, searching and seeking, like he was trying to find something and – fuck.
An unexpected jolt of pleasure hit Peter so hard that, as he moaned, his voice cracked and the sound he made came out like a strangled whimper. The intensity of the feeling left him dazed, unable to process just how good it felt because Tony’s fingers were suddenly colliding with that spot again. It was almost overwhelming; a pleasure that operated somewhere between his typical orgasms and some fictional unattainable euphoria. Yet, judging by the way his hands clawed into the sheets, and the way his back arched, and the way he couldn’t exhale without a whine, this pleasure trended towards the latter.
Tony playfully grinned, unrelenting in his assault on Peter’s sensitive bundle of nerves. “Is it good, baby?” He asked as he upped the ante, bringing his free hand to stroke along his boyfriend’s stiffening length.
“ Tony !” Peter’s hands shot down, clutching at Tony’s wrist, urgently pulling his hand away from his erection. “W-Wait, I’ll come-!”
“That wasn’t an answer, sweetheart.” Tony clutched the base of Peter’s dripping length and massaged his thumb across the wet tip, syncing his teasing with each thrust of his fingers.
Peter released a gasp that quickly morphed into a harsh moan. The heady feeling left him frantically squirming backward, trying to evade the fervent pleasure but finding himself propped up on the pillows, trapped between the headboard and his boyfriend’s torturous hands. “It’s good!” He choked out, all teary-eyed and desperate. “Tony, I- ah! Can I c-?”
“I want you to beg for more,” Tony interrupted, slowing his hands before pulling away entirely, watching with a smirk when Peter’s hips flinched to chase the contact. “Will you do that for me, baby boy?” He asked as he leaned forward, holding himself steady with one hand and placing the other against his boyfriend’s throat, squeezing just enough to make his breaths come out shallow. “Will you beg me to fuck you?”
And Peter, whose eyes were blown from the stagnant bliss, immediately did what was asked of him. “ Please .” His voice came out slightly hoarse, strained by the pressure against his neck. “Please fuck me.” He begged, keeping his eyes trained on his boyfriend’s face. “I-I want it...your dick...inside me, please .”
“Fuck, I want to fucking ruin you,” Tony whispered, using his grip on Peter’s neck to guide him into a harsh kiss before pulling away and releasing his hand. “And I don’t think you understand how much.” Then he took a deep breath and smiled. “You’re such a good boy for me, Peter.”
Peter’s heart was racing and his face was warm and his erection was aching; Tony just had that effect on him, especially when he spoke like that. “Tones, please …” He whined, eager and pouty, like he couldn’t wait another second.
Tony laughed low, excitedly moving to pull off his boxers before returning to his place between Peter’s legs.
And just like the first time he’d seen it, Peter had to actively prevent his jaw from dropping. Tony’s dick was big, thick, hard – basically everything Peter wanted when it was being shoved down his throat. This, however, was much different. A shiver ran through his body at the thought of it in his ass. “Is it going to hurt?” He asked on impulse.
“Maybe a little.” Tony was honest. “I stretched you a lot but it could still be uncomfortable,” He explained as he rolled on a condom and slicked on some extra lube. “But I’ll be gentle,” He said as he positioned himself at Peter’s entrance. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
With a small push, the tip slid right in, popping inside without resistance like Peter’s body had been used to it forever. The feeling was hot and tingly, but Peter remained calm, attempting to keep his muscles from going rigid as Tony kept going. Halfway in was more of the same but beyond that was an uncomfortable pain. Not a sharp or stinging kind of pain, but a dull and throbbing one that left Peter flinching and sucking air through teeth.
“You okay?” Tony asked as he stopped his advances, dragging a tender hand through Peter’s hair. “Is this too much?”
“No,” Peter shook his head, reaching to hold Tony’s hand. “Don’t stop, keep going, I can take it.”
Tony’s breath hitched, his resolve to be gentle faltering under the weight of Peter’s tempting words. “You want the rest of it, baby?” He asked, squeezing Peter’s hand before he pulled away, hooking his arms beneath Peter’s thighs and gripping at his waist.
“Yes,” Peter murmured, moving to clutch at the pillow above his head, bracing himself.
So Tony pushed forward again, quicker than before, plunging deep enough to rip a loud groan from the younger boy. And then he held himself there, indulging in the pleasure of his boyfriend’s tightness, his voice strained, “How’s this?”
Peter felt like the wind was knocked out of him. The swift thrust left him tremoring around the thickness, panting like Tony’s dick had stolen his oxygen and replaced it with the strangest blend of pleasurable pain. The drag of the shaft against that bundle of nerves was what did it; he was sure, especially when Tony moved to pull out and the sensation was enough to make him feel like he was going to come. “I l-like it, Tones. It feels g-”
Peter couldn’t finish his sentence as Tony started pushing back inside. The thrust was just as fast as before, leveraged by his tugging at the younger’s waist and fueled by the ecstasy buzzing within them both. So Tony repeated his thrusts in quick succession, pulling out halfway before rolling his hips and burying himself back inside, occasionally pulling out until just the tip remained so Peter could catch his breath.
And Peter could tell with one glance that Tony was melting in the sensation; his eyes were half-lidded, his hands were gripping bruises, his forehead was beading sweat. The way his body flexed was pornographic, making Peter’s already stiffened length even stiffer, and the force of his motions was eager, overexcited, indulgent. Yet, none of that could compare to the sounds he was making. Peter had never heard Tony moan like this; so unbridled and honest. It left him leaking pre all over his stomach.
But Peter couldn’t come – not because Tony had not given permission, but because he couldn’t. The pleasure was there but orgasm still felt far away, like all he needed was just a little more. Just a little .
“Hey!” Tony grabbed Peter’s wrists, yanking them above his head and pinning them there with a single hand. “Who said you could touch yourself, hm?”
Fuck. Peter was so wrapped up in the feel of it all that he didn’t realize his hands had started moving toward his erection. “S-Sorry, I just...it wasn’t enough.” He blushed, his heart racing at his boyfriend’s strength.
“What?” Tony gave a mischievous grin, shifting his weight against Peter’s crossed wrists and bringing his free hand to Peter’s throat. “You want more?” He asked as he squeezed, laughing low when Peter gasped. “I’m not going to be gentle anymore, Peter,” He whispered, “Let me know if I should stop and I will.”
And when Peter nodded, Tony let loose. Keeping his grip at Peter’s throat steady as he slammed all the way to the base, pulling out almost entirely before driving back in. Besides the amount of force, Peter thought it would feel the same. He was wrong . So fucking wrong. This pleasure was different – different enough to leave Peter screaming – and the only changed variable was the angle. Tony wasn’t just rubbing against his prostate anymore, he was practically brutalizing it. Each thrust hitting it so directly Peter wondered if pleasure was even the right word anymore because, for him, it felt euphoric.
“This enough for you, baby boy?” Tony teased, loosening his grip on the younger’s neck as he continued his fervid assault.
Peter wanted to be playful, challenging, witty, but the only words he could manage were coated in a desperate need for release. “ Yes , T-Tony, can I- please, can I come? P-Please, please .”
“Sure, sweetheart,” Tony finally gave in, releasing Peter’s wrists and using his hand to stroke at the neglected cock. “Since you asked so nicely,” He rubbed his thumb against the head, keeping his thrusts steady. “You can come.”
And Peter did. He came harder than he ever has. All shaking and screaming and teary-eyed as his cock pulsated, shooting thick lines of cum against his stomach and twitching when Tony milked out the rest. The aftershock had him dazed and sensitive, even Tony’s touch burned with an agonizing bliss. All he could do was lay there, trembling around Tony’s dick, which remained buried deep inside of him.
“Look at you,” Tony breathed out, grinning sly as he smeared his hand through the cum. “You think we’re done?” He shook his head, bringing his wet hand against Peter’s face and rubbing it across his cheek and lips. “All that talk about wanting me to feel good, but here you are, looking fucked stupid.”
“I’m not done,” Peter exhaled, tongue darting out to lick the mess on his lips, challenging his boyfriend despite his body urging him to reject more pleasure. “We stop when you say stop.”
“Big talk,” Tony gave a light laugh and then, without warning, he lifted Peter by the waist and flipped them over. “Let’s see you back it up,” He said as he ran his fingers up the younger’s thighs. “Ride me.”
When Peter felt the gravity keeping Tony’s dick buried inside, his body screamed with overstimulation and, judging by the smug grin plastered across his boyfriend’s face, it must have shown. He didn’t care. Instead, with the goal of making Tony come at the forefront of his mind, he pressed his hands against the older’s chest, lifted his hips halfway up, and dropped them back down.
“ Fuck ,” Peter muttered under his breath, wincing from the overwhelming spark of pleasure. “Like this, Tones?” He whined as he repeated his motion, moaning and letting his hips fall into a rhythm.
“Yeah,” Tony groaned out as he skimmed his fingers to the sides of Peter’s thighs, which would tremble after each drop. “Just like that,” He assured, his eyes flickering between Peter’s lust drunk face and his diligently working hips. “Tell me how you feel, baby boy.”
It wasn’t a question – Peter knew that – but his focus was on keeping stable, fighting through the sting of breathtaking stimulation as he vigorously bounced his hips. So, instead of obeying, he took a page out of his boyfriend’s book and talked.
“Are you going to come inside me, Tones? Are you going to give it to me? Fuck, I want it so bad. I want your cum, Tony. You feel so fucking perfect. You stretched me so well. Look how good I fit around you now.” He managed to say it all confidently, despite his slightly ragged voice.
And it paid off because, soon after, Tony was coming. Peter could feel the warmth of his climax filling the condom inside. It was a strange but gratifying feeling, only improved by Tony’s blissed out expression.
Peter carefully lifted himself off and collapsed against the sheets. He was covered in a sheen of sweat and panting. The aftermath of his orgasm still imprinted on his senses. His body felt floaty and, if he even thought about the pleasure he had experienced, a wave of chills would quake through his body like a visceral reaction to being so utterly pleased. “Is it always like that?”
Tony breathed a short laugh, looking just as wrecked as his boyfriend. “Fuck. I hope so.”
Peter giggled as he scooted closer, draping his arm across the older’s torso, “So you liked it?”
“Yes,” Tony answered without hesitation. “Holy shit, baby, of course, I did.” He stressed as he eased into the cuddling, wrapping his arms around Peter’s waist. “Did you?”
“Yes!” Peter exclaimed but quickly lowered his tone, blushing at his overexcitement. “It was good. Really good. You’re really good. Like almost too good.”
Tony snickered, “I’m glad, especially since I ticked every box but the one.”
“What?” Peter was confused and then he wasn’t as he remembered his drunken list of wants. “Oh. Oh! ” His blush deepened as he nervously shook his head. “You don’t have to check that box if you don’t want to. We have plenty of time to say it later. Honestly, it’s okay.”
“But I want to and you deserve it,” Tony whispered. “Because you mean everything to me, Peter.”
Peter was stunned by his boyfriend’s candid words and his heart pounded in his ears as he responded with a quiet, “I do?”
And Tony just nodded and leaned in for a kiss, pouring his emotions into the gentle contact and, as he pulled away, he whispered it . So perfect and meaningful that Peter almost burst into tears as he shakily reciprocated. The soft laughter that followed kept him grounded as Tony said it again and again and again. The moment was special. Precious.
And it was theirs, and theirs alone.
-
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For 900 Followers! Sub!Tim III
So many babes asked me to go on with this little idea. I don’t know why I wanted to write it so much or even continue with a trope I’m very unfamiliar with, .but welp, I did the AOB too, so why not? The first two are on my AO3 so some of those comments were really just as nice.
As a side note, this is a LONG POST. And I may have added notes at the end so there’s no spoilers.
Bleary eyes open–
And things like “I’m going to take care of you,” resonate in his brain pan.
The last twenty-four hours slamming into his immediate consciousness is not conducive to good morning, Red.
Rather, his eyes move frantically around Dick Grayson’s bedroom in a poor attempt at a hopeful bout of crime fighting with some kind of hallucinogenic thrown in.
Fat chance.
A full bottle of water is sitting on the nightstand. His clothes are in a chair by the door.
The Dom supplements and chemical blockers are out of his system.
He’d gone down into Subspace safely for the first time in his life, knowing that by the ache in his body and bleary, half-memories of things like safe.
And now that the crisis is over, he’s back to being somewhat balanced, he’s going to get his ass chewed out and who knows what Dick might insist on after the big secret is out.
A spike of panic hits him in the chest, cold and sharp, and he needs to get moving to try getting a headstart on some damage control.
On silent feet, he throws his clothes on over the bruises and rope burns, noting he doesn’t have a phone, a comm, keys, or anything else that would be, you know, helpful.
Since he’s in Gotham, his only chance is to get to the Perch and get some tech under his belt, prepare before Dick tries do something he thinks is probably in Tim’s best fucking interest since now–
They know.
Random things going through his head while he dresses, mentally struggles to push himself up and away from the call of Subspace.
(If...if he was still here when Dick finally came back, maybe he would be nice and gentle, happy that he woke up still close to slipping over.)
(Or he might want to talk about things like we should find a Dom to take care of you. It’s for your own good, Timmy.)
(“You’ll learn to love it.”)
Dick might think he needs to go to hormone therapy, might make him register so an interested Dom could...could–
(It’s all about ownership, isn’t it, Tim?)
There’s too much “I won’t punish you like this,” that he doesn’t have enough evidence to know what Dick’s next move would be now that he wasn’t going to go catatonic and shit.
(You won’t be able to hide forever.)
What he does know, is that he needs some time to get himself together–
–and make a plan.
The window is up and he’s halfway out, heart in his throat when he picks up the sound of footsteps and a door opening. A strange bout of sudden panic climbs up out of his chest at the noise, and it’s enough to spook him into not to bother closing the window when he throws himself on the fire escape and starts to climb.
**
Panicky impulse is not necessarily a good motivator. Give it to someone with years of vigilantism and extensive martial arts training under his belt, and the decision-making process is fraught with more options and factors than the average person.
Which is why Tim Drake is taking a short-cut through the Red Hood’s usual stomping grounds in hopes to cut the route he’d need to take to his Gotham Perch by half. It’s a stupid move on his part, attracting too much attention by going via the rooftop express than making it down to the street to get lost in the shadows between lamp posts.
But before Hood had claimed this as one of his territories, back when Tim was the one wearing the tunic, the shuriken R on his shoulder gleaming in the night, back when things were simpler if not still bat-shit crazy (heh) because of things like psychopaths with delusions of grandeur and megalomaniac kinks, back when he was that Robin, he’d combed every inch of these rooftops, crouched down to eat power bars and drink grape Zestis in-between busting drug deals and kicking the shit out of purse snatchers.
Gotham was his first stomping grounds in the cape, so he knows all the good places to hide.
It’s why his battered blue and white DCs feel like boots when he lands it on Gold’s Pawn, takes the whole thing in five big strides, pushing up into gravity, flying for just a second, and landing it on the run-down laundry mat next door.
He crouch-walks to keep himself low as possible, moving in the shadows when he can, breathing in the night around him with senses painfully alert after the first easy drop into Subspace he’s ever had.
(Which he is absolutely not thinking about. Nope.)
The drop-off into an alley and corresponding sprint to the next dumpster are so he can hot-foot it up to the side of a bail bondsman, avoid a loose plank, and scale up with a few handholds in the brick that are all about forearm strength.
He’s running on adrenaline, paying attention to the path ahead, panting and too full of his own thoughts–
–that he doesn’t expect the whistle of a bolo sailing through the air, or the abrupt stop of it wrapping around his knees. Embarrassingly, he makes an eep before he hits the roof, fumbling enough to scrape his damn hands.
He flips over, already working the heavy weights of the bolo from around his knees, eyes darting to the shadows, wondering if Hood might have found him after all.
(How the fuck was he going to talk his way out of this one?)
But it’s Nightwing that steps out of the shadows, brows drawn above the domino, his mouth such a sharp downward slash that Tim cringes, automatically tries to make himself smaller.
“D-Don’t!” He tries hoarsely, fingers working faster, more frantic.
(If he was back up, he’d be out of this already – his panicky brain is telling him, and that just makes it even harder, and he can’t stop to think through what he could be facing next–)
“Stop. Now.”
And the bitter bile rises up in his chest when he responds to that voice, when he stops, has to wait.
He’s still too fresh coming off of Subspace, too long of not going down, that it’s ten times harder to resist.
“I’m not happy,” is low and dark from the Dominant in front of him, hands deceptively loose at his sides. “You aren’t ready to be out yet. I’m sure you’re fully aware of that, Tim.”
His hands are starting to shake because he still tries to fight, eyes fixed on booted feet coming toward him. His fingers curl into fists, but that’s as far as he can go.
“What if you dropped a few minutes ago? No grapple? No way to catch yourself? You obviously aren’t thinking rationally, which means you need to be taken down at least once more before you’re stable. Maybe even twice if I can get you there.”
A sob works it’s way up, and he has to clench his teeth against it, arms straining with the effort to just get his fucking hands to work.
“You were so good for me, and this? Running away? Such a big no-no.”
(“Don’t fight it. Don’t ever fight it.”)
He bites down hard, harder, needs the pain to break free. He has to get free.
(“I’m not going to punish you like this.” So, you’ll wait until I’m not dropping, right?)
“I understand why you didn’t come to me when you needed help,” and Nightwing is only two steps away, pauses when he notices blood on Tim’s chin, on how the chest under the oversized hoodie is rapidly rising and falling.
The choked sound could have been a laugh or a sob, telling the vigilante some of what he needs to know.
“You presented after Bruce was lost in time, didn’t you?” It’s deceptively soft, but the undertone is all Dom.
“Y-Yes,” he grits out grudgingly, unable to stop himself. “After I lost my spleen.”
There’s something there that makes Nightwing pause, the booted feet hesitating.
“I’m sorry.” Is softer than he wants to hear, than he wants to deal with while he’s fighting against his true nature. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I wasn’t there for so long, and it’s going to be hard to trust me now.”
It’s all a jumble of whatever, so he’s only got half an ear on the voice, trying to make it subtle when he lowers his clenched hands enough to wiggle one finger in the bolo’s rope around his knees from the back. He needs to get them loose enough to get away–
(from that voice, from that promise, from everything Dick represents to him right that second).
“But you need to at least try,” the older vigilante continues, takes one step forward, pausing again when Tim flinches violently back, is breathing too fast, too harshly, might work himself over into hyperventilation.
“Ssstop,” from between clenched teeth, “stop it.”
“My inner Dom would never let me leave a Sub in need, and I wouldn’t anyway because you, one of my partners, needs this. You need to submit. You can feel what your body is telling you, Tim.”
To run the fuck away and never look back.
And Nightwing slowly takes a knees, those whiteouts focusing on the Sub’s face hidden by the hood.
Luckily, Dick Grayson is a good Dom.
He’s the one that figured out B’s secret not long after getting the inner Dom senses when he presented. It all happened during the crazy span of time Clark had to vanish deep in the universe, and left B to keep things on Earth in line with the JLA while also doing the usual vigilante justice in Gotham.
Still in pixie boots, Dick had done everything to help shoulder the burden, but it wasn’t long when he started seeing the signs. When his Dark Knight was getting closer and closer to the edge. He’d overwork himself to the point of exhaustion, trying to keep from getting too violent with criminals and megalomaniacs. The struggle to keep himself at the top of his game, one step ahead of the baddies, the more intense brooding.
It killed Dick to watch B spiral, so he’d done his homework on Submissives, trying to put his first scene together that would be easy for both of them without ever acting as a Dom before.
Even back then, he was good at anticipating, and it was as simple as ordering his other Dad to shower and change into pajamas, to eat everything Alfred made him, and sleep for eight hours.
That was enough to balance them both out, to bring them closer as partners.
That might have been the first time he used the Dom Voice on Bruce, but it wasn’t the last. It was the high point of their partnership when Bruce finally gave in and let his Robin take him down when his Dom was busy and the world was closing in.
It had gone far in making him into a good Dom, able to talk down terrified Subs, to volunteer as a Service Dom, to separate out Dick Grayson’s Dom with all his personal preferences and the Dom that wants to give the Sub what he or she needs.
(It’s still a sore point with him, how he thought being Bruce’s stand-in Dom is what drove him to take away the tunic, because B couldn’t look at him the same, couldn’t see his sidekick after a while…)
He hoped he and Tim could at least come to an understanding. To be equals, partners again. And this revelation could be such a big step to making that happen. If he could make Tim believe in him, if he could give the third Robin a safe place to be able to let go.
He could make up for at least some of those old pains, maybe even earn Tim’s trust back again.
It was a solid plan, but not as easily executable as he’d thought, proven when he had caught the sound of the window opening, half-way into making something breakfast-y, his heart slammed hard when he’d taken off down to the hall to find his bed and bathroom empty.
A moment of panic hit Dick in the chest because Tim was still too vulnerable to the Dom Voice after the drop into Subspace while riding the dregs of withdraw–
He hadn’t had time to explain the plan to keep Tim from running. Hadn’t had the time to admit he’d had taken a blood sample to analyze once he’d finally un-tied the dazed Sub and let Tim sleep off however many days of insomnia he’d been riding. A call to Bruce while Tim was passed out cold in his bed to share the results, and they made a tentative plan.
He’d talked to Bart, Kon, and Cassie, asked them to come by tomorrow night, hopefully to see for themselves that Tim was getting better, more lucid and on-his-game. He thought making a point to bring some of the Titans to Gotham could have meant avoiding this very thing.
Tim’s usual deflection methods.
And as much as he doesn’t really want to, he’s going to have to put his foot down, and listen to his instincts on this one.
Blinking away the wetness in his eyes, Tim’s hands pause, and the sinking feeling in his chest that might N have a valid point weighs him down on the rooftop in Gotham, just as much as the bolo around his legs.
The Dom is doing that Bat-loom thing because he’s fucking concerned. Just looking up to see hands poised over his arms, waiting for permission, and everything in Tim sways closer when the Dom voice comes out–
(like when he’s told how good he is, how beautiful in ropes and restraints, how perfect he is when he just gives the fuck in)
–so, of course, when he insanely thinks he can’t have this means he has to push it and see if it’ll break.
“Trust? You want me to trust you, Dick? You think I don’t know you all want the same thing?” He grits his teeth to shut the Submissive in the depths of his brain pan the hell up, “fucking Doms. Want to punish me, Dick? Want to beat me until I bleed for you? Want to hit me until I’m a good little bitch?”
Some kind of tension bleeds out of Nightwing’s rigid spine. His hands flex and loosen, the deep frown gone when the vigilante sighs.
He finally moves then, pushes Tim’s hands away to work the bolo loose himself.
“Not all of us are assholes like that. I know you know I’m not like that.” And even when he gets the ropes loose, drops it beside them, the weights making a light thump, fingerstripes flash through the night act like impromptu manacles.
“Look at me.”
Even without the Dom voice this time, he can’t disobey. More because it’s Dick rather than the man that wrapped him in ropes and gave him what he needed to be able to go down without pain or force or fear.
“This is terrifying for you. No, I don’t really know, but there’s no other reason for you to run away from me than if you thought things were going to change, or if you thought I would give a crap about you being a Sub.” He taps his domino to raise the whiteouts, blue, blue eyes zeroing right in. “I would never, never punish you for protecting yourself, Tim, and that is exactly what you were doing. I hope, after you were able to go down for me, you’ll realize you don’t have to anymore.”
And since it’s Dick, the words his deep enough to make him suck in a breath, to ease down some of the blatant fears that came along with this little reveal.
Tim can’t look Nightwing in the face as blood rushes back in his lower legs when the bolo comes off, but blue and black kevlar is presses in tight against him so he can’t get up to run again.
“Hey, c’mon Detective. Use the evidence you’ve already got.” Is more gentle than he expected, making some of the steel in his spine soften.
“I...he-he told me,” and the words get caught up somewhere, stuck somewhere in the center of his chest because he’d never spoken about what happened when he was desperate, before synthetic supplements, before heavy mediation and self-dropping techniques.
(But he couldn’t only ever get himself down so far, only to skim the top of Subspace, still achy and half-manic after every attempt.)
“Well, well, well, lookit what we got here.”
Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
Nightwing is on his feet in a breath of movement, escrima sticks out automatically, knees bent and ready to lunge.
But the Red Hood just holds up both .45s, barrels pointed to the sky, and cocks out a hip. “Nice ta see ya, Baby Boy. Thought ya couldn’t be out t’night ‘causea some business.”
Tim already knows it’s too late to run, but the opportunity is one he really can’t pass up.
“Case, we were...we were working on a case. Hood. Hey man. How’s kicks? Any new baddies lately?”
“Slow night in Gotham, Timmers,” as he hops down off the high ledge and makes the walk over look good. “Good t’ see ya made it outta that last throw-down. I hate those DaDa fucks like ya wouldn’t believe.”
“Tell me about it,” he ignores Nightwing’s hand and clambers to his own feet, hoodie keeping his face on the down-low in case nosy reporters are snooping about the rooftops.
“Nah. Ain’t one a’ my best stories anyhow.” Hood puts a big hand to Tim’s shoulder, ducks down a little so the whiteouts can catch his eye, “‘sides, ya look like ya could fall the fuck over any minute now. Been balls deep in yer case means ya ain’t been sleepin’, right Timmy?”
“Yeah,” he makes his eyes meet the whiteouts, tries to play it off because he desperately doesn’t want to react to Jason Todd’s inner Dom (if anyone would know how to cause pain, it would be the vigilante that almost killed him more than once. They might be better now, might even work together sometimes, but he’s got no way of knowing how Jay would react to the truth). “Yeah, it’s been a rough couple of days.”
He internally cringes when the helmet perks.
“Seems that way since yer workin’ a case right after those fucks had yer team runnin’ ragged.” And the Red Hood takes a small step closer, a hand goes for Tim’s wrist, leather fingers overlapping. The tight hold makes his knees wobble, black eating at the edges of his vision (he’s between two Doms and the Submissive in him can’t help but want to drop to his knees for them, to be Good, to beg for their orders, to give himself over–).
Hood is saying something, but he can’t really hear the words, can only stare up at the whiteouts with his wrist held tight between them.
Your restraints would feel safe comes completely out of left fucking field and that panicky feeling is back, creeping up his throat, coppery in his mouth.
(I’m so screwed.)
Subtly, Nightwing slides a hand up to the back of Tim’s neck, thumb pressing at the right pressure point, helps flood his brain pan with the right endorphins, shaking him out of the daze.
“Yeah, lookit ya,” and the helmet shakes from side-to-side while the synths register the tisking. “Better get yer ass somewhere and sleep it off, Timmy. Ain’t ya still godda Perch in Gotham?”
“I’m taking him to my place,” N interjects, “so I can make sure he takes care of himself.”
Tim is with it enough to look at the Dom behind him, the threat of the hand on the back of his neck enough to keep him from protesting in front of Hood, but he can’t stop his body from tensing up when Nightwing takes just a tiny step closer to his back, the heat of him, the power and strength, the command an enticing pull and terrifying prospect in the same breath.
(“You’ll learn to love it.”
“I’ll never punish you for protecting yourself.”)
The synths are quiet for a long second, the Red Hood pulling off a little bit of that Bat-stillness.
“Hey Dickie, what case didja say ya were workin’ again?” Is off-handed, but if Tim knows anything about Jason Todd, it’s that very few things about him are accidental.
He opens his mouth to blurt out something that could be somewhat believable, but Nightwing beats him to it, “we’re looking into some shady dealings happening in a few care centers around town. Abusive Doms that like to ignore contracts if you know what I mean.”
It must have been the thing Hood needed to hear because the vigilante’s attention shifts, and he throws up a pointer finger in their direction, “s’at so, Big Wing? Ya need anyone else on ‘at, just lemme know. Motherfucking hate shitty Doms, you feel me here?”
Through the haze settling over him, fighting the urge to sink to his knees, Tim sucks in a surprised breath, not sure if he wants more information or to get the hell off this rooftop before he gives himself away.
“I mean, ya know what I’m sayin’. Some asshole ain’t gonna be what his Sub needs, ain’t gotta place workin’ a clinic. ‘At’s fer damn sure.”
“Agreed,” Nightwing replies quickly, “so we’re going through a lot of personnel files, you know? If we need another pair of eyes or hands in on it, we’re going to call you first.”
“Sounds righteous, boys. If ya need it, ya know how ta find me,” a two fingered salute before the gauntlet grapple fires into the night, “an’ fer fuck’s sake, Timmers. Get some damn sleep. Look like a fucking pile a’ shit warmed over.” With that parting shot, the Red Hood leaps off the roof, going back to patrol.
The second he swings off around the 7-11 on the corner, Tim lets out the breath he’d been holding in a woosh, and with it, the strength left in his knees.
“Stubborn ass,” Dick gripes, catching him easily enough, slides one of his arms over Kevlar and Nomac. “But you’re my stubborn ass, aren’t you?”
He might make a noise, something slurry and low, something that could have been bite me or bet me.
But he turns enough to catch those fingerstripes stark against the pale skin of his wrist, and something in him, something long buried and denied makes a knot warm in his belly, makes his mouth water, makes the random flash in the forefront of his brain pan–
Those fingerstripes in his mouth, opening him up, playing with the rope around his chest and shoulders, tapping on the gag in his mouth, feeding him bits of food, his tongue curling around them, following the motions of his Dom…
– “Timmy? Oh baby, you’re going down deep aren’t you?”
“N-No, no, I’m–” but somehow he’s sitting on Dick’s overstuffed couch, his shoes and hoodie removed, and Dick crouched at his side, holding a grape Zesti with a little straw sticking out. The top of the Nightwing suit is open to the waist, the top half pulled off to flop around Dick’s legs.
Fuck, how much time did he lose?
When he would have jerked up, tried to run his mouth for a little deflection tech, he’s pathetically at a loss for words when Dick’s free hand comes up to cup over his mouth, not letting the deflections come out–
And Dick keeping a hand over his mouth, muffling his moans, his screams, his sobs…
– and a thumb pressing gently into the pressure point in his wrist makes his eyes flutter enough to focus.
“That’s it. Open again for me. Such a good boy,” and his mouth drop open automatically, another piece of bagel with cream cheese for him to chew. He’s on Dick’s lap this time, not on the couch by himself, or kneeling at Dick’s feet, but just laying against the Dom’s chest with some sense of satisfaction when he chews, swallows, and opens up for the next bite.
“I know it’s hard to think right now, but you’re so perfect like this. Doing exactly what I wanted. My perfect Sub, doing so beautifully for me.”
He moans a little around the bite, warming at the praise, hands lose in his lap, gets to lick the extra cream cheese off Dick’s finger for the next bite.
“Mmhm. I’m going to let you stay down for a little while longer. You’re feeling really nice right now, and you need it, don’t you, baby? You haven’t let yourself have this nearly enough.”
He makes a soft noise in his chest, using words too much of a bother at the moment.
“I know, I know. But it’s okay. You’re safe here with me. You can let go when I’m here, Timmy, I promise. I’ll keep you safe.”
A few more bites and he gets a few drinks of some tart juice, the taste sharp and tart enough to make the haze around him lighten up, gives him enough awareness to turn his head and make sure he knows where they are this time.
The color of the walls and pulley system on the ceiling tells him they’re in Dick’s bedroom this time, and the suit hanging on the back of the door has absolutely nothing to do with their usual nightlife.
He gets a few minutes to take in the shine off the latex, the embedded rings stark silver against the black, the heavy hood with extra straps to go over the eyes and mouth, holes in the nose so the person inside could breathe.
“Another drink, Timmy. That’s it. My pretty Sub is almost ready, aren’t you?” Dick leans down just a little to talk lower into his ear. “You’re going to go down for me again, all the way, aren’t you? You’re going to let me see you like that again, how gorgeous you are when you’re in Subspace. And you’re going to be good and let me help you get there.”
But Tim shudders a little in the Dom’s hold, trying to think through the haze that just wants him to be pliant, that wants him to give in and make Dick happy, wants to do whatever he has to for Dick to keep saying he’s...he’s good.
But...But there was a reason he left in the first place, isn’t there?
“D-Dick, I…” but that felt wrong in his mouth, the words so hard to form when he feels almost woozy, wants to slide to his knees and kneel at Dick’s feet, wants to call him Sir and feel that attention fixed on him again.
The hand on his jaw is warm and the touch sends a thrill through his nerve endings, automatically lets him lean into the touch, eyes fluttering open–
(when did he close his eyes?)
–to the dark blue of Dick looking down at him critically, assessing, seeing more than Tim had let anyone but the occasional Titan in on.
“Oh,” the Dom breathes out very, very quietly, looking at the soft flush to Tim’s pale face, the way he’d immediately softened at skin-to-skin touch.
A new plans starts forming, his eyes darting to the latex suit he’d pulled out when it seemed like Tim needed another scene with sensory deprivation (not that the idea of putting his Sub in the suit wasn’t very appealing to his helpless kink – his mind going places featuring Tim in the suit writhing below him), but the automatic reaction makes him change his mind immediately.
He tests his theory, hand slowly moving so his palm spans the side of Tim’s throat, thumb back-and-forth over his jugular.
The vulnerable position doesn’t bring any self-preservation to the fore, just makes Tim’s mouth open for a soft sigh.
Touch-starved.
“Mmhm,” he draws out, low and deep, “you’re ready to get started now. I want you to stand up and strip down to your boxers. Fold your clothes neatly and put them on the bureau. Then, I want you to kneel and wait for me. Do you understand, Tim?”
He sees the sluggish movement of violet-blue eyes go to the suit on the back of the door, start to get fixed.
“I asked once, Tim. I don’t want to ask again.”
The hazey quality makes his movements more sloppy and sluggish, something he can’t focus on while he’s trying to do what his Dom wanted, half-terrified of punishment, half-excited at what his Dom might do to him this time, what could make the quality of his tone, the glaring warning (“I don’t want to ask again.”) change into something...else.
His hands are shaky by the time he’s done, laying his folded clothes neatly on the bureau. There a moment of panic, of fear, spearing his chest when he realizes he doesn’t know where to kneel. Sir didn’t tell him where.
(Close to the suit, by the bed, in the middle of the floor? If he gets it wrong, what will Sir do to him? If he asks, will he get punished anyway? He didn’t listen close enough the first time, must have missed it, because he’s bad at this, a bad Sub...)
His mouth goes dry and coppery, the air cool on his bare skin, goosebumps rising on his arms.
“S-Sir, where…?” Is trembly and tentative, so unlike the dangerous vigilante lurking under his skin, under the haze, under the need to do this, to be this.
To give in.
“Right by the bed, Timmy. That’s where I want you. Good boy for asking.” Sir calls absently while he’s in the bathroom, light on and door open, where he’d apparently gone while Tim was stripping down.
But the relief is a palpable thing, makes him stumble on the first step. But he focuses on sitting back on his heels, hands loose on his bare thighs, breathing through his nose.
He keeps his chin tilted down when Sir comes back with a white bottle in his hands, and opens the nightstand drawer, pulling out a set of leather cuffs.
“You’re doing perfectly. Stay right there while I get some things ready for you.”
But his eyes slide to the suit waiting, something about it just–
Dick pauses in rifling through the drawer, turning to look at him, really look even though he hadn’t heard a sound. Something here set off his inner sense.
“Tim,” is careful, curious. “Check in.”
But his eyes can’t leave the hood, the shiny zipper up the back, the straps over his mouth both soothing and stifling and his brain doesn’t know if he can take it right now, if he can calm down enough not to fight it. If it won’t choke him.
(That could be your punishment after all. No movement, can’t scream, can’t breathe, just a body tied down to be fucked or bled, just like he promised…)
Dick’s hand is warm on his jaw again, the touch turning him abruptly, breaking him out of a mental loop.
“What are your safewords?” The Dom Voice, the one thing that could really bring him back, make him focus.
“Red...Yellow...G-Green, Sir.”
“Good Boy,” low and slow, “now check in.”
He swallows softly, trembling with the possibility he’s getting himself in trouble by admitting, “...y-yellow.”
And as deep as he is, as the heavy haze settled over him pulls this part of him out, the one with the need to please, that wanted praise, terrified of fucking up, of being bad, being thrown away and abandoned and–
He cringes back, wincing like an animal waiting for the blow.
But the Dom doesn’t let him pull away, the grip on his jaw gets tight, giving him another spike of fear right in the center of his chest.
But Sir is unfailingly gentle when he says, “that’s right, baby. My. Good. Boy. I’m so proud of you for telling me the truth.”
The breath he’d been holding rushes out, leaving him trembling slightly, trying to concentrate on just staying still where Sir’s hand is holding his jaw.
“What do you need to calm down? Maybe a collar?”
“I…” his eyes go to the suit again, “th-that. The suit. I...I don’t know if I can– if I can do it this time? I...I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Sir, I–”
“That’s okay. I changed my mind about the suit, too. Maybe another time. I think you don’t need that to go down. I have something different planned.”
His shoulders and back relax with the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying, but he keeps his jaw right in the palm of his Dom’s hand. “Th-thank-you, Sir.”
“You’re welcome,” is gentle, but still with an edge. “And now you know I expect you to use your safeword, Tim. You will use it when you need to, just like you needed to a few minutes ago and didn’t.”
“I,” and he blinks wetly, eyes suddenly hot, “I...Sir–”
“Mmhm. I already told you last time that you will safeword out, and you didn’t, did you, Tim?”
His breath is more of a gasp, a hiccup, and he has to blink again, try to keep his eyes from spilling over, “No. No Sir.”
“Tell me why.”
“I-I,” and he has to swallow, can’t close his eyes, or stop the tremble up his spine, “I was a-afraid you would punish me if I...if I said no.”
“Mmhm, and what did I tell you on the roof?” Is soft with a dangerous, low edge.
“That...that you wouldn’t punish me for protecting myself.” And it’s too late because one lone drop spills out, rolls down until Sir’s thumb rubs it away.
“That’s right. You will safeword out when something might hurt you. That is absolutely non-negotiable.” Dick’s tone is firm, an edge of anger that makes the Submissive in him shrink down because he’d made the Dom angry with him. “Rule number one, Tim. If you let me hurt you when you could have stopped me–”
Tim’s eyes widen, a shudder runs down his spine, because the cool, calm facade doesn’t touch those eyes, a promise of something dark lurking just under the surface.
(And it’s not too far out of the realm of possibilities that Sir’s been playing the Good Dom with him up until now. Being nice and attentive, caring and touching … but there’s something, something there that pulls at his instincts, makes it easier to submit each time...would it sting so good if Dick was the one using a crop on him this time?)
“–I will punish you. Do you understand?”
“Yes–yes, Sir,” and punish makes his spine snap ramrod straight, makes him tremble in the palm of Dick’s hand, makes him lower his eyes.
“Now, you are going to wear my cuffs again. I’m going to restrain you, and you are going to lay down on my bed on your belly.” Sir’s thumb swipes under his eye again before the hand is gone off his face, letting Tim drop his chin to his chest.
Dick watches the struggle for a few moments, the movement of eyes under the lids, the pink staining his nose and under his eyes, the rapid blinks to keep his eyes from spilling over. And even if he wants to do nothing more than drop to his knees and take Tim in his arms, to keep him held securely, to surround him in strength and support, to talk against the top of his head, to call him little brother and I’ll never let another Dom hurt you. Even if his arms ache, his chest tight with it, he knows that isn’t at all what the Submissive hiding inside Tim Drake, Red Robin, really needs.
He needs to understand where the boundaries are, not the ones imposed on him from the abusive Dom, but the real boundaries Submissive and Dominants set for any Scene (normally by way of contracts, which they will be having that conversation, Timmy, you can bet on it).
“Give me your wrist, sweetheart. I’m going to take care of you,” no room for questions or internal struggle. It’s the Dom in him taking care of his Sub in need.
The hand trembles but rises up without Tim lifting his face, and Dick very gently leans down to press his mouth against the throbbing pulse before fitting the thick leather cuff around and buckling it securely in place.
Without being told, Tim holds up the other one, the trembling moving down his wrists to his shoulders, and Dick can see how it’s starting to be too much, too overwhelming, knows where they need to go, how they need to stop all those riotous thoughts from controlling him.
“Good boy, Timmy. You look so good in my cuffs, just perfect.”
“Thank-you, Sir.”
“Now, up on my bed, sweetheart. I want to get your ankles.”
Even though he doesn’t want to, Dick steps back instead of helping his shaky Submissive, watches Tim crack his eyes open and turn to crawl on the bed, laying down on his belly with every muscle strung tight.
It’s fine. By the time he’s done, he’s going to make sure Tim falls into Subspace, soft and relaxed, eyes dazed and mouth pink, smiling up at him when he’s so sweet, so trusting, so perfect putting himself in Dick’s hands and giving the hell in.
He doesn’t give further instructions, just picks up the two remaining cuffs, runs his fingers gently down Tim’s calf until he gets to the ankle, wraps his long fingers around one and tightens down. The tense muscles relax just a little, just enough that he can tell, can take the sign for what it is, and fit the cuff, buckle it in place with the D-ring facing the right way. Dick repeats the process with the other ankle, working his Sub into it with his touch first before fitting the cuff and tightening it down.
The bottle he’d prepared and chain lengths he’d attached to the braces at the bottom of the bed are ready for step two.
It’s easy to keep one hand moving up and down his Sub’s lower leg while the other clips the chain on the D-ring at each ankle, moving up so he can make light circles on Tim’s back. He doesn’t need to tell Tim to stretch out his arms, the tentative movement puts the cuffs close enough to secure.
“That’s right. You know I’m going to take care of you, aren’t I, Tim?”
The body under his hand shudders, “yes, Sir.”
But, no, Dick isn’t convinced, but right now, he and Tim have all the time in the world.
He picks up the last thing he’d prepared. “Yes, I am. Now, open.”
His jaw trembles, but Tim closes his eyes and tries, tries, to believe. He opens up and the taste of silicone is like another checkpoint. This one has holes, is more breathable, and he holds still as the buckle is fastened and then, the silk comes over his eyes.
He just breathes out and lets it happen.
And it’s so beautiful when Tim stops fighting him again, starts to give in, is gingerly putting his submission in Dick’s hands.
It gets to him down deep where the Dominant wants his Sub to always be this loose, this giving, whether it’s after a few rounds with the riding crop or overstimulated with more orgasms than they thought possible.
Or, what plans to spend the next two hours doing.
“Shake your cuff, Tim,” is soft and dark when both hands start making easy strokes up and down his back. One disappears and comes back smelling like soft musk, is slick and warm and strong. It’s a crazy thing how he unconsciously arches into it, the touch light but still firm, his skin sensitive against it.
It takes a second for his brain to hear the gentle jingle-jingle-jingle.
Bell. Attached to the restraints.
“Shake it once for Red. Twice for Yellow.”
Tim might have made a noise, might have raised up when those fingers lightly brush over old scars. He might let out a soft noise through the because it’s starting to feel like too much, just being...touched.
While Tim tenses and relaxes, Dick tries to be easy about throwing a leg over Tim’s hips, using both hands to start working out all the tension, all the knots, all the tight tendons. Back when, he’d worked at the gym in the Haven, he’d had plenty experience rubbing out old injuries, not to mention his many, many superhero and vigilante besties that get hurt doing something stupid in the name of justice. He literally spent an hour on Wally’s calves and thighs once, and the guy passed right the hell out before Dick was even halfway done.
But this? Feeling how hard Tim falls for this, moaning out at being touched and tended, those noises helpless through his gag when the hard muscle finally gives under his hands, the way he sinks further into the bed between Dick’s thighs just gives him all the evidence he needs.
(Octopus Hold Protocol is a GO.)
So he settles back on his heels, sitting gingerly on the back of Tim’s thighs, gets himself in the mindset for the long haul, occasionally picking up the bottle to slick his hands with warming massage oil so he could move slow and firm, touching and rubbing and working his tense Submissive all the way down to the waistband of his boxers, then takes his time to work back up again.
It takes a few minutes of constant touch, of Dick’s hands on him, before the tension really starts melting away under the massage. The Dom finally moves down, starts on thighs and calves, rhythmic and soothing, taking satisfaction from each boneless flop when he’d worked out the entire leg, listening to the soft sounds, muffled but oh so enticing.
By the second or third time he’s reached the back of Tim’s neck, uses thumbs to work the vertebrae and around to the hinges of his jaw, Tim was making soft, satisfied noises.
Dick’s pretty sure if he removes the blindfold, those eyes would be dazed and soft and trusting, that Tim is down far enough to be in Subspace, completely lax in his restraints, hands open, flopped on the soft bedspread.
“That’s perfect, Pretty Bird,” when he just slows down to rubbing his thumbs down his Sub’s neck again, humming from his own high off the successful scene. “I want you to stay just like this.”
And since Dick’s an amazing detective, he’s completely right when Tim’s eyes are softly unfocused, don’t immediately seek out the boltholes and easy-getaways, but lazily blink up at him, relaxed and open and trusting.
He unconsciously brushes fingers over Tim’s cheeks, is enamoured when his palm is nuzzled and a big sigh lifts Tim’s chest a little, making the Dom roll with the rush of endorphins from a job well done.
“Beautiful,” Dick praises softly. “But it’s time to eat, sweetheart, and I want you to kneel for me, just like this. So soft and sweet while you’re down.”
He unclips ankles and then wrists, leaves Tim’s ankles free, but arms pulled behind him, the D-rings fastening his wrists together.
The gag comes out, but Tim’s too far down to fight and put on a mask, just leans into it when Dick wipes the saliva from his chin with a soft cloth.
“One more thing,” is the (his) collar buckled and snug, marking him. A leash clips to the ring right under the Good Boy, makes it easier somehow for Tim to find his balance when he stands with his arms fastened behind him, hazy and focused on Sir’s every move now that he can see.
Eat. Sir said it was time to eat, time to kneel. He can do that. He can be good and do that.
He follows a step behind, his body achy and loose, legs wobbly like Jello-O, but he’s never felt lighter.
It’s easy now when the real world is far, far away, and he can be here, in Sir’s apartment, following the rules, making Sir happy with him.
It’s easy to keep one foot in front of another, hoping for hands on his neck, his shoulders, his back. Wants to feel hands in his hair, wants to suck on the fingers feeding him, wants to lay against Sir’s leg again and just be.
He kneels without being told, going down too hard, too fast, hitting the wood floor hard with a sharp crack, still not jarring enough to pull him back up from this fuzzy contentment.
“Easy next time, Pretty Bird. I don’t like my Subs damaged unless it’s at my hand when they’re begging for it.” Sir uses the leash wrapped around his hand to pull Tim up to his feet, free hand tilting his face up, and Sir’s eyes are light blue, are pleased with him. “First, you’re going to get the snack I made for us. Then we’re going to eat and relax a little.”
“Yes, Sir,” is soft and happy, making the Dom hum as he unclips the leash and sits back on the couch to watch what his Sub is going to do.
He’s too far down to realize picking anything up with his hands isn’t going to work, but the basket on the counter has food inside and a handle, with a clean cloth laying over it. So he doesn’t think of anything else but opening his jaw and using his mouth to carry their snack over and kneel on the pillow by Sir’s feet just like he was told.
He doesn’t even wobble, just tilts his head back and offers the basket to Dick with his cheeks pink and hair an adorable mess, waiting for the next set of instructions.
“So smart, aren’t you?” Dick coos, taking the basket from his Sub’s mouth and gently running his fingers through the snarls. “You knew what I wanted you to do, didn’t you, Timmy? My clever little Sub.”
The fresh fruit and lunch meat is cool and easy to take from Dick’s fingers, makes his Dom happy, makes his Dom focus on him, give him attention he desperately craves. The satisfaction wells up in his chest, gives him the boldness to lick at Sir’s fingers, scrape his teeth gently against the tips, suck more than he needs to.
Some water for him and Dick flips on the television, The Trouble With Tribbles coming on.
“I’m going to catch up on paperwork, and I want you to stay right here with me. Got that, sweetheart?”
Tim is already moving when the hand on the back of his neck makes him list against the Dom’s leg, eyes half-mast watching the program.
“Yes, Sir. Going to stay with you.” He sighs in contentment, falls a little further under where everything is soft and nothing hurts. He doesn’t have to offer to help, doesn’t have to focus on his own cases, doesn’t have to be Tim or Red Robin. He doesn’t have to be the vigilante or the leader of the Titans, he can just fuzzily tune into the show while soft scritches punctuate when Sir writes.
After a little while, he gets questions and doesn’t even have to think about his answers really. It’s okay to tell his Dom whatever he wants to know, to tell the truth because that’s what Good Boys do.
And it feels so good like this when Sir calls him good, runs fingers through his hair absently even when his attention is fixed on the spiral notebook. Getting the attention even when Sir is busy makes warmth bloom in his chest, makes it easier to sink back down.
“Hm. If another Dom put restraints on you, would you like that?”
“Mmhm. Feels good, Sir. Like being held.”
“That’s good, baby. I’m so glad you’re telling me the truth.”
“I...I’m being good for you, Sir?”
“You absolutely are. My good boy, my Pretty Bird.”
He vaguely hears tisking and rubs his cheeks against his Dom’s thigh, hears, “hm. Still a lot of questions I don’t want to ask while you’re nice and relaxed. Maybe I’ll come visit you in the Tower one day when you can’t run from me.”
The Submissive in him reacts when Sir’s tone changes, hides his face in Dick’s leg, shoulders tensing.
The hand in his hair starts moving again, subtly sliding down to palm the back of his neck, and the grip gets just a little more firm. “Mmhm. Seems like you’re back enough to know I haven’t forgotten. Does that mean you’re to tell me why you ran out this morning?”
And maybe because he isn’t the vigilante, because he’s down far enough that lying to his Dom makes him cold and sick, makes his eyes burn, and he has to blink wetly to keep from getting Sir’s pants wet.
“You… you were going to punish me.”
“What? Tim,” and the hand on his neck isn’t gentle or coaxing, but firm enough that his head moves bonelessly on his neck, dazed, watery eyes looking up. “I already told you I wasn’t going to punish you.”
“ ‘Like this,’ you said.” And his chest stutters with a hard breath, “but I lied. For years. It...it’s going to eventually be time, and I...I–”
Would rather get it over with.
“Tim,” and Sir’s eyes are so blue, “one of these days, I am going to punish you. That’s going to happen. But, I will always, always tell you first. I will tell you when and why you’re being punished, and when you can finally talk to me about what that other Dom did to you, I will make sure I don’t make those same mistakes. Do you understand?”
He opens his mouth, eyes getting hot, the haze of Subspace fading because he doesn’t know if he can really believe it, believe in Dick, believe in something different than what the other Dom made him believe.
“Tim. Check in. Right now.”
“R-Red,” is hoarse, his eyes finally spilling over.
The hold is gone from his neck, and he can pull away, can pull back, the softness of Subspace, the safety in it abruptly fading away until he can at least start to think again.
Well, he can come back up enough to pull away from Dick’s leg, off the pillow where he’d been kneeling, scramble back in his boxers to the far wall while Dick watches him try to hide, try to stop the vulnerability in every twitch of muscle.
“That’s really not how I was hoping to bring you back up this time,” Dick admits softly, and tries to be easy when he stands, keeps his hands loose by his sides, footsteps light when he kneels by the trembling Submissive, one that didn’t have time to come back in his own time, one that probably feels nauseous and disoriented and afraid with the abrupt mental shift.
Eyes intent, Dick Grayson has had enough experiences with Submissives to know the effect of being forced back out of Subspace and leans over slowly, snags a soft throw off his chair to wrap around Tim’s back, ignoring the obvious flinch.
“But, it’s definitely time we talked.”
This time when Dick’s fingers tunnel through his hair, it’s easy and gentle, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, just like back when they were train surfing and vigilante-ing it up all over Gotham and the Haven and most of the world, it’s a comforting thing he’d almost totally forgotten about in the years he’d been on his own.
“N-no, I...no.”
“Yeah, sorry kiddo, but I’m not taking that for an answer. Not anymore.”
And as crazy as it is, he tries to fight it with weak, bound arms and his brain half-trapped in that warm place where nothing hurts, tries to remember Dick is a Dom and anything he says could very well be used against him, but it’s all for nothing when the older vigilante wrangles him off the floor and back in the niche of a lap (safe), wraps both arms around him to keep him from running.
The ending credits are playing in the background, forgotten while Dick gently rocks Tim in his arms, waiting for the shivers to stop.
“Before Jay showed up, you were about to tell me what that other Dom said to you,” is breathed out against his too-long hair. “Maybe we should get back to that, so I can tell you exactly what is bullshit and what is the truth. We can set some boundaries to make this easier for you.”
Clenching his fists against the comfort Dick is making him take, keeping his eyes closed so maybe he doesn’t lose his pride, Tim grits out, “I know the truth, Dick. I’ve helped pull Subs out of underground clubs and shit too.”
Like I really have to remind you. Robin, remember?
“No,” is drawn out a little, Dick’s nose close to his, “you’ve only see the absolute worst of us, Timmy. Unfortunately, vigilantes only get to see the douche bag Doms that hurt their Subs rather than the good ones that understand what a gift it is to have someone compatible trust them enough to submit.”
“The only thing Doms want from their Subs is to fuck them or punish them. You think I don’t know that?”
And oh. Oh, Timmy. Just wait until he finds the Dom that did this to you. “Did I do either of those things to you?”
“T-That doesn’t mean it still isn’t true–”
“It absolutely isn’t true. At all. Don’t get me wrong, there are some Doms that might only want that from their Subs, and it’s their job to find a Sub into that same scene, not to force their preferences on someone else. But as for all of us? Hell, no. Jay isn’t like that and neither is Roy or Donna or Gar or any other Dom I’ve ever met outside of ones I’ve arrested.”
Those eyes flutter open, look sharper, less hazy and compliant, “You hang around with heroes, Dick–”
“Hey! I have a social life outside of vigilantes and metas, Tim. I scene, and often. I was even a therapy Dom for a while, so no. It’s not just because of the people we meet in our nightlife.”
In his lap, Tim shivers, the ring at the bottom of his collar shiny in the light through the windows.
Carefully, Dick reaches behind him and thumbs the D-ring on the right cuff open, lets the other ring slip out so Tim can bring his arms around and hold himself under the blanket.
It’s another way he can help ease the transition out of Subspace.
“This is hard, sweetheart,” he continues softer, reaches under to wrap his fingers around a wrist above the cuff, “I know it is. You haven’t felt safe enough or had the space you need to explore what you like as a Submissive. Part of my job is to help you find out so you can say no when you need to. And I want to help. I want to help you so much. I don’t want you to be afraid to go down or to let go when you need to.”
It makes his heart ache when Tim turns his face away, hunches deeper into himself.
“I’m sorry. I know this isn’t...ideal for you. If there had been time, B and I would have tried to find a Dom you could trust, but you were too close to dropping too hard to wait.”
And he may or may not have lost his mind, both hands fisting in the throw around his bare upper body, when he abruptly blurts out, “I know self-dropping techniques. It’s how...how I’ve dealt with it until now. It’s why I’ve never needed one.”
“It’s not enough anymore, Timmy,” Dick counters gently, appealing to the detective in him, “if you were so far gone that you went down in the middle of a fight, and again on the rooftop, then that’s your proof self-dropping mediation isn’t working anymore. You need to go all the way down, just like you were able to do for me. Twice.”
“I...I can’t. Dick, I can’t–” because the prospect of someone else putting a collar on him, trying to take him down, could possibly learn all his secrets while he’s in Subspace (if someone other than Dick apparently, could even get him there), is someone he would have no choice but to trust, is enough to make him want to run all over again.
“For the time being,” Dick cuts him off, easily listing him to the side, manages to lift his legs on the coffee table and settle deeper in the couch with Tim laying heavily against his chest, head nudged under Dick’s chin, “you’re going to agree to come back here next weekend and let me take you down again. And you’re going to do it for your own health. Because no one would be happy if a Dom like Ra’s al Ghul catches on when you get triggered to drop in the middle of another fight.”
“Are you–?” And even though he feels like his brain is fried from coming up too fast, even though his heart is beating harder, his thoughts faster–
“I’m not saying that!” Dick’s eyes are wide when he looks down, “I’m not saying you should think I’m trying to get a Bond out of you when you haven’t had the chance to know what you really want. But, I am saying I’m going to be your Service Dom until you are comfortable and stable enough to find someone with the same wants in a scene as you. For the time being, I’m here to help you figure out what exactly you like.”
Tim lays his head in his hand and resists groaning because honestly, this is not how he saw tonight going. Like, at all, at all.
“I…” and he’s so close to blurting out how terrified he is of giving up control, of losing himself while he’s down in Subspace.
“It’s okay, Timmy. It’s just me, just Dick. Nothing changes this between us, not the fact you’re a Sub and I’m a Dom. Nothing changes the fact we’re friends and partners and kick-ass vigilantes. So, it’s okay, you can trust me.”
He’s so close to telling Dick exactly what he wants to know that it’s the first thing he can think of to keep Dick from finding out the worst secret–
(I would go down for you every time just to hear you tell me I’m yours.)
“I...I presented after I took over Wayne Enterprises,” is more hoarse than he expected, makes his chest tighter just to start saying the words out loud. “I’d given up on...it was a shock.”
Dick makes soft humming noises, gently slides his hand up in Tim’s hair and scratches his nails against the scalp.
“I was hoping I’d be a Null or a Switch, but a full-blown Sub was...” terrifying “...not what I expected.” He swallows, lets his eyes slide closed to be surrounded by darkness where he knew how to hide. “I knew I needed to get a handle on it, I needed help outside the team and the community, someone that could be discreet.”
With a sinking heart, Dick can make a few guesses as to why Tim had been adamant about keeping the secret to himself when Dick was in the cowl and Dami the new Robin. Those raw wounds still stood between them to this day, and for over a year, Dick had to wonder if they could ever come close to the partnership, the friendship, the comradery they’d once had.
(Dami was my Robin, but so were you Tim. Don’t you get that?)
“The clinic out by the Midtown Bypass,” is soft with memory, “not a lot of crime, pretty quiet when you compare it to the rest of the city. I used a pseud, got a list of Doms to choose from, and went in disguise.”
Thumb moves to the tender spot right at the base of his skull, moves in gentle, mesmerising circles, makes it easier for Tim to fall into his narrative without stopping, without hesitating.
“He wasn’t that much older than me, but his profile said he’d been a Service Dom for over a year, and the ratings were good. No comments, but positive stars. He looked...kind I guess, so I was stupid and didn’t make a contract, thought verbal agreement would be enough.”
(He looked like you. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, nice smile. It’s stupid how I judged him based on what I started to want but couldn’t have from you.)
He sucks in a deep breath, eyes fluttering to keep the images at bay.
“He sat me down at the table in the room and started talking about the scene he’d planned for newly presented Subs. Said since I was older, he could go a little harder on me to make sure I was absolutely satisfied by the time I left. He said I’d need to go harder since I presented later than most people.”
“A-and he started out pretty easy. I got to keep my pants and an undershirt on, he let me pick music for the scene, told me his hard limits. It seemed to be...fine. No evidence to the contrary. I mean, even if he was a creep or something, I’m a vigilante, I could fight my way out if I had to.”
It’s shaky, the rawness of saying it out loud puts some strength back in Tim’s spine, shocked it comes out so easy when he’d never talked about it, never admitted any of it before today.
He comes closer to the surface, takes a deep, deep breath, and tests the octopus hold, pulling away just enough to be serious.
Dick lets him, and Tim pulls the throw closer around him and finds a perch on the other end of the couch, taking a second to close him eyes, focus on the floor under the coffee table.
He must have been quiet for long enough that just a blink and Dick is kneeling at his feet, bringing soft sweatpants up to his knees. He’s already got a shirt on, and makes it easier for the Dom to pull him standing long enough to bring the pants over his boxers, give him comfort and protection with just clothing.
The cup of coffee warms his palms and he drinks deeply, the confusing mass of wants and needs, fears and traumas starting to ease when he can put his brain in front of it.
With his own coffee, Dick is sitting sideways with less than a foot between them, the illusion of space.
“I’m guessing,” his old mentor and friend draws out, eyes strangely still intense, “you probably waited it out as long as you could, Timmy.”
He looks sideways, startled because he’s still floaty and flighty apparently, and blinks a few times, makes himself focus.
“The worst part,” comes out of somewhere deep in him, “is that he made perfect sense with what I was feeling at the time. I...I couldn’t move against him when it came down to it. I couldn’t pick his restraints and get myself free. He told me that this is what I was meant for, what Subs were supposed to be, and not to try fighting it. I wouldn’t win.” He blinks, his eyes feeling hot and heavy. “I mean, yeah, yeah. His first lesson was not to fight whatever my Dom wanted to do to me, never to say no. Second lesson was my Dom would punish me. No matter what, every Sub gets punished, and most Doms choose pain. Most of them enjoy it, and it’s the Sub’s job to give them what they enjoy.”
And he can feel the emotions emanating from Dick, even though the Dom is utterly still. He can feel how badly his vigilante partner wants to put on the black and blue suit, make some people that deserve it feel pain.
The Submissive in him wants to huddle into that strength, wants to trust Dick won’t hurt him, won’t use him, won’t be one of those Doms.
(But he hasn’t done anything awful, hasn’t been what that other Dom was, so he can trust Dick… can’t he?)
“He started with a ruler, then used his hand, rectangle paddle, oval paddle, belt, crop, and cane. I could barely walk out the next day, had to...” but those memories of having nowhere to go after leaving that clinic, a time when the Cave and the Manor weren’t home, weren’t safe makes him suck in a breath through his nose.
And it’s a hand gentle on his wrist, fingers circling without seeming like it’s suffocating–
(because he really believes if he pulls away, he knows Dick will probably let him go)
–that brings him out again. “So...it was the first time I kind of went under, and I hated every second of it. That’s why the chemical balancers and Dom supplements. Self-dropping meditation. It’s safer than trying again.”
Dick is oddly quiet and intense, the muscles of his biceps and thighs tense, but the hand on him is still loose, thumb moving over his pulse.
“So, you don’t have to...do this. It’s kind of you to offer, Dick, but I’ll figure it out again. My system is going to be clear in a few days and I can come up with another solution. But I appreciate–”
“Timmy, it’s not safe for you to go back on balancers and supplements, at least not for a while,” is gentle but still firm in a way that’s still shocking coming from Dick Grayson, a way that’s so different from the vigilante big brother he thought he’d lost for good, but still recently bullied his way in the Tower to start making Tim come back to Gotham again. (He’d totally claimed a couch in the communal room with unapologetic stubbornness. Pure exasperation from the Titans made him finally give in and literally take one for the team. He hadn’t imagined this is how that little sitch was going to end up...or the fact he’s got a room in the Manor again. Talk about a throwback.)
“When you’re balanced again, you’re going to go back to the Tower and rest for at least forty-eight hours. You can do analysis and work the back end on some of your cases, but no out and about until after that. The team can handle the field work for a few days.”
He blinks again, starts to open his mouth to argue, muscles tensing because he’s close enough to the surface, closer to himself to be able to fight.
“Hear me out,” and Dick somehow creeps just that much closer, “self-dropping and supplements will only take you so far, Timmy. Doms are the same way. We get the endorphins we need from having a scene. Sometimes it’s just about being touched, like we did today. Sometimes it’s about needing another person to make you stop, like we did first. For me, it’s being that person that can anticipate those needs, to be allowed to give my Sub these things.”
To keep from being admitting out loud how much he needed to be touched, how right Dick called it,, Tim sips his coffee again, glad to see his hands have stopped shaking.
“I just want you to completely understand what that Dom did to you was wrong. I didn’t make you tell me much while you were down because most of us respect Submissives, just like I respect you.”
And based on the evidence, he can’t call bullshit here. “All right. I see your point about not suiting up, I mean, I do feel less scattered than before.” Because he has to admit it to himself, how much better he feels after he’s gone down, how much calmer in that hidden part of his brain he tries to suppress. That if Dick really calls for that part of him again, how he’ll probably slide down to his knees, craving to be a good boy again. “I didn’t know it could…”
“You didn’t know it could work without pain or sex,” Dick fills in gently. “I hope you know it can be different, just like we’ve done so far.”
“I’d really like if you would listen to a few audio files while you’re working, just some lectures from an expert on Dom/Sub relationships. I really think–”
He pauses when Tim turns, eyes narrowed, clearer than he’d been since going down the first time, and the patient look is so very familiar. “By the time the Dominant and Submissive electives were available at my high school, I had already pretty much dropped out. Robin shit was going down in those years.”
And idea sparks in the back of Dick’s mind where the Dom is still hovering, is still intense, noting everything with his Sub, still angry he didn’t have enough time for more aftercare. If anything, an abused Sub deserved more cuddling and spoiling from a good Dominant, and watching Tim draw away, start putting the mask back on before he was ready, before he was able to come back up on his own terms, sweet and soft and balanced, ready to tackle the world.
It grates on him, makes him want one more chance to take the third Robin down so he doesn’t feel like he has to hide.
But the idea turns into a plan, on all the ways he should be showing his Submissive how their dynamic should be, how a healthy relationship between the orientations should work. How he could work punishments without pain while creating scenes to give Tim the freedom to explore his preferences.
Dick props his elbow on the back of the couch, and refuses to back off even an inch.
“Then give me a chance to show you, Tim. A blood test will prove you need to go down at least once a week for a while, then maybe stretch it out to once a month to get your system back to normal. Give me some of that time as your Service Dom to help you. Together, I can help you figure out what you need as a Submissive.”
And it’s so absolutely fucking unfair for Dick to look that intense, and Tim is sitting there never even thought he’d be facing a Dom actually pleading with him.
His brain still warming up, picking up on the possibilities of hitting a hard few nights and dropping in the middle of another fight, of Kon or Bart or Cassie getting hurt because he couldn’t keep himself together, because he was terrified of going down and being vulnerable.
“...okay. Okay. Until my system is back to normal, and I can either find another Dom or another option.” He swallows hard, wonders how much he’s going to end up regretting this.
But it’s almost comical to watch Dick’s tense shoulders relax, and the blinding smile come back to his face, already making Tim feel like he’s accomplished something just by giving in.
“Thank-you, sweetheart, that’s exactly what I was hoping to hear.” And just like that, the dynamic shifts between them, and the hand tightens down on his wrist again, “so why don’t we have one more try before bed? You could absolutely use it, and I have...another idea.”
It’s not until much later when the rope burns around his chest are just lightly stinging in a way that’s so right. It’s later when he’s buzzing off the easy fall into Subspace that seemed impossible even a day or so ago. It’s later when he’s lazily flopped in Dick’s bed, sipping juice from a straw, blinking up at the soft expression on his Dom’s face, something heavy-lidded and sated that the thought comes out of nowhere–
I really am going to regret this...once it’s over.
**
Spoiler AN: I’ve talked to some people about keeping the main story as a non-sexual submission on their part, but that is not to say I don’t have a doc with some beginnings of serious D/S play. So, that will probably be like one shots or something ;) But if you made it this far, thanks for reading babes <3
#900 followers#winter writes#long post#sub!tim#tim drake#dick grayson#tw: Sub abuse#tim finally talks about it#jason todd#dom!dick#my fic#my writing#dc comics
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Happiness Overload Chapter Fifty-Six
Coriander Rule #56: Never trust someone who sits on top of a pile of popsicle sticks and obsesses over art, for such people will surely monologue.
Exhibit A, and the only exhibit to date: this Dr. Popsicle Stick Lady. Or whichever of her doctor names she gave herself. Who gives a fuck, am I right?
Now, before the rule turned out to be true, my client, Velvet, was on trial for the crime of trusting someone who had way too much fun with popsicle sticks. She didn’t know she was on trial, but she totally was. We both were, but I wanted to think I was the defense attorney. Or the prosecutor.
“I’m telling you, I’m getting bad vibes,” I tried to keep my voice low as I muttered to Velvet.
“Don’t worry. If it comes down to it, you’ve got that backpack blaster and I’ve got this gun I found.”
Tch. “Found”. More like looted off an enemy guard. Not that semantics ever helped anyone.
“Why does someone like you want to help us defeat the guys that you work for?” I called out.
She bobbed her head to and fro as if she was listening to a song. In fact, she grabbed the popsicle sticks that were in her hair and started tapping them against the pillar she sat on. “Look at all the things you can do with a little bit of arts and crafts!”
“You’re not answering my question!” I snapped.
“Oh, but I am! You see, this huge corporation claims to want what’s best for humanity, but they failed to realize that without art, Earth is just ‘eh?’ But that’s just how corporations are, aren’t they? They stifle creativity and restrict art until it’s sanitized and marketable! Just like that snappy slogan I just used! If they can’t find a use for art, they find it useless. Me? I just can’t abide. I need to show everyone all the ways art is essential to humanity!”
“But aren’t you on their side?”
“I’m on the side of art, the greatest side you can be on. As long as I’m inspired, I don’t mind where that inspiration comes from! I need to be free to explore all mediums, and even discover new ones!”
...Yep. There it was. The monologue.
I tried to look around me. I couldn’t see any form of exits besides the way we came in. Figures. If there was a way for her to have gotten out, wouldn’t she already? Considering how The Flashbulb seemed to go to great lengths to hide her existence, I had to assume that she was trapped there.
Yet another ridiculous person we just had to meet. Go-fucking-figure. Really, how could this person help us, anyway?
“Velvet, let’s just turn back and find some other way around,” I nudged her. “I don’t think we’ll find anything here.”
“Really? We found a person. That’s already one thing.”
Gah. The fu...fu...fudgetrucking nerve! Did she not notice the red flags?
Or maybe she did and she’s just confident she can use the situation to her advantage. She’s probably already thought something up. That’s just like her.
“Aaaaand...DONE!” Lord Popsicle (look, it wasn’t like anyone was going to care what I called her) announced. She held up some wooden block.
“We can’t see shit, dumbass! You’re too high!”
“Astute observation!” She dropped the wooden block down. It landed without so much as a scratch. I was hesitant to approach it, as I knew I needed to be on my guard.
“I get it, I get it! I’m a scary lady you just met who recently learned how to use popsicle sticks as chop sticks! It was hard at first, but I got the hang of it! Also, that wood block is made entirely from recycled...guess!”
“How about no?” For real, not even (if I had to guess) five minutes in and I was getting real sick of the repetition. ‘Art’ this or ‘popsicle’ that. How irritating.
“I like that! Unorthodox answer! Quite artsy!”
Velvet took a few steps forward and pointed the gun upward at our supposed helper. “I’ve got this, Corey Andy.”
“I’m going to ignore that for now,” I replied.
Why does she have to come up with the most ridiculous names? There’s no way I’m going to be referred that way.
I walked over to the wood block and picked it up. Then, my hands began to shake: it was a picture of Velvet and I, which, would have been fine. I mean, the details were amazing. Our forms were near perfect. That wasn’t the problem. No, it was that the picture was of me standing on my tiptoes and kissing Velvet’s forehead. Something that happened not all that long ago.
What started as shock and possible fear turned into anger and confusion.
“How could you…”
“How could I draw so fast? Mostly a force of habit from back when I had to finish my dad’s paintings for him.”
“No!” I shouted. My hands were balled into fists, I dropped the painting on the ground. “How could you have known? Unless…”
Beside her buzzed two little flying drones which were about the size of flies.
“Oh, that’s what you mean! I used these little bugs! They’re small enough that they can fit through the cracks within walls! It’s nice for when I need inspiration!”
“Who gave you the right?!”
Velvet turned to me. “This isn’t the time to lose your cool,” she urged me. She was right, too, and by all accounts, it must have seemed like I was making a cow out of beef jerky, but I had my reasons. I didn’t know what those reasons were yet, but they were there.
It used to be my job to spy on people. This shouldn’t bother me.
“Not only can they watch people, but they can also listen in to their conversations, and let me tell you, I’m so glad that you two found a way to get in here. I was really hoping you would. I just loved both what I heard and what I saw. The motivations, the struggles. The pain and joy. It’s all so poetic! I just had to capture your likeness.”
I dropped the painting and stepped on it. “Capture that!”
Was it petty? Sure. Would it drive home how serious I was? You betcha. No more games.
“Is it smudged?” She leaned over and looked down. “I was going to say you could keep it, as a gift, but if you want to use it in that way, that’s fine too! As long as it served some kind of purpose, I’m glad! Besides, I can always make another. The important thing is, no matter how fast or slow I am with my art, I always put effort into everything I do!”
“Look, Velvet and I don’t care!”
Velvet continued to point the gun at the art nut. “I would have phrased it better, but she’s right: we’re trying to fight an impossible battle against an entity that can’t be defeated, so if you want to help us, you’ll step aside and show us where the exit is.”
Damn. I forgot how fierce she could be when she wanted to.
“Give it up, Velvet! There’s nothing she can do to help us. Keep your aim on her and let’s walk back. If she knew where an exit was, why would she be in here?”
Velvet started to walk back, still aimed at the one atop the popsicle pillar. I pressed a button on one of the straps of the backpack and the lasers set their sights on Popsicle Lady.
“If you try anything, I swear…” I stopped myself. I sounded ridiculous. So far what had she done? Spied on us and drew a picture? In other words, a little creepy, but harmless. Velvet was right: we needed to be as efficient and free of distractions as possible. Creepy or not, if that woman wasn’t going to be our enemy, there was no need to attack her.
But as I started to walk back and try to catch up with my silk spun partner, I felt the force of something hit against me and the force thrust me against a wall.
“What the –”
I tried to move my arms, but nothing would happen. For whatever reason, I was stuck.
“What a beautiful wallflower you’ve become,” mused someone from up above.
I could hardly turn my head to face her. Whatever substance had covered me must have been pretty strong.
“What did you do?!”
“Oh, that? That’s gorilla glue! And no, in case you’re wondering, it’s not made from actual gorillas! I’m as surprised as you are, I’m sure!”
“Argh!” I tried to thrash about with the same results. No movement.
“Nothing I can do to help? Isn’t that what you said?”
“Spice!” Velvet cried out.
“Since when was that my nickname?” I groaned. Oh, it didn’t matter.
“No, I will help you two out! By drawing out your potential! True, your goal is a near-impossible one, and you were right to focus on it, but you won’t get very far without some guidance! So allow to make you my muses and become wonderful works of art!”
Ladies, gentlemen, kind folks of the jury, I rest my case.
Damn it, I really thought I was onto something. Usually I could just wing it and when an opportunity arose, I’d take it. I thought that was one such opportunity, but now look at the mess we were in.
“This is all your fault!” Coriander yelled. Whether she thought that way or was just pissed at her situation was anyone’s guess, but I didn’t blame her. “We should have never trusted this art freak!”
It’s not that I trusted her, I just thought that we had caught a lucky break. But then again, maybe I really did trust that person. Maybe I had gotten so used to finding allies recently that I believed there could have been someone in that evil lair who could help us.
You’ve gotten softer, Velvet, I scolded myself. Softer, silkier, smoother. Velvety.
I knew I’d have to take a life eventually. It went without saying that being in such a place and not expecting to have to kill was absurd. As hesitant as I may have been before, I wasn’t about to let anything happen to Coriander. So I set my sights, aimed, and…
I saw myself step forward with a pistol. She pointed it right at me. In my hand wasn’t the same heavy weapon as before, but also a pistol. We both aimed at each other, and then everything went black.
Engulfed in total darkness. Or so I thought, but there was a light somewhere. Above? A dim glow? Either way, I stood, once again.
Stop it. Stop getting distracted by this. My target is the art lady. After that, I need to free Cor...Coral? Never mind. It would come to me.
I aimed the pistol, which I somehow obtained, and shot straight ahead. I was surrounded by Velvets on all side, who also took aim, and before I knew it, confetti. Wait. Confetti? Or nothing?
That’s right. It’s all an illusion. I don’t really get it, but I just have to analyze my surroundings, focus, and then the weak point should appear in my mind.
“I know what you’re doing!” I cupped my hands and called around. “But it won’t work!”
“Cut! Cut!” The voice of the art lady boomed. “End scene! Perfect!”
“What’s going on?” I yelled in response.
“You’ve been cast in the leading role of some new blockbuster movies! But who am I, you may ask? I am the great Dr. Lynch, of course, director extraordinaire!”
I groaned. “I don’t care what you call yourself! I just want to get a move on!”
“So you’re the type of actor who gives every performance your all? Excellent! Next scene!”
I don’t think so.
I ran forward, sure that if I just broke through I would be free of the illusion, and then I could break Coriander free and together we would –
Bright, orange glow. Beat up cars. Explosions in the distance.
“Fine. I’ll bite. What kind of movie is this, anyway?”
I wasn’t sure if she’d answer, but to my surprise, she did.
“It’s an art film! Of course, all films are art, because good or bad, corporate or independent, they all have effort put into them. But, is effort the only thing that goes into art?”
I wasn’t about to answer that. I decided to wander around the city landscape a bit. Even if it was some green screen, illusion, ‘movie magic’, whatever, I didn’t see myself making much progress until I could figure out a way to exploit the situation.
Maybe I should think like a hacker, like the good old days. Only this ‘movie set’ is the software, and I’m the infection.
I went around and kicked some rubble. These “streets” were already on fire, destroyed by some unknown force that I didn’t care to know.
Off in the distance, I could see a group of people in what appeared to be superhero costumes. Jeez, what a bunch of dorks.
“Dr. Banter, I’m going to need you to get irritable!”
“That’s my secret, Admiral: I hate it when you leave the toilet seat up. I hate it when you don’t wash your hands after you use the bathroom and then wipe your dirty hands on the shower curtains. I hate when you put used paper towels in the recycling! I hate when you leave your shoes around everywhere! And when you snore!”
“Yes! More! We need you to turn into Bunk and smush Lowkey!”
I grimaced. While I didn’t know what was being referenced, it was clear this ‘movie’ was parodying something. Regardless, I wasn’t having any part of it. I picked up a brick and threw it at the group.
“Hey assholes! How do I ditch this popsicle stand?”
Everyone turned to me and looked stunned.
“It’s Black Velvet!” Admiral (I guess was his name?) pointed at me. “The secret agent who works for Condom! Why is she attacking us?!”
Condom? Really? Couldn’t they have picked a better name?
“Maybe she’s being mind controlled by Lowkey!” Someone covered in tinfoil suggested.
“You’re right, aluminum foil man! Or maybe Condom is really a front for the evil organization, Gorgon!” Some guy who looked just like a thumb suggested. Everyone looked at him in disgust. Honestly, I was too. I mean, he looked like a thumb.
“You may be the god of fungus, mighty Thumb, but you are not very bright,” Admiral replied. “Besides, that’s spoilers for the next movie! Dude, you’re not supposed to give that away.”
Are they...breaking character?!
I shook my head. It was best not to get sucked into the nonsense. What was that old saying? ‘Exit stage left’? Very well. I turned to my left and began to run.
“Smart thinking! You need to find a way to escape, don’t you?” Came the voice of ‘Dr. Lynch.’
“Gee, I didn’t know this was the director’s commentary track!” I retorted as I ran through a torn down building.
I know this isn’t real, but I don’t know how else to explain this.
“How are you doing this?”
“Should you really be asking that? That’s like asking a director ‘what’s my motivation?’ There are some things you should just know!” Her voice boomed.
She’s right. Somewhat, anyway. I didn’t know how she was doing these tricks, but I knew what my motivation was, and that was good enough.
“Mark my words, I’ll find an opening, exploit it, and break free! Then I’ll break Coriander free!”
“That’s what I like to hear! You might want to hurry, though! I hear poly...urine? Poly...uranium? Um. It’s a hard word to say, but I hear it’s quite toxic! Plus, as we speak, popsicle sticks are being dumped on her, so if you don’t hurry, she’ll suffocate to death!”
I’ll burn this whole set down if I have to. I’ll reduce every piece of “art” that she has to ash. So what if it’s true that most people don’t even “save” one person in their lifetime? As long as both Spice Bae and I are still alive, I’ll fight time and again to keep it that way.
Heh. I needed to be careful with my line of thinking; I didn’t want to be mistaken for an actual hero.
There were worse ways to die and I would have rather chosen any one of them over what was being done to me.
“So that’s just it, huh? You’re planning on confining me here until I die?!” I shouted.
“Hm? Hm?” It was like she was humming a tune. How irritating. “Oh, you can call me Dr. Bob Ross!”
“I’d rather not.”
“Very well! And to answer your question, no, I’m not just confining you. I’m confining both of you! As we speak, your little gal pal is in that little box and hallucinating up a few good movies for her to star in. I can’t wait to find out what movies she was in after she’s all done! But, if she spends too long in there, her mind will erode and wear itself out. That is, unless she finds the willpower to break free. But even if she does, that box is pretty sturdy!”
So basically I have to break myself free and break her out. Or she has to break herself free and break me out
“You two are stronger together, right? And I’m willing to bet you and her are pretty strong individually, as well. So this shouldn’t be too much of a problem, right?”
That’s right. Velvet thrives on life or death situations. As for me…
“If I could just reach the buttons on my backpack…” I muttered.
“Velvet was what you called her, right? Well then! She will become Velvet, the movie star! And you...I haven’t decided yet. But I’ll make you my muse yet. Maybe I’ll make a sculpture out of you…”
That wasn’t going to happen. No sculptures. No human arts and crafts projects. None of it.
Up another torn down building I went until I reached a floor where there were no walls and I could see the sky outstretched.
Where is there to go from here?
“If it’s all an illusion, then there isn’t very far that I can go. Theoretically,” I let out a deep breath. How hopeless. I didn’t know how to go ‘off-screen’.
“There’s no escape! I will rule all of Nude Pork City and there’s nothing you can do!” Cackled a snobby British voice.
“The...fuck city?” I jolted. Startled, I turned around and saw a skinny man in a green leotard with a horse mask on. He cackled once more.
“This movie is PG-13! You can say ‘fuck’, but only once!”
“Dude, you just said it again.”
“Fuck!” He cried out, as if he had already been defeated. The most surprising thing of the whole ordeal was that I could actually hear what he said from underneath that horse mask. “No matter! No one can defeat me, for I am Lowkey, the villain!”
I looked up. Could I find my way out by running to the highest point of the building and jumping out? But then that might just kill me. Ugh. It would really help if I had a laptop next to me right now.
“Hey! Why aren’t you paying attention to me! I am Lowkey!”
“Sorry, this just isn’t my kind of movie,” I explained.
“Heh. Heh! HEH!” He cackled once again, then pulled the horse mask off. Underneath, was an emaciated face which sported greasy black hair. Even if I swung that way, I didn’t think I’d find him all that attractive.
From his suit, he pulled out three little grenades. “You talk a big game, but you’re still human!”
“Still not my type!” I called back, then rolled over behind a pillar. He tossed the grenades my way. I thought I was a safe enough distance, but they detonated, and the explosion sent me back to the further end of the building. Not only that, but the explosion was causing the building to collapse.
I struggled to stand back up. I had to hold onto the very pillars that were crumbling.
I need to run. I need to run and tackle that guy and then get out of here.
From behind me, that same snobbish voice: “Hey cupcake!”
“What...did you call me?” I growled.
“Hey cupcake, why don’t you and I go back to my place later?” He mocked. “Velvet? Like a cupcake? Are you sweet like one too? Do you taste good like one? Hm, cupcake?”
How did that Dr. Lynch woman know that about my past? Did she really know that much about me? Just how did this movie operate?
“Shut up!” I leaped and grabbed onto his leotard, then reached into his pocket and grabbed one of his grenades. “You want to taste something? Taste this!” I shoved it in his mouth, then pulled the pin and let go.
There was little time: I needed to run down the collapsing building before it could come crashing down and reduce everything to rubble.
But isn’t that what I want? To bring it all down? To destroy the “art” that would hurt the ones I care about? Why does this building feel real, anyway? Did she create this elaborate of a set? If it’s not real, then what danger am I in? If I’m in no danger, I shouldn’t be worried about anything…
I stopped.
“Where...where did the gun go?” The one that was taken off of the guard. I had it. Then it was replaced by a pistol. Somehow.
Because it wasn’t real.
When I got to that “movie”, I had nothing. I had to use a brick. I had to use that villain’s grenades. Grenades that weren’t real.
So in other words, I have nothing. But wasn’t that par for the course? I came to The Flashbulb’s lair with nothing. I’ve had all sorts of risky endeavors, and each time, I would just acquire things as I go.
I ran anyway. For whatever reason, I ran.
No. I don’t have nothing. There’s someone I came with that I care about.
On cue, just as it came crashing down, I escaped. Not even a second after, credits started to roll.
...Wait, what?
‘The End’
Then, the list of the actors who played the characters showed up in front of me. I just couldn’t believe the whole environment was covered by text. Names I didn’t recognize to characters that didn’t matter. Then, I saw my own name. Or...my character’s name? Next to it, it listed…
“No...it can’t be…” I gulped. “Scarlett Johansson?! Really? Come on! I have more class than that!”
Then, answering my call, Scarlett Johansson’s name was crossed out, and a new name replaced it.
“ZENDAYA?!”
I shook my head. “Just stop it! Why can’t I be me?”
Thus, Zendaya’s name was crossed out as well, and finally it said:
‘Velvet as HERSELF’
I nodded my head. “Much better.”
“Stay tuned for a post-credit scene!” Boomed Dr. Lynch’s voice.
Right. There was still that matter.
“Not happening!” I shouted, then ran toward the front where the credits were and kicked forward. As I did so, I hit a wall.
Literally.
Everything turned to black. But my eyes opened once more.
There was gas all around me. I began coughing uncontrollably and it ached just to stand. I didn’t understand why, but I did my best to break free, anyway. I banged my fists against the walls.
Pounding of fists.
It seemed like I was going to lose consciousness up until that jolted me back awake. I still couldn’t turn my head. All those popsicles were growing quite heavy. But, that sound. It must have been Velvet.
If she can do that...if she’s still trying…
I had to as well. It’s not enough that she could try to break free on her own. It had be me as well.
At first, all I could manage was to twitch my fingers. With each passing second, it was getting harder and harder to breathe.
But, if I can twitch my fingers…Yes!
I balled my hands into fists and with as much pressure as I could muster, I slammed my fists against the wall. It didn’t amount to much at first, but I kept trying. After a few tries, with increased force, my arms broke free and I could move them again.
However, the pain was excruciating. I cried out. I couldn’t cover my mouth.
“Hm? Oh, hello there,” Dr. Bob Ross turned to me. I raised my arm up and pressed the button on the backpack. Lasers fired around me and broke me free from the wall. With a thud, I landed.
After I brushed off the popsicle sticks, still disgusted, I looked up toward where that mad artist was.
“I’ll break Velvet out myself, then I’ll get up there and kick your ass! Mark my fucking words, you’re dead, kiddo!”
Dr. Bob Ross burst into laughter. “Okay, okay. Congratulations are in order. But you broke free a little sooner than I expected. I’m not ready for you yet.”
I cracked my knuckles and gave a fiendish grin. “Nobody’s ready for me. I can deal so much pain.”
“I’m going to need you to stay put and wait your turn,” she didn’t seem to heed my boasts at all. I watched her spin her finger, and from the ceiling, a giant claw reached down and pried my backpack off of me.
“Hey! What gives!”
She cupped her hands together and shouted: “Popsicle house time!”
“What?!”
Something dropped in front of me. Once again, I found myself confined.
Four walls. Small, dim, with a roof that was only a little above my head. My only reprieve was one window. I looked out: the room on the outside had grown brighter. I could see the encased area where Velvet was, but I no longer heard her knocks against the walls.
She better still be alive, dammit.
I leaned my head out a little more. Next to me was another popsicle house. Someone else leaned their head out: a bearded old man with gray, curly hair.
“She locked you up too, huh?”
I wasn’t about to dignify that with a response. Instead, I walked off to the other end of the popsicle house and ran toward the wall with full force, elbow in tow. Rather than the house breaking apart, all that happened was a world of hurt.
“Ow! Ow!” I winced. “Maybe I need to try harder.” I walked back, then ran again, with even more anger and drive. Again, nothing but pain.
“God damn! Who knew popsicles could be so sturdy?”
“Welcome to Gay Baby Jail,” the old man greeted once more. That time, I peeked out of the window once again.
“What did you call me?”
“That’s the name of the cell you’re in. Once she puts you in Gay Baby Jail, you’re not getting out unless she wants you to.”
I shook my head and lowered it against the window. “This is stupid…everything is so ridiculous.”
“This is your life now. Consider yourself a gay baby.”
“Ugh…” I groaned. “I am getting out of here. I don’t care how. I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because I have someone out there...we protect each other. I’m not saying I care about her, but she’s important to me and I’m going to do all that I can to make sure she’s well!”
Once again, I tried to break the walls that held me in. I wasn’t about to accept that it was useless. There had to be something I could do.
What wonderful muses I happened to acquire. Things were going so smooth that I almost felt like I needed to shake things up more. But patience. Those two were an inspiration, sure, but inspiration wasn’t instant. So while they were kept occupied, helping me along, I had to study them well.
“Now let’s see their character bios…” I pulled up a tablet. Just about everyone’s records was stored in The Flashbulb’s database. If we didn’t have a profile on them, well...I’d just have to make one, wouldn’t I? But let’s not be too hasty.
“What did they say their names were again? Velvet...and...Coriander? Is that right?”
Velvet was easy enough. Sure, there were many Velvets in most universes, but then there was matching a name to a face. Lucky for me, that also proved to be easy. Next was Coriander.
That one was a little harder. There were a few Corianders out there. More people named Cilantro, to be honest, but that was neither here nor there. But a Coriander that had some sort of relation to the Velvet whose profile was displayed in front of me? Unheard of. So instead I refined my search to all the people associated with that Velvet until I saw an image that matched “Coriander”.
My eyes lit up. Yes! YES!
“This! This right here! This is the inspiration I need!” Oh my, how interesting things were. To learn such things about those two. I could use that.
But enough about those two. They were a little preoccupied. My little muses were making me proud, reminding me of why I got into the game in the first place.
Yes: my backstory. Or more, my “midway” story. My humble origins as an intern for The Flashbulb, back when I was still among fellow artists. “But aren’t you still an intern?” The spectators might have asked, were there an audience to spectate on my thoughts. To answer those hypothetical spectators: yes. But there was an explanation for that.
It all started back in Flashbulb University (note: Flashbulb University was not an accredited university), a school where interns for The Flashbulb went, fully funded by the Education Department. We never really learned much, but the wiser of us would join clubs, otherwise we’d just get displaced and used as fodder for whatever tasks those in proper departments wanted done.
I had wandered down the halls, having gotten as lost as ever, when I pulled out my map. At the time, I developed a keen interest in the art of map making, as well as studying architecture. As it so happened to turn out, the layout of the university was...excuse my language...uncreative. If I had my way with the layout, well...I wouldn’t do anything. That wasn’t a medium I was willing to tackle just yet.
Yes. As loathe as I was to admit, there were certain arts that I would never be able to see myself doing. The art of cooking, the art of staying organized, the art of money management. Who needed any of those skills? Not me. Especially when I could just eat whatever was made at the cafeteria. My taste buds could handle anything, and not only that, I got to experience someone else’s art. Really digest it fully (most of the time).
One day in that very cafeteria, I met up with my fellow intern buddies, Dr. O’Keefe, Dr. Kahlo, Dr. Kubrick, and Dr. Méliès. Each of us were aspiring Flashbulb members as well as members of the Painting and A/V Clubs respectively.
“Every form of art will be available to you,” Dr. Louvre told me when I first joined. So naturally, the first thing I clung to was the art of film-making.
So we all sat, some of us eating tacos, others eating escargot. Me? I ate dried squid, of course.
“So what projects have you been up to?” Dr. Kubrick opened up the discussion.
“I’m studying a venus flytrap,” Dr. O’Keefe answered.
“I’ve been staring up at the moon,” it was Dr. Kubrick’s turn.
“No way! So have I!” Dr. Méliès replied, a hint of astonishment in his voice. Then, I glanced over and noticed the two staring into each other’s eyes.
“I see the moon in your eyes,” Dr. Kubrick uttered such words.
“I see the same in yours.”
Was that really so inspiring? Yes. In much the same way I found inspiration from a burning building, Van Gogh found inspiration from the night sky. With that in mind, inspiration could come from anywhere. No, not just anywhere. Everywhere. Every little thing.
So while everyone began to chat among themselves, I began to doodle. Nothing in particular. Unlike my father, it wasn’t so much nature that inspired me, but humanity. Rather, the vague shape that humans took on.
That must be the reason I was recruited, I thought while reminiscing. Back in the memory, I recalled what happened as soon as Dr. Kubrick and Dr. Méliès left.
Dr. Pollack showed up and slammed his fists on the table.
“Hey guys!” He looked around. “Sorry, I should be more discreet.”
He sat down. “Sorry, I’m just frustrated.”
“Having an art block?” I asked as I sipped on oyster milk.
“No. It’s this...this whole thing! Day in, day out, we’re stuck as interns.”
“Well, there’s no way out of it,” Dr. O’Keefe replied. “The Flashbulb isn’t known for its upwards mobility. If they decide to put us in a department, they will, otherwise, we’re here doing their chores for them and anything else that needs to be done that they don’t want to do. Of course, if someone decides to attack the main headquarters, they keep us around so we can be their human shields.”
“Some saviors of humanity, am I right?” He slumped over.
All that time since I’ve known them and I never realized they had such ambitions.
“You know, if you want to be part of a department so bad, it’s not all that hard?” I spoke up.
“What was that?”
“Yeah, ya heard me. Easy peasy.”
“How do you figure that? It’s not like there’s an A/V Department or an Arts and Crafts Department.”
“Of course not. But there is a Fine Arts Department.”
“Those guys? Really? They’re all a bunch of snooty snobs!”
I scowled. “The answer is right in front of you, yet you refuse to see it.”
“Fine, if you’re so smart, tell us.”
“We bring the Arts and Crafts club and the Painting club and the A/V club to them. We could be the first department with its own set of sub-departments. So if you want, present them the opportunity to expand the Fine Arts Department. Those guys love the word ‘expansion’. All you have to do is say ‘expand’ and they get all hot and bothered. Try it.”
Those three looked at each other, then ran off. Not long after, the plan was a success, and Dr. Louvre as well as Dr. Cannes approached me.
“We have you to thank,” Dr. Louvre towered over me and every syllable out of his mouth boomed. “Without your help, we wouldn’t be able to,” he drew a deep breath, breathed the words between his nondescript lips. “Expand.”
He cleared his throat. It seemed that word had quite a powerful effect on him.
“But what about you?” He continued. “Isn’t there something you should want? With your artistic talent, we could make you one of the leaders of the Fine Arts Department, alongside the likes of Dr. Cannes and I.”
I shook my head. “All I want is my own studio. Food prepared for me. All the art supplies I could ever need. An assistant. That’s all.”
“Very well. It shall be done.”
Yeah, that guy sounded so big and commanding, but in actuality, he was too afraid of my artistic talents and so the Fine Arts Department left one day to a version of Earth, with no specific mission attached. While I was content to stay in my studio, I wished they would have invited me. Shame, too. They never did come back to the headquarters, and ever since, it seemed as if most people were too afraid to visit me. They gave me food, water, any art supply I needed, but that was about it.
Oh well. That was all history (in the sense that there were many gaps and the information that was known paints an incomplete picture). I had two muses now, and I would help them reach their full potential. Speaking of, it was probably about time for Velvet’s next movie to start. It should start getting good now that the movies were going to dig deeper into her consciousness.
Ah, I should’ve known by now; the walls were too thick. My movements grew weaker. It hurt just to stand.
I need to...I need to rest a bit…I’m sorry.
Right before passing out, I had just one more thought: Aha! So that’s how it works!
Then darkness once more.
Once again, I found myself leaning against the window, my only reprieve.
Then, I heard the worst thing I could hear: nothing. No more knocks against those walls.
Has she given up?
I kicked the popsicle wall that held me and screamed out. After a few huffs, I paced about.
“She better not be dead! I won’t allow it!” I growled. “She’s too good for that!”
“Relax,” the old man in the other cell called out to me. “If anything, she’s just passed out. Her second movie is probably about to start. It usually takes at least four movies to kill someone.”
Of course. She passed out before. When she first met me from a previous life, she held me at gunpoint while I held her at laserpoint. Her gun was empty. Before my lasers could fire, the power went out. Then, she passed out. It ended up being up to me to carry her and I to a locker, as I was worried about whatever danger could have lurked. Those were memories I still had, as painful as it may have been to recap.
“That...that doesn’t reassure me.” Even still, I felt too defeated to do anything other than relax. So I went back to the window.
“Maybe if I had a lighter or a flamethrower or something…” I shook my head.
“What do you need one of those for?” The old man asked.
“Are popsicle sticks flammable? I mean, they’re wood, right?”
“Those are the questions which will haunt me up to my deathbed.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” I scolded. That was something I needed to tell myself as well, huh? Why was I so worried about someone who didn’t need worrying about, anyway? She was capable. So it was fine. Ugh. No it wasn’t.
I shook my head.
“I can’t do nothing, and it’s not because I don’t think I could survive on my own. That’s not the issue. We could both probably survive on our own. But, I mean, just in case, I’d like to be there…” No, that didn’t sound right. “Well, what I mean is, even if we could both survive on our own, I’d like us to not be on our own as long as we’re alive, y’know? Gosh, maybe I’m taking this whole ‘til death do us part’ too seriously.”
“You sure do care about her, huh? So what, you two married or something?”
“What?! Why would you think that? That’s ridiculous. Anyway,” I smiled. “Yeah, I do. Even though I was supposed to hate her, it somehow ended up like this. She can get on my nerves sometimes but I know she just likes to see my reaction. If it’s something that really bothers me, she knows not to do it. She knows when to be serious, too, and she can be really supportive.”
“Sounds like the real deal.”
“Oh yeah. That’s not even going into her talents. She can find the smallest details in the shortest amount of time. Hell, she’s the very definition of ‘think on your feet’. Like, sure, most of the time she’s lazy as fuck, but then when push comes to shove, she really shines. Her hacking skills are unparalleled, and she’s so resilient. Able to take on foes far stronger than her and still maneuver around whatever obstacle in her way. Being able to improvise and use anything around her to her advantage. Honestly, she inspires me, and I hope I can inspire her too.”
I lowered my head against the edge of the window and shook it. I felt like tears were about to fall out. So, at the very least, I made sure to smile.
“What’s wrong with me?” I shook my head.
“You’re a gay baby, all right,” he sounded like a fucking sage.
“Shut it, you. No one asked.”
I thought that maybe if I used my environment to my advantage, just like how I described Velvet, maybe I could have broken out. But I saw nothing that I could use.
Even if that were the case, I wouldn’t give up.
Ugh. Talk about weird dreams. Something about a fisherman’s wife and a giant squid. Being a pirate sure was a mess.
I got up from my uncomfortable cot in my captain’s quarters and stumbled out. As my accursed luck would have it, I had a headache. Like all things, I blamed it on the sea.
Yes, that very sea in which our pirate ship, the Jo-Ann’s Revenge resided.
My body ached as I swayed to and fro, as if enchanted by a sickening sea shanty.
God damn, how much rum did I have last night?
“Mornin’ Velvetbeard,” ol’ paranoid Connard greeted in ever the dull tone. “I hear the marines have taught the parrots to read our minds. We must steady our guard.”
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Jot that down or something.”
Our crew ate our share of mackerel and sardines for breakfast all while we gathered around the table and made plans for our next raid.
“So there’s a trade ship that was spotted,” Connard reported.
“Do we know its contents?”
He nodded. “Doritos, fruit snacks, top ramen. All your favorites.”
“Hot pockets?”
“Yes.”
“Ugh...but when I think of all the sodium…” I leaned over the table and rested my head on it. “Can I just, like, go back to bed? I’ve got this massive headache and I’m tired of pirating.”
“I knew it!” The Jolly Kelly Roger barged in. “You’re not really a pirate, are you? You’re a spy for the marines!”
“The fuck? Forget the plank, I’ll throw you overboard with my bare hands.”
“Go ahead! I hear there’s a pirate ship full of catgirls and I’m prepared to swim over to them!”
I looked up. “Real shit?”
“Mm-hmm! Anyways, see ya. I’m off to cat paradise.”
Jolly Kelly Roger was never seen again.
Meanwhile, three years later, and I wasn’t quite sure what all happened, but Connard went to chill in some pyramid and I lost most of my crew. All that was left was Blanka, Connard’s best and only friend. Who for some reason decided to go with me of all pirates (people).
“How did it even come to this?” I shook my head. Three years, and the headache still hadn’t gone away. It was like a coconut kept dropping on my head every morning.
“Something something gray stoner pirates,” Blanka replied, although Blanka was no longer there.
It was up to me to take on the marines and the 51st Fleet all by my lonesome. So I did. I infiltrated their ranks by punching a hole in the bottom of their vessel and jumping up. To think it was common belief that it was impossible to sneak in. Ha.
I’ve already done it once before, in fact. Like, some odd years back. When I was a wee little Velvetbeard. My first mate, Violetbeard was rumored to have been captured by the 51st fleet, so I took it upon myself to sneak in and find her, for the thought of what horrifying things they could have done to her was too much for me to bear. Unfortunate for me, I never did find her, nor a trace that she was even there. The best I could manage was stealing a pirate ship from them. That is why the Jo-Ann’s Revenge exists.
Now, onto the sneaky pirate stuff…
“There’s gotta be something I can do,” my voice grew weary in what must have been such a short amount of time.
You’re nothing without your technology.
Maybe that was true at one point in time. Even if that was still true, anything could be technology if it could be utilized…
“Isn’t the right, popsicle stick sticking out on the ceiling?” I looked up. Such a faint hope. How to get there. But wasn’t that what my whole journey was built on? Some faint hope that I took a chance with and made it far enough to find myself where I was. So being “stuck” wouldn’t register to me. Even in my past life, though others were convinced I was stuck, I still tried and fought anyway.
There were “ledges” (so many quotations, I know. Bear with me), I could use. Flimsy, easy to break, but that lent me more hope than despair. All I needed was one, maybe even a few, and I could make my attempt…
So, one foot over the other one, and just a few steps more, and I had gotten the diamond stick in the rough. The wooden needle in the needlestack. Just as my luck had turned bright, I lost my footing and fell back onto the metal floor.
“Owwww,” I groaned. There went my youthful back. Now I welcomed the embrace of my newfound elderly back. Oh, and the embrace of several popsicle sticks. One of which, I held in my hand, and when I shook the rest off of me, I got to work.
“You okay over there?” The old man called.
“The okayest,” I scoffed. Then I got to work chiseling away at the wall in front of me.
“What are you doing, anyway?”
“Well, old gay baby, I don’t know about you, but this gay baby wants to leave the crib.”
“She can see you, you know.”
“Let her try and stop me.”
“How bold.”
“I’m not bold, I just happened to make the first move.”
“Bold statement.”
That guy was frustrating me. But, deep breaths, I tried to play it cool.
“What are you even in there for, anyway? I just realized I never thought to ask.”
“I was hired as her assistant after the last one got set on fire and had to be hospitalized. I told her that her paintings should have more men in them, especially men in diapers. She scowled, put me in a diaper, then kept me in here.”
“Oh jeez. I’m sorry.”
“Why? It’s not all that bad once you get used to it. I actually rather enjoy it. Plus, I don’t have to go to the bathroom, because I’m always already there.”
Ew. Ew. EW.
“Okay, uh, what was your name again?”
“Dr. Michelangelo.”
That made too much sense.
“Okay, Dr. Michelangelo. You stay right there. I’m not breaking you out.” Once I was free, I hoped and prayed that I never had to meet him again.
Hold on, Velvet. This gay baby is learning to crawl.
So far, so good. The whole sneaking business was a go. Then came the inevitable.
“Jolene, I know you’re there! You stole my man!”
Shivers ran down my timbers. The unmistakable voice of Mustachebeard, the fearsome vice-admiral for the marines. For the record, yes, I did say I was Jolene when I infiltrated their ship last time, but no, I did not steal anyone’s man.
I did my best to avoid detection, knocking marines out one by one as I traversed the hallowed halls of the ship. I stole a musket off of one of the marines, which really helped once I made it above deck of the ship and found one of the vice-admiral’s lookouts. I ran up to her and before she had the chance to pull out her weapon, I pointed the musket I had looted right at her face.
“Y’arr. Name’s Velvetbeard. I’m here to steal your heart.”
“You,” she growled. “I heard you’re the worst pirate to have ever existed.”
“Nah, there’s worse. There’s gotta be, right? I mean, I can’t be that bad, can I?”
I pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. As it turned out, the musket had no ammo. That, and I didn’t know how a musket worked.
“Nice try,” she smirked. “Now men! Fire!”
Behind her was a firing squad, which meant that I was as good as dead. But instead, everything went black. Everything began to spin in place.
That girl, whatever her name was...was kind of cute.
Yes. There was the headache, in full force. My head felt ready to split itself open and all the contents would spill forth for the world to see. It all felt both so uneasy and yet so familiar. As if it was all a rehash of something that I had been a part of before. Something long gone.
It was but a small opening, but that opening was good enough for me. Like a baby, I crawled through and as soon as I was out, I ran over to the metal box that Velvet was trapped in. I kept banging my fists against it.
“I’m impressed, but at the same time, I wish you’d slow it down! She’s got at least two more movies left in her! The next one will surely dig deep into her psyche.”
“Not. Gonna. Happen,” I growled.
That same gloved metal claw came, likely to pick me up. Some artist Dr. Bob Ross was if she thought I was going to be fooled twice. I swerved to my side to avoid the reach, then I grabbed on to the metal spring and I began to hit the wall with the metal claw.
I was awoken by that same lookout, the one I thought was kinda cute. We were in the middle of a cabin. She shook me awake. As it stood, I was grape jelly.
“Come on, we gotta work together if we wanna make it out.”
“Ugh...what happened?” I rubbed my forehead.
“We were invaded by the Polo Wearing Pirates. Fearsome bandits, they are. As much as I hate to admit it, I need your help. Everyone else aboard the ship has died.”
“Oh, I see what’s going on. Some kind of enemies to lovers type thing, right?”
“Wrong. This is serious. We will never be anything more than enemies.”
“Then why did you kiss my forehead?”
I paused.
She was gone. I was somewhere else. In the clouds? Or aboard another pirate ship. Or in a room, where my former first mate was, Violet. Just Violet.
“Why hello,” Violet greeted.
“What...what are you doing here?”
“You wanted to see me. So I am here.”
“But…” It was ten years. Tears began to trickle down. “I can accept you being gone.”
I knew where I was. At a park. Close to where the school was.
“You’re still the same timid Velvet I knew.”
“How do I escape this movie?” I demanded. Was it me coming back to my senses? No. It was just something that came out.
She approached me. Between the high seas and what I thought to be the closing credits. But maybe they were cornflakes in the wind.
“You wish you knew what happened to me. But you never will. That you may have accepted, but it will still be on your mind. The thought of what became of me. Whether I lived or died, and if I lived, have I lived a good life?”
I shook my head. “Maybe I wonder from time to time. Maybe you will always be someone that I’ll miss. But you know what? So will anyone else that I meet. I’ve accepted that I’m not the type to forget people, no matter how big or small the impact. So...deal with it.”
Yes. That was what they called a flashback. Or forward. Or somewhere in between, on the side. Because I was still next to that blue haired spice.
“So you see, ten years ago there was someone who knew me as someone else. I’m still an anxious person from time to time, but I’m also much more than that. In fact, some would even go as far as to call me ‘badass’.”
“What are you talking about?” My enemy, not lover, asked.
“I...maybe you’ll find out in a later stage of our relationship,” I teased. We got up, but I fell again.
“Sorry,” I croaked. “Now I must inform you that I feel like I am dying.”
My eyes. They eclipsed.
Pounding sounds began to erupt, like my own heartbeat. I clutched my chest, but that didn’t feel right.
“Oh no!” The blue haired wonder cried out. “We have to hurry! The ship is exploding! Our ship is going down!”
I tried to get up, but I could feel the heat. Smoke rose up all around us and I started to cough. Not only was the rest of the ship on fire, but so were my lungs.
There.
At last, the box was broken. Gas leaked out and dissipated. I covered my mouth, but I could still feel the effects making me dizzy. Not to mention that I already felt weak from my previous two ordeals.
I looked around and there Velvet was, on the floor. I rushed to her.
“Hey! Hey!” I shook her.
“Our ship is sinking…” I heard her mutter.
“No it’s not! See, I’m right here!”
I held her against me. It took me a few more seconds to register that she was just asleep, but even still, I needed her awake. Then, I thought of something.
“Hey if you wake up, I’ll kiss you on the lips.”
Her eyes shot open. “Real shit?” She uttered with a groggy voice. Then she looked over and saw that it was me, “oh hey, enemies to lovers.”
I groaned. “I wish you wouldn’t remind me.”
Now, there was just one other matter to attend to...but before I could get to that, Velvet tugged at my shirt collar.
“What about the kiss?”
“Can’t it wait? We’re in the middle of a fight.”
“No.”
I let out an exaggerated sigh, then leaned in and gave her a peck.
“Really?! That’s it?! Come on!” She jolted up.
“I’ll do it for real later,” then I turned my attention to what was behind her: the gun that she had before passing out. I took it and almost dropped it, the damn thing was so heavy. Just a few more steps, though, and I would then part with it.
“Hey Popsigirl!” I yelled.
From atop the pillar, I saw a hand emerged which then proceeded to wave at me.
I growled, then threw the gun at the pillar. All the popsicle sticks began falling down, one by one, as the mad artist’s tower crumbled.
Court dismissed.
#happiness overload#scifi#surreal#comedy#drama#gay#writing#stories#fiction#velvet#coriander#pirates#superheroes
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Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!
Of Gods and Men Summary:
When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?
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QUEST 09: OUR SPIRITS, KINDRED
QUEST SUMMARY:
When Ariane is kidnapped and the signs point to Sliske, Jahaan is forced to confront the Mahjarrat once again. But this time, things take a turn for the twisted, and Jahaan uncovers the truth behind Sliske’s obsession with him. Can Jahaan survive Sliske’s games? After all, broken bones heal faster than a broken mind…
CHAPTER 3: METHOD OF MADNESS
Leaving the wight-turned-dragonkin staring blankly into the distance behind him, Jahaan walked through into the next chamber. There, it wasn’t just Ozan and Ariane who he saw. No, alongside the huddled up couple were Major Mary Rancour, Sir Tendeth, and Idria - one of the Guardians of Armadyl.
“Sliske got you all too, huh?” Jahaan drawled, exchanging a small nod of greeting to the Major, who looked just as worldweary as Jahaan sounded. “Is everyone alright?”
Nodding, Idria assured, “Yes, the Brothers have been guarding us, but we’re okay. Do you know what this is about?”
“I can shed some light on that,” Sliske faded into view, looming over the gathered group.
Mary Rancour snapped around, heatedly demanding, “Sliske! Release us all at once!”
“No! I will release you gradually!”
The Major blinked. “...what?”
“While you’re trying to figure that one out, this is how this is going to go,” Sliske started wringing his hands, his voice developing a wicked overtone. “As you may have realised, we are no longer in Daemonheim. I welcome you all to my new humble abode, after the Zamorakians made a mess of my last one. Jahaan here is our guest of honour, and you’re all going to help him through these little trials of mine. You’ll find out the details as we go, but I’ve put a lot of thought into them, so I do hope you have fun!”
Utterly baffled, Jahaan shook his head and replied, “Why do you think I'll do this, Sliske? This is madness! Worse, this is nonsense! What is the point of all this? Just to get me to jump through hoops?”
“In reverse order: not exactly, it's a secret, no it isn't, it kind of is… and because I'll kill more of the hostages if you don't.”
Jahaan faltered. “M-More of...?”
Sliske raised an arm; the cowering Sir Tendeth screamed as he was lifted into the air, surrounded by a purple aura. After a couple of seconds of being held up, he dropped dead.
“By the gods!” Mary Racour gasped, stumbling backwards. Even Idria, normally courageous to the point of being foolhardy, had to reconsider intervention. She was powerless without her rune stones, after all.
Jahaan watched the corpse fall to the ground with a dull thump, and a thick lump rose in his throat. "Sliske..."
Unphased by the horror he’d just inflicted, Sliske continued, “You see, there is a reason for all this, Jahaan. Two, in fact. The one you'll get now is that I'll present the Staff of Armadyl to you when you are done.”
Idria’s head shot up, fully alert. “You’ll what?!”
“I’ll give him the Staff of Armadyl,” Sliske reiterated, smiling innocently at Jahaan. “You see, soon the Staff of Armadyl would have outlived its usefulness for me. So, here’s the deal: play along with my games, and it’s yours, to go all stabby-stabby on the gods if you so wish. You might liven up this dull period of my contest, after all. Plus, your little friends can go free, as an added bonus. What do you say?”
Jahaan’s eyes examined all the hostages carefully, apprehensively awaiting his response. He didn’t trust Sliske to be true to his word on this, naturally. He didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. However, he also realised that there was no choice but to play along for now in the hopes that an escape opportunity would arise later down the line.
Sighing, Jahaan answered, “I have no choice. I'll play your stupid game.”
“My game isn't stupid, Jahaan. You'll see that very quickly. Now, there’s the door, so let's get moving!”
Sliske teleported away. After he did, Ozan rushed up to Jahaan and, in a hushed tone, asked, “Are you sure about this, Jahaan?”
“Not even slightly,” Jahaan gravely responded. “But we don't have much of a choice right now.”
To the group, he ushered them to come closer before he quietly said, “Everyone, keep your eyes out for a way to escape as we progress. The sooner we can get out of here, the better.”
When the group entered the large expanse Sliske had directed them to, they saw what looked like an arena. A fighting pit, more like. Desolate and unmaintained from centuries of abandonment.
Where the fuck are we? Jahaan wondered to himself, gazing at the ancient architecture. However, his curiosity was cut short like a bullet to the chest when he saw the other residents Sliske had summoned down in the pit.
They were six figures he recognised all too well, faces that were etched into his mind like carvings on a tree, determined to stand the test of time, to outlive him and all his other memories.
The ragged and torn clothing, along with the tangled mess of brunette hair that covered his blue eyes. He was exactly how Jahaan had found him that day in the cave. Cyrius.
Short and with an expression of perpetual annoyance, the grey haired gnome stood with his chest out and proud, defiant to the end. Hazelmere.
Covered in grey robes, he looked empty without the cocoon of steel armour protecting him, but his stoic expression was stronger than any shield. Turael.
Sporting a pompously flamboyant green hat that only someone like him could pull off, coupled with a perfectly trimmed moustache. Harrallak.
Dark red skin protruded from the slashes in his shirt, exposing the scaly flesh below. He looked completely unphased by the unfamiliar surroundings, ready to take on the world all over again. Mazchna.
Her beige robes covered her from head to toe, strands of ginger hair poking out from the sides of the hood, a fringe covering one of her steely green eyes. Lassyai.
Yes, Jahaan recognised them instantly, but they were all paler than normal, and they looked slightly… hollow.
“Lassyai!” Idria cried out, beginning to rush towards her fellow Guardian of Armadyl, until the blade of Dharok’s greataxe barred her journey.
Like he’d seen a ghost, Jahaan stumbled backwards, knocking into Ozan, who sported a similar expression of confused horror. “H-How are you all here?!”
“I can answer that,” Sliske’s self-satisfied voice echoed around them. “You see, I ‘borrowed’ these souls for today’s proceedings. Iccy’s going to be FURIOUS - I wish I could see the look on his face!”
“Jahaan!” Cyrius called out, a heart-melting smile on his battered-looking face. “Ozan! I’m so glad you’re both still alive.”
Jahaan felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. “Cyrius… all of you… I thought I’d never see you again...”
“Death is a great uniter,” Harrallack commented, dryly. “Then again, it seems ‘undeath’ is as well…”
Always straight to the point, Mazchna asked, “Do you know why we are here? Or how?”
“Yes, I was rather enjoying the afterlife,” Hazelmere cut in, irritably. “Then in a blink, I’m here. And it’s cold.”
“Oh don’t worry, you’ll be back in the afterlife before you know it,” Sliske assured, a darkness in the edges of his voice. “How you get there, however, will be up to Jahaan. Which brings me to why I brought you all here. You see, Jahaan, you always blamed yourself for the death of these fine warriors. It was never your fault, you know. Well, until now, that is.”
Jahaan gulped. “What do you mean?”
“It’s simple, really,” Sliske continued, a wicked grin slashed onto his face. “These lovely men and women want to return to the afterlife. You’re going to help them get there. To do that, all you have to do is put them back to rest…”
Fear crept into Jahaan’s tone. “What do you mean by ‘put them back to rest’?”
Sighing, Sliske rolled his eyes. “Honestly, do I have to spell everything out to you? You’re going to have to kill them, Janny. One by one.”
Jahaan’s face was a picture of disgust. “I’m not doing that!”
“Oh I think you will, for if you don’t kill them, the Brothers will. Trust me, they’ll make it much more painful than you ever would. Whether they get a quick and merciful re-death is entirely up to you."
The shock subsided once Sliske’s words sunk in, replaced instead by something much more tangible, much more familiar: anger.
Rounding to where Sliske was perched, Jahaan gripped his fists into tight balls, teeth clenched so tightly they felt like they could shatter at any moment. “SLISKE!” he roared, saliva spitting uncontrollably, like venom from a rabid animal. “RELEASE THEM BACK TO THE AFTERLIFE NOW!”
Sliske’s response was deadly, bone-chillingly calm. “I already told you how to return them to the afterlife. There’s no need to yell.”
Before Sliske could even get the last syllable out, Jahaan had already began storming towards the stand inhabited by the Mahjarrat, fully intending to scale the brick work with his bare hands if he had to. However, the sudden shriek from behind him stopped him dead. Spinning around, Jahaan saw Guthan had the razor-edge of his spear tight against Ariane’s jugular, who flinched away in terror. In a flash, the six warriors had charged forwards, but a conjuring of shadow binds kept them in their places.
“Leave her alone!” Ozan cried, charging towards Guthan, but Torag knocked him to the ground, shattering his left ankle with one of his hammers.
The sickening crunch of the bone and Ozan’s subsequent scream made Jahaan quiver. Holding his hands up slightly, Jahaan tried to ease his shaking as he turned back to Sliske and stuttered, “O-Okay… okay I-I’m calm. P-Please don’t hurt him again.”
Smugly, Sliske replied, “I thought you would have figured this out by now: whoever gets hurt is entirely up to you. Understand?”
Nodding feverously, Jahaan agreed. “Yes, yes I understand. Please, don’t hurt them anymore. Please.”
Satisfied, Sliske nodded his head towards Guthan. The Brother released Ariane, and she immediately rushed to Ozan’s side.
Fighting his restraints, Tureal roared, “Sorcerer! Release us or pay the price!”
With a grin slashed into his face like it was carved by a crude blade, Sliske retorted, “I don’t think you’re in any position to make threats, Tureal. After all, you couldn’t even stop poor little Lucien, and I’m rather certain I’ve far surpassed his power by now.”
Huffing, Hazelmere loudly grumbled, “Can someone PLEASE tell me what is going on here?”
Lassyai blew a stray clump of ginger hair out from her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? He,” she jerked her head towards Sliske’s perch. “Is one of those Mahjarrat bastards, like Lucien. Sadistic, all of them. And he’s stolen the Staff of Armadyl!”
“But why?!” Hazelmere persisted, “What is going on?!”
“ENOUGH!” Sliske fiercely cut in, hushing the room to silence. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he rounded on the six warriors. “By the gods, I’m surprised you didn’t bicker Lucien to death. And here you were supposed to be Gielinor’s best and brightest. But the World Guardian knows what’s going on, don’t you, Janny?”
Through it all, however, Cyrius’ eyes had never left Jahaan. The World Guardian had been staring numbly into space until a broken murmur from Cyrius broke him out of his stupor. “Jahaan…?”
Gulping, Jahaan’s voice was fractured as he quietly explained. “This is Sliske. He wants to hurt me by getting me to hurt you. I don’t know why.”
Betrayed… the notion danced around in Jahaan’s mind, conjuring nausea in his stomach and bile in his throat. He wasn’t angry now - he was too tired for that. Instead, he was more… heartbroken.
Seeing his old friends. Seeing Ozan hurt and scared. Knowing what he had to do. Not knowing what else was to come. Not being in control of a damn thing.
And, above all, not knowing why.
“Just do it Jahaan,” Mary Rancour urged, anger biting into her frustration. “They’re already dead - it’s not like you’re actually killing them or anything. The sooner this is over, the sooner we can leave.”
“Yes, do it, World Guardian,” Sliske malevolently echoed, waving away the restraints of the warriors as he did so. He motioned to Verac and Karil; the former handed Jahaan a blade, thin like a kitchen knife, while the latter aimed his crossbow at Idria. “Or do you need further encouragement?”
Weighing up the blade in his hand, he turned towards the warriors, all regarding him with a cocktail of confusion and apprehension.
Unsurprisingly, Hazelmere was the first to speak. “Well, get on with it then! What do I care if you kill me again? I just want to go back to the peace and quiet.”
Sniffing a laugh, Turael turned a challenging glance to Sliske as he added, “Yeah, means nothing to me. Have at it, Jahaan.”
The others cut in with similar resistant barbs, focused on either trying to rattle Sliske, calm Jahaan’s nerves, or perhaps both.
Jahaan knew they didn’t fully comprehend what was going on, or why, or even how. But he recognised the main thing, and that was they were doing in death what they always did in life - they were supporting their comrade.
Despite everything, he forced a weak, defiant smile. “Your plan backfired, Sliske. You’ve given me the chance to do something I’ve wanted to do for years. You’ve allowed me to say goodbye.”
But as the blade bit down on Hazelmere’s thin skin and he looked deep into those blue eyes, the fear and nerves and sickness all came flooding back. Defiance had crumbled, but that was internally. Externally, he tried his damn best to keep his resolve steady. Then again, the hesitation no doubt gave it away.
He didn’t want to give Sliske the satisfaction of watching him break.
“Hurry up,” Hazelmere grumbled; Jahaan knew it was for his sake, not out of genuine annoyance. This was the only way Hazelmere knew how to be supportive. “My feet are aching, and I had tea brewing.”
Sniffing a faint chuckle, Jahaan whispered, “Goodbye, Hazelmere.”
In one swift motion, the first deed was done. There wasn’t much in the way of blood, but the way his body crumpled to the ground, a dull and lifeless thud, brought back the painful vision of the first time he saw Hazelmere fall.
Mustn’t give Sliske the satisfaction, Jahaan reminded himself, swallowing hard and blinking back the salty tears threatening the edges of his eyes as he moved onto Turael, then Harrallak, then Mazchna, then Lassyai.
The last was Cyrius.
He looks just as beautiful as he always did, Jahaan found himself ruminating, gazing into his warm blue eyes through blurred vision. Blinking himself back into clarity, a few stray tears escaped down his cheek, and he didn’t have the will to brush them away. Cyrius didn’t give him a look of pity, though. His serene smile encapsulated his contentment as he said, “Do you remember that trip we took to Baxtorian Falls? We camped out there for days, watching the leaping salmon and trout dancing through the air.”
This thought broke Jahaan; he choked back a sob, trying to mask it inside a laugh. “How could I forget? You burnt everything we caught.”
Cyrius chuckled now, a full-bodied chuckle filled with warmth and comfort. “Do you remember how we got back down the waterfall?”
Jahaan felt like his heart momentarily stopped. “I-I do…” he stammered out, swallowing down the large lump in his throat.
Cyrius looked on the brink of tears now. “I was so scared of jumping in that whirlpool. You told me people did it all the time and lived to tell the tale, but still. Remember how you took my hand, and you led me to the bridge,” Cyrius reached out and lightly took Jahaan’s hand in his, the one with the knife. “If you hadn’t held onto me I swear I would have chickened out. Tell me, honestly, were you sure we were going to make it?”
Biting the inside of his cheek, Jahaan confessed, “Honestly? I guess not.”
“Me neither,” Cyrius replied. Jahaan could see his own reflection through the water in Cyrius’ eyes. “But you know what? I didn’t care. If we hadn’t made it out, I wouldn’t have cared, because right there and then, everything was perfect.”
Cyrius wrapped Jahaan’s fingers around his own. “Because you are perfect.”
Suddenly, Cyrius leant forward and planted a deep kiss on Jahaan’s lips. But before Jahaan could even register what was happening, Cyrius pulled away, and he had taken the dagger with him.
Jahaan barely opened his mouth before Cyrius slit his own throat with the blade.
When Jahaan climbed the ramp out of the pit, Sliske was there to greet him, clapping slowly. “Good show, Janny. Good show indeed!”
Jahaan didn’t stop, he just stormed right past Sliske and towards the entrance to the next chamber.
The doors creaked open slowly, allowing Jahaan to enter. When they closed behind him again, he leant back against the door and tried to steady his breathing. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, so he clenched them into balled fists, squeezing so hard his fingers started to turn purple. Chattering teeth thrummed in time with his rapid heartbeat, while waves of nausea threatened to overwhelm him.
Calm down, Jahaan hissed internally, There’s no time for this now. You have to focus. Pull yourself together
Trying to swallow his feelings like bile in his throat, Jahaan prepared to embrace Sliske’s latest torture chamber. In front of him he saw two incredibly large god statues - one of Saradomin and one of Zamorak - with an eerily familiar looking gentleman attached to them. Blue and red chains held him taut in a crucifix position. Upon closer inspection, it appeared as if they were actually pulling him in both directions, agonisingly stretching his limbs. Above him towered a tall statue of a very sadistic looking Mahjarrat.
Hurrying over, Jahaan could only look on in abject horror as the man’s body shook against the tension, quivering in pain. But when he got close enough to see his face, Jahaan felt like throwing up. “You!”
Blonde hair, parted at the side, but messy, like a comb-over had gone wrong. Dark eyes, empty and lifeless. The man was an animated corpse.
And a long, thin scar across his throat.
“Sir Tenly,” Jahaan could actually feel the bile forming in his throat as he uttered the name. The former White Knight’s eyes fell on Jahaan, a flash of panic, desperation and anger all in one nanosecond.
“You! You’re the- ARGG!” the pain of the chains cut him off, but he was determined to finish, teeth gritted as he spat, “you’re the bastard that murdered me!”
Jahaan flinched backwards, eyes wide and bloodshot. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by another scream of pain from Sir Tenly.
Desperately, with a face creased and a brow strained, Sir Tenly hissed, “You have to help me - these things are tearing me apart!”
“Yes, they are, aren’t they, Sir Tenly?” Sliske taunted, his disembodied voice echoing around them. “Jahaan, this one is very simple: Sir Tenly is being torn between two gods, Saradomin and Zamorak. You have to figure out which one doesn't have a claim on his soul and make them let go.”
Sir Tenly’s arms struggled against the chains. “Saradomin is my lord and light! Aaaargh!”
“Then that's simple, isn't it? All you need is a key to Zamorak's chains. There is a machine for making them over in the other room where your friends are. They just need to put a hand into that little box to power the machine.”
Already feeling like he knew the answer, Jahaan warily inquired, “And what happens when they do?”
The Mahjarrat replied, “Ah. Well, if I told you, that’d ruin the surprise now, wouldn’t it?”
Jahaan could practically feel Sliske’s smirk.
“Hurry! Do it! Free me!” Sir Tenly beseeched, “My vitals feel like they are being sliced apart!”
“Well, that might be because I hid the Saradomin key in there…”
Jahaan choked on the lump in his throat. “What?!”
“If you think maybe Saradomin has less of a claim on Sir Tenly than he declares, all you have to do is dig it out. I’ll let the two of you have a nice reunion. Have fun!”
Hesitantly, Jahaan edged closer to Sir Tenly, his eyes stinging with tears in them. The man whose life he cut short, all over a stupid insult.
Jahaan gulped. Now he’s here, suffering again, thanks to me...
He didn’t know what to do; his mouth hung open like a dumbstruck animal, his feet nailed to the floor. It wasn’t until another cry of pain from Sir Tenly snapped him out of his trance.
“Why is this happening to me?!” Sir Tenly wailed, face contorted with agony. “I was a good Saradominist! Who is this- ARG! This MONSTER?!”
Gulping, Jahaan tried to straighten his thoughts out enough to tentatively reply. “It’s not you. He’s… he’s doing this to get to me. It’s one of his sick games.”
"You're putting an unfair amount of the blame on me, don’t you think, Janny?” Sliske cackled, menacingly. “After all, you were the one who sent this man to an early grave. How can you call me ‘sick’ or ‘twisted’ or evil’ when you’re nothing but a cold-blooded murderer yourself, hm?”
Sliske’s words cut through Jahaan like a knife through raw chicken, chilling his very core. It was Sir Tenly who pulled him out of his own mind.
“Who even is this monster?!” Sir Tenly exclaimed, but after another sharp hiss of pain, he corrected, “Nevermind, I don’t care - just get the Zamorak key and get me out of here!”
The Zamorak keys can only be forged from pain, while the ‘light’ of Saradomin tears Sir Tenly up inside, Jahaan darkly realised, watching the corpse in front of him writhe in pain. His head was still reeling from Sliske’s previous truth. What poetic irony, Sliske.
“What are you still standing there for?!” Sir Tenly strained against his chains. “Get the key, NOW!”
Exhaling a shuddering breath, Jahaan declared, “O-Okay, I’ll get the Zamorak key.”
“Hurry! I don’t know how much more I can take!”
Resolving himself, Jahaan rushed over to the doorway separating himself from his comrades, who had been ushered into a small box-like room that extended into his chamber. He knew exactly what he was about to ask of his friends, but there was little choice in the matter. Pressing up against the door, he shouted through, “I need a Zamorak key.”
“A what key?” a puzzled Ozan called back.
“Long story short, Sir Tenly is strung between two statues,” Jahaan hurried to explain. "I need to unlock the statue of the god who does not have a claim on his soul. So, I need a Zamorak key.”
“Who’s Sir Tenly?” Major Mary Rancour inquired.
“Not important,” Ozan cut in, sparing Jahaan from having to explain himself, for which Jahaan was incredibly grateful. Small mercies, after all.
Back on track, Ariane asked, “How do we give you that key?”
Jahaan hesitated, the guilt setting in. “Is… is there a machine in there with you?”
Idria confirmed that there was.
“One of you needs to put your hand inside it. It’s… it’s going to hurt, but Sliske said that’s the only way to get the key.”
Hands on her hips, Idria protested, “Why do we need to get hurt over this Sir Tenly’s sake?”
“Because Sliske will hurt us all if you don’t.”
Idria countered, “But how do we know he won’t just hurt us anyway?”
Echoing around them, Sliske cheerily conceded, “She has a good point. I am a terrible person.”
Idria waved her hands to the sky, satisfied at being proven right yet again.
“The thing is, my dear, if you don’t play along, well…” Sliske warned, “Remember dear old Sir Tendeth? Lived up to his name, didn’t he…”
Biting his lip, Jahaan said, “I’m sorry guys. I need that key.”
Exhaling deeply, Ozan was the first to declare, “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Ariane gave his hand a light, reassuring tug before he limped over to the machine. There was a little box that opened as he approached. A metal grill was on the bottom inside it.
Wincing, Ozan cautiously edged his hand inside, and the box clamped down to secure him there.
The scream was earth-shattering as blue fire rose from the grill and engulfed Ozan’s hand.
When he was released, he fell to the ground clutching his scorched palm.
The sound made Jahaan feel sick, but he steeled himself through the waves of nausea. “Ozan, I’m so sorry…” he mumbled, but he doubted anyone could hear.
The next thing he knew, a key was placed through the letterbox-sized flap to his right.
The sounds of Sir Tenly’s wailing snapped Jahaan back into focus; scrabbling to grab the key, he hurried over to the Zamorak statue and tried to unlock it.
Tragically, the key broke in the lock.
“What’s happening?!” Sir Tenly demanded.
Jahaan heavy-heartedly called back, “The key broke!”
“Useless sandboy!” Sir Tenly hissed. “Do it right this time!”
The hairs on the back of Jahaan’s neck stood up and he froze, utterly, clenching the broken end of the key tightly into his fist. He couldn’t quite tell if it was in his imagination or not, but he swore he heard Sliske laughing.
Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, he ignored Sir Tenly and went back over to the large door, shouting through, “Guys, the key broke in the lock. I’m so sorry, but I need another.”
Sighing, Mary Rancour volunteered, “Fine, I’ll do it.”
Despite telling herself she didn’t want to give Sliske the satisfaction of hearing her scream, her shriek was incredibly high pitched.
Taking the key, Jahaan went to unlock the Zamorak statue again. Alas…
“It broke again!” Jahaan exclaimed, his shoulders sagging.
“Are you kidding me?!” Sir Tenly replied. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”
“I’m not!” Jahaan snapped back, indignantly. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but out of anyone, he was glad it was someone like Sir Tenly up there and not one of his friends.
He walked significantly slower this time over to the door. “Hey guys, I need another key…”
Idria did not look impressed. “Of course you do.”
Shaking his head, Jahaan said, “I don’t know what to tell you.”
Grumbling, Idria replied, “I guess I’ll do it then.”
A hand, a box, a flame, a scream, a key.
And again, it broke in the lock.
Sliske’s voice floated tauntingly around them. “Hmm it broke again… I wonder why that is, Sir Tenly…”
The realisation Jahaan had been fighting back since the second key broke crawled across Jahaan’s skin. Walking up the steps to Sir Tenly, he somberly announced, “I need the Saradomin key, Sir Tenly. There’s no other way.”
“What are you talking about?” Sir Tenly gruffly protested. “The Saradomin key won't unlock the chains. All you'd be doing is symbolically removing my love for him, just like that monster wants!”
“I’m sorry… I have to…”
“NO!” Sir Tenly bellowed. “I am a White Knight of Saradomin! Get a Zamorak key and release me!”
Gulping, Jahaan stepped closer. “I’m sorry.”
“No! I follow my lord willingly!” Sir Tenly desperately resisted, his fearful eyes quivering.
Having to force his hand closer to Sir Tenly’s soft, undead stomach, Jahaan whispered, “I’m so sorry…”
With a sickening squelch, Jahaan’s fingers stabbed into Sir Tenly’s belly. As the knight writhed in torment, he felt his fingertips knock against something metallic.
“Mercy! Please, stop this torture!” Sir Tenly desperately begged, his head shooting around in all directions as his body convulsed with agony.
Jahaan was shaking, his heart breaking at the pained sobs of a proud knight, no matter how ignorant or rude that knight could be. Reaching in further, he felt his hand brush against dusty organs. The sensation made Jahaan gag.
“Please stop! You’re tearing me in half! ARRRRGGGG!”
Finally, Jahaan managed to hook two fingers onto the teeth of the key, but it didn’t budge easily. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he woefully declared, “Sir Tenly, I have to pull harder. I’m sorry.”
As he began to pull, Sir Tenly unleashed a blood-curdling scream. “ARRRRGGGG! Please stop the pain! My god, why are you letting this happen?!”
Jahaan felt the key catch on Sir Tenly’s ghostly insides as he pulled harder.
“Will the truth make it end?!“ Sir Tenly was in tears at this point, head hung low as he cried out, “ALRIGHT! I'm a Zamorakian! Now please, LET THIS END!”
Finally, the key came free with a ‘slurp’, covered in whatever juices were left of Sir Tenly’s insides.
Refusing to give into his nausea at this second, Jahaan raced towards the Saradomin statue. Unsurprisingly, the key fit perfectly, unlocking Sir Tenly’s chains. As Sir Tenly swung loosely towards the Zamorak statue, the Saradomin statue toppled over backwards at the loss of contact, knocking a large hole in the wall behind it.
Satisfied that Sir Tenly was free, Jahaan realised nothing was holding him back now, and thus he threw up. A lot.
Once that was out of his system, and most of the goo had been wiped off his hand, Jahaan staggered back over to Sir Tenly, who had become free from all his chains now. “Are you alright?”
Clutching his stomach, Sir Tenly shot him a deadly glare. “You ripped a key from my chest and revealed my true Zamorakian faith, proving I’m a heretic. Why wouldn’t I be alright?”
Jahaan forced a hollow smile. “Sarcasm - that means you’re good to go.”
As quickly as he could, he rushed back over to his friends and hissed through the door, “Guys, are you alright? Can you hear me?”
“Yes, we’re holding up,” Ozan assured, but the shivering laced in his voice betrayed him. “What about you?”
“Sir Tenly’s free,” Jahaan dodged the question. “The fallen statue knocked out a part of the wall. I’m going to see if it leads to a way out. Can you guys keep Sliske busy while I do that?”
“We’ll try,” Idria replied, biting her lip. “Don’t be long though. If you get outside, bring reinforcements back with you. I don’t trust Sliske to keep his word about the Staff, but as long as we can corner him here, we have a chance of getting it back.”
Mary Rancour concurred, “Indeed. We have to use this situation to our advantage. Good luck out there, Jahaan.”
“Same to you, everyone,” Jahaan replied, but he hesitated before leaving. He wanted to say something else, something reassuring and confident to try and keep everyone’s head above water. But knowing he’d no doubt sound as scared as he felt, he held back.
With that, Jahaan hurried over to the hole in the wall, slipping behind cover wherever he could, and entered the caved in tunnel. From the lack of protest on Sliske’s part, he seemed to get away with it.
DISCLAIMER:
As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.
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Another hole in the wall
I'm so happy to have done this in collaboration with the lovely @anakitoart! ❤
Check her incredible drawing out here! You should also consider following her on Tumblr, her art Tumblr and Twitter!
She's such a sweetie!!
Another hole in the wall, a Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia One Shot.
Summary: Bakugou’s never tried a glory hole before, until now.
Pairings: Bakugou/Kirishima.
Characters: Bakugou Katsuki, Kirishima Eijirou
Rating: Explicit
Read on AO3
Or read below the cut
Bakugou’s never done this before. Sure, he’s done other things, and they’ve all been a lot of fun, but this is him stepping out of his comfort zone. He impatiently taps his fingers over the dark screen of his phone, hoping to master the courage to do it. With a sigh, he tries to reason with himself. It’s not too different from all the other stuff he’s done. It really isn’t.
It should be easier than it seems. He doesn’t even have to add a profile picture, and even if he wanted to, they aren’t allowed to show their face. So, it’s one less thing. But Bakugou likes his face. He thinks the sharp lines of his jaw and other features are what make him handsome. It certainly isn’t his personality what gets him laid, and he knows that. He’s not particularly good with words, or people. And it had never really mattered that much to him until he realised he was alone and that that’s how he was going to die if he didn’t at least make an effort.
So he’s gone down this rabbit hole of trying to meet new people through the internet. It’s harder not only because of his difficult personality, but because he’s looking for one person in particular.
It had been years ago, and Bakugou still can’t shake the memories of how happy that person had made him. He’d been shaped by him, all his preferences in men and in sex, they were all thanks to that boy he’d met. His first kiss, his first sexual encounter. His first beer under the stars, holding hands and groping under clothes. It had been the best time of his life.
He’d tried to find him again, but he couldn’t remember his name and he could barely remember his face. He’d discarded that useless information at the beginning, not knowing it was going to be crucial for him later on. He’d never been good with names, he hadn’t bothered trying to get close to people. That’s why that boy was special. He didn’t care about all those things, he just saw Bakugou as Bakugou, and liked him for who he was. And when the blond realised what he felt was love, it was too late. The boy was gone; they were far away from each other again.
And it was all Bakugou’s fault.
He searches for him wherever he goes, without noticing. Every smile that flashes makes him think of his; every person with red hair makes him do a double take. He doesn’t remember much else about the boy, except that he did have a pretty little scar over one eye, and the sharpest teeth Bakugou’s ever seen.
He’s tried to forget him, but the memory of him never fades. He’s tried everything to get over him, from alcohol to other people to bed, but nothing has worked.
When everything else failed, he tried looking for him online, but without a name it’s hard to get a result on the internet.
Bakugou’s almost given up. He wants to try other people until the taste of his first love leaves him forever. And he’s doing great on that front… except that he’s stood up six dates in the last month. He agreed to go out with them, but then he remembered they’re not him and he erased the app and bit the pillow to stop himself from screaming as tears rolled down his cheeks, a deep hatred for himself and his feelings in his chest.
This time he swears it’s different. There’s no face to face, it’s just sex. He can do sex. He can’t do dates or talking to people but taking his clothes off and letting others use him, that he actually enjoys.
But he’s still finding it hard to set up a profile. Maybe he’s afraid he’s going to do like he always does, and ditch another poor fellow that doesn’t deserve it. He tries to reason with himself that it’ll be fun and new. When that doesn’t work, he convinces himself to open the app by telling himself it’ll end in sex, and sex is a good motivator.
It’s called ‘The Glory Hole App’. Bakugou’s never tried a glory hole before, but he has watched a lot of porn about it. It’s always been something he wanted to try, something he’d always click on when he saw the thumbnail. Plus he likes the idea of anonymous sex. He wants to be abused by a faceless stranger. That way he can picture it’s his first love fucking him into the mattress and when he opens his eyes he doesn’t have to be disappointed to not see it’s someone else.
That’s why this app might be the thing for him.
He’s already downloaded the app and everything. He just has to click on it and set the profile up and look for someone who’d be keen to fuck him stupid. It shows you people in the same district as you and you can speak to them and arrange dates in the various different glory holes the country has.
When he finally manages to master up the courage to open the app, he’s a bit confused as to how it works. There are too many menus and options and pop-ups flashing up. It wants Bakugou to start setting up a profile so he does. He opts for a photo he took the other day to use as his profile pic. It doesn’t show his face but it’s him biting his shirt to pull it up enough to expose his abs and stomach. The viewer can also see his bed to one side, so it’s sort of inviting people in like that.
He lists his interests and ticks the right boxes, asking to only be paired up with men, and preferably tops. Immediately a notification with a few suggested people for him pops up, and he clicks on it, going over a large amount of penises he doesn’t think are tremendously impressive. Some of them have photos like his, exposed stomach and sculpted abs. One does catch his eye, however, and he decides to go to his gallery and look at more of his pictures.
The profile belongs to RedRiot, and by what Bakugou can see of the man, he’s very hot. ‘Likes: meat, tough guys and making you whimper 😉’ His description reads. Suppressing a snort, the blond decides to message him: ‘Hmm I doubt you’re really are up to par with that description of yours.’
He feels a bit giddy after hitting the enter button. He’s never felt like this while on the other dating apps, but then again, this one is different.
He really wants to be answered by this man, but a few minutes later he still hasn’t received a response. Feeling dejected, Bakugou drops his phone on his bed and starts doing the dishes he left soaking that morning.
An hour later he decides to pick his mobile up again, and he’s pleasantly surprised to see RedRiot’s answered him.
‘I really do like making guys like you whimper 😏’ The first message says. The next one, which pops up the moment Bakugou opens the chat reads: ‘Especially guys like you, who think they’re tough.’
“Fuck, who is this dude?” The blond laughs, licking his lower lip. “Who does he think he’s messing with?”
‘Like you could make me whimper.’ He texts back, proud of himself. A bubble with the word ‘writing’ appears next to RedRiot’s name and Bakugou’s tummy does a leap. A second later a little chirp forces his eyes to read the other’s message: ‘Why don’t we meet up so we can find out?’
‘Bold move’, Bakugou thinks, smirking as he quickly texts him back: ‘Tell me when.’
‘Whenever you’re free, baby. There’s one close to the station, if that works for you.’
Bakugou scoffs. ‘Friday afternoon?’
‘Working, could it be night?’
‘You’re on, big guy. You better not disappoint.’
Waiting until Friday is agonising. He continues to text RedRiot during the week, finding out things about the man. He learns that he’s a firefighter and that he has two big dogs named Red and Riot. He’s a fan of Crimson Riot, a TV series that was on when they were both kids. Getting to know him makes it feel less nervous. It’s not so much like he’s going to let a stranger fuck him, just a faceless acquaintance. An acquaintance that he’d actually like to meet.
As their date comes closer, they both sound more and more excited to meet each other and most of the blond’s worries dissipate.
‘I reserved booth #3, hope to see you ready 😉’ Bakugou wakes up on Friday morning to RedRiot’s message and he smirks, feeling his insides warm up.
Throughout the day the blond is nervous, finding himself making stupid mistakes he wouldn’t normally make. Sighing, he tries to concentrate, knowing fully well it’s just how nervous he is at the prospect of being fucked by a hot – and incredibly cute – man.
After dinner, he goes to his room to prepare himself for his big night. He’s giddy, biting his lips and trying to fight off an aroused smirk. Tracing a finger over the bottle of lube, he takes his trousers off and lies on his bed, ready to play with himself. He hopes the small pumps he gives his eager dick help relieve himself from the stress and nervousness of his blind date later that night.
Inhaling a deep breath, he throws his head back and closes his eyes, letting his left hand roam down to his arse. Giving a cheek a light squeeze that excites him, he proceeds to circle his rim with the digit. Groaning, he thrusts his hips up, trying to reach a rhythm he’s comfortable with as he teases himself with one hand while he fists his dick with the other.
He turns around to raise his bottom up, pressing his face against the pillow. Coating his finger in a considerable amount of lube, he inserts it inside of himself, suppressing a whimper by biting on the soft cushion.
Sparks of pleasure make his body tingle and he bites on the padding harder, closing his eyes and rutting against air, trying to feel the friction against his dick more. Feeling his toes curl, he quickly releases his leaking cock, knowing he only needs to tease himself, not cum over and over before the hunky stranger gets a chance to play with him.
He takes his time to prep himself well. He spends over half an hour stretching himself open, playing with his fingers and edging himself on as he looks at the pictures of his… well, he supposes it’s his date. He’s never been this excited about a date before, or about sex. He coats his hole in lube some more before putting a cute studded plug inside of himself. He then quickly gets dressed and ready, without worrying too much about his clothes and appearance since he’s not going to be seen by the other.
The ride to the place is nerve-wrecking. His stomach seems like it’s doing somersaults and he can’t stop his foot from tapping the floor impatiently. Bakugou keeps getting his phone out of his pocket to check the time and the place and also the app, to see if he has new messages from the stranger. He’s scared he’s going to get dumped or cancelled on. But the last message he received stays the same, and it’s RedRiot telling him how eager he is to wreck him. Looking at it makes him smile and blush, which he responds to by clicking his tongue.
He eventually gets to his stop and he steps off the train, looking around to see if he can see the place. He knows it won’t be publicly announced or anything, but maybe he can spot an indicator or something.
Since he’s lost he just uses his phone’s GPS to take him there. He reaches a pretty shady looking place, but the sign over it clearly says ‘Another Hole in the Wall.’ From the outside it looks like a bar, but there are numerous warnings over the tinted glass on the doors that only people over 18 can enter.
Once inside, he walks over to the counter where a bored man is playing on his phone. He barely looks up at Bakugou when the blond clears his throat and asks about his booth reservation.
He finally puts his mobile down and he turns to the computer. The sound of his mouse clicking is the only thing that can be heard until he starts speaking again. “Did you use the app to make an appointment?”
“Yeah.”
“Screen name, please.”
“King of Explodokills. Every word separated with an underscore.”
“Hmmm,” the man tries to stifle a snort. After a few more clicking sounds. “Is your partner RedRiot?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you the one receiving or giving?”
“Receiving.” Bakugou mutters, his eyes narrowing as he goes along with the other man’s choice of words. His gaze falls on the floor and he feels warmth in his cheeks.
“Have you ever done this before?” The man asks as he gets out of his chair and grabs a set of keys.
“No.” Bakugou answers, trying to appear calm. His heart is beating a mile a minute, and his palms are sweating, but he tries to hide this by wiping them discreetly against his trousers.
“Okay then, let’s go.”
Bakugou is led through a large corridor until they reach booth #3. He’s not only scared; he’s also excited. It’s something new and exhilarating, but not necessarily bad. He’ll see how he feels about it after getting fucked by the anonymous stranger.
The man smiles politely at him as he opens the door, turning the light on. He lets the blond enter first, and he’s faced with a table with black padding for him to lie on and a hole with flaps. The room is tiny and white , but the neon lighting it has makes it look violet and sky blue.
“I’ll explain how this goes. You lie down on this table and fit half your body through the hole. I’ll strap your legs in on the other side.”
“Okay.” The blond responds. It sounds easy enough.
“There’s a button under the table.” He crouches and shows it to Bakugou “It’s to call for help, whether you’re stuck, in pain, or being mistreated. Press it if you need to and someone will come to aid you.”
“Thanks.” He grunts, taking his shirt off.
“That’s all! Have fun!” The man waves goodbye as he open and closes the door, leaving Bakugou alone to his doom.
The blond’s not sure he will. His heart is thumping heavily inside of his chest as he undresses. He’s apprehensive and nervous, but he swallows hard and finally gets his underwear off. He sits on the padding, debating whether or not to take the plug out. He opts to leave it in and he lies down, shifting his body down slowly and inserting his legs through the hole. The flaps tickle his skin as they move along it and Bakugou lifts them up over his groin just as they go over his dick to protect it.
He’s finally feeling comfortable as he lies on the padding when suddenly he hears the door open and a familiar voice attracts his attention. “Hey, it’s me again.” The man from before says. “I’m going to strap you in, don’t freak out.”
He grabs Bakugou’s left leg and lifts it up. The blond feels cool leather being bound to his ankle. “Your partner’s at the door. He looks pretty excited. I told him you looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
“I did not!” He snarls back, his fists automatically clenching against the table.
“Sure.” He hoists up the other leg and straps him in. He tugs at his lower limbs to make sure they’re properly secured and then he claps his hands together. “Well, you’re all set here. I’ll get him to come in, then.”
Bakugou’s heart starts beating heavily again. He breathes in through his mouth to calm himself down, but it doesn’t seem to work. He’s bubbling with the need for something – he doesn’t know what – but he desperately wants to satisfy it.
He tries to relax and close his eyes, letting his head rest against the comfortable padding. He opens them again and looks at the ceiling as he waits, trying to find a pattern in the dirt stains on the white wall. He thinks about all the other people that have been there, just where he is right now, waiting or being fucked into the table, and that sort of makes him feel a little bit more at ease.
Suddenly he hears the door click open and he automatically tries to see who it is. He can’t, of course, since there’s a wall separating them. He did it on instinct since he feels very much vulnerable.
“Fuck that’s a nice arse.” A silky and smooth voice mutters. “Can’t wait to make a mess out of you.”
The blond’s first thought is ‘fuck, he sounds hot!’ as he tries to imagine what he looks like. He’s not very imaginative, though; he can’t even think of a face. A low chuckle forces him to concentrate on the man on the other side of the wall again. He hears a belt being unbuckled and his tummy contracts in excitement. Breathing irregularly and with his heart beating fast, he squirms impatiently in his seat.
“Oh, and you left the butt plug in, that’s a nice touch. I’m sorry, I’m going to have to remove this.”
“Yeah.” Bakugou whispers, his voice husky, tainted with lust. He nods as he says it, a small smile creeping up his face due to his excitement.
“You sound eager.” The man chuckles, and the blond feels warm hands against his cheeks. He nearly screams as nails drag over his skin. Instead he squirms against his restraints, the leather shackles rattling as his legs shake in them.
“Fuck, just seeing you like this makes me hard. And, oh, look at you! You really are keen!” The deep voice mutters, sounding aroused. The man presses a finger on the head of his dick, then quickly letting it go to watch it bounce up and down in its half-mast stage. Breathing through his nose, Bakugou clenches his teeth and waits for the stranger to fondle him in any way. It’s almost painful when the man’s fist circles his cock.
Gasping, the blond opens his eyes wide, a nice warm tingly sensation spreading from his groin to his heart. He spasms uncontrollably as the stranger plays with his cock and balls, one hand stroking his shaft from base to head and the other fondling his scrotum tenderly. A groan gets caught in his throat and Bakugou contracts his body in pleasure.
The blond feels himself grow as he’s teased. The stranger’s hands are like magic and he flutters his eyes closed, letting a deep sigh leave his mouth. The hand on his balls stops moving in a circular motion and leaves his body altogether. Bakugou’s pissed off about this, and he’s about to retort with a snarky comment when the man starts pumping his dick harder, making the other completely unable of using his mouth.
The stranger’s fingertips ghost over Bakugou’s rim and the blond almost bucks his hips against the table. They haven’t even started yet, why is he so excited and impatient?
The next thing he feels is the butt plug being slowly pulled out of his hole. He breathes in deeply as he fights the need to whimper. He clenches his teeth and tries to fight his legs shaking when the other man gropes at his exposed skin. The plug finally comes out with a sloppy plopping sound that resonates in his ears.
“Fuck, I want to be in you so bad…” The stranger mutters huskily, inserting one of his warm fingers inside of Bakugou’s lubed up hole. The blond inhales sharply, trying to arch his back against the table and the restraints, but finding it impossible to.
He hears a low chuckle behind him. “Why won’t you talk? I wanna hear your sweet voice.”
“Shut up and just fuck me already!” Bakugou snarls, trying to push his arse back against the hand.
The man howls in laughter. “Eager little thing you are, aren’t ya! I like it.”
But this time he takes the blond’s advice and shoves another finger in, twisting them upwards and bending them slightly.
“You did a good job.” The other purrs, moving his digits agilely. It nearly forces a moan out of Bakugou. “You stretched yourself out pretty well.”
The blond wants to snarl at him, but he can only muster up a small grunt as he feels the fingers spreading him apart. He closes his eyes and inhales sharply, a warm feeling travelling through his body.
“Oh, do you like this?” The man whispers, trying to insert another. This third digit squeezes in and makes Bakugou’s hole burn with want.
“You fucking arsehole!” The blond pants, struggling to inch his behind forward, trying to get the other to touch him more, like he needs, desperately.
“You really do have such a lovely arse.” The other mutters, ignoring him completely. He slowly takes his fingers out and Bakugou makes a strange noise, like an abandoned puppy. He aches to have those thick digits inside him again, spreading him further and igniting the fire of desire that he craves.
But the other man has decided he wants to play with him, and he trails his hands over his soft cheeks, humming to himself. It’s a song the blond thinks he recognises, but whatever part of his brain that was concentrating on remembering where he’d heard it before stops working when the stranger slaps him with his open palm.
Bakugou’s breath hitches in his throat and he throws his head back, a loud thumping noise resonating in the small room he’s in as it collides against the table. Tears spring to his eyes but he closes them to not let them wander down his cheeks. It’s not pain, it’s the desire to feel the other man, to taste him, to be wrecked by him.
He hears fumbling on the other side of the hole and then he’s smacked again. His cock bobs up and down, rocked by the spanking. Then another and another, and the blond has to close his eyes tightly and clench his teeth so the little noises begging to come out of him don’t betray him.
“Let your voice out already~!” The man whispers, his palm ghosting over Bakugou’s cheek. The blond’s breath hitches again because he can feel the warmth emanating from the other’s hand and it feels like the anticipation is going to kill him. “And I’ll give you what you want.”
His voice sounds so raw, so animalistic that it makes Bakugou’s dick even harder. He likes how dominant he’s being with him.
The man lowers his hand and rests it against the blond’s arse, giving the cheek a soft squeeze before it quickly disappears again. Surprised, Bakugou opens his eyes wide and lets out a little gasp. A few seconds later, he feels the palm slapping him with much more force than before and he thrusts his hips up, squirming against the restraints.
“Don’t pull too hard,” the voice on the other side chuckles “or you might just set yourself free by accident.”
“Not gonna happen.” Bakugou grunts.
“Mmhmm.” Is the only response he gets before he stops feeling the other’s hands on his skin. His tummy quivers in excitement, but a part of him is terrified, thinking he’s scared the stranger off.
Not even a few seconds later, he hears a weight drop. He feels breath against his lubed up rim, and a wet warmth crawls up his left arse cheek. A shiver goes down his spine and his toes curl in unexpected pleasure.
The mouth stops its adventure, pausing before it takes a large bite of Bakugou’s skin. The blond squeaks uncharacteristically, his hands balling into fists and hitting the table beneath him.
“Oh.” The stranger mutters, pulling his mouth and sharp teeth away from him. “That was interesting.”
“Fu-fucker!” Bakugou pants, closing his eyes in defeat. “Fuck you!”
“You’ve got a wide vocabulary.” The man chuckles, his voice lacking the sarcastic tone it should’ve had. He clears his throat. “Anyway, I should be the one fucking you.”
He pauses for a second before going in for a second bite.
“I swear I’ll-!”
“It’s just so much fun to play with you.” The stranger mutters, using one finger to trace Bakugou’s rim while his other hand gives a prompt slap to the possibly already bruised cheek.
Inserting his digit into the blond, he sinks his teeth into the other cheek, a bit harder this time.
“I drew blood.” He whispers, pulling away. “I’m sorry.”
Bakugou considers biting his tongue, but he huffs, letting his head roll on the table. “If you’re going to be doing it, do it properly.” He mutters, bashful.
“What? I’m sorry dude, I didn’t catch that.”
“I said,” Bakugou raises his voice, frowning as he forces himself to speak. “Don’t fucking apologise for marking me or whatever. I can take a little blood. Fuck… I kinda like it.”
“Oh!” He hears, followed by a small chuckle. “I see.”
The stranger bites closer to the taint, an area that is strangely even more sensitive for the restrained blond. His breath gets caught in his throat and saliva pools in his mouth. “Mmm!”
“Yeah, that’s more like it!” The other cheers, quickly removing the finger. Bakugou feels empty as the warm digit vanishes, but the sudden change in the stranger’s voice makes his tummy leap. “Are you ready?”
‘I’ve never been readier.’ He thinks to himself, feeling the stranger’s impressive girth fill him up. He’s not only big, but also thick, and it’s not an easy fit. He trembles as he hears the man groan, in either pleasure or exertion, but the sound is like music to his ears.
The blond draws in a long breath, clenching his teeth and shutting his eyes tightly.
“Mmmm, you’re tight. It feels good.” The man hums, and Bakugou couldn’t agree more. It feels like home.
The stranger doesn’t begin to move until he’s fully inside of him, his balls pressed against the back of Bakugou’s arse, but when he starts it draws out a long moan from the blond. He sets up a brutal pace, forcing the other to grab onto the table to secure himself.
The sweet gasps that spill from the stranger’s mouth make Bakugou’s stomach twist deliciously. He loves all the sounds the man inside him is making, from his grunts to his moans and he tries to fuck himself on his dick just to elicit more pleased noises from him.
“You’re doing so good, baby.” He whispers huskily, giving an especially hard thrust upwards. “Yeah, work those hips for me. Want me to cum inside you?”
The thought makes Bakugou whimper, and suddenly the man stops.
“What was that sound?” The stranger seems beyond pleased with himself, almost cocky.
“N-nothing.” Bakugou sounds hoarse when he speaks. He clears his throat before talking. “Hurry up, then, fuck me already.”
“Only if I get to hear that pleasant sound again. Will you whimper for me, baby?”
Now, the way this man says that last word almost makes the blond cum. It sounds so delicious and confident, yet caring and dominant. Bakugou wouldn’t mind hearing those words from that voice for the rest of his life.
“Make me!” He manages to retort, his voice gruff and strained.
The stranger chuckles behind him. “Gladly!” Not a second later, the thrusting begins again, harder and faster than before. Bakugou is being pounded into the table, and he loves it.
He honestly hadn’t expected to enjoy it this much.
The stranger angles his thrusts upwards and Bakugou throws his head back, groaning open mouthed as the man hits his sweet spot over and over with increased force. He mewls and whimpers, incoherently babbling about how good it feels. His mind is foggy, and his mouth is dry, his arms shaking as he takes the brunt of the thrusts. He tries to think of the boy he met all those years ago, feeling himself bordering an orgasm. He’s not quite there yet, he just needs a little push.
“Touch me!” Bakugou pleads, his legs shaking in their constraints as he tries to kick his way out.
“I can’t hear you!” The stranger sing-songs teasingly.
“I said fucking touch me already!” The blond snarls, sweat dripping down his forehead. “It’s agonising!”
A low growl comes from the other side of the wall and Bakugou’s tummy leaps in excitement. It’s followed by his own groan as he feels a hand falling to his forgotten dick, fingers wrapping tightly around it. A small yelp escapes him as the man combines a hard thrust with a quick wrist movement and the blond’s seeing stars, his good spot having been hit.
He’s mewling and whimpering with each slow movement the other makes. The stranger is purposely dragging out each thrust, gyrating his hips and angling them, aiming to make Bakugou cry. He’s doing a good job – the blond feels tears threatening to sprout from his eyes. There’s force behind each advance, which makes up for how slow he’s being with his plunges.
Bakugou aches with the need for release. He desperately paws at his bare chest, wishing to somehow alleviate the desire he feels. It’s not enough and he groans in agony, digging his nails into his skin to have something to grab onto as he feels a strong climax approaching. Sparks ignite in his vision and the blond mewls, his hips rutting against the table, trying to increase the speed of his dick fucking his fist.
The stranger is relentless with his force and his thrusts, and Bakugou quickly finds himself nearing his peak, moans and whimpers unconsciously escaping from his mouth as tears begin to roll down his cheeks.
“Cum for me baby.” The stranger nearly shouts. His voice feels so close yet so far away and the blond has never longed to be facing anyone more in his life. Honestly, he just wants to be grabbed, held in place as he’s brutally pounded into oblivion. He wants his mouth on his, the other's hands to cup his face so that they can look into each other’s eyes. It feels like their souls are connected like this, that they’ve known each other for centuries. He can feel everything this man has to offer just by his thrusts alone. He doesn’t know what he looks like but he doesn’t care because this stranger is making him feel everything the boy he loves made him feel and Bakugou bursts into screams as he climaxes, tears in his eyes.
He gets lost in the pleasure and in the high just as the memories of his love invade his brain, igniting his soul as he lets his release take him away. He’s vaguely aware of the other man groaning, his voice slowly sounding higher before it peaks in a final drawn out moan, his dick growing slightly thicker before exploding inside of him.
Bakugou hears a thumping noise, which he presumes is the stranger's body slumping against the wall. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the table, feeling spent. His breathing slowly becomes more regular. He moves his fingers, as if to feel them again.
He hears a low muffled voice, but doesn't understand what the man's saying.
There’s semen all over his stomach and his feet feel weird, like detached from his body. He’s not sure he can move, even if he loosened the restraints.
“Are you okay?” the man whispers, his voice soft and obviously worried. “Can I get you anything?”
“I…” Bakugou tries to catch his breath, scrambling to get up. His hands slip on the top full of his sweat and he curses lightly. “I’ve never been better.”
“Told you I could get you to whimper.” The stranger chuckles, but it sounds forced. After a slight pause, he asks: “Want me to unshackle you?”
Closing his eyes and smiling softly, he nods. “Yeah.”
The stranger undoes one leg, grabbing it tenderly and guiding it towards the padded table, so it can rest comfortably. He does the same with the other and Bakugou sighs, relieved. It feels good to stretch them again after being in that forced position for so long. He’s dying to get into a sitting position, but he feels like he can’t and he decides not to push his body.
“Want me to clean you…?”
“Nah, I’ll do that at home. You’re not going to do a good job here anyways.”
“I… your butt plug. Do you want me to put it in?”
“Could you?” Bakugou asks, his voice merely a whisper.
“I’m sorry for coming inside you.” The stranger coos lovingly. His voice is gentle and warm, like he's trying to sound soothing. The blond feels a finger carefully prodding at his hole before the now cold butt plug's pushed inside of him. It sends a shiver down his still tingly spine.
“It’s okay.”
“I… I should leave. I hope you enjoyed it. I know I sure did.”
‘It was amazing.’ The blond wants to stay, but instead just swallows hard. He hears fumbling on the other side of the hole and then footsteps. The door opens and closes and Bakugou finally hears nothing, except the loud sound of his heartbeat.
“Yeah.” He whispers to himself, seating himself on the slightly damp table. “It was unbelievably good.”
Slowly, he takes his legs out of the hole, wincing slightly at how stiff they are. He bends them over the table just to get them to move a bit before throwing his head back and sighing. Laughing, he lets the stress dissipate from his body. He’s so glad he went through with this and let that man wreck him. His body is sore but he hasn’t felt this good or happy in years. He smiles, looking at the now dark room on the other side of the hole, and suddenly, it clicks.
The song.
A memory of that night under the stars, a beer in between his thighs, where he put it to rest before leaning in to kiss the only person he’s ever loved.
The voice.
His voice.
Bakugou opens his eyes wide, a gasp escaping his parted lips. Frantically, he gets off of the table, only to fall onto the floor immediately. Swearing and snarling, he gets up, his legs still wobbly and weak from his orgasm.
He manages to push his body towards his clothes and he puts them on as fast as he can. As soon as he’s dressed, he grabs his phone and opens the app, clicking on the ‘recent chat’ button, but there’s nothing there.
He’s gone.
#another hole in the wall#kiribaku#bakushima#bnha#my fanfiction#my writing#bnha fanfiction#kirishima#bakugou#kirishima x bakugou#collab#anakito#anakito's art
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Hi ! I don't know if you're still taking request like this but,,, yoongi with long hair,, that make him look even more princey than he already does uwu. I really like your writing btw, i find it super refreshing to read and its just lovely ! I hope you have a good day, don't forget to drink
Hello ♥ I’m sorry for taking so long, here it is!! thanks for your request and also, your kind words, it motivated me to write,,, i was in a bit of a drought so thank you ;w; really ♥ you don’t forget to drink n eat AND sleep either. (;
I imagine long-haired!Yoongi just like @inbloomyg ‘s ((hey there!! told you i’d link you the fic if i wrote it hehe)) art which is right down there and gorgeous, just like everything they do ♥ here we go, hope you’ll like it~
Something strikes Seokjin late in the afternoon. In the form of Yoongi waking up from a nap, and looking dangerously close to falling into another one. Seokjin’s stricken by a realization one late afternoon. April, hot but not really, a humid something that tugs Yoongi away from his studio and straight in Seokjin’s arms. No hesitation, no bribing on Seokjin’s part or the inevitable fall following days in the studio. It’s a whim, a whim of lightly flushed cheeks and clothes in disarray. A whim of lean limbs wrapping around Seokjin’s in the bed, cat-like eyes heavy-lidded and lashes fluttering lazily.It’s hair falling from a pretilly messy bun on Seokjin’s chest too. Long, blond hair. Oh. Oh.“Yah,” he says, sudden and low and lacking that mild cheer he paints his intonation with so often. Yoongi startles, the black diamonds Seokjin likes to call eyes popping open and eyeing Jin curiously. He kind of wants to spend, ah, something like hours, thinking about this gaze and only kissing Yoongi’s eyelids, Yoongi’s cheeks, his lips, to convey the adoration he feels. Perhaps he will, later, but right now—“hyung,” the little man now wide awake says, or whispers, or perhaps just something in the middle. Darling drawl, quiet interrogation. “what.”So darling.But Jin—Jin only lets his fingers brush the locks of black and blonde with a blossoming something in his chest. Petals opening, warming him up, because Yoongi’s hair is soft; because Yoongi’s hair is long and frames his angelic face in the prettiest way and Jin feels stupid for not seeing this sooner. No—for not having taken the time to. For not stopping and observing the way strands of blonde fall delicately in Yoongi’s eyes, part sometimes in the middle of his forehead and gives him a whole new aspect—he can’t, he can’t put a name on it but God. Yoongi looks so fucking good, what the hell. Seokjin’s nearly offended. Would be, if he wasn’t absolutely and utterly smitten. Takes in eyes slowly blinking at him and perfected each second by the gentle movements of his wild locks. They’re not totally blonde, his natural hair is growing under but? It only makes him even more gorgeous? Seokjin blows out a long breath and cards his fingers into those soft strands. He may or may not be enchanted. “Yoongi-yah, your hair,” he says, wheezes out, gestures frantically with his free hand to the hair he’s caressing way too eagerly for him to not look like a maniac. A handsome maniac, but still. Yoongi eyes him, blinking some more. He’s cute but he just doesn’t get it. “It’s long!”Yoongi rolls his eyes. Raises himself a little bit more on Jin’s chest to give him a somewhat amused, somewhat dry look. All heavy-lidded and cheeks slightly puffed out. And with the way his hair cascaded around his features so darling—God, Jin was one blind man. “I’m hurt, hyung,” the little one drawls lazily, eyes piercing Jin’s before falling somewhere else on the man’s shirt. “aren’t you—aren’t you the one shouting left and right totally unnecessary daily details about me? And you can’t even see that my hair grew?”
“Yah! They’re not unnecessary—”
A snort’s his only answer, alongside Yoongi’s pointed gaze and huffed “As if.” Probably implying all the times his hyung exposed his embarrassing sides—which, Jin would like to protest, were actually the cutest moments ever—and beamed in positive mirth to anyone around.
But. Indeed, Jin had been quite blind to this little wonder.
He cuddles Yoongi closer to him, ignores his lazy protests and the weak fists punching his shoulders. Arms firm around a narrow waist, hands digging in the supple flesh of his darling until he exploded in sweet rivulets of laughter. Jin watches happiness brighten Yoongi’s tired feature, his hair form a halo around his face and wonders if Yoongi can hear the wild beats of his heart. Eventually, softly, he pushes his fingers into Yoongi’s soft strands of hair and moves them behind his ear. Delicate. “You’re always pretty, that’s why. Long hair, short hair, the only thing I notice always is that—is that you’re gorgeous.”
Lovely eyes fix on his, wide-eyed, before they close at the same time as colors bloom on his little one’s satin skin. And Jin, Jin’s too hot already, cuddled as they are; but he brings Yoongi closer and breathes a smile on his lips. Smiles and kisses Yoongi’s lips as softly as he caresses his hair, until his baby’s putty in his hands, pressed on his body in the sweetest way.
From then—Jin can’t not notice Yoongi’s long, prince-like hair. Soft and cascading and—and golden.
When he, later, says they’re all eight and he’s a ten, it’s an innocent lie, because Yoongi with long hair is one hell of a solid twenty.
Hoseok knows he’s staring.
Yoongi knows it too. Ignores it, and repeats the routine he was supposed to practice with Hoseok. Not that he’s any bad—Hoseok would be the first in line, chest bursting with pride to inform excitingly anyone willing to listen, that Min Yoongi was a freaking good dancer. No buts, no ifs, no nothing. His Yoongi was—his Yoongi was good.
His Yoongi was also giving him the cold shoulder.
Sulky silences, never outright ignoring him; just fewer words and even less physical contact. Hoseok was dying. Told Yoongi so, and was only met with dull eyes and a terribly sweet—“Then…perish.” He has been too stunned to pursue Yoongi with tears then. It worked, usually. Just like Yoongi was terribly weak to their youngest members, his resolve always wavered when it came to a teary Hoseok or, or a simple puppy-eyes from Namjoon. Their eldest hyung didn’t count, pigs would fly until Yoongi refused him anything.
And so, and so. Here Hoseok was, desperate and deprived for any kind of contact with the one he swore was his soulmate, soul partner, soul everything and beyond.
Yoongi wasn’t having any of it though, pretty gaze skittering away from Hoseok and letting his lean limbs flow in the familiar pattern they had learned some days ago. Clearly, he didn’t need any help, but Hoseok had to find something, okay?
Well, that was the plan, at the beginning.
But Yoongi—
Yoongi had his pretty, silky and long locks of hair in a pretty bun at the top of his head and Hoseok wanted to cry at the gorgeousness of it all. Of every damn blonde lock, styled perfectly with just this tad bit of natural messiness that drew the gaze—again and again. Hoseok wanted to touch. Yoongi? That was a given, he even freaking dreamed of touching him every second. But this hair…it was, it was a rare sight. Too pretty for words. Hoseok really, really wanted to touch.
So, Hoseok touches.
Tries to, at least, but Yoongi seems to have been keeping a careful eye on him—Hoseok doesn’t go further than an arm outstretched before Yoongi dances away from his reach, arms crossing on his chest. He’s cute, Hoseok despairs in the secret of his mind and his much too expressive face. He’s cute, terribly cute, in the slight frown of his eyebrows and the heavy pout on his pinkish lips. Cute in body leaning away from Hoseok and a defensive position not threatening in the least. Cute, mini-sized Min Yoongi glowering at Hoseok. “What are you doing?”
“Just trying to get close to you,” Hoseok laments, arms falling by his side in what looks like defeat before—before he shifts forward and brings Yoongi down toward him in a searing embrace. Ignores the man’s muffled protests as he breathes in deeply strawberries and ice cream not unlike a winter spent cuddled inside, with hot chocolate and pleasant company. It’s Yoongi, Yoongi and simply Yoongi and, and okay, the man had only started distancing himself from Hoseok two days ago but—Hoseok needed him, okay? Didn’t know how much until Yoongi slowly put distance between them. “I missed you.”
“Liar,” Yoongi immediately rebukes, pushes at Hoseok’s chest with absolutely no result except, probably, exhausting himself. He’s little, after all. Not that much in height, only centimeters smaller than Hoseok. But he’s little in…in size. Takes less space, easy to hug, to carry and manhandle around. He’s really, really little and fits perfectly in Hoseok’s arms. Better than anyone else, why wouldn’t his little one see it? “You can’t miss me after killing sope. Forsaking what we had together is forsaking me. Leave me alone—stop touching my hair!”
Hoseok shakes his head furiously. Mouth useless with jumbled words as he takes in Yoongi’s scent again, the soft-as-hell hair flowing in between his fingers in glittering petals of gold. Letting them grow had done them justice, and Hoseok lost himself in the art on top of Yoongi’s head before his words reached him. Oh.
“Baby—”
“Don’t baby me, asshole! Go back to being all mushy with Jimin or something and, and leave me alone—what the fuck Hoseok are you smelling my hair? Stop it!”
“It’s pretty! And it smells good! Just like you!” He receives a palm splattered on his face for his efforts. But whatever, Yoongi’s fingers are art, too. And it won’t stop him, anyway. “Sope May be on a break but we, sweetheart, we’re eternal.” He whispers softly. Captures the delicate wrist and brings Yoongi’s hand down, just as soft. Sincerity shining in his eyes, his words, every part of him touching Yoongi and all those that aren’t. He’s true. Hears his heart breaks in his chest at Yoongi’s words, at the—the things he’s implying.
Hoseok would never, ever give up on him—on them. Just thinking about it kind of made him want to cry.
The smaller man doesn’t look at him. Keeps his gaze on the side, eyes brimming with something and shadowed by rebellious strands of gold. “…hurry up and hold me tighter, meanie.”
Hoseok does. Holds him, tight, so tight. Kisses him, until he’s breathless and letting out those little noises cute enough to die for. Kisses him until he’s a puddle of lovely goo entangled with Hoseok’s limbs on the wooden floor, cheeks pinks, eyes satisfied.
“Seok-Seok…is that a boner I can feel on my thigh?”
“Listen…your hair; it’s—”
“Oh my God.”
When they go stargazing, Yoongi loses himself in space. To space, heart and mind. There’s something to be said, Namjoon assures, about the lovely widening of his eyes that doesn’t quite disappear until he slowly starts to fall asleep. Excited, attention undiffused safe for those dreamy minutes he lets Namjoon kisses him silly. Frame cuddled under Namjoon’s bigger one, head delicately thrown backward as plush lips push upon his. Just as delicate, soft, loving.
He’s all Namjoon’s in those moments, and then, he goes back to space.
Peacefully, no worries troubling his soft gestures; because there’s no one else but Namjoon around. Nobody, no cameras, just Yoongi and Namjoon and the dust of social anxiety nothing but a bitter memory. The changes are subtle, but they’re here, and Namjoon’s fine with his little hyung losing himself to space if it means his inner distress would disappear.
And meanwhile, he can—
He can feel. Yoongi’s warmth, spreading all over his body, everywhere but to its owner—his lovely hyung with flushed cheeks puffed in protest of the cold, always always cold. He’s warm, still, a large blanket wrapped around him and shared with Namjoon. He’s warm, but still shivering, and Namjoon holds him tighter. Receives a soft hum for his efforts and lets his pleased great spread wide over his expression.
Yoongi’s over there in space, and Namjoon can feel, and Namjoon can observe. Can observe the little movements of Yoongi’s socked feet under the blanket, the quick flutter of his lashes and—and his hair. God, his hair. Brighter than the stars up there under their observation. Prettier too, a lovely piece artfully decorating Yoongi’s pretty little head. His long hair, Namjoon didn’t have any words.
He felt kind of stupid for being so dazed because of…because of some hair, of all things. It was silly but—he was talking about Yoongi, here. Everything about Yoongi was fascinating. His little hyung would be sleeping for ten hours straight and if Namjoon had the opportunity, he’d damn observe him during those ten hours. So—so, yeah, not just hair, Yoongi’s hair. Falling to his shoulders and still growing, full and soft and flying to the wind when Yoongi let it free. Hiding his gaze, sometimes, just barely, but enticing enough for Namjoon to feel all hot and bothered.
Yoongi’s long hair had a strange effect on Namjoon, all things considered.
“Joonie…” Namjoon snaps from his reverie with his hand down Yoongi’s shirt and the other caressing strands of gold. He reddens while the other shots him a confused look. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t seem to reject Namjoon’s touch, and so he keeps going, settles right on the warm satin of Yoongi’s hip and lets out a sharp breath. “I was—” he traces little shapes on Yoongi’s skin, grins as the man, ticklish as he is, giggles and squirms against him. “just thinking about you and then, well…”
“Aren’t you always?”
There’s humor, right there, in Yoongi’s low voice. Light, chirpy, joking. A refute quickly served with no meaning behind it. Yoongi doesn’t know he just spoke the truth, will never truly understand he occupies Namjoon’s mind in all times. In wonderings, in songs; in the images of his little man dressed in new clothes too big on him, and a peculiar look making its appearance with only longer bangs in town. There’s no need for more, this right there is enough to leave Namjoon dazed for days with dopey grins and wandering hands.
“I am,” Yoongi makes a disagreeing sound in the back of his throat, squeaks when Namjoon grips his waist tighter and turns him around to flush their body together. The blankets don’t fall, envelop them still, unbothered in the face of Namjoon’s gentle movement. He makes sure to be, always, because Yoongi doesn’t deserve anything less than soft and gentle. His little one melts against his chest, and Namjoon melts too, and they really must be the mushiest boyfriends out there. “but this time, it’s your hair.”
“You been thinking about this mess?”
“No,” Namjoon chuckles, takes in a breath and shudders in idle pleasure as the fruity waves of Yoongi’s shampoo hit him. Really, this long hair is the best. “I’ve been thinking about putting those stars you love so much in it.”
“Oh no shut up you nerd.” But he’s smiling. He’s smiling and he’s prettier than the stars up there, much more worthy of being admired always,
and Namjoon tells him so in multiple kisses painted everywhere on his skin. Yoongi’s long air glow around his shoulders like the purest halo in between angels.
Jimin pads into the patio and finds Yoongi already here. At something, precisely, around five am where the sun barely peaks from his slumber and birds just start their daily chants, Jimin wanders into the patio and Yoongi’s already here. Crouched in front of a large row of plants, watering them delicately, low voice speaking out words Jimin can’t hear—but that he can guess. Soft words, like those given to dear children. Soft words and milky voice, affectionate, clear in a candy grin and a marshmallow-like gaze. Five in the morning and dozens of minutes already gone, Jimin’s on the ball of his feet after wandering into the patio, admiring the one he shouts to whoever is close enough he’ll marry one day.
His darling hyung of delicate attention to every living being, attentive and sensitive behind a spaced-out look and sleepy countenance. Caring, so caring, be it with the plants he’s been tending to for God knows how long—and every other being blessed to have met him. Him and the absolutely endearing way he holds himself as he pays attention to his lovely plants—his own clothes discarded in favor of another man’s.
Jimin’s, to be exact.
A simple, large checkered dark blue, red and white shirt that goes past Jimin’s hands but swamps in the most lovely way Yoongi’s slight frame. It’s that. He’s only wearing that. It’s Yoongi on the ground with lovely plants, dainty strands of hair caressing the naked skin of his shoulders and—a shirt and a shirt only hanging on his frame, cascading high high to the alluring cleft of his ass. Heavens, Jimin wants to go down on his knees and worship this bewitching man right here and there. Revere his angel with heavy kisses pressed hot on his ass and hungry hands losing themselves in hair.
His goddamn hair.
Jimin thinks it’s his way too loud and way too aroused groan that startles his hyung into turning around. Wide-eyed, still a bit hazy with slushy feelings and clutching his watering can close to his heart—careful, even there, to not drop it and harm any of his plants. An angel, Jimin repeats in the secret of his mind at the same time as he offers to this same angel a wobbly grin. Perhaps because of the early hour. Most probably because of the bubbling arousal an almost-peeking pert ass and messily arranged hair provoked in him.
To Jimin’s defense, Yoongi’s ass was the best in the whole world and long hair suited him so well it was a sin.
“Whatcha doin’ there?” Yoongi’s voice, mumbling and so quiet usually is even quieter, at five in the morning. Still low, still soft, but less clear; slurred in the cutest way. Jimin basks in it for each second it takes for him to be by Yoongi’s side. For him to crouch down, too, and tug Yoongi flush to his chest.
Sees the plant from Yoongi’s point of view. But most importantly, the way he feels, barely clothed and a bit cold from the fluctuating temperature of the morning. Jimin squeezes him in a tight embrace, fingers clasping on a narrow waist and thumping chest running like a madman flush to Yoongi’s back. Goes boom boom and, and when he lets one hand wander to this one place where Yoongi’s heart’s beats…he hears it again, boom boom. “The bed was too cold without you. And your hair.”
Yoongi laughs. A breathy, sweet thing that never fails to make his shoulders quack darling and his face to lighten in a beat. His eyes are all sleepy and alight with diamonds when he turns slightly in Jimin’s right embrace. “Why’re you bringing my hair into this?”
He sounds way too good for someone up and mumbling to his plants at five in the morning. Jimin lets his heart sing wonders about him anyway while he guides Yoongi’s hand for them to tend to the plants, together. The older man lets out an approving sound, and Jimin doesn’t bother slamming down the happiness of having done something right that rises at the surface. It’s—Its okay to feel like that. Yoongi made sure for him to know, and he’s gonna honor that. Fake it until he makes it, because he knows Yoongi’s right on this. “That’s…that’s cuz it’s perfect. Just like you.”
Yoongi squirms, in what Jimin knows is bashfulness and terribly masked embarrassment. Ducks down under long, golden bangs colored up there with touches of dark. Jimin’s still confused about who he has to thank for the delight that is Min Yoongi with long hair. The noonas that took care of their hair? Time? Yoongi’s own desire to let them grow because he couldn’t care less?
He’s not sure. Pushes it in the back of his mind in favor of nuzzling the back of Yoongi’s neck and stays here, and basks here.
(Hand still subtly playing with Yoongi’s hair.)
(Yoongi tries not to judge him too hard. But he still does in the end.)
Yeontan is, Taehyung realizes, like their very own child. Yoongi’s and Taehyung’s. Oh, the little fluff ball does visit the others members sometimes, attached to them all as he is. Straying more on Taehyung’s side—it’s a given, but running just as often to Yoongi? It came out like a surprise, at the beginning. Then, in the few seconds it takes for a realization to sink in, the surprise was no more. Taehyung should have expected this.
His little hyung’s soft for a lot of things. Soft for people and plants and distressing situations few people dare to address. Soft in personality and doughy like cookie dough if someone asks him something, anything. But above all that—in that not-so-little crook nestled in his chest, he’s the biggest softie for animals of all kinds. Dogs to be more precise. Gets sparkles in his eyes and promptly melt on the spot—whole body brightening and a pure, unadulterated happiness taking him whole.
Taehyung—Taehyung did get jealous in the beginning. It was silly and absolutely unnecessary to be jealous of dogs of all things, but, here, he was. Had been. Until a first kiss was pressed to his lips and Yoongi looked up at him with a whole new brand of adoration in his eyes. For Taehyung and Taehyung only.
Amidst sweating palms and frantically beating heart, Taehyung had realized this had been heaven right there knocking at his door. He never ever let go of Yoongi, then. Be it by simply being by his side, having his thoughts swarmed with Yoongi or spending holidays in his home back in Daegu, admiring the pretty sight of a cheery Yoongi playing with Yeontan. It was—it was a sight for sure, Taehyung thinks, chuckles quietly to himself. Because Yeontan’s a ball of energy and although a sleepy haze wraps itself all around his love, Yoongi makes sure to return this energy and eagerness to play twice as hard.
Taehyung wonders if it’s possible for his heart to grow fonder.
“Hot cakes,” Taehyung says, sing-songs, really, chirpy countenance rolling around his body that has Yoongi giving him a suspicious side-eye.
Even then, he’s so damn cute it hurts.
“What’re you smiling about?” Taehyung not so subtly basks in both the attention of Yoongi and Yeontan as he struts toward them; bubbling with his two most precious people’s eyes on him as he settles tight behind his little hyung. Brings him close by gripping his hips, until he’s sat between Taehyung’s legs and long blond curls spread a delectable smell for Taehyung to fill his chest with.
He spends more time than he’d like to admit smelling Yoongi’s hair. That earns him another long suspicious look from the aforementioned. Taehyung grins, sheepish, chuckles then when his little tan-ie yips at him. “The two of you are cute,”
“Tan-ie is. I’m not.” Yoongi swats at his chest with the hand that’s not holding, preciously, the little bundle of fluff to him. There’s a pout on his pinky-cotton-candy lips and waves in his hair as he tugs his head down slightly. This hair. Taehyung thinks he’s going to start his prayers for Yoongi to keep them this long for a while. Months if he���s lucky. It’s just so—elegant? Princely? So damn attractive, Taehyung’s not ashamed of having spent the precious nights falling asleep with his fingers carded in golden locks, admiring them fall between Yoongi’s shoulder blades and kissing the course they pursued.
Does it on this Sunday afternoon too. Light kisses on his cheeks, harder on his neck, delicate on his shoulders, between strands of hair, strands of delight and source of fascination. “Allow me to disagree on this with you…is that okay, hyung?” he says, whispers secret-soft in Yoongi’s ear, peering down at him as he searches for a running gaze; obscured so darling by flowing bangs.
Yoongi nods his approbation, soft as always, affection brewing in his eyes for him—and then for the puppy in his hands demanding their attention in quick succession of adorable yips. He’s Taehyung this way, never ashamed of asking for the things he wants—never ashamed altogether, at least that’s what Yoongi told him one dreamy night of just laying in bed and giving in secret confessions. There had been a terribly fond look in his eyes, a greatly loving smile on his lips. Wide and pink and gummy, Taehyung had kissed him until they were delirious, until the end of the night and beyond.
Taehyung demanded, all natural and polite for what he desired. And Yoongi gave freely, finding his own happiness in there, a cup or ten more shy into speaking out his needs. But, but that was fine. That’s what Taehyung was here for, that’s how eternal couples worked, didn’t they? Completing each other seamlessly. Partners in crime in traveling together and versed in affection for the other.
No secrets. So—
“Love?” Yoongi looks up at him, tilting his head in question. Taehyung swallows. Better just—“your new hair is a total turn on.”
“…seriously?”
“I can’t help it!”
His Yoongi-hyung likes watching him work out. Doesn’t say it outright—would he ever…?—but one would have to be utterly oblivious to not see it. And being oblivious is more of Yoongi’s forte, not Jungkook’s. It’s one time and then two and then a dozens and Jungkook stops counting the number of time he sees a waddling little man plops somewhere in the room every time he decides to put on some more muscles. It’s stolen glances toward said little person and eyes meeting, and Yoongi flushing because—because he’s been staring, staring with glittering eyes and mouth slightly open.
It’s at this point he runs away with a bullshit excuse, but he always, always come back the next time.
Jungkook awaits him eagerly.
Secret smiles, attention undivided, he awaits and welcomes, until they have this sort of silent routine that slowly fills up with soft words. Then teasing ones, flirting—which the other members never fails to roll their eyes at because Jungkook and Yoongi are already a couple. Jungkook knows it’s just jealousy speaking.
Jungkook also knows that today, Yoongi’s recording this simple business. He still asks, anyway. “Hyung, are you filming this?”
Here’s the distinct sound of Yoongi’s tongue clicking away. The fast, dismissive sound clear representation of something Yoongi’s not ready to admit. “I’m not, what are you talking about?” See? Yoongi acts the most disinterested when he actually is the most interested. All wide eyes and biting lips, hands steady on his phone or his camera. Jungkook knows him by heart like he was the one to make him.
Which. Would be quite creepy, all things considered.
He huffs out a chuckle, mind completely gone from the series of pushes up he hadn’t paused while talking to his lover. Because Yoongi, wordless Yoongi who barely lets out a noise save for the little facts and interesting stories he treats Jungkook with, takes all of his attention and stays ignorant to the matter.
It’s fine, more than fine—it’s Yoongi and being blissfully ignorant to the effect he has on men is…it’s absolutely endearing. Jungkook finds himself, sometimes, gently cupping his cheeks in between his hands and staring at him. Intensely, as other people mentioned, like concentrated rays of sunshine or an all-encompassing storm. Staring, fascinated, in adoration. He’d find back Yoongi’s considering gaze, touches of confusion, melting in a love going two ways and a wide gummy smile brimming with gentle happiness.
That’s just Yoongi. Yellow Yoongi like bottled happiness sprinkled here and there like the passage of a butterfly. Gentle. Gentle like the movement of his eyelashes when Jungkook plays with his hair—Lord, his long, enthralling hair he lets Jungkook styles however he wants and to his heart content. He’d grumble and roll his eyes but, in the end, as always, he’d trust himself completely in Jungkook’s arms.
A heady sensation, this one was. Trust. Makes Jungkook delirious with what could be done. Makes him bite his lips and his eyes snap open the moment one droplet of sweat finishes his course on his cheek and hit the ground. Here—“But, Rapunzel, can you even see under your curtain of gold?”
Predictably, Yoongi lets out an indignant noise and bats at his back with a weak fist. A pout probably forming on his lips. Jungkook, Jungkook’s addicted to Yoongi’s moodiness like bees are to honey. And so—one last barely felt effort to end this daily routine, he surges up on his back and catches bony hips between his fingers as Yoongi falls on his lap. Blinking in surprise, pout filtering away and leaving the place to a little mouth slightly open. Surprise too? Happiness? Surely the last one, Jungkook thinks, grinning as pecks of pink color Yoongi’s cheek. Happiness. Even as Yoongi’s words don’t let any of said happiness pass by. “Yah. Do you want to fight me or something?”
“I’d love to,” Jungkook snaps back, grin never leaving his lips and slight exertion contorting his tone with breathlessness.
There’s a certain light in Yoongi’s eyes as he surely takes note of it. A certain light, familiar to Jungkook like he has knows this man his whole life, when pale fingers grip toned arms in barely disguised interest. Yoongi’s never been ashamed to admit, even in front of a public, his love for—for this, for the results of years of working out and lifting weights. Present in Jungkook’s whole body that he never hesitates to flaunt. It’s not arrogance, it’s simple happiness, pride, and he knows Yoongi loves it. So, why hide anymore?
He carefully lets his fingers skim the supple skin under Yoongi’s shirt. Bucks his hips, once, and watches Yoongi bounce, watch his eyes widen prettily and waves of gold cascade around him. God, his hyung was gorgeous—“but, but you know what kind of fighting I wanna do? Less clothes and your hair tight in my grip while I fuck you, please hyung let me—”
Yoongi more than lets him. Keeps him on his toes with each of his searing kiss, the red traces left on his back as Jungkook manhandle him in bed. Spread pretty and perfect for him, golden halo around his head for Jungkook to worship.
Yoongi more than lets him. They worship together, each other, always
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Kiribaku Week- Day 4
I BELIEVE IN YOU
Based on this art piece: https://abbyslullaby.tumblr.com/post/172292706823/i-believe-in-you-ei by @abbyslullaby
Written by: Kiara (me)
Word Count: 4.3k
Prompt: Surprise Party / Free Prompt
READ ON AO3 HERE -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14389851
@kiribakuweek2k18
They called him the sun.
He shone brighter than anyone else in the world, a flash of shark teeth was enough to add light back into a drained day.
The way he walked, the way he talked, the way he carried himself without a care in the world. The way he fought was like the scaling hot surface of the sun, wild, out of control and powerful. He reeled you in and hit you when you least expected it while flashing the same shark-toothed grin. He’s quick, he’s fast, powerful and strong, burning with a never-ending passion that he showed to everyone, that he kept proudly on display at all times.
What reeled you in were those eyes.
Carmine red, like the blood dust of the deserts when he’s thinking, like the raging ball of gas in the sky when he’s motivated, like the soft scent of roses when a new emotion grabs him by the tuff of his uniform as he locks eyes with the explosive blond. They light on fire when rage takes over his body, and you can almost feel the heat as if it was burning the delicate skin on your body.
When he cries the sun seems to shy away, hiding behind the layers and layers of clouds of tear-stained grey. When he smiles the world erupts in music and joy and laughter with the contagious beam of the boy. When he laughs the stars seem to dance.
When he fights the sky seems to fall.
“Kirishima!” The blond one calls out, scowling but voice tainted with a grin as he greets him. The sun beams and Bakugou’s eyes go wide, blown away by the reoccurring light the redhead seems to carry wherever he goes. Kirishima holds out his hand and Bakugou clicks his tongue before he takes it, and they follow each other side by side into the pit of the battle.
Villains keep coming forward eagerly, one after the other. The students fight, teeth clenched and eyes narrowed as they scour the face of their enemies.
The sun’s fire returns when he fights, and it’s mesmerizing. The way he takes down enemy by enemy without fail, pushing his body to do more, to go further, to break beyond his limits and more. A spark of electricity electrocutes the blue sky and the foes fall down, down, down, one by one like dominos.
A strike of a fist and they fall down, down, down.
The sun is too busy. He’s on fire. The passion has stained his brain and he’s lost in the moment. Down, down, down they go, falling one by one. More came, and more went, but he takes down them all with a blow. It feels good to be strong. To be useful. To be the hero he always wanted to be. There was more he could reach, more he could do. People he could save, people he could protect. And this would get him there.
He was shining, thriving. The two fought side by side in the heat of the battle, fighting styles balancing each other out, holding each other up when needed. The blond would attack greedily, showing little mercy, and the sun would take out enemy after enemy by his side until the two were left breathless.
Suddenly, emerging from the shadows is a new, unknown enemy. He’s big, tall and looms over the two heroes, his face hidden, his body draped in ugly black. He blocks out the sun, covers it with his intense gaze and its light is desperately pouring against his back, trying to get through to the red-haired sun to no avail. The blond clicks his tongue, annoyed at another enemy showing up, and his palm erupts in yellow-orange sparks that dance across his skin. He turns his head to face Kirishima, to yet again receive that determined glance that also sends a newfound hope within his heart. But instead, Kirishima is frozen.
His eyes roam up to the face of the familiar enemy, his pupils dilating. Kirishima’s trembling, his usual joy is screaming out and crying, his body failing on him. He can’t move a muscle, every fiber is paralysed with fear. The fear grips his feet and glues them to the ground with a booming rage, it clings to his arms painfully with white-hot terror, pure disgusting terror that feels all too familiar. The freeze of his body is all too familiar. The towering villain is all too familiar.
Kirishima was faced with the same villain he faced all those years ago.
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And back then he didn't do anything. He was useless. Completely and utterly useless, watching helplessly, commanding his body to move with no avail. Nothing was working, nothing. Kirishima clenched his fist, fingernail pressing into his skin hard enough to draw blood. His body returned from its hardened mode and he was left open, vulnerable and frozen. He was a hero now. He was happy. He could fight. He had someone like Bakugou as his boyfriend, and fighting alongside him. He could face this now! He could do this! He could fight, he could rise-
Kirishima broke.
His mind was empty, frozen. He could no longer do anything. He felt helpless. Worthless. Useless. Broken.
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“Kirishima! Kirishi-fuck! Eijirou! What the fuck are you doing?!” Bakugou cried, anger staining his throat. The villain began to walk slowly towards the blonde, who readied himself in a familiar battle stance. Annoyance framed his emotions with an ugly black at Kirishima. Why was he being weak? Why now? The villain smiled a poisonous grin, a terrifying aura surrounding him that even Bakugou could feel. Frustration swelled within his muscles, this was not some time for Kirishima to pull this off!
The villain swung.
His movement was fast for his looming size and Bakugou barely dodged it, feeling the air stolen from his lungs. The hero lunged back, flickering his gaze to the sun who had lost his light. Kirishima was still frozen, still paralyzed with fear. Bakugou continued to fight the villain head-on, determination filling his veins. He wasn’t going to go down, with Kirishima or without him.
If Kirishima’s the sun, Bakugou’s the moon. The dark. The other side that rises up and laughs mechanically.
The way he fights is like a hurricane, pure and destructive, it takes and takes and comes back hungry for more. It sucks up everything in its path without another thought, powerful.
But the night can be calm when it wants.
Gentle, soothing. A dark midnight blue that caressed your cheek when you were sad, the pitch black sky that welcomed thousands of stars. While the dark is unknown and out of control, its kindness is the best thing that can ever happen to you.
And the moon that arises in the dusk of night. The moon that shines over you with a booming light, so bright it blinds you. The moon that has different phases, different waves of emotion, but even when it is hidden under the mist and the stars, it will always there.
The moon turned to the sun, its primary source of light that lost its flame with a determination to make it better. “Eijirou, I don’t know what the fuck is wrong, but you have to fucking snap out of it! Please!” Bakugou called, desperately, the moon trying to shine on the sun while fighting off a meteor.
The villain, the destructive meteor glowered down at the lone hero and the pathetic sun by his side. His work here was done. Then with a final, spine-tingling smile, he left. Shrunken back into the darkness of night across the deserted streets, back into the never-ending abyss of space, and disappeared.
Bakugou let out a sigh of relief and sharply turned with a pivot of his foot, running towards Kirishima, grasping him by his shoulders. The sun looked at him with no light, scarlet eyes wide looking at nothing, mouth parted, body trembling under his fingers.
“Eijirou! Eijirou, answer me, you fucking shit! Shitty Hair!” Bakugou cried, shaking the redhead slightly to no avail.
The sun hadn’t lost its light, but was rather paused. Frozen.
And Kirishima was trapped.
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“His mindset. His trapped in his mindset.” Aizawa declared, and Bakugou’s face immediately turned baffled. Trapped in his mindset? What the fuck did that mean?
Kirishima had been in recovery girl’s office for the past three days and there were no signs of improvement. His eyes stayed open, wide, his mouth parted in shock and chest constantly gasping in fast anxious breaths of air. Bakugou was starting to get worried. Was it a disease? What if he never got out of it?
“Let me explain.” Aizawa followed, moving forward in his seat, clearing his throat. “That villain Kirishima faced was the same one he saw in middle school, whose quirk is ‘Mind Freeze’. When his victim is in terror or shock, he freezes that thought, leaving them mentally and physically frozen. Usually, this would be remedied with up to two days of treatment, but it seemed to have a bigger effect on Kirishima. The first time he met the villain, his quirk was cast on to him, but not as extreme. When meeting him today, the villain attempted to use it again and ended up doubling the effect. Because of that, Kirishima’s left in this state for, well, I’m not sure how long.”
Bakugou couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Mind freeze?! Kirishima had told him about his time in middle school one night, about four months after they’d gotten together. Kirishima told him how he was still worried that he was as weak as his past self, and how traumatised he was from the experience. To have had to experience that again, the very thought made Bakugou’s stomach twist. He couldn’t help but feel guilty. An emotion he’d never really came across before. He was used to living his life with no regrets, so guilt never showed itself.
But the memory of him screaming at Kirishima to get his act together while he faced the villain that traumatised him all those years ago made guilt clench at his chest, and Bakugou winced.
“How do we fix it?” Bakugou hissed, clenching his fists hard. He saw Aizawa struggle for a minute, taking another breath and avoiding the student’s gaze.
“We can’t,” Aizawa replies, and Bakugou stopped hearing his heartbeat.
“What?!” Bakugou cries, slamming his hands down on the table, pupils dilating. “What do you mean we can’t fix it?!”
“Because Kirishima’s already been affected by the quirk, there’s no way to erase both effects of the quirk. Even with my quirk. But, there is one thing we can do…” Aizawa explains, and Bakugou nods, desperate at this point.
“There’s a friend of mine who has a quirk that could help him. But we’d have to go back to his first meeting and ensure Kirishima’s confident enough not to get affected by the quirk.” Aizawa explained reluctantly, aware of how insane that sounded.
Bakugou placed his head between his hands, clenching them harshly. This wasn’t happening. To go back in time...to change how Kirishima thought? Everything about it all sounded impossible.
“And...I want you to do it, Bakugou.” Aizawa leaned forward, looking more intense than the blond had ever seen. His stare seemed to drill into Bakugou with each passing second. Seeing as Bakugou had clearly gotten the point, Aizawa leaned back in his chair and continued.
“You’re the closest one to Kirishima, and I am well aware of the... relationship you have with each other. So-” His teacher explained, and Bakugou was puzzled for a moment before sharply turning his gaze up, causing Aizawa to lift an eyebrow.
“I’ll do it.” Bakugou interrupted, and Aizawa’s brows raised further in surprise. “If it’s for Kirishima,..I’ll do it.” Bakugou continued, before avoiding his teacher’s gaze and turning his head, the last add-on barely audible.
“He risked everything to help me once. I’d be a dick not to do the same.” It was almost as if Bakugou was reassuring the words to himself.
When he first entered at U.A., head held high, dreams as large as towering mountains, a cocky pride in his chest, he didn’t need anyone. He was strong, and strong alone. No one dared to stand in his way, leaving him a clear path to the top. Just how he liked it. But because of that, no one stood by him, either. That didn’t matter to him, at the time. He didn’t need something as petty as friendship. People are just extras in a film he’s starring in. That’s always the way it was, that’s always the way he wanted it.
Until Kirishima changed that.
And now, as much as he hates to admit it, he likes the company. He melts under the redhead’s touch and feels like explosions are set off within his chest whenever the two kiss. He’s shown affection and care and equal strength, he has someone to proudly stand by his side with that same smile that seems to fix everything. And he wouldn’t change that for the world.
When Bakugou was around Kirishima, he learned a new side of himself. And so did Kirishima. A side that was gentle and romantic when he wanted to be, a side that would curl up on Kirishima’s chest and fall asleep to the steady metronome of Kirishima’s heartbeat, safe in the warmth of his arms.
He loved Kirishima.
Love. The word he thought he’d never meet, he’d never need, he’d never feel. All because of one person who changed his life with one smile.
And that was the smile he was going to get back at all costs.
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“The quirk will take you back exactly one year, outside Kirishima’s junior high. You have one chance, Bakugou. You have to wait until Kirishima comes in contact with the villain, then move forward and grab his shoulder. If successful, he’ll be taken into an alternate reality, a separation in time. Then it’s up to you to talk to him. If successful, you’ll be brought back to the hospital immediately, and neither you or Kirishima would have any memory of what happened, and Kirishima will never had gotten affected by the quirk. ”
Bakugou ran the instructions over and over again in his mind, but doing it in person was a completely different story. It sent his nerves out of control as he moved down the footpath, towards the place the villain was sighted. He kept his hands firmly in his pockets, taking slow breaths. You can do this, you can do this, you can do this-
Bakugou’s eyes went wide.
Across the footpath, right there, was Kirishima.
Well, not the Kirishima he knew.
The boy had his hands clenched by his side, eyebrows furrowed over the eyes that he knew so well. His hair, his stupid shitty hair had lost its flame and hung over Kirishima’s head in messy black bangs, framing his face and traveling down his neck. Bakugou had seen his hair down before, and he loved it. Loved how easy it was to run his hands through it, how the soft, silky locks felt in his fingertips. But the black had a completely different effect on the boy in front of him.
Bakugou had been so fixated on the lost light of the sun in front of him, that he was too late to notice the villain that approached the students ahead with a sickening grin. The atmosphere immediately seemed to darken, the grin sending a shiver down even Bakugou’s spine. Its voice was terrifying, hissing with venom as he patiently asked for directions from the quivering students. Annoyed at the lack of response, the villain moved lightning fast, fist colliding with the wall, sending a jagged crack crawling up the building.
The villain drew his fist back and turned to face Kirishima.
The boy froze.
Bakugou saw him struggle, saw him grit his teeth and command his body to move, but it disobeyed.
Bakugou snapped out of his trance immediately ran forward, as fast as his damn useless legs could carry him and grasped Kirishima’s shoulder, praying he’d made it in time.
Immediately, the scenery around them vanished, like a light finally being put out. The villain melted away, followed by everything in the area around them. Nothing remained except a valley of stars atop a black sky, and Bakugou desperately holding onto young Kirishima’s shoulder.
The young boy turned around, mouth agape, eyes darting as he took in what just happened. He looked around, hands out and still trembling, then finally saw Bakugou, who had drawn his own hand back.
“W-what?! W-what h-happened...w-who are you? Where am I?” Kirishima stuttered, staring at Bakugou.
Bakugou took a slow breath, wondering how the hell he was going to say this. To do this.
“I’m...A friend of yours. More than that. You’ll find out later. And I don’t know where the fuck we are either, but I need you listen to me or all of this is gonna be for nothing.” Bakugou said sternly, voice shaking slightly as he tried to figure how the fuck to do this.
“What are you feeling right now?” Bakugou eyed the boy in front of him, reading his facial expression. Wide with fear. Not a good sign. Kirishima looked slightly shocked at the sudden personal question, and it was present in his expression.
“What? Where’d the villain go?-” Kirishima asked, confused, but not even able to finish before Bakugou interrupted him.
“You fucking heard me. What are you feeling right now? Are you pissed? Scared?” Bakugou continued to question. “When you saw the villain, you were scared. You were pissing yourself, right?”
“I-...I was terrified, but….how did you know this? What are you doing here?” Kirishima pushed, fear and confidence fighting and clenching at his chest as he attempted to challenge Bakugou.
“I-...” Bakugou paused. This wasn’t fucking working. How was he going to talk to him, to try to stop him from being self-conscious when he didn’t even know who he was. This was all too fucking confusing. He never should’ve signed up for this.
But, if doing this meant he could get Kirishima, his Kirishima back, then fuck it. Bakugou moved forward and grasped Kirishima by the shoulders, looking directly into his similar, yet so different eyes.
“Kirishima.” The young boy’s eyes widened at the say of his name, causing Bakugou to let out an annoyed sigh. “Yes, I know your fucking name. Because I know you, Kirishima. I know you’re fucking terrified right now. And upset, and confused, and whatever else the fuck you’d be feeling. I know, okay. That’s why I’m here, I need...fuck, ...I need to change that, ok? So you have to listen to me.”
“But I don’t even know you! Where am I? I don’t get it-”
“We don’t have much time ok? Can you please fucking listen to me?”
“Dude, you just took me to a random place in the middle of nowhere and I don’t know who you are and you’re pushing me with questions. I’m confused!”
“I fucking explained already, Kirishima! Just, fucking answer me, okay?! Were you scared?” Bakugou pushed, losing patience.
Kirishima opened his mouth, as if to say something but quickly closed it. Then with a shaky breath, he nodded.
“I-...I was scared. I couldn’t move at all. I-... I t-tried to get my body to move b-but it just..wouldn’t. It was..terrifying. I wasn’t manly at all. ” Kirishima admitted, gluing his gaze to the ground and clenching his fist, and Bakugou’s chest twisted.
The spark of light the sun gave still wasn’t there. It had been completely put out.
“Fucking everyone gets scared sometimes, Kirishima.” Bakugou reminded, eyebrows turning upwards, features going softer. “Even All Might, for hell’s sake. It’s not a weakness, it happens to everyone. And I know..I fucking know you’d be scared. I-I’ve had that before. Where I didn’t move. At all. I didn’t do a fucking thing and let my ass get kicked by a villain and nearly fucking died when I goddamn knew I was stronger than that.”
Bakugou let his hands fall to his side and turned his head, body tensing at the memory. He felt his muscles go rigid and took a deep breath. This wasn’t about him. This was about Kirishima.
“That...that really sucks, man. I’m sorry.” Kirishima said softly, voice painted in concern. Even like this he still cared.
“This isn’t about me though. I know you’ve been upset lately. And not because of the villain.” Bakugou questioned, and he saw Kirishima hesitate for a minute, his eyebrows lowering.
“Not really. I’m just pissed, you know?” Kirishima clenched his fists, hard, painfully letting out his insecurities after what seemed like an eternity. “How am I supposed to be a manly hero, be the best of the best, if I can’t move?”
Bakugou’s chest twisted yet again, a deep feeling he couldn’t place in his stomach. Empathy, maybe. “Kirishima, that doesn’t change whether or not you can be a hero, for god’s sake. You’re gonna be a dead-ass strong hero, because when you fight it’s fucking amazing.”
“But what if I’m not strong? There’s... there's so many people who are so much better, who could do so much more. Me, my quirk, just, me I’m not...good enough to be up there. And I-...I’m scared I never will be.”
The last sentence was said quietly, with so much hurt, so much pain coming from the young version of the one he loved. It physically hurt. It reminded Bakugou of that time in the dorms when Kirishima had the nerve to say he wasn’t strong and that his quirk wasn’t good enough. A reveal of how deep his insecurities were..it was painful.
Bakugou knew he had to choose his words fucking carefully. He needed to say the right things, think through his words and not mess this up. You can do this, Katsuki. Do it for Kirishima .
“It’s okay, Kirishima-” Bakugou began, before abruptly pausing as he saw Kirishima get more frustrated, tensing up and clenching his fist harder, bottom lip beginning to tremble. Everything was overflowing, held back for too long and--
“It’s not okay, though! Other people, they’re so much better! Everyone can do so much cool things, and I-...I can’t! I can’t do anything! How am I supposed to be a hero like this? It’s...it’s not manly at all...and I don’t know w-what to do, ok?” Kirishima ranted, eyes wide with newly formed tears in the corner of them, eyebrows drawn together, reaching a hand up to grasp the front of his uniform. Kirishima began to cry now, the tears rolling down his young face. He held his hand up to his tear-filled eyes, attempting to stop them to no avail.
“Kirishima, I-..I’m not fucking good at this. I have no idea what to say either, but. If you don’t give up and keep on fighting, it means you’re fucking strong. You’re the goddamn strongest and manliest person I’ve met, and you’re going to be a strong ass hero one day.” Bakugou confirmed, saying nothing but the truth.
“How do you know, though? How do you know that every time I see a villain I won’t freeze? W-why am I so useless sometimes? Ugh...I’m...I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-” Kirishima sniffed, his tears still not ceasing.
“No. Don’t apologise, Eijirou. Don’t fucking apologise. You’re strong. You’re so fucking strong. I’ve seen it before, I’ve seen the shit you can do-” Bakugou countered, finally getting the hang of this whole comforting language before getting cut off.
Kirishima had surged forward and clung to him in a desperate hug, head pressed against Bakugou’s chest, his body still trembling from the continuous sobs.
“It’s ok, Eijirou. I believe in you.” Bakugou reassured, awkwardly placing his hands around Kirishima’s waist, letting him cry as much as he needs.
As soon as those words left his mouth, Kirishima looked up at him with wide eyes. “W-what?”
Bakugou lifted his hands and cupped Kirishima’s face, his tears wet against one palm, the other resting against the black hair that hung over his face. Bakugou’s face went soft, and his voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I believe in you, Ei.”
Then, slowly, the world began to distort. Melting away slowly, morphing back into a reality. Kirishima began to slip away, gradually, slowly, until Bakugou could no longer feel him under the touch of his hands.
And with that, the moment vanished as if it had never happened in the first place.
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The next time Bakugou opened his eyes again, he was seated in the hospital by Kirishima’s side, holding his hand tight, too tight. Waiting for him to wake up, waiting for him to say something, anything.
Bakugou’s wish was granted, and Kirishima’s eyes fluttered open to meet Bakugou’s, sending him a weak smile. “K-katsuki..” He whispered, sitting up in his bed, brilliant red hair falling over his head.
Bakugou felt a weight being lifted off his shoulders and his chest swelled with joy and he lurched forward to capture Kirishima in a hug, clutching his back tightly. He didn’t know why, but he missed him. Missed him so damn much, even if he’d only been out cold for about a day.
Everything seemed to come alive again as Kirishima was returned to him, and golden-yellow joy found itself blossoming in Bakugou’s chest. The piercing red eyes that danced as he smiled, the soft red hair that was held desperately by hair gel or hanging loosely in messy bangs, the shark-tooth grin that filled Bakugou’s world with hope.
But Kirishima smiled, and light suddenly filled the room again, a sun returning home and shining upon everyone once more. Bakugou held him tighter, burying his face in the crook of Kirishima’s neck, feeling his soft ruby hair tickle his face. Kirishima laughed and Bakugou felt himself melt as Kirishima hugged him back, sitting up further in the bed to do so.
The sun had returned, and Bakugou had never felt brighter.
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