#I’ve been hunkering down on my very broken sleep schedule lately | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

therollingstonys · 4 years

Note

For Stella: maybe a soft college stevetony fic? Tomorrow is my last final and I need some fluff to celebrate! 💕

Hooray!!! I’ve got my fingers crossed for you that your final goes well!!

This is fluffy and feely, and probably different than you were expecting for soft college stevetony, but I hope you still enjoy it!! Thank you for the prompt!!

Tony groans, long and loud as Steve presses into him strong and true, his muscles shivering and then collapsing into blissful surrender.

“Feels good, huh?”

Tony opens his mouth to make a snarky remark but all that comes out is another low moan when Steve does it again.

Skinny bastard Tony thinks fondly, arching up into Steve’s touch with a weak moan.

“Y’know it feels good,” Tony pants, exhaling harshly when Steve pushes down just right. Steve chuckles in response, his deep voice reverberating from behind Tony, rumbling into his skin with how close they’re pressed.

“You can thank my ma at Christmas,” Steve teases, “she’s the one who taught me how to do this.”

Tiny groans as Steve’s thin artist’s fingers dig into his scapula, the sharp pleasure pain of it making him shudder as the knot there unwinds slowly.

“I’ll buy her anythin’ she wants,” Tony slurs, dizzy with pleasure.

Steve’s strong hands caress his shoulder blades and then push in, thumbs digging into the area around the knobs of his spine and Tony’s vision goes white.

He’s drooling into his pillow he notes distantly, slack jawed and groaning like he does when Steve fucks him, and this isn’t far from that—the physics of it aren’t so different, the way Steve moves with purpose, slow and deep pressure applied to his body.

“You don’t gotta buy her anything Tones, she loves you for you,” Steve reminds him as his hands slide down the expanse of Tony’s back, rubbing and massaging the muscles as he goes.

Tony knows that; he’s been bashfully receiving Sarah Rogers’s affections since freshman year of high school when he and Steve first met and became friends. Now that they’ve been dating for three and a half years, you’d think he’d be used to hearing that she likes him for the person he is, flaws and all, but the lessons learned at his father’s side are hard to shake.

He nods loosely and swallows hard, heart in his throat suddenly. “I know,” he whispers, shifting to press his face into his pillow as a few tears leak out.

Steve’s bare torso suddenly presses into Tony’s back, warm and thin and strong. Lips press to the sweaty nape of his neck, just behind his ear and he shudders, warring sensations of arousal and a deep yearning for sleep battling inside him.

He needs sleep, he knows that—he knew it when he hunkered down in the lab for 37 hours straight because he was desperate to perfect his senior thesis project so that maybe, just maybe his father might look at him with pride.

“It’s stupid,” he huffs, sniffling as Steve nuzzles into his damp hair. “He’s not gonna even come,” he murmurs pathetically, heart aching in his chest.

Steve hums softly, “You don’t know that,” he murmurs, “I think he’s gonna be there.”

Tony sighs heavily and shakes his head minutely, “He hasn’t responded to any of my emails about it and Pepper hasn’t confirmed it on his schedule. He’s not coming.”

Steve presses another kiss to his neck and then another, slowly working his way down, and Tony can’t help the shiver that passes over his skin.

“I’m sorry baby,” Steve murmurs, “I wish I could make it better for you.”

And that? That’s the thing Tony loves the most about Steve—his giant, arrhythmic heart.

The number of times he’s sat and listened with a sympathetic ear to Tony’s long winded and emotional speeches about his shitty father are in the hundreds by now, for sure.

Steve listens and when asked, offers advice, but mostly, he just nods and smiles sadly and then pulls Tony into his arms for warm and loving kisses.

Tears prick at Tony’s eyes and he shifts under Steve, suddenly desperate to see those beautiful blue eyes of his. Steve sits up so Tony can roll over and then laughs brightly when Tony grabs the back of his neck and pulls him down for a searing kiss.

“I love you,” he murmurs against Steve’s lips, heart thrumming with delight that he can say that now—that he can declare openly that Steve is someone he loves, someone he adores and wants to spend every day of the rest of his life with.

Steve pulls away slightly to press delicate butterfly kisses to Tony’s eyelids, mouth whispering over the arch of his nose and across his cheekbones, over his brow and down his jaw.

With each kiss he breathes out, I love you, as though with his words he can heal every broken part of Tony’s heart.

Maybe he can.

-----------

Steve watches with pride as Tony presents his final project to the head of the department, the dean of the school, a dozen heads of industry and more than fifty reporters.

They murmur excitedly to themselves as Tony explains his arc reactor technology, how it’s self sustaining and can produce enough clean energy in one day to power half of Manhattan.

Someone shifts behind him and then there’s a ripple of sound and when he looks up, he finds Howard Stark at his side.

He’s looking older, Steve thinks, worn around the edges and weary.

He’d feel more sympathy if he hadn’t been the one to see Tony’s bruises as a kid, the one who Tony ran to when his father was in a blind drunk rage, the one he sought out for safety and love.

Steve seethes silently for a moment before exhaling slowly and looking away from Howard, turning his attention back to Tony.

“He really did it,” Howard murmurs, soft enough that Steve knows it’s not directed at anyone but him. “Didn’t think he had it in him.”

Steve snorts and looks sideways at the man for a moment, meeting his eyes before shaking his head and looking away.

“You disagree?” Howard asks, hands shoving into his trouser pockets, the edge of annoyance in his voice cold and clipped.

Steve nods, “Of course. I always knew he could do this—he can do anything he sets his mind to. Except be loved by you, apparently,” he mutters.

Howard makes a soft noise and shifts, “You may not believe it Mr. Rogers, but I care for my son. He is my greatest creation.”

Rage flares in Steve’s belly and he turns to glare up at Howard, hands balled into fists at his sides. “How dare you,” he hisses, “your son is not a creation, he is your child and he deserves more than you just caring about him.”

Howard opens his mouth and Steve steps closer, crowding into the man’s space—watching as his eyes go wide with surprise at Steve’s aggressive move.

Tony likes to tease that when Steve is angry he’s like a chihuahua—mean and feisty and sharp toothed.

“No, shut up,” he snarls, “Tony has sought your approval since he was four years old, desperate for a kind word and a loving embrace, but you couldn’t even spare that much kindness could you?” he snaps. “I doubt you have any goodness in your spirit at all.”

Howard’s brows furrow but Steve pushes on, voice low and deadly serious, “He’s going to walk out of here today with twenty different job offers and requests to buy his technology, but you know what’s going to matter to him the most?” he demands.

Howard shakes his head tentatively and Steve scoffs, looking him over pointedly. “The fact that you showed up,” he tells him. “So good job, for not letting your son down like you’ve done his entire life.”

Howard opens his mouth again and Steve holds up a hand, “Nope I’m still not done,” he says, dark amusement rippling through him at the indignant look on the older man’s face. “When Tony is done, you’re going to tell him he did a good job, tell him you’re proud of him, because even if you don’t care enough to try and actually love him? I do,” he murmurs, “I love him, and you will not ruin this day for him. Do you understand me?”

Howard is very still for a moment, dark eyes (Tony’s eyes) searching Steve’s face.

And then, he nods.

Steve huffs in satisfaction and turns away, focusing his attention back on his beloved.

He smiles as Tony talks excitedly about the reactor, nodding and waving his hands as he explains, and when he looks up and sees Howard beside Steve and falters, Steve waves a little and then mouths I love you.

Tony’s eyes light up and his smile brightens till it outshines even the glow of the reactor, and Steve smiles back, pride and adoration making his heart throb in his chest.

The door to the auditorium clangs open and Steve glances over, grinning when he sees his ma hurrying through the crowd towards him in her scrubs.

She casts a look at Howard like he’s a beetle under her shoe and then nods politely before turning to Steve for a hug.

“Sorry I’m late,” she whispers, “how’s it going?”

Steve looks back to Tony who has just spotted Sarah if the wide, teary eyed look on his face is any indication, and grins.

“It’s going great.”

-----------

Tony’s hands shake as he reaches for Steve after and he clings to him for just a few more moments than he should, sinking into the embrace as Steve kisses his cheek and then his neck as he whispers praise and rubs his back.

Sarah is next, bright blue eyes tired but proud as she hugs him, kisses going to his brow as she too exclaims how proud she is of her boy.

He flushes at that, even after all these years.

When she steps aside Howard is waiting, a contemplative look on his face as he studies Tony silently.

He can feel his shoulders stiffening up and his stomach swoops unpleasantly, body readying itself for yet another rejection.

Slowly, Howard extends his hand for Tony to shake, “Good job Anthony,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing when Tony just stares at him in shock. Swallowing hard, Tony nods and takes the hand, mouth dry and tongue heavy.

“I’m proud of the work you’ve done,” Howard says, I look forward to seeing what else you can do when you join me at Stark Industries.”

Shock ripples through Tony and he nods numbly, mumbling out yes sir before Howard nods sharply and turns toward the press, a broad showman’s grin on his face.

He’s rooted to the spot, hands numb and chest frozen, till suddenly he’s wrapped in a tight embrace, and his body registers the Steveness of it.

His hands clutch at the blue button down shirt Steve’s wearing and he buries his face in Steve’s neck, chest shuddering with a repressed sob. Steve holds him tightly, rubbing his back in large soothing motions till Tony stops shaking and can stand on his own.

Steve grins at him and cups his cheek, “C’mon super star, more people want to talk to you and then ma and I are taking you to dinner.”

Tony sniffles and nods, lips quivering as he grins, heart aching happily.

He takes Steve’s hand in his and casts his father one last look, wishing that he believed in his declaration of pride but knowing it’s likely nothing more than empty platitudes.

Maybe it’s the best Howard will ever be able to do.

He doesn’t care anymore, not when he’s got his Brooklyn boy at his side and his ma at his back.

He glances at Steve as a group of CEO’s descend on him, eager to try and win him to their companies and loses himself in those gorgeous blue eyes for a moment.

Steve grins at him and squeezes his hand, lifting a brow at Tony’s prolonged silent stare. He blushes a little and then turns his attention back to the men and women surrounding him, politely shaking hands and taking business cards as Steve stands like a sentry at his side.

He toys with the ring in his pocket as they chatter at him, nodding along and smiling, thinking about how he can’t wait to see Steve’s face when he asks him to marry him.

Over the shoulder of one man he sees his father stare at him before he slips out of the room, and Tony lets all his disappointment and lifelong yearning for approval go with him, the burden gone from his shoulders.

He glances back at Steve and smiles.

He’s got a whole future ahead of him he can’t wait to live.

#in this house we say fuck howard stark #howard stark is his own trigger warning #stony #mod stella writes #in this house we stan sarah rogers

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raendown · 5 years

Link

A collaboration with the ever delight @sinyaru, though her art would definitely only get flagged here on tumblr. Follow the link to see the story with art!

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 6542 Summary: Madara rather enjoys going to this new 'gymnasium' that Hashirama insisted on building. He doesn't really work out very much but how is he supposed to concentrate on exercise with Tobirama walking around look like that?

Edit: my fingers wanted to press buttons and make that word count look reeeaaaaaally big. Oops.

Lift

“He’s doing it again.”

Izuna lifted his head with a very tired expression, refusing to look over at something he had seen a hundred times before. He knew exactly what he would find if he did. Why did his brother insist on dragging him along for this shit when he was only going to spend the whole time mooning over that albino asshole? And why was Tobirama always here when they came? Either Madara had memorized the man’s workout schedule or he just never went home after work.

Duly ignoring the fact that he was being ignored in turn, Madara dabbed at the corners of his mouth to make sure he hadn’t started drooling again. Last time he’d sat and watched like this Tobirama had almost turned around and caught him with drool on his face. If he had then Madara would have ended his life right then and there. Some things were just too embarrassing to live with.

He really hoped Izuna hadn’t figured out that the only reason he made the other come with him to the indoor workout center was so it wouldn’t be suspicious that he showed up every time Tobirama did and yet never actually got around to working out himself. Madara snuck his own workouts in on his lunch breaks and during the nights when he couldn’t sleep; he never got around to it here in the actual gym because getting anything done with such a gorgeous specimen walking around sweaty and sleeveless was impossible. It just wasn’t fair how hot he was. Hashirama should make it illegal.

No, Hashirama could never know how desperate Madara was to get his tongue on that body. Or to have that tongue on his own body. Either would be appreciated.

“Spot me, Romeo.” Izuna shoved at his shoulder as he moved to lie down on the bench press.

Madara moved in to position without taking his eyes off of where Tobirama was still going through his warmup stretches. He had just gotten to the good part at the end where he rolled effortlessly up in to a handstand and then did pushups from that position. It was like a religious experience every time he got to witness it.

“Can you take your eyes off him for two damn seconds? If I drop this on my own face I’m going to make SURE you stay at the hospital for every hour it takes to heal me.”

“Quiet!” Madara shrieked, glaring down at his brother. “Don’t let him hear you!”

“Then spot me, damn it!” Izuna glared right back with equal fire.

He did have a good point though. As hard as it was, Madara forced himself to tear his eyes away so he could be a proper workout partner for a few minutes. Obviously he wouldn’t last very long, they both knew he would get distracted and go back to staring in short order, but when he did he would brace his arms with chakra so he could at least deflect the weight bar should it fall. Not the best plan but it was better than potentially getting both of them hurt.

As compensation for the annoyance he heaped on the younger man every time they came here Madara very generously allowed Izuna to throw what snarky comments he could in-between heaving for breath as he lifted perhaps more weight than he should have. Without chakra to enhance their muscles they were only stronger than most civilians because of the sheer amount of time they spent on their bodies. None of his insults were anything too creative or new anyway so it wasn’t that hard to let them roll off like the sweat rolling down the sides of his neck. Madara smirked and nodded along, letting him have his moment.

“What rep are you on?” a familiar voice asked from just over his shoulder. Madara startled so badly he knocked his brother’s elbow and only just barely managed to catch the bar so it didn’t crush his head. Swallowing nervously, he peeked over to see Tobirama staring back with a judgmental expression.

“Shut up! None of your business!” While he did refrain from dropping his face in to both hands with shame, it was a close call. Why did he have to fail at communicating with this man so consistently?

“Those machines are for public use,” Tobirama ground out. “Which means you have to share, Uchiha. Ugh. Just let me know when you’re finished. Everyone else just started their reps and I have things to do, I can’t hang around all day waiting.”

“Why not?”

Izuna snickered and Madara glanced down with narrowed eyes, trying to project his willingness to let this stupid weight bar drop.

“Unlike you, apparently, I have important things to do. I can’t spend every damn evening at the gym just hanging out.” Tobirama huffed and turned away, heading over to scout out the other machines while he waited, and Madara very carefully set the bar down in its resting position before covering his face to muffle a frustrated scream.

Patting him mockingly on the leg, Izuna snickered again. “Why are you like this?” he asked.

“I wish I knew,” Madara groaned in reply.

“You know you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Maybe you should try, oh I don’t know, not screaming in his face every time he gets near you?”

“I panic!” Scrubbing both hands down his face and dropping them, Madara sighed. “Every time he looks at me my stomach leaps up in to my throat and my brain falls out my ass and then I just start screaming so he won’t realize I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes wondering if he likes to hold hands.”

“Sweet Sage you’re hopeless. And a secret softy. I wonder what you might pay to stop me from marching over there and just telling him so I can end my own suffering.”

Madara slowed his movements just enough to give Izuna time to brace himself as he knocked the bar off its perch and stormed away in a huff. Dirty rotten no good brother. He could find a different spotter if he was going to be like that. Madara did a lap around the gym trying to figure out how to look busy before eventually settled on the floor mat Tobirama had just been using, pulling out some of the equipment to set the scene and then hunkering down to keep watch. He had to make sure Izuna didn’t actually follow up on that threat.

Fortune appeared to be smiling on him now, however, as Izuna had given up on the bench press without someone to spot him and moved away to quietly work with one of the rowing machines. Even better, Tobirama spotted the open bench and made his way over. Madara’s attention was immediately and completely given over to watching those glorious muscles and the way they shifted deliciously under all that pale skin while the other man loaded the bar with much more weight than Izuna had used. Those corded arms of his were far from just for show.

Built for speed and no stranger to training for it, Tobirama had recently been packing on quite a bit of muscle as well. As his favorite sparring partner Izuna had mentioned he was trying out a new combat style for no other reason than to see if his body could take it. Madara was of the opinion that you shouldn’t try to fix what wasn’t broken but he was far from stupid enough to say so, especially when he personally was getting the most out of this change in pace.

Had there ever been a more fuckable human being than Senju Tobirama? Madara was pretty sure there had not. The fact that such a perfect body came packaged with a brilliant mind, a family-oriented heart, and more biting wit than Madara could hope to parry in any given argument only served to make him more desirable.

If only Madara could close his dumb mouth for two seconds he might have even been able to finagle at least one date to soothe his stupid yearning heart.

So caught up in his admittedly creepy habit of staring, he failed to pay attention to anything else beyond those flexing arms until it was too late. When Tobirama suddenly paused in the middle of his third rep and Madara looked around to figure out what might have distracted him he happened to look in to the mirrors that lined one entire wall of the gym – Hashirama’s idea, something about providing visual encouragement for the people who used the facilities. In the mirror he found the image of Tobirama’s head tilted up and back to use the reflective surface. Using it to meet Madara’s hungry stare head on.

He’d been caught.

Tobirama gave him no time to escape, using the few moments when he was frozen in horror to narrow those pretty red eyes of his, set the bar down, and crook a finger in his direction. Madara swung his head from side to side just to make sure it was him the man was calling over. Not at all ready to face his doom, he stood up and shuffled over reluctantly. Hopefully Izuna wasn’t looking. He really didn’t want his only little brother to watch him die doing something embarrassing like saying “thank you” while Tobirama crushed his head between those glorious thighs.

When he shuffled over with his head bowed in childlike shame – more to hide his embarrassment than because he was actually sorry for looking – the other man curled himself in to a sitting position and indicated the weights that Madara was now standing next to.

“You get that side?” was all he said before he began removing the ones on his end.

After flustering for a moment Madara figured he might as well do as he’d been asked. Whatever was happening was definitely worth it for the chance to see those muscles from close up. Every time Tobirama lifted one of them to set it aside his arms flexed and Madara’s heart did a backflip inside his chest. For each one the other man pulled off Madara took away the corresponding weight in front of him, keeping the bar balanced so it wouldn’t fall on either of their innocent toes, until finally everything had been put away.

He was utterly confused to see Tobirama lay down on the bench and get in to position as though he intended to press the bar with nothing on it, even more confused when the man looked at him very pointedly without saying anything for a full minute.

“What?” he grumbled eventually.

“Get on,” Tobirama said.

“Um…huh?”

“Sit on the bar.”

“But I don’t – okay! Okay! Don’t give me that face, I’m doing it. Even if you’re being weird. I mean, you’re already on the part that you’re supposed to sit on. Am I going to get in trouble for this because I think this technically counts as abusing the equipme–WOAH!”

Cut off right in the middle of his anxious rambling, Madara had to windmill both arms just to keep his balance as Tobirama settled his grip and lifted the bar, human occupant and all. His body rose steadily in to the air, held for a moment, and then lowered back down just as steadily with nary a twitch. Underneath him Tobirama’s face was held in a grimace of concentration offset by the single bead of sweat dribbling down his temple. Despite their proximity and all the efforts he had put in to not being obvious Madara was helpless to do anything but crane his neck and stare below himself with awe. Those arms should be considered lethal weapons on visuals alone.

Worse was the fact that Tobirama refused to look away from him, holding his gaze like a challenge and quirking his lips up in that knowing smirk that had always driven the general populace mad. For most people it was an annoyingly smug look that meant they were about to be told exactly why and how their mistake had been the stupidest thing to ever happen within the bounds of Konoha. For Madara it meant he was going to spend the next half hour trying to conceal an erection while holding up his end of a screaming match, usually somewhere very public.

Still with no idea what Tobirama was actually up to or how this odd little scene was meant to play out, Madara only barely resisted the urge to squirm while he watched the impressive display of strength, sticking himself in place with a touch of chakra just in case the distraction was too much. And then, because apparently he hated himself, because he was a doomed individual who lacked any sort of brain filter, he spat out his thoughts without considering them first.

“Kami that’s hot. I bet you could hold me up against the wall for hours.”

The bar underneath him faltered, still not unsteady but pausing in the repetitive up and down. Madara burned from the inside out as his own words finally registered when he saw the staggered look on Tobirama’s face.

“Wait! No! I didn’t mean–! You heard nothing Senju! NOTHING!” In his panic he lost all semblance of concentration and the precaution he had taken with his chakra was immediately rendered pointless as he lost control and pitched over backwards.

Sending him, of course, straight down on top of the other man’s body. And when he managed to sit up he was, of course, straddled directly over Tobirama’s lap.

In his last life he must have done something horrible, terrible, despicable, utterly unforgivable. It was the only explanation. Karma hated him down to the roots. Madara very much wished he could reach back in to whatever previous life that had been and throttle himself for the trouble now. Clearly erasing his own existence would be less painful than whatever method by which death was about to find him, whether it be at Tobirama’s hand or choking on his own airways as he scrambled to swing one leg over and stand up. Doing so ground his ass against some very interesting parts of Tobirama that, no matter how hard he tried not to be, he was still very interested in.

His entire life flashed before his eyes when Tobirama caught his wrist. At full mental capacity he could wipe the floor with this man but conversely he knew that all Tobirama had to do was flex once and he would happily walk straight in to a blade aimed for his own heart. There were definitely some sort of blades in that sharp gaze pinning him in place.

“Did I hear you correctly?” Tobirama asked under the sound of the active gymnasium around them. Madara gurgled.

“Kami I hope not!” he shouted. When the fingers on his wrist loosened with surprise he wriggled free and bolted for the locker room.

Finally the gods appeared to be smiling on him because the entire room was empty. Not all that many people were at the gym right now, most of them having dinner with their families or still wrapped up in some duty or another. Madara, on the other hand, was scrabbling at the padlock barring him from the clothing he had worn on the way here, hoping that his fingers would remember the combination because his brain was a little too scrambled to think about anything other than how it felt to have his legs spread over Tobirama’s hips.

The sound of footsteps had him scrabbling harder, twisting the spinner on the lock in random directions as though he might stumble upon the code by accident. He stopped when a pale hand gently placed itself over his own. Madara wondered if it was possible for a human being to actually swallow their own tongue.

“You wouldn’t be trying to run away from me, now would you?” Tobirama’s voice murmured in his ear.

“No I’m running in defense of my own sanity,” Madara whimpered. He shivered when the other man chuckled darkly.

“Funny because it felt as though you were running from me. Could it be that you were embarrassed to reveal something you didn’t want me to know?” His chuckle deepened and his other hand came around to press against the lockers on the opposite side of Madara’s body, trapping him between cold metal and warm body.

His breath was hot and Madara could feel the rapid beating of Tobirama’s heart against his back, a rhythm his own heart seemed determined to outstrip. As two men who used to stand on opposite sides of the battlefield he thought it probably would have made sense if he were uncomfortable in this position, if being pinned face-first against the lockers had set off his instinct to fight. It was probably a bad sign that instead all he wanted to do was cant his hips backwards and beg for just a little bit of friction.

No one – no one – should have the power to make the Uchiha clan head beg. Kami but he was pathetic sometimes.

Madara did his best to clamp down on a whine as he took a quick peek on either side of himself, looking for a way out of this mess before he made an even bigger fool of himself than he already had. Unfortunately Tobirama had him fairly well pinned and the only way he could see himself getting free of this would be to either wrestle his way out, which would result in an even more embarrassing erection, or to cover himself in Sasunao’o, which would of course destroy a part of the building and Hashirama would give him another lecture on inappropriate levels of property damage. Neither sounded like an attractive option.

Tobirama leaned a bit further in to him and Madara was in the midst of desperately adding fainting to the list of things that might get him out of this situation when his body froze, eyes blowing wide, hardly able to believe he was feeling what he thought he was feeling.

“Are you…hard?” he choked out. Tobirama hummed and the sound was so close to his ear it might as well have been a lover’s whisper.

“How could I not be when you spread yourself over me so nicely just a moment ago? I can’t help but wonder what you would have looked like doing that with no clothes on.”

Madara squeezed his eyes tightly and prayed for strength. He wasn’t entirely sure what was about to happen to him but he did know that it would probably kill him. What a way to go, though. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t always thought he would die at the hands of a Senju but he’d always thought it would be a different Senju angry on a battlefield not a delicious sweaty beefcake who refused to wear sleeves for the health of the general public.

Somewhere in the frantic scrambling of his brain he realized he needed to say something. Ideally it would have been something cool and suave, something intelligent and smooth, a line or a quip that would let Tobirama know he was not only down for whatever this was but ready to make a good showing of himself. Instead all he said was–

“Why are you so hot!?”

“I…am not sure how to answer that question but I will gladly take it as consent to go on.” Tobirama’s chuckle was accompanied with the brush of his lips against the top of Madara’s shoulder, one hand pulling away from where it was braced to graze down the length of his side in an agonizingly slow glide.

Madara closed his eyes. There wasn’t much room for him to do anything, caught as he was between body and steel, so he did the only thing he could and squirmed helplessly while his mouth fell open to let out a soft moan. He didn’t want to think about how long he’d been fantasizing about having those hands on his body – partly because he would then have to think about how long he’d been wanting those hands woven in to his own and that was much too embarrassing to get in to right then. Now was the time for taking what he was being given.

Pressing his face against the metal locker helped cool his burning cheeks, a perfect counterpoint to how hot Tobirama’s hands were as they slipped under the hem of his work out shirt. Not having actually worked out paid off in an unexpected way when Madara sent a prayer of thanks that he wasn’t disgusting and sweaty where those hands were groping. It definitely would have ruined the moment if he smelled like trash from too many pushups, no matter how nice he thought his own arms were. Tobirama’s arms were definitely nicer, wrapped around him as they were, and Madara cracked his eyes back open to allow himself a moment to roam over the perfectly shaped biceps he’d been drooling over from afar. Then he rolled his hips back and grinned when he felt the hardness there rubbing between his ass cheeks.

Unsurprisingly, Tobirama felt the need to retaliate. That was pretty much the entirety of both their personal and professional relationships, constantly reacting to each other and struggling to gain the upper hand, though lately their squabbles had shifted away from violence and more towards silly pranks and half-hearted teasing. Now he did so by sliding his hand down to cup Madara through his loose pants even as his hips rolled forward to press the older man just a little bit father forward.

“You’re playing with fire,” Tobirama growled.

“I’m an Uchiha. I played with fire in my cradle.”

“Don’t bring your cradle in to this.” Tobirama paused to snicker against his back. “Picturing you as an infant is not sexy and I am trying very hard to be sexy right now.”

Madara whined and dropped his head lower. “Everything you do is sexy you stupid asshole.”

Laughing a little louder, Tobirama stepped back just enough that he had room to spin Madara around and push him back against the lockers again, stepping forward until their bodies were flush with each other and dipping his head for a kiss that curled the ends of Madara’s hair. This time when he rolled his hips it was to grind their lengths together, both of them hard enough to feel that sweet friction through the layers of clothing between them.

“Oh sweet Sage,” Madara whispered. His hand clenched around the biceps he had just been admiring, shudders rippling through his body to finally have them under his palms. Tobirama grinned and shuffled his weight to force one of his thighs between both of Madara’s while he trailed kisses along his jaw.

“I don’t suppose you happen to have any objections to our current location?”

“Don’t you dare stop,” Madara growled. “I don’t give a fuck who comes in here, you are not stopping!”

“Normally I would say ‘fuck you’ for ordering me around but I think actions speak louder than words.”

Tobirama smirked wider when the meaning of his words filtered in to Madara’s brain and made his knees go weak, eyes rolling back in his head as he prayed for guidance from his ancestors. Then he went in for another kiss and both of them forgot all about anything that wasn’t the writhing of their bodies against each other or the wandering of curious fingers.

Hands slipped inside each other’s clothing and pulled hair, mouths devoured and commanded in equal turns, and Madara tried to ignore how much sound he could hear spilling from his own throat. It was embarrassing to be so obvious about his enthusiasm but there wasn’t much he could do. He’d always been a passionate person; this was hardly going to be the one activity he approached with a calm demeanor and a clear head.

About the time he realized that his shirt had somehow been slid up to bunch around his collar bone without his notice Madara opened his eyes to see Tobirama lick his lips and bend to gently close his teeth around one nipple. A grunt escaped, fading quickly in to something like a gasp when Tobirama began to nip and suckle. He wanted very much to bow upwards and push farther in to the sensation but he was foiled by the large hands on his hips keeping him from moving around too much. Madara grumbled under his breath about cruel Senju but it had less effect when he followed his words with a demand for more.

Probably just to be an asshole, Tobirama pulled away from what he was doing, leaning over to lave his tongue over the other nipple for a quick tease and then straightening to pull Madara in for a slow, deep kiss.

“Jerk,” Madara gasped as soon as his mouth was free.

“Would you have me any other way?” Tobirama asked. The knowing in his eyes said there was no point in answering him, he already knew. “I thought so. Now, I don’t suppose you happened to bring lubricant to the gym with you?”

Gaping for a moment, Madara only just managed to lower his voice to a strangled shriek. “Why would I bring lube to the gym!?”

“You seemed quite involved in that staring contest you had going with my biceps. I thought perhaps you might have come prepared for certain eventualities.”

“I didn’t think this was an eventuality.”

“Ah. Well there’s something we’ll have to clear up. But not now, we’re a little busy now. Don’t move.” With a pointed look to ensure Madara stayed put, Tobirama took a half step back and reached over to another locker several feet down the line. He twisted the spinner until the padlocked popped open, pulled it out, then dropped it carelessly to the floor while he rummaged inside.

When his hand came back out he was holding a small tub of what Madara assumed to be cream. The lid spun off easily – also tossed unceremoniously to the floor – and the inside revealed a shiny lotion that gave off a pungent smell of herbs.

“For sore muscles,” Tobirama muttered as he dipped his fingers in and swiped out a generous dollop. “Drop ‘em Uchiha. I can’t give you sore muscles if I can’t get to them.”

Madara spluttered a little but he did scramble to undo his pants and shove them down, taking his underwear with them. As soon as he had kicked the garments away Tobirama was slotting their bodies together again and drawing one of Madara’s leg up over his hip to make room for his fingers to reach around and press against the puckered entrance there.

“Hng – bastard.” Madara closed his eyes and let his head fall back, breathing through the sensations, doing his best to have a quiet yet stern conversation with his cock about the difference between interested and overexcited.

“I thought you wanted this, hm?” Tobirama said in a teasing voice. He punctuated his words with the slow glide of his finger sinking in to the hole he’d just slathering with lotion.

“Just…just always a bastard…I don’t know, alright? Just don’t stop!”

“As you say.” Then, because he truly was a bastard, he slid another finger in so Madara could feel the stretch, making him writhe and press down on the invading digits as though he intended to ride them to his completion.

Which actually sounded like an excellent idea that he would need to bring up some other time.

For now he allowed himself to be distracted with filthy kisses as Tobirama worked him open with a maddeningly slow speed that said he was taking his time on purpose. Every time Madara tried to snarl at him to hurry up his words were interrupted with a sharp bite on his lower lip, the side of his neck, even his ear once. It was a disgustingly effective tactic. Having done this sort of thing only a handful of times before, Madara hadn’t realized until now that he seemed to have a fetish for biting. Perhaps that was something else they could explore together later.

Tobirama rolled his hips like an afterthought when he slid a third finger in, chuckling darkly when Madara spewed a litany of curse words, overwhelmed by the dual sensations. Rather than let up he continued the rhythm and shifted his arm until he could curl in to an angle to press against Madara’s prostate, swallowing the resulting shout with a heated kiss.

“Fucking fuck you fuck fucker fucking piece of fuck!” Not that it stopped him. He was grinding out more expletives as soon as his mouth was free.

“Bad language is the mark of an uncivilized beast,” Tobirama chided him.

Madara jerked his head down to glare at the man. “If you are not inside me in point five seconds I swear I’m going to set your head on that fire I’m supposedly playing with. Stop testing my patience you – oh! Shit, that. Do that again!”

His rant paused before he could truly get a good rhythm going, foiled by the extra pressure on the one spot guaranteed to shut him up. Madara supposed he would have been angry if it weren’t for the fact that it felt so damned good. It was almost worth the smugness in Tobirama’s grin – or it would have been if he hadn’t pulled his fingers away entirely a moment later. When Madara snarled he only hummed and kissed him briefly.

“You need to make up your mind. Is it stop or don’t stop? Fuck or fingers? If I’d known you were going to be this difficult about it I would have brought along a muzzle to keep you quiet.” He bent to swipe his fingers through the herbal cream again and opened his own pants to lather in on himself while Madara searched his mind for an acceptable comeback. Nothing came to mind.

“Just get on with it,” he settled for instead. “I don’t have all evening.”

“Oh? So you weren’t planning to come back to mine after, then? A pity. I was going to make soba noodles for dinner and I thought you might like to join me. But I suppose I won’t perish from sleeping alone tonight.”

“What the hell do soba noodles have to do with sleep– oh. Ooooh.” Madara swallowed thickly as he tried to wrestle his face in to more of an affronted look rather than the soppy expression trying to take over. “Look, don’t you dangle the dream and take it away. You’re going to fuck me, you’re going to feed me soba – I fucking love soba – and then you’re going to take me to bed and fuck me again. Got it!?”

Tobirama’s answer was to bend far enough to grasp under each of his thighs and lift him without warning, sending his bodyweight crashing backwards against the lockers since he was unprepared to support himself so suddenly. When he was through flailing he got with the program enough to wrap his legs around the other man’s waist and lift himself up for a better angle. Then he squirmed until he felt Tobirama’s cock line up in just the right spot and bore down carefully.

Both of them groaned when the head finally slid passed the first ring of muscle. Madara let gravity pull his weight down and closed his eyes at the sweet sensation of being gradually filled. He could admit that he’d seen bigger cocks but Tobirama was just the perfect size, big enough to feel the stretch yet not so thick that it hurt. Teeth nipped at his collarbones and he shuddered – doubly so when the movement slid him further down – and then he paused for a moment like he could memorize how it felt as he bottomed out. It seemed Tobirama did not need a moment.

His partner hiked him up against the locker door without warning, pulled his hips away, then pressed in again with a deliberately slow glide. Madara tightened his arms around whatever the hell he was currently gripping and gave up on the idea of staying quiet. At the very least Tobirama seemed to enjoy the sounds he made every time he was filled again, grinning in to his shoulder and fucking him just a little bit faster.

“Should have been”–Tobirama broke off with a hiss when Madara tightened around him–“doing this years ago.” He mouthed his way up Madara’s neck to take his lips in a kiss that almost erased any snarky reply from his mind. It took a few minutes for him to respond

“Maybe you should have been paying attention!” Madara growled after shaking his thoughts back in to working order. Tobirama huffed and retaliated with a particularly hard thrust.

“Well maybe you should have spoken up instead of staring at me like a lovesick puppy.” Tobirama bit his lip once before tilting his body away. It set them at such an angle that he was able to make a direct hit against Madara’s prostate and earned him a howl that choked off between clenched teeth, not wanting to draw attention from any of the idiots still exercising in the gym.

Too distracted for conversation after that, both of them descended in to animalistic grunts and frantic rutting. Metal rattled with every harsh movement and the heat between their bodies was only worsened by the florescent lights burning overhead. Every sound they made echoed in the otherwise empty room, fueling them both on with a chorus of lewd gasps and moans. They would have sounded right at home in the center of the red light district under the strict rule of a jaded Madame.

Madara dragged Tobirama closer for breathless, sloppy kisses as he wondered why all the filthy novels hidden under his bed were filled with heroes and lovely ladies who were never ready for things to end. The tension coiling in his gut wanted nothing more than to boil over, driving him to writhe and struggle, chasing his end as fast as he could. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this turned on. No toy or even his own clone had ever been able to turn him on half as much as just watching Tobirama could; being held up against the wall and fucked senseless was more than a dream come true.

It was pretty damn close to nirvana.

An actual sob of relief escaped when he slipped a hand between them and took himself in a light grasp just this side of not enough, taking up a rhythm that couldn’t hope to match the rocking of their hips with how caught up he was in the way his partner was falling apart beneath him. Clearly he was not the only one chasing something.

He had barely a handful of strokes to admire the bliss in Tobirama’s expression, the way his head had fallen back and his eye has fallen closed, jaw hanging loose to pant, unashamed of the pleasure he was taking from another. Then Madara’s thighs gave a telltale shake and his muscles tensed, his free hand slamming back against the metal supporting him as he cried out the intensity of his orgasm.

Tobirama followed half a dozen thrusts later, pulled along by the tight heat clenching around him, refusing to fall still as he continued to send white hot pleasure streaking through Madara’s veins. Yet even as he shook his way through his own ecstasy his stance never faltered and Madara’s weight never shifted once. Somehow that only made the entire thing hotter.

“Shit,” Tobirama muttered when he finally came to a stop. He leaned forward until their foreheads were pressed together and their unsynchronized gasping drew hot breath back and forth between them. “Seriously. Should have been doing that ages ago.”

“Nnnggg.” Words seemed a little far away still for Madara.

“That was not quite the workout I had in mind when I came here tonight but I can’t say that I mind.”

“Hnn.” Madara blinked up at the ceiling and fished around in his brain for words to expression the only vague want left in him at the moment. After a minute he gave up and simply murmured, “Soba?”

When Tobirama laughed it made him look down just to watch the mirth twinkle in those pretty red eyes. “Yes, alright. Let’s get cleaned up and you can have your soba. You know, we’re lucky no one came in here. I don’t want to know what sort of lecture we’d get if we’d been walked in on during…that.”

Madara wasn’t sure if he was shuddering more for the sensation of Tobirama sliding out of his ass or for the thought of those lectures the other had mentioned. Whether it came from either of their brothers – or worse, from Mito – it would surely have been minimum an hour of screaming and embarrassment. He realized finally how reckless they had been and forced his trembling legs to bear his weight as he hastily wiped himself down with the unused gym clothes, opening his locker with the combination he finally remembered so he could dress in his usual clothing to leave.

“Come on,” Tobirama held out his hand. “I think I even have a little sake at home to make it a proper date.”

“Hmph. You’d better treat me proper. I deserve it.”

A hand caught his middle to pull him flush against a hard body once more and Madara flushed when Tobirama whispered in his ear, “Mm, that you do.”

“Shut up! Of course I do! Get off of me with your…with your…emotions!” It took batting at the arm around his belly with both hands for Tobirama to release him. Madara refused to look over at the other man for fear of the laughter he would see there; it wasn’t his fault he didn’t know what to do with his emotions! Just because he had them did not mean he was prepared to chat about them like a casual conversation.

Rather than answer Tobirama waited silently until Madara had everything he needed to bring with him before pouncing again. One arm slid back around his waist while the other lifted to make a hand sign and between one moment and the next they were gone from the room as though they’d never been there in the first place. The only evidence left behind to mark the beginning of something so momentous was a small tub of lotion meant for soothing sore muscles left unnoticed on the floor, cap tossed carelessly aside, and the pungent scent of herbs mixed with the heady scent of sex.

It was an unimportant detail, really. They could always get more cream. But there would only ever be one first time and Madara was already planning how he would gloat to Izuna about his success later. His persistence had paid off, after all.

That and his innate clumsiness but he certainly wouldn’t be including that in his dramatic retelling later.

#rae writes #madatobi #madara #tobirama #fanfiction #collaboration

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axburrows · 4 years

Text

“My Plague Journal”

By RICHARD LITTLETHOUGHT ‘The Voice of Truth, if by “Truth” you mean “Profoundly Right-Wing Assertions”.’

DAY IV

Readers, I do confess this self-isolation business is getting to me at the very roots! The other day, I was having a harmless browse of some of that P.G. Wodehouse – ‘fun for all the fam’, as the rappers would say. But several chapters in, my heart ached and a drowsy numbness pained my sense, as though of Benylin® I had drunk.

In my delirious state, I saw myself attired in a starched collar and claw-hammer coat to boot. My man-cave was gone. Looking around at this new opulent interior, I surmised that I’d entered into the employment of a top-drawer citizen: Mister Bertram Wooster! Distantly, I heard the tinkling of a bell. I pursued the sound up a long and winding staircase. I opened an oak panelled door and stepped into my master’s bedroom. He was lounging beneath candy-striped bedclothes, a little bell in his hand.

‘You rang, sir?’ I said.

‘Now look here, Littlethought’, Wooster intoned, ‘My squeeze, Emily Maitlis, is coming round for supper later and I want to make a bit of an impression – if you catch my meaning?’

‘Indeed, sir.’ I said.

‘I’ve got a grocery list here for her favourite dish: Greek moussaka with a special side salad – Yukon potatoes, artichoke hearts and a caramelised fig – that sort of caper.’ He waved this scroll of decadence beneath my salt-of-the-earth nose. ‘Now be a sport and toddle down to Whole Foods, would you?’

‘Indeed, sir’, I intoned. I took the list and shimmered out.

Coming down Kensington High Street, the pavements billowed with a thousand coxcombs in primrose scarfs and crushable bushman’s hats. Through the window of a Wasabi, the Monopoly Man was licking ramen off a glass table top while a prostitute clapped. I turned and saw a parade processing up the road, at the centre of which was a massive Chinese dragon with the face of a polystyrene James O’Brien. Fire-eaters and acrobats pranced around it performing tricks, whilst Sandi Toksvig saluted the crowd from an amphibious rocket launcher. Jess Phillips played ‘I Will Survive’ on the ocarina. A marmoset was on Skype!!! I’m a stranger in my own country! I thought.

Behind me, I heard a fragile voice singing from the doorway of an Alms House.

‘Jesus blood - never failed me yet - never failed m’yet - never failed me...’

‘Mister Farage!’ I said. ‘Whatever became of our Man of the Hour?’

‘I’ve been stripped of m’assets, boy. Stripped of m’assets.’

‘Wassat?’

‘M’Youtube videos have been de-monitised, I tells ye! All m’lovely Youtube videos!’

‘They’ll never get away with this, Nige! God’s honour, they won’t!’

‘Thruppence for a vodka jelly, will ye?’

I was about to knee him in the groin and make a speech about the undeserving poor, when an affectless young man approached and forced a limp handshake. The young man then turned and gestured to a bunch of phlegmatic-faced tweens in furs doing coke off a padlock key.

‘Hey, guys, come on over!’ he said. ‘It’s a load of pre-gentrification First Peoples!’

They introduced themselves as characters who’d escaped from an Andrew Doyle satire. They were now surviving hand-to-mouth as a band of marauding postmodernists. They tried to impress me by showing me colourful objects from their ‘superior culture’, including Nespresso pods, scalp wax and a pencil sharpener from the Barbican Centre. A young woman in turquoise brogues read a poem about having adulterous sex in a library. When I told her I thought poetry was a form of character weakness, she cried onto her shoes (AND HER LACES TO BOOT!!hooho!). One tired-looking bloke – who claimed that sleep patterns were ‘just a construct’ and favoured instead a politicised version of rest known as ‘free-sleep’ – asked if I’d considered taking ‘powerful antidepressants’ to cure my conservatism. I told him that I was in love with my own sadness. I said I wanted to live my life ‘like a powder keg: short but sweet’ – I winked at the shoe-lady. The bloke explained that he wanted to live his life like an otter: ‘a very long and chilled one’, on his own, lying on a beanbag, eating stems of barley, with infrequent but carefully scheduled sessions of masturbation. I looked him squarely in the eyes and asked if he’d ever had a wet shave. The woman interjected and said I should join a Union, as ‘a working-class person!’

‘Who’re you calling working-class?!’ says I. ‘I’m a small business owner, don’t y’know!’

………………

I was referring to a small business I tried to establish in the late 90s, selling knock-off Toby jugs from the boot of my Mazda, just off the A13 trunk road. We got busted by a gang of hired bravoes sent by the Wedgwood company. I was left lying on the verge with a pair of broken legs surrounded by shards of homemade ceramics. The police managed to trace the bravoes as far as Stoke-on-Trent where the trail ran cold, thanks to a conspiracy of silence among the city’s terrified residents. I had a meltdown not long after that. In my despair, I overdosed on Vick’s VapoRub and tried walking into the sea one night down in Billericay. I was saved, after I mistook the inchoate outline of a miniature schnauzer for the spiritual form of a Toby Jug. It hovered above the sand, glowing.

Don’t give up, Dick. Don’t give up the ju-ugs!

But I can’t, Tobias, mate. The porcelain industry is eating me alive!

No one else can potter like you, Dick! That’s the truth.

But the jugs have become a burden, mate!

It is your destiny, Dick. The jugs are your destiny! Swear. Swear.

What are you? Angel or Devil?

I AM IN HELL!!!!

………………….

Once I had absquatulated from the students, I entered the vast baize complex of Whole Foods. I’d never seen so many vegetables in my life [INSERT GIBE ABOUT THE SCOTTISH]. The building was at least 100 storeys high, buzzing with flying cars and hydraulic escalators. It was like the Tower of Babel itself! Fritz Lang’s Metropolis crossed with a farmer’s market.

The affluence of the place sickened me to my very claw! I walked past some Houynhnhnms, cantering along the ‘Oats’ aisle. They gave me sideways glances and whispered to one another.

‘Darling, is that a Leaver?’

‘Darling, do you know, I think it might well be!’

‘In Whole Foods? I say, do you think he’s here to get his methadone injection? Someone should tell him, it’s not that kind of supermarket.’ *Goya-esque braying*

I’m a creep, I thought. I’m a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here.

Near an aisle of artichokes, my bum was perused by the ghost of W.H. Auden.

‘Sir! If I may say’, he whispered, ‘Your arse is so muscular, I should wish to immortalise it in verse!’ I bristled at the scent of cherry brandy on his lips.

‘I concur, Wystan!’ crooned the fay shade of Lytton Strachey. ‘A truly delectable specimen.’

I swung at them. ‘Naff orf, you bloody wagtails!’

‘Oh, I say!’ preened Wystan Hugh.

At which point the ghost of Jean Cocteau approached, his eyes gleaming like a deviant, his fingers wriggling, ‘Ohohoho! Il a un cul chaud!’

‘Now look ere, Frenchy! One step over this ere threshold and I’ll knock yer flippin block off, comprehend-e?’

‘Je recommanderais le chou-fleur.’

‘Watch it! I’m warning you!’

‘Oh, Jean. You old nag!’

‘Oui. Je suis un cinéaste.’

‘I can’t make head nor tail of this! I bluddy hate these romance languages’ I said to myself, sotto voce. I felt a stranger in my native land.

Once I had absquatulated the scene, I returned to the penthouse to prepare supper while Wooster billed and cooed with Ms Maitlis. (It was like the courting ritual of kestrels!!) Around midnight, I brought in the third course of banana shallots. The room was billowing with the scent of orange blossom and legal highs; I nearly fainted. Maitlis wore large, exotic torques from the Barbican Centre gift shop. She was hunkered over a big, indulgent glug of “Chateau de Liz Kendall”. Her eyes were as brown as spear handles!! Her face was firm yet glam, like the prow of a Russian oil tanker steered by Bianca Jagger. Her throaty voice, with its alluring masculine depths, was both thick and sweet, like oil on a scone (in an M&S advert sponsored by Shell).

‘Your butler’, she intoned. ‘A bit wet behind the ears, don’t you think?’

‘Oh gawd,’ my master said, his saliva moonlit, ‘don’t I know it, Ms Emma! Hum-hum-hum-hum.’

Now easy, Dick, says I to mine-self. Easy does it now.

Her voice sank deeper: ‘If you want to move in with me, Wooster, we’re going to have to find you a new man!’

‘If you like, I could fire this bounder on the spot! Just for you. I would do that, Emily. For you I would! If you’d like!’

She grinned and they stared into each other’s eyes for a good minute. Then she glanced up at me, a touch dismayed. Wooster turned around - he had a scheming look.

‘Oh, fetch us dessert, would you, Littlethought?’

I shimmered out. I returned a few moments later with an inappropriately large jelly designed by Norman Foster.

‘Ta, Littlethought.’

‘Sir.’

‘Oh, and Littlethought?’

‘Sir?’

‘You’re dismissed.’

‘Sir?!’

‘Dismissed. Arrivederci, Littlethought. We’re replacing you. Don’t come back tomorrow. You can leave your key card on the salver.’

I TOOK OUT A BOMB. I SCREAMED LIKE A CELT!

‘I say, steady on there, Littlethought!’

‘YIPPEE-KI-YAY, MOTHERFUCKERS!’ I intoned.

‘I didn’t know you spoke French, Littlethought!’

I pulled the cord! ‘FOR ENGLAND!’

Unfortunately, I was the only casualty. I wish I had died to avoid legal culpability. But it was a British explosive, so I incurred only minor tissue scarring. My master and Ms Maitlis immediately pressed charges. Because of my two-year-long media campaign against legal aid, I could only afford to be represented by a sparrow. The sparrow had yet to graduate to the bar, having only recently built his nest outside the chambers at Gray’s Inn where I hoped he’d at least absorbed something of the finer points of tort law. I appeared in court the following week in a plaster cast, where I was sentenced to life by Justice Lady Hale.

‘Well, well, well, Mithta Littlethought’, lisped Lady Hale. ‘A Leaver in the dock, I thee! It mutht be my lucky day! Yum yum yum!’ (She rubbed her stomach and mimed eating me - which I thought excessive.) A roll call of witnesses for the prosecution sealed my fate: Kojack, David Blunkett, and Charlotte Church in a bonnet who jumped up on the plaintiff’s bench and called me ‘a witch’ and then fainted. Lady Hale said I was ‘weak and scum’ - or ‘thcum’, to be precise (which is Welsh for ‘seamen’, FYI).

‘I thenenth you to 55 yearth, Mr Littlethought!’ she crooned. ‘55 backbwaking yearth!’

She banged her gavel. A loud cheer broke out across the gallery. I looked at my sparrow in his tiny little fucking wig, cursing him with my very blood.

‘May God have merthy upon your thoul, Mithta Littlethought!’ Hale said.

The sparrow immediately took wing – with my car keys in its beak – and escaped from a clearstory window. I’d lost everything. As I was bundled out of the courtroom, my faithful but still vividly puce-legged wife, Vanessa, surreptitiously passed me a cyanide capsule and an After Eight mint. She kissed me.

‘I’ll never forget you, Monsieur Robespierre,’ she said. ‘I’ll never forget you – you – you – YOU…’

I woke up. My body was covered in sweat. It had all been a dream. I sighed with relief. I drew back the coverlet. But then, in the palm of my right hand: was a melted After Eight! Had it really been a dream? Yes. I had fallen asleep on top of a box of After Eights. I showered the mint chocolate off my cords and wept.

----------- b l a c k o u t ------------

Grams: ‘Underneath the Arches’ (Flanagan/ Allen - ft. Dua Lipa)

CODA:

#crapola #falsehoods #tapestryoflies #absquatulate #to boot

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