#i cant even make five steps in heels without tripping

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Five of Pentacles

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | one

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: Still reeling from the attack on Jortho, you begin your journey to scower the systems for galactic aid. The Mandalorian takes you aboard his ship temporarily, agreeing to shuttle you to your next destination. You both figure your tenure on the Razor Crest will be short lived... But you've been wrong before.

Word count: 3.8k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings: blood/gore, minor character death (mentioning), mature themes/language, vomiting

Notes: Hi friends. Here we go. Chapter 2... The last paragraph is marked with ///|||///, denoting a change to Mando's POV— his pov will be cropping up now and again, and I have a tendency to play with the timeline/tenses when it does. Enjoy x

You have to think about it. Genuinely.

It takes longer than you’d like to admit, with the Mandalorian looking down at you expectantly, a gloved hand slotted against his belt—postured and waiting.

‘Do you have a way off this skug hole?’

You open your mouth, but no words come out. It snaps closed. You swallow, but the action provides no relief. Your tongue feels too big for the small space it’s trapped in; too swollen, too dust logged— like you could choke on it, if you really tried. Finally, a single syllable frees itself, the weight of it plummeting through your ribs, ricocheting off the bones until it lands in your stomach with a dull, sinking splash.

“No.”

He doesn’t move.

“Do you need to get anything?”

You shake your head, small at first, phantom movements, before stringing together a sentence. “N-No. It’s all gone. Everything I had- it all went up on the shuttle-“

Oh gods, the shuttles.

Your heart seizes, a cold hand like a vice, gripping the bloody organ. You feel green; sickly chartreuse slithering it’s way up your esophagus, poisoning your soft palate. There were pilots on board when the ships blew. Two on each one. That’s four— four people. You knew their names. Knew their home planets. Knew about their families. One had a kid. Fuck. That’s four dead, and you didn’t even think of them— Maker, how could you not have thought about them?— No, fuck, fuck fuck-

It didn’t before but it’s hitting you now, stabbing you right between the eyes, the image of their bodies disintegrating in the blast wave, charring up like coal and carbon. You breathed them in, you realize. Their corpses coat your lungs.

The thought is all it takes.

Your feet move on instinct, scrambling to the side of his gunship where you vomit, bracing yourself against the riveted siding as you hack and sputter, wretching bile and what little broth you’d had for supper to splatter onto the cracked earth. Mercifully you’re hidden enough around the corner that you don’t think the bounty hunter sees, and if he does, he has the curtesy not to say anything.

What a gentleman, you think dryly, wiping your mouth with your sleeve.

You pant, body beyond spent, chest heaving as you press your scratched palm into the durasteel, the cool metal soothing it’s sting. Moments stretch like this— you doubled over, catching your breath— before you stumble back into view, graceless and encumbered, as if you didn’t just casually throw up down the front of yourself. You stand below him at the bottom of the ramp. He’s still there, a fixed point. Steel boots welded into the steel ramp.

“Uhm, are you-“

You cough, and it’s an ugly, hoarse sound; your throat burns, roughened and raw around the edges, and your nerves are too strung out for polite colloquialisms. You don’t have the energy to play coy and tip toe around the question. You’re fucking tired.

You try again.

“Are you offering me a ride?”

And now it’s his turn to hesitate, almost like he didn’t fully think the proposition through— as if it’s all just dawning on him now.

The Mandalorian didn’t strike you as someone who familiarized himself with answering to anyone— or picking up hitchhikers, for that matter— even if the offer was his to begin with... That was what he was doing, wasn’t it? Those words in that order? He meant to give you transport off planet? He wasn’t just… making conversation? Did Mandalorians even do that? Maker, if you’ve read this whole situation wrong, no small thanks to a laser-brain full of mush, you reckon you’d die from embarrassment on the spot where you stood, splotched with soot and puke and blood.

You think he’s going to tell you to shove off— you see his hand balling into a fist at his side— and close the ramp right then and there. Be rid of you. Sluffed, like a flea from a dog.

But he doesn’t. He surprises you both.

“Yes.”

Oh. Oh. Kriff, okay. Think think think-

Your mind reels and you’re rambling now, words ending and beginning in the same breath— steamrolling over yourself.

“Okay, I-I need to go back in to town, just for a—I cant let them think I’m just leaving them like this... Is that okay? I’m sorry, I won’t take long, I promise, I just— they need to know I’m getting help. Is that- uhm, can you wait? Can you wait for me?”

There’s another unreadable pause that makes you want to bury your head in the cold, fallow soil.

The man is looking at you like you’ve grown another kriffing leg, but eventually he grumbles out a noise that sounds like an affirmative, turning on his heel, and disappears into the belly of the ship— leaving you there alone.

Alone.

Pin pricks needle at the nape of your neck and the hair down your arm stands on end.

Alone.

You’re alone for the first time since the attack and suddenly you feel half your size and shrinking smaller still, like atoms collapsing and folding in on themselves until they dematerialize completely—and you along with them. You tell yourself to breath. To fight the bubbles of panic as they burst and pop, dimpling you from the inside out. Breath. Focus, he said. Focus.

You shift your weight from foot to foot, gnawing at the inside of your cheek.

The Mandalorian never reemerges.

Well… you guess that was your cue.

///

Staggering back into Jortho is like sleepwalking through a nightmare.

The smoke from the bombing has completely engulfed the lower atmosphere, doming the town in a thick canopy; the sky is blackened, starless, and the moons hover noncommittally like mere suggestions in the dark canvas.

Half the town had been decimated to rubble, and the other half was covered in the shockwave of it’s explosion— caked in grime, windows knocked out, doors splintered open. You almost expected the pieces to have reversed themselves back up, like you’ve seen in holovid special effects—homes rebuilding, fires dousing themselves, air purifying itself from the smog… but they don’t. They remain in shambles.

Time has granted you the unforgiving gift of clarity, and it’s one you’d rather not have been given. You don’t want to see the aftermath without the saccharine filter of shock to cushion you. The town is just as you left it, but somehow worse— worse because you can hear the crying, now. The wailing. You didn’t before with the blood pumping in your ears, deafening you, but you do now. The woeful noises that reverberate over the crackling embers still smoldering, the muffled sobs being choked down behind fractured walls.

Tripping over stray debris, you find Hareem close to where you’d left her, her fuse short hair grey with ash. The blood you smeared from her cheek still clouds her skin there, staining it as it does your fingers that wiped it. She wobbles to her feet and meets you in the middle of the road.

Neither of you speak, not at first. You hold onto her shoulders, and like a pillar of salt, you quake.

You try explaining to her that the communication’s system on your transport freighter had been blown up alongside the town, that you’ve accepted a ride from the bounty hunter and that you’re getting off world to contact the RRM headquarters, that you’d stay if you could but you can’t and you need to call for assistance, for help. You try to tell her that you’d do anything— travel through dimensions, if you could, to undo all of this chaos— if the laws of time allowed it.

You want to go back and pretend today never happened. To unlearn the tremor in your hands as they grip her frame. To unlearn all of this. To unknow. But,

you can’t.

All you can do is move forward. Do the next right thing. Take the next right step.

You’ve explained yourself in circles but it still doesn’t feel like enough. The words feel shallow, like slapping some bacta on a severed limb, and guilt rips through you— your voice torn with it.

“But how can I leave now?” you ask helplessly, eyes skittering around you. “After all- all of this?”

Hareem finds your hands, her spindled fingers encasing your own. A crease engraves her forehead, little lines clustering around her eyes. “You’ve done enough, hm? You go now. Go with that Mandalorian. You can’t shoulder this alone.”

“Har-“

She doesn’t let you say it. The older woman soothes a thumb into the web between your knuckles.

“Make contact. Comm for aid. It will come, but it won’t if you stay here.”

Your shoulders release with a defeated sigh. You know the Balosar’s right— you’re the one who’s told her as much. That’s RRM protocol. In case of emergency, you were to comm in and reconvene with the closest branch to your system to send additional supplies and volunteers to the camp. You know this better than anyone here, and yet this woman, this refugee, was the one aping your mission back to you.

She’s firm. Kind. “You’re just one person.”

Briefly, you wonder if she’s a parent. You think her child would be lucky to have her as their mother-- all of her somber strength. You think you would have been lucky, too.

Maybe things would be different—maybe you’d be different.

You gather yourself, piece by piece, and give her knobby hand a squeeze. You bore into her, determined and unwavering. You need her to understand. “I’m not abandoning you—any of you. I need you to know that, okay? I’m not leaving you alone in this.”

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I know, my friend,” Hareem says plainly, a sad sort of resolve quieting her tone. She has no fight left, nothing left to give— as empty as her pockets, lint lined and turned out. Barren. “I know.”

///

You weave your way back to the ship, feet padding across the arid landscape. You don’t blink, not even once, eyes crusted open and gaping. You barely remember the trek but somehow you’ve managed it, treading up the ramp, the thuds sounding hollow and foreign to your ear.

“I’m not a taxi service.”

You nearly jump out of your skin.

“Maker almighty,” you gasp, hand coming up to clutch your canary heart, beating fast and frantic. He’s just standing there, waiting, the dimmed lights of the hull glinting off his beskar. It’d only been a few hours, but you had already somehow forgotten how kriffing imposing he was, how ominous. A vacuum in space.

“O-Okay,” you stutter, a twitch in your brow.

“I’ll get you as far as you need to go, but on my terms. I’m not making a special trip— can’t promise you when.”

You nod. You’re not sure what to say. Lamed, all you can do is repeat yourself.

“… Okay.”

“What sector?”

“Bajic,” you start, fiddling with a loose thread poking from your sleeve. “We- uhm, the RRM, we have a branch there, but then—” your throat bobs as you swallow your words, and he gives you an exacting look, tilting his helm subtly. There was no getting around it.

You’re pinned.

“Coruscant. I’ll need to get to Coruscant,” you finish quietly.

Did you just hear him ‘tsk’ under that metal bucket?

“It’ll take a while to get to the Core. Longer than you’d like.”

And here you go, babbling again before you can stop yourself, throwing up defenses, excuses— back pedaling. You’re earnest, and it’s dripping from you. “Listen, if this is too much, I get it. You don’t owe me anything. Really— you don’t have to take me anywhere you don’t want. I-I, honestly, I’m just grateful you even considered it.”

Silence. An endless sea of silence.

No current, no breeze. It feels like you’re stranded in dead water, drowning in it. Again, you hang there on bated breath, just waiting for the man to chuck you from his ship. Not worth the effort. Not worth the fuel.

And again, he surprises you.

He tips his chin, gesturing to the side. “Fresher’s that way. We’ll be up in five.”

You exhale, visibly relieved, and mumble a thank you before shuffling off in the direction he motioned towards. You get one foot through the door before you hear him.

“Dala,”

Your attention snaps to the Mandalorian. There’s that word again—you think he’s called you that before—but there’s something different in his voice now, a lilt you’d not yet heard from him. What is that? Nerves?

“There is… one more thing.”

You cock your head just as a gargled coo comes from somewhere behind him.

///

You look like bantha shit.

Which, considering the events of your evening, should probably go without saying— and yet, the woman staring back at you in the small refresher mirror still manages to startle you.

You’re covered in dirt and cinders and contusions you hadn’t had the luxury to notice before. With the adrenaline retreated from your veins, you finally feel the full scope of your injuries and Maker do they hurt. Your tunic is torn at the collar and the fabric is discolored, pants and boots scuffed and ashen. Your bottom lip is swollen, a split running down the side of it, the seam of which is cracked with dry blood. Your palms are scratched— knuckles, too. There are narrow licks from shrapnel bites nicking your forearm. Twisting your body, you discover a dark bruise already blooming on your shoulder from the initial impact of the blast. You’re stiff and achy all over, and you can practically hear your bones creak and groan with each strained movement.

You turn on the faucet and begin to bend forward before you wince, a sharp pain gripping your skull. Ginger fingers come up to touch the back of your head, patting around tentatively until you find a raised bump and something viscous wetting the strands of your hair. You pull your hand back, inspecting it— more blood, glistening black under the low light.

Your eyes flit back up to your reflection.

You should be scared at this point, you guess. Worried, at the very least, by all of this—by the gore of it, the cuts and marks. But it’s your eyes that frighten you most— they’re hard. Devoid. You don’t recognize them. You’re a stranger.

You blink. She blinks back.

Rust red water eddies in the basin of the sink as you scrub yourself clean. You let out a hiss as the cold stream hits your skin. You count your breaths.

///

Being anywhere on board his ship without the Mandalorian feels wrong. Unnatural. Like you’re a tourist, out of place.

Unsure of where else to go, you find yourself in the cockpit with the bounty hunter, sitting in the seat beside him. Glancing over the knobs and dials and pulsing displays, your focus drifts in and out, posture slumping, lids growing heavy, darkening around the edges of your vision, blurring—

“Try to stay awake.”

With a sharp inhale, your eyes snap open, blinking wildly, and you scoot your hips up higher into the seat. You shoot the back of his helmet an inquisitive look you’re not sure he sees, but he responds to it all the same.

“Could have a concussion.”

“Didn’t know you were a doctor,” you reply, tone low and rolling. Maker above, apparently the final stage of shock was sarcasm. The fact that you thought it wise to damn near sass a Mandalorian on his own ship after he saved your kriffing life...

Stars, maybe it really was a concussion. Brain damage. Had to be.

He doesn’t acknowledge the quip, which you can’t readily blame him for. A quiet beat, red buttons flickering against the dark of the cockpit, and then—

“There’s bacta in the medpack. Might not be much left.”

You’re wide awake now.

Your rebuttal is immediate, bristled even, words escaping before you have a chance to even consider his suggestion. “No— no, thank you, but I’m not taking the last of your supplies. I’ll be fine, you’re- you’re doing enough for me already.” He graces you with another of his grunts, a hush following closely behind it.

Your gaze wanders—it wanders onto him, and you watch him.

Watch as the stars dance across his armor, incandescent and shimmering. Hypnotic, even. Something you hadn’t noticed before catches your eye, and you have to crane your neck to get a good look at it. It’s hard to make out, but you think there’s a symbol on the pauldron adorning his shoulder. You can’t imagine it’s completely cosmetic, seeing as the hem of his cape is frayed and worn (and the fact that being a lethal hunter didn’t really scream ‘needless decoration’), but maybe, if you work up the courage somewhere between here and Coruscant, you’ll ask him about it.

His posture is carved out of stone and he sits like a statue, spine rigid under all that beskar. Fleetingly, you wonder if it’s heavy, if it’s uncomfortable—to carry it with him wherever he goes. But you suppose he’s grown accustom to the weight, wearing it like a second skin.

He’s broad too, you note. Of course he is, you recognized that straight off, but inside the confines of the ship, without the towering Lothal sky as his backdrop, it truly strikes you just how large the Mandalorian is. He engulfs the space around him. Devours it.

You stay like this, entranced, studying the man properly for the first time, allowing the muscles behind your tired eyes to relax on him— until his visor notches up quickly and meets your line of sight in the mirrored pane of the window, catching you in the act.

Kriff.

You avert your eyes, an embarrassed warmth crawling up your neck, suddenly finding a particular panel soldered to the wall incredibly interesting— looking anywhere else but at the faceless stranger you’re saddled with.

The kid gurgles, interrupting the awkwardness, and you’ve never been more grateful for a three pronged toddler in your life.

He’s sitting in the copilot’s seat opposite you, as if the tiny thing is navigating for the Mandalorian, and he’s completely dwarfed by the massive chair. Everything about him juxtaposes the other man. He’s all brown robes and wispy peach fuzz, and he looks almost comically out of place against the interior of the gunship. He’s playing with a shiny metal ball in his lap, and with one small arm, he extends it to you like a gift.

Out of the two of them, the child was a one man welcoming party.

“Is this for me?”

He gives a soft patuu, and your heart nearly bursts. You take it from him gently, and the little guy coos through a babbling grin, cheeks round and impish. “Thank you,” you tell him, all serious-like, and you have to actively suppress the squeal that threatens to break free from you. He glances to the Mandalorian with such a look in those big eyes; its hard to make out, but you think its something close to pride or satisfaction, maybe: Look dad, I shared my toy.

Kriff, this kid is cute. Like, dangerously cute.

You both take each other in like this; your micro expressions, his pruned little forehead, your fleshy form, all soft lines and angles. You’re sure you look just as strange to him and he does to you, especially given the only other lifeform on board he has as reference is coated from head to toe in metal. The child’s gaze snags on a lock of your hair, little teeth peeking through his mouth, eyes glued to it like a metronome as it dangles. You give your head a little shake, strands waving, and he giggles. You skip the ball over the hills of your knuckles, dazzling him momentarily.

“Does he have a name?” You ask, his eyes like black saucers peering curiously at you, and you give him back his toy— an offer he eagerly accepts.

“No.”

“So what do you call him then?”

“Just ‘kid’.”

A beat. “... Do you have a name?”

“Mando.”

“Just ‘Mando’?”

“This is the Way.”

You nod, worrying your cheek absentmindedly as you stare out the transparisteel. This is the Way. You’re not entirely sure what the phrase meant, but you know respect when you hear it— how reverent it sits on his vocal chords— and by the manner of which the man, this Mando, spoke, you can tell there’s more to those words than you know.

And you can appreciate his desire for anonymity; it doesn’t bother you much—you figure you won't be around long enough for it to matter anyways. You don’t know a lot about the Mandalorian people, but you have heard rumors. Everyone had. That’s all they were anymore: rumors and stories. Legends. Just seeing one was rare, and talking to one even rarer. But flying with one and his adorable, green baby? It was… definitely unique, to say the least.

You share more dulled quiet. And although the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable now—you’re settling in to it— it’s not exactly desirable either, but it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t last.

Mando clears his throat, breaking the white noise that’s blanketed the three of them. He doesn’t turn his helmet. He keeps his focus straight ahead. You watch his reflection in the ship’s window and you can’t know for certain, but you think you feel your eyes brush against his, if only for a moment. A unintelligible noise filters through his modulator.

“Do you?”

You grin, a slow smile tugging at your lips.

“Last I checked.”

It’s the first smile he draws from you. The first of many.

///

Despite Mando’s warnings and better judgement, sleeping is exactly what you end up doing. You pass out, hard, stirring only once when an errant beep sounds through the cockpit. You’d fallen asleep right there in the chair, chin tucked into your chest, hair fanned across your cheek, arms wrapped around your waist in a measly attempt to trap your body heat to you. You’ve woken to find the cockpit empty— the ship must be on autopilot, you think— and by the illuminating glow of hyperspace, you spot his medkit, sitting open on the seat across from you and in it, nestled among old wrappings and gauze, a single patch of bacta.

///|||///

That smile.

Din remembers this moment, much later, holding it like a photo in a locket. Private. Secret. He keeps you there, gold plated on a chain, to loop around his memory.

Encircling him. Strangling him.

#din djarin x reader #mando x reader #din djarin x fem!reader #mando x fem!reader #King of Cups #ngl i got kinda emotional writing some bits #idk why but the hareem scenes kill me #din djarin fic #mando x you #din djarin x you #no y/n #pedro pascal #mando x female oc #din djarin x female oc #ofc

[tobiosmilktea]

casual catastrophes — sakusa kiyoomi

2.6k words | genre/s: uni!au, fluff | warning/s: kinda nsfw (i tried lol) | pairing: sakusa x f!reader

↪︎ in which his jealous actions spoke louder than his words

a/n: request for @study-milk, sorry for the long wait! i still hope you enjoy it overall

also i cant write smut for shit so i turned it into something poetic instead LMAO like honestly i have no idea how people write this so casually i couldn’t stop laughing the entire time

you were an untamed disarray in the morning. you looked at the world through a lens of thunderous fatigue as you finally managed to get some sleep in the past couple of days of nonstop assignments and projects. you loathed the hour at which you were forced to wake, from the tweeting of morning songbirds to the chattering of voice of the morning news droning through the placid dewy air of the new day.

your slender fingers slithered through your knotted hair, pulling the linen sheets of of you as you groaned honey through your teeth. you stretched up high until you could practically touch the clouds through the tips of your fingers until it lulled you awake rather than knee-jerk movements of the daily routine of getting out of bed. it was finally the weekend which meant no classes for a couple of days and you were eternally grateful. despite the short break between weeks being only two days, it was surely enough for you to have fun and relax, not to mention that your best friend had just arrived last night from travelling abroad.

you and your best friend, kaito, had been close ever since you had punched him square on the nose in elementary school after he made fun of you. you supposed that the impact had hurt him enough to think he would like to be best friends with you forever.

kaito had been on your side for as long as you could remember. you would always attend the same middle and high schools, helping you through your darkest days, your highest of highs, and even the lowest of lows. hell, kaito was even there for you when you were head over heels for sakusa. if anything, it was your best friend you had to thank for you to even be with sakusa kiyoomi in the first place. you two got together your second year of high school and have been going strong even now that you both were in your last year in university.

it was honestly quite the shame that you and kaito ended up following separate paths after graduating high school. you decided to stay in tokyo with sakusa while kaito travelling abroad and living his best life.

as if your body was on autopilot, you found yourself already making your way out of your shared bedroom of your shared apartment with sakusa, sighing to yourself as you gently shut the door behind you. following the sound of the television’s soft chattering from the small living room, you glanced upon your boyfriend making breakfast and cooking his morning away tot he smell of chamomile tea and eggs.

“morning,” he muttered, quickly flickering you a glance before focusing his attention back on the eggs. he was in the process of making yours and he was well aware of how picky you were with how your eggs were cooked.

“good morning,” you greeted with that smile he always liked seeing. you settled yourself atop one of the bar stools as you waited for him to finish, “we got visitors today.”

sakusa’s brows arch as he plated your breakfast and making his way towards you. “visitors? who? what time are they coming so i can clean properly?”

you shook your head with a light chuckle left your lips, “you don’t have to do that, you know as i think you know who’s coming.” you say, thanking the boy before you as you stabbed your fork into your eggs. “besides, we’re probably going out to hangout.”

a hum of acknowledgement emitted from sakusa as you could’ve swore he made a strange look when you mentioned visitors. you didn’t even mention kaito’s name, but you knew that he knew who you were talking about.

shaking the thought out of your head, you and your boyfriend ate breakfast in the serene silence. your eyes hadn’t even meet each other as your gazes were both locked upon the television screen.

sakusa found himself waiting, sitting on one of the bar stools at some random pub in downtown tokyo that you had dragged him to in order to meet kaito. he let out an inaudible sigh as he pulled his white face mask higher up on the bridge of his nose as he watched your honey drenched eyes scan the crowds every five minutes.

sakusa had a terrible habit of staring at you in the midst of the silence between you two. he often thought of his gazes to be of a nuisance, but he was well aware that you would’ve called him out on it if you truly found it annoying. trust me, he learned this the hard way when you two first started dating. if anything, he took it to his own advantage to memorize every feature upon your face. the volleyball player’s face seemed to light up the same way yours did as your eyes widened at the sight before you—kaito and a friend of who decided to tag along.

“kaito!” you called out to her best friend, pulling sakusa from his trance and towards the arriving pair.

“feels like i haven’t seen you in eons, (y/n).” kaito laughs as he pulls you into a tight hug. sakusa’s eyes flickered down to how dangerously close your friend’s hands were wrapped around you.

a curt smile melted upon your lips, “well, this is the longest we’ve been apart.”

“true, but i’m honestly surprised you haven’t gone insane without me keeping you in check all the time.” jests kaito, a tone lacing his words with a raised brow upon his face.

you scoff, “as if! i though your expected between from me.” you mused before gesturing to your boyfriend that your best friend had failed to even greet, “besides, sakusa has taken over that job.”

it was then kaito had finally nodded towards the masked individual as you were too occupied introducing yourself to kaito’s plus one. eventually the four of you found yourselves sitting on the bar stools in a row, with you being in the middle of kaito and sakusa.

with only two hours into the night, numerous topics had already been talked about—mostly between you an kaito as they were of reminiscent memoirs that refused to wither into oblivion or stories of his travels.

“so when are you leaving japan?” you asked, casually sipping on your cocktail.

a hum of thought emitted from kaito as his eyes focused on his glass, “in two weeks, i think.”

“where to?”

“probably australia and new zealand,” kaito answers between sips of his drinks, “so far, i’ve been to most of the continents besides australia, so i’ll most likely spend a month in each country.”

a light chuckle escaped from your lips, “must be nice.” you commented, suddenly feeling a large, warm hair grip at your thigh. eyes widening slightly, you look back towards sakusa whose face mask was resting below his chin in order to take a sip of his drink. he wasn’t even looking at you, but his grip on your thigh tightened. you squeezed his hand back.

your best friend downed the rest of his drink, his breath finally catching up to him as he felt a pair of eyes staring holds into his skull. he decides to shake it off, “well, i’m just really fortunate enough to have a job that lets me travel. maybe once you graduate you can come with me and travel for a couple months.”

it was then sakusa wove his fingers though yours and gripped your hand tightly. as if he was suddenly afraid to let go, he rudely cleared his throat as he downed a shot.

“besides,” kaito continues his ramblings without noticing any of sakusa’s tense actions towards you. “i was supposed to go on that australia trip right now, but i decided to stop by japan cause i wanted to see you before i leave again. couldn’t last another couple of months without seeing your ugly face.”

a playful scoff emits from you, rolling your eyes. “dickhead.”

“oh, come on, i know you miss me.” he teases, his hand raising to possible touch your face, but before he could do so, sakusa swiftly pulls your face away to quickly peck you on the lips.

“sakusa?” you muttered upon his soft lips as you pull away.

he cleared his throat, “sorry that i interrupted, but it’s getting late and i just remembered that atsumu asked for our help for his move.”

that was a lie. sakusa quickly made it up as he couldn’t bear for his anger and jealousy to brew within him for any longer as he would physically combust if he were. 

“really?” you questioned as confusion rang over your face.

sakusa nods, “yeah, he texted us earlier this morning, remember?”

you tilted you head slightly, trying to recall the memory but failing to do so. but it wasn’t like you questioned it any further as it was probably lost in the busy saturday endeavors of cleaning up around the house that it possibly flew over your head. besides, it was sakusa who usually remembered this types of things so you trusted his judgement.

“oh,” you sigh, looking over to kaito and giving him a pitiful look. “sorry we had to cut tonight short, kaito. maybe next time we can hang out for longer.”

“don’t worry about, (y/n). there’s always next time” your best friend waves his hand as if to say it wasn’t a big deal. he watched as you hopped off the bar stool and gathered your things, “oh here, let me walk you guys out.”

kaito, along with his tag along left their seats at the bar as well and followed you and sakusa out. your best friend noticed the way your boyfriend was tensed with his arm draped affectionately over your shoulders. kaito’s brows slightly furrow as he looked at the sight before him. jealous, he thought as he feigned a laugh. being the germaphobe he is, he was well aware that this was super out of character for sakusa and it was all because of kaito. perhaps there was a smug look on your best friends face that immediately dissipated the moment you all stepped out into the cold night air.

“i swear it got colder,” you mumbled as a cheeky idea popped inside kaito’s head. perhaps he would do you a favor as he was aware of how stressed you had been in the past week, maybe if he pushed a couple more of sakusa’s buttons that you would be in for a treat.

“here, let me give you my coat.” kaito was in the midst of taking his jacket off his shoulders when sakusa had already place his own coat over your shoulders in one swift movement.

the tall volleyball player flickered a look over his shoulder, giving a harsh glance towards your best friend. “i got it, thanks. we’ll be leaving now.”

“bye, kaito!” was the last thing you said to your best friend before you and sakusa walked towards his car.

you hadn’t expected the night to end like this—stark naked under the pale moonlight that bled through the windows of your apartment, laying beneath sakusa who was in the process of taking his shirt off.

all you knew was that this was entirely sparked off his stupid jealousy towards kaito for no reason whatsoever. the thing is, the only reason why you knew was of all the backhanded comments sakusa had made on the car ride home after he had locked the car doors and confessed that helping atsumu was a lie. that having you alone and all his was the only reason why he wanted to leave the pub so badly, to have you in his arms and in his embrace, to feel your skin against his. whatever jealousy he experienced earlier in the night, he wanted it to disappear once he showed you that you were his.

you tried to be indifferent about it. that his uncalled for actions wouldn’t let him succeed in having him take you, but your senses seemed to swell and pulse against your skin at each waking moment that passed. you did end up melting into his arms as he carried you to the bedroom.

he knew you so well that he was aware that the moment his lips touched your neck, all of your defiance would deteriorate. he knew that just a few light brushes and strategically placed touches against your skin would do all of his bidding without much thought.

sakusa sighed into your lips and that burst of serendipitous spark of lust and desperation radiated throughout your bodies. as if all of his rising envious antics melted away, withering along with everything else in the world—the sounds, the questionable best friends, the alcohol coursing through your veins—it dissolved into nothing but you and him.

all of sakusa attention was on you and you only. nothing else in the world would break him out of his trance of love and infatuation for you as he savored the familiar taste of your lips.

you clutched at him with the aching of fervor and reincarnation. you yearned for his touch, clinging to his shoulders, pulling at his hair, and wrapping your legs around his hips to drag him harder into you.

sakusa kissed his way down your neck, to your collarbones and eventually down to your breasts as the deep growl that emitted from his lips lit your skin on fire. he breathed vehemence and desire as he adjusted himself in front of your entrance, watching as there was some sort of unwavering and steadfast hunger and avidity that melted over his face. 

you let out a moan as he stretched you out, the sound bouncing off the walls as he didn’t even hesitate and let you adjust. you held onto his shoulders tightly at each of his movements, all strong and powerful at each buck of his hips. there was an ignited salacity in you and sakusa’s tangled greed of limbs and skin had pressed together. 

your nails dug into his skin, hoping it would leave marks for his friends to see due to your boyfriend’s guttural sounds of pleasure. even the lewd whimpers leaving your lips caused sakusa to make his movements harsher and deeper, for his lovebites to darken upon your innocently clean neck, and to his hands leaving red marks from his grip on your thighs.

you both hoped your marks for each other would last for days. as if they were the reminders of the night a casual catastrophe of jealousy eminent in your love was something you both could memorize the reminders for days. that instead of you remembering the fun memories of your antics with kaito, you instead remembered the way sakusa looked beneath the blue hues of the midnight stars. of how he looked absolutely breathtaking by the moon’s silhouette.

to remember the taste of lust and ardor, of the way his lips tasted, of the way his body felt pressed up against yours. it was truly something to remember as the only reason why you and sakusa were nearing each other’s edges was all because of kaito himself. the man who set you two up in the first place and the man who purposely made sakusa jealous just because you were stressed, kaito was aware that your boyfriend was the only one who could make you feel like this. to unravel and have you in a trembling mess under his own body, you had dragged him with the tide of pleasure with the sudden downpour of mumbled ‘i love you’ was muffled against each other’s bodies.

your phone then buzzed on your bedside table once you both rode out your highs:

from: kaito :))

hope you had fun tonight, homie, i did the best i can ;)

#haikyuu!! #haikyuu #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu oneshots #haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #sakusa kiyoomi #sakusa x reader #sakusa fluff #sakusa smut #sakusa scenarios #sakusa oneshot #sakusa imagines

[angrylizardjacket]

ask your destiny to dance [17] {Roger Taylor}

[masterpost]

It takes Roger exactly two weeks to realise he doesn’t know Ash nearly as well as he thought he did. There’s a lot to glean about a person from their room, and what they say, but not everything, not even close to everything.

“So I guess you’re working tomorrow?” Roger asks, leaning against the bar as Ash polishes a glass. It comes as a surprise when she makes a face, shaking her head. “We’re going on a pub crawl, if you wanna come along then.” 

Ash takes her time before answering, hanging up the glass and pulling another from the rack before she finally speaks.

“I can’t, I’m busy, sorry.” And she sounds... uncomfortable about it. Roger’s never known her to be uncomfortable about anything that didn’t relate to her home life, and she can see the moment he jumps to that conclusion. “I’m going to Paris in the afternoon,” she says quickly, and Roger’s taken aback, “I don’t get home until late; train times, you know?” 

“A day trip to Paris?” He asks, and Maureen leans over to Ash with a small smile.

“Is that where you go on those Saturdays? That’s cute, Ash, little routine trips to France.” She flicks Ash with the end of her tea towel, to which Ash smiles despite herself, blushing and flicking Maureen back.

“Oi, I’m just going to Paris, nothing cute about it. I’m allowed to have hobbies, you know.” She argued back, and Maureen snickered, smiling fondly at the ginger before she tucked her tea towel into her back pocket and went back to cutting lime wedges. “I’m going to The Louvre.” Ash explained to Roger, cheeks still faintly pink.

“The Louvre?” There was a surprise in his voice that Ash had expected, and when she looks up at him, she still seems a bit defensive.

“There’s free entry once per month; first Saturday at six.” She pauses, and when his expression brightens, hers falls and she feels like she’s said too much.

“Do you go every month?” He sounds delighted at the prospect, and Ash wants to defend herself, but then he says, “you shouldn’t be catching the train so late, it’s dark even at six, love, you must get home at like midnight; just let me drive you.”

“Rog, you don’t need to do that,” but her grin is more relieved than anything else, the tension leaving her shoulders as she goes back to her work, “you guys are going out tomorrow, and besides, it’s not like I’ve never done it before.” 

“I can get on the piss with them any time; this only happens once a month.” And the way his words make Ash smile, quietly pleased, he’s already pretty sure it’s going to be worth it.

Things between them have been... weird. Good weird, sure, but that doesn’t make them less weird. They haven’t really had time for an actual date yet, they just sort of show up at each other’s homes and watch TV and make out whenever they don’t have work or rehearsals of a night. It’s been good, it’s felt safe. 

When Ash sits on the curb outside of her dorm, she feels nervous more than anything else. It’s not a feeling she’s used to; she’s never been nervous around Roger before; it takes her probably too long to realise how much she wants this to go well. When he shows up, just after midday, he’s beaming from the second hand station wagon that he’d gotten since recording the album. There’s a map in the passenger seat.

“I’ve driven there before, but not for a while, you’re going to have to direct me.” He advises as she buckles her seat belt, putting her sketchbook and thermos by her feet and unfolding the map.

It’s a long drive, just over five hours, and Ash is nervous for about three of them, which is only compounded by getting lost twice, and eventually Roger pulls over.

“You’ve been tense since I showed up; what’s wrong?” He asks, and Ash sighs heavily, picking up her thermos and pouring herself a small cup of tea.

“I don’t exactly go blabbing about the fact that I make semi-frequent trips to Paris, alright?” Ash admits, and she takes a sip of her drink, looking out through the windshield. Roger’s not sure what that means, how to respond, and after a minute, she adds, “Freddie doesn’t even really know.” And she finishes the tea, putting the thermos back, and Roger’s still quiet. When she finally looks at him, his expression is fondly amused.

“You’ve made me feel all special.” It’s far too genuine to be a joke, and Ash lets herself smile back, rolling her eyes at him.

“Don’t let it go to your head.” She warned, and Roger’s smile sharpened as he pulled back onto the road.

“Too late.” But he reaches over to rest his hand on her knee as she opens the map up again, and her heart grows warm, her anxiety easing. They turn up the radio for the rest of the trip; Ash hums along to the songs she only knows the tune of without too much hassle, yet somehow can’t seem to actually sing a note to save her life. She finishes butchering Elton’s Crocodile Rock at the top of her lungs, and Roger’s sides hurt from laughing, and she’s grinning in a way that means she knows exactly how terrible she is and how much it amuses Roger.

“I have other skills.” She says dismissively, grinning with her nose in the air as the radio host announces another song, and instead of answering, Roger sings along to the radio like he’d written the melody himself. “Showoff.” Ash laughed, and Roger’s eyes crease as he grins.

“I don’t have other skills, I gotta make use of this one.” He replied, lightly, and Ash’s expression softened.

“Oh shut it, you’ve got at least two other skills, probably.” She played along with his joke, watching him as he sings along to the rock song blaring from the radio, and it’s relaxed and easy, and she finds herself wondering why she’d been so worried just a few hours before. 

They hit Paris at a quarter to six, and grab some fast food before heading to the gallery. There’s people everywhere, and the line isn’t exactly short to get in, more than a few of them are uni students like them, looking to get in for free, and Ash says hi to a few; the fact that she goes here enough to know other people who do this regularly to is still something that baffles Roger a little. He’s worried she’s getting nervous again when she takes his hand - they’re not the sort of people who hold hands - but when he looks at her, her eyes are shinning and bright as she looks up at the building; she’s excited. 

Ash goes quiet in the gallery, looking around with wide-eyed reverence at the works around them. They move past the entrance slowly; Ash gazes at the works with their plaques memorised, while Roger reads them, fingers laced with hers. 

“Oh, hello.” Voice reverential, Ash greets a statue at the end of the hall like an old friend, and introduces Roger as such. “This is the Venus de Milo, she’s almost two thousand years old, god, look at that marble work, imagine how sharp it would have looked back then,” and then it’s like she’s opened a floodgate, and she’s tugging him along, rambling along the way about each piece they pass, little facts not on the plaques, things she can cite from the top of her head. Above everything, she’s passionate, pulling out of his grip to clutch her hands to her chest and looking up at headless sculpture of what Roger thinks is an angel, and what Ash clarifies to be The Winged Victory of Samothrace.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Ash’s moon-eyed gaze was focused on the statue’s marble garments, but Roger’s only got eyes for her. When he doesn’t answer, she looks to him, catches the way he’s smiling at her, and she feels her cheeks heat up. “What?”

“You really love this stuff, don’t you?” It’s a sincere question, and it’s as if he can see her responses flit through her mind, sarcastic, dismissive, an eye roll, flippant, she passes them all, takes a moment to really look at him, taking her time to breathe in the whole situation before responding.

“More than anything.” It’s a sincere answer, and it catches him off-guard. Ash is many things, but unapologetically enthusiastic is not one Roger’s familiar with.

Turning on her heel, Ash leads further in to the gallery, but it’s finally hits him how much this means to her, this place, these works, bringing him here. They’d been together for barely a fortnight, but they both know it’s felt so much longer than that; she’d taken a gamble, bringing him, he has no doubt she’d have left him in London if she didn’t want him to come along, and something tightens in his chest. 

He doesn’t dwell on it, he takes it in stride well enough, peppering her with questions along the way that she seems thrilled to answer. Tucking her arm into his, they make their way through the building, the babbling turning to banter easily as Roger provides his own commentary on each piece as they pass, which serves to make Ash laugh.

They get to a small painting on the top floor with a border that looks bigger than the picture itself, and Ash has gotten quiet again. 

“Who’s this?” Roger asks, the two of them stepping close to get a closer look.

“The Lacemaker.” Ash sounds a little awed, and when he looks down at her, Roger sees how fondly she’s smiling at the little painting. “She’s my favourite.” 

“’course she is, she’s like you.” Roger answers easily, and Ash makes a face, laughing a little self consciously.

“No she’s not, shut up.” She doesn’t sound like she believes him, a bit of a laugh in her words, but she’s resting her head against Roger’s shoulder and he wraps an arm around her.

“Same focus.” Roger muses, and when Ash looks to him, surprise and confusion on her face, he just grins. “When you sew, you’ve got the same look on your face, same focus.” He explains, and there’s something in Ash’s awed expression that he can’t place, and she pulls away from him too fast for him to really identify it.

She’s pretty sure she loves him.

It’s fucking terrifying.

She can’t look at him, stepping out of his grip as she feels tears well in her eyes as her emotions overwhelm her, not that it’s an uncommon occurrence, Ash has never set foot in an art gallery and not cried, but Roger didn’t need to know that. She’d really been doing well today, too. Usually she gets lost in the scope and detail of The Wedding at Cana, or even comes to obsess over the little details of The Lacemaker, but she’s also usually alone and can get away with it. 

“That’s- Rog, that’s really sweet of you to say.” And he can hear in her voice that she’s trying not to believe him, that she can’t let herself believe him. And when she turns back, she’s wiping at her eyes, and he wants to try and comfort her, but she’s already walking past him briskly, leading to the next painting.

“There’s something I’ve... well, I’ve always wanted to try here.” He hears her say, voice firm as if she’s trying to move quickly past whatever the moment she’d just had was. She leads not to the painting, but to one of the weirdly low, backless sofas that are scattered around for people to view the paintings from. This one’s empty; Ash looks around for security, and seeing none, steps up onto it. 

“And what’s that?” He asks with a smirk, the sofa giving her only about two inches of height on him. He doesn’t ask why she’d almost started crying, and for that she’s thankful. Instead, his hands come to rest on her hips, and he’s smiling at her in that way that sets her heart aflutter.

“Don’t ruin this.” She warns very quietly, amused smile on her lips, and Roger quirks an eyebrow.

“Ruin what?” He asks, shooting for innocent, a million different things running through his mind that could make her smile, but would definitely ruin the moment; he bites his tongue. 

Ash cups his face in her hands, and she can’t help but laugh as she leans in to kiss him. It starts sweet and tender, her lips soft against his, but he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close and deepening the kiss. There’s people moving around them, most ignoring them, some stare, but neither of them seem to care. She tastes mostly like the tea she’d sculled in the car when they’d arrived, and she’s got a hand in his hair when he presses kisses from her jaw, trailing down her neck, and she laughs, a little giddy. He pulls back, if only to see her bright eyed and blushing. 

“Let’s go home.” She says softly, and Roger’s never agreed to something so quickly, his heart elated to see Ash giggling and mischievous as they backtrack through the gallery, knowing that he and the art were the things that made her smile like that. 

“I didn’t ruin it.” He sounds a little smug when he says it as they walk through the streets of Paris back to his car, and Ash glances at him out of the corner of her eye, snorting.

“I could see you holding yourself back from a one-liner about pinning masterpieces to walls or something like that; I appreciate your discretion.” She tells him, deadpan, and Roger gives her a self-satisfied grin.

“It certainly wasn’t easy.” He agrees, but she still reaches out and takes his hand. When they get to his car, he goes to head around to the driver’s side, but she pulls him back for a moment, pressing a kiss to his lips. After a moment, he’s got a hand on her hips, pressing her against the side of the car, and she sighs against his lips, her arms around his neck. Her legs slide open easily as she pulls him closer, letting him slide a knee between her thighs.

“Christ,” Roger breaks away from the kiss, murmuring the word against her neck as her nails graze his scalp.

“Thank you for today.” She whispers softly, and he can hear the smile in her words. He presses a kiss to her shoulder.

“Any time, love.” He steps back from her, enough to see her fond smile, and to give one in return, before he heads around to the driver’s side and they both get in the car.

It’s well past midnight by the time they get back, and Ash follows Roger up to his flat with a yawn, flinching as the door opens and Brian, Freddie, and John all greet them with a cheer, obviously taking a pit stop in the middle of their pub crawl.

“I was starting to sober up; the walk between the last pub and the next is directly smack bang in the middle of here.” Freddie claims with a surprising amount of confidence considering his words make no sense.

“No- this place is on the way to the next pub.” John corrects, and Ash has to giggle at the sight and sound of a drunk John Deacon. It never fails to amuse her, he’s surprisingly confident and well spoken.

“Yes! Deaky is right! You two can join us!” Freddie brandishes and subsequently spills on Brian, who’s sitting beside him.

“Go if you want, I’m knackered.” Ash yawns, giving Roger’s shoulder a nudge, moving past him to his room.

“Actually, I think I’m right, I’ve been driving for a while,” Roger says, making to follow Ash, only to hear Freddie boo loudly, and John call out after them.

“Where’d you guys go?” He asks, and Roger answers over his shoulder.

“Art gallery.” He answers, and he hears Ash snort from his bedroom.

“That’s... Rog, that’s surprisingly cute, didn’t know you had it in you.” Brian smiles at him, and Roger feels a little patronised by the pride in his flatmate’s voice. He flips Brian off, along with the rest of them, since John was grinning like the cat who got the cream and Freddie looked like he was three seconds away from actually ‘awe’ing. 

“Did you kids have fun?” Freddie calls, sounding nothing so much like his own mother, wearing a shiteating grin, which only got wider as Roger told him to piss off, slamming the door once he got into his room. 

Ash was standing by his bed, pulling off the shorts she’d been wearing all day, already wearing one of his shirts. Roger can hear the others on the other side of the door already laughing and talking about something else, all three of them trying to convince themselves to get up and move on to the next pub. She gives him an amused smile and Roger just rolls his eyes at his friends’ whole situation.

They don’t speak, though Ash’s yawn triggers one in Roger, and when he’s stripped down to his boxers, she’s waiting for him beneath the covers. When he kisses her, it’s a thank you for the day, and she hums a soft, contented noise against his lips. They’re too tired to even fool around, and Ash wraps her arm around him as he turns to lay on his side, pressing her chest to his back, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade before they fall asleep.

the ususal suspects: @deakydickfanpage @hollyissuchahoe @laueecakee @smittyjaws @crystalshines2909 @i-am-sarah @legendsaresooftenwarnings @2ptonpt @benhardy24-7 @maiilovely @mickey-yr-a-goner @butter-times @heyyouitskay @tired-eyes-fairy-lights @yepimthatperson @missieluvsmurder @ironqueen98 @ceruleanrainblues @banhbao329 @fantasticchaoticwho @ko-kitty @seven-seas-of-hi @mimisfangirlfantasy @aadjuric @rogmobile @cardybenhardy @snacfu @perriwiinkle @the-strange-fan-girl @finite-incantatem-7 @tapetayloe @florencewelchismybiggod

#roger taylor #roger taylor imagine #roger taylor x oc #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #bo rhap #borhap imagine #bohemian rhapsody imagine #queen #freddie mercury #brian may #john deacon #ask your destiny to dance fic #the angry lizard writes

[junionigiri]

Boom Clap [bnha: vigilantes one shot]

Story Summary: Haimawari Koichi is quite content spending New Year's Eve alone in his run-down rooftop apartment, but Iida Tensei has other plans.

Relationship: Haimawari Koichi/Iida Tensei

Rating: T

Warnings/Notes: haha wtf is a  warm-up drabble anyways. this isn’t edited but whatever. gonna go back to my other AU in a bit. Happy new year everyone :)

31 December 20XX, 2154H

Haimawari Koichi watches the night sky alone.

He has cans of beer, one of them already open and half-empty in his hand. His phone is out, but apart from taking piss-poor quality photos of the stray fireworks already colouring the night sky in vivid oranges and greens and pinks, it is glaringly quiet. Almost… annoyingly so. But he can’t complain.

Pop is finally spending time with her family and not with some college-aged vigilante, as proper middle school girls ought to. Makoto-senpai is with her older brother too--she managed to pressure him into going home to see their parents after so long.

His college friends wouldn’t step near here, for obvious reasons. And the kinda-friends he’s met as a vigilante… well, Koichi’s kind of dense, but even he understands that inviting Eraserhead for a beer here isn’t the most genius idea.

Knuckleduster… well who knows where he really is right now. Koichi only hopes that he’s alive wherever he is. He doesn’t have a lot of chances to say that he misses that insane master of his, not even to himself.

And… that’s the extent of his friends, he realizes. Those close enough that he can theoretically ask to spend some time with him on his little rooftop in the city, at least.

That’s… kind of sad. But he tries not to think about that too much.

There’s no one else here.

It’s not so bad, he supposes. Life as a college student by day, a vigilante by night isn’t exactly the most quiet. He made up a stupid University-related excuse not to go home to Mom’s because villains don’t take the holidays off (and also he prefers meeting the new year without being slapped silly like a fly). So he should really enjoy the quiet, while he can.

Another stray firework explodes above his head. He tries to capture it on camera, for what it’s worth. As expected, it looks shitty, exactly what you get from a flip-phone camera.

He deletes it.

It’s quiet. A breeze blows by, cold and biting, but his All Might hoodie keeps him warm.

It’s the perfect time for a villain to strike. If he were a villain, he’d strike now.

He looks at the streets below his complex. Come on. Somebody? Anybody?

Nope. Nada. He sighs, and looks up the sky again. Maybe he should patrol, or something? Ah, but during holidays like this, the younger heroes are out and about, on higher alert than on a normal day. If he ran into any of them, he might just be the one to get arrested. Not the best thing to happen to greet the new year.

His phone rings like a bell, startling him. “Ah--”

He flips his phone open. A single message, a short one, but just enough to make his heart flutter.

Tensei Iida (2201H): Happy New Year to you and your family! Here’s hoping that the incoming year is prosperous! Let’s work hard together! - Turbo Hero Ingenium

He’s two hours too early for the generic new year’s greeting texts, isn’t he? He must have thought ahead and sent the message before the signals got congested. Figures that the Turbo Hero is ahead of everyone, even new year’s texts.

Still… Koichi’s smiling a little too wide just receiving a generic greeting. Ah, frickin’ stupid, really--

Their chat thread isn’t exactly brimming with messages, either. In fact, this is the first message in their log. They exchanged numbers ages ago during one of their runs, but there really isn’t a good reason for either of them to send messages to each other. Besides, Koichi thinks that it wouldn’t be good for one of the more popular heroes to be in close contact with an infamous vigilante--who knows when the police might need to check his text records, or something…

Oh… and also, his crippling shyness gets in the way of making a proper human-like text too, let’s not forget about that.

His fingers tap nervously against the keys of his phone, erasing and re-typing and erasing his messages again. Double-thinking whether it’s too eager or too disinterested or just right for him to text now, or in a minute, or in an hour--

What is he going to say, anyway? Blessings to you too, please keep watching out for us? Yeah, let’s work hard together, you on the legal side and me on the dark shady criminal side? Yeah man I can’t wait til we run again, please wear tighter jogging shorts this year hehe jk lol. Oh, wait, is this the appropriate time to confess his crazy gay crush yet? With any luck, the moment Tensei reads it, there’s fireworks in the sky, boom boom and then--

Koichi, no. Just. No.

He inhales, and lets his thumbs fly over the keypad. Happy New Year, he starts out in Japanese, ending with a :) .

Too plain. He deletes that.

Happy New Year, he writes, in English this time. There, that’s not too plain, that might be something that Tensei will at least be a lil bit amused to read. Right. He thinks about it a little more, and adds another :) .

Well. That won’t make any hearts throb. That’s… seenzoned material, that’s not really-- yeah, that’s really boring, even for a generic new year’s greeting that he’s spent a lot of thought on.

A generic new year’s greeting that he’s spent five… ten… fifteen minutes composing already. What the fuck, Koichi. Just say something, anything, just fill up the screen with some shitty fireworks kaomoji and blame it on Pop if he asks about it.

He takes a deep breath. Okay, so… the past year he’s gotten away a lot with being a little more impulsive, right? So just… say what you want, and just let things happen. Most likely nothing will happen, so.

Me: Happy New Year! Thanks for all your help this year. Hope you and your family are doing well, ‘specially Tenya. If you’re patrolling, I hope you don’t run into anyone too dangerous lol~

Before he berates himself for sounding stupid, he presses send. It gets delivered at 2218H.

Okay. Well that isn’t so bad. But the cutesy ~ makes him cringe.

He shuts his phone with a satisfying snap and takes a sip of his beer. Ugh, his face is getting warm, this beer isn’t cold enough! Come on, isn’t it supposed to be winter, where are the bitter biting winds when you need them?

No cold wind comes, only another message. He almost tosses his phone over the side of the building the moment his phone chimes again.

He takes a deep breath, flips his phone open and reads:

Tensei Iida (2221H): Thanks, Haimawari-kun! Tenya’s doing well, he’s with our grandparents outside the city. Just about to finish my shift now tho, so obviously I won’t be celebrating with everyone ^_^’ Are you patrolling too? Try not to get caught, okay?

Ahhh ahhh a real reply ahhhhhhh a blessed smiley from Ingenium, ahhh. He needs to go in and put his head in the freezer.

But he doesn’t--Tensei replied to him really fast, so surely it’s polite to reply to him really fast too. I mean it’s the polite thing to do. A guy on patrol in a quiet city has the means to reply fast, so he should return the favor.

Trying to will his heart not to go doki doki much like a shoujo manga heroine, he struggles to type, Oh, im not lmao theres a lot of you out there and i dont want to spend the new year in prison.

Tensei Iida (2224H): You’re right! That’s a relief. I don’t want to go to Tartarus just so we can go jogging together! ;) Tensei Iida (2224H): so are you with your folks? Out of town?

The winky face, and the implication that Tensei would visit him in maximum security prison should the opportunity arises almost kills him on the spot. Koichi suppresses another urge to roll over the cement tiles of the rooftop and manages to reply:

Me (2226H): nah. naruhata Tensei Iida (2327H): oh. In the university dorm, by yourself? Me (2228H): haha no lmao i dont live in the university. i live up on the roof in that one rundown apartment two blocks away cant miss it Me (2229H): but yeah by myself Tensei Iida (2331H): !!! on new years eve? Me (2232H): yeah? Tensei Iida (2335H): Oh! Well, that’s not good... Me (2236H): lmao do u feel that sorry for me Tensei Iida (2337H): It’s not that! Sorry hahahaha Me (2238H): its ok haha

Well, that’s a little awkward. Koichi doesn’t know what to say next, and when the minutes pass by, the speedy replies suddenly stops. He tries to type out another reply to tell him to change the subject but he has no clue how to proceed.

And then, the minutes pass in silence. There are more fireworks rising in the skies now, building up a crescendo for the bigger ones scheduled for midnight. They’re really pretty, but Koichi’s guts are in turmoil, giddiness making them churn in one direction, and pure anxiety in the opposite direction.

Fifteen minutes later, to his surprise, his phone chimes again.

Tensei Iida (2253H): 16th st apartment complex?

A firework goes boom behind his head. Koichi blinks. Uh. yeah, he types in dumbly.

Tensei Iida (2254H): Ok. Look down. :D

Koichi stares at the message for another dumb second and almost trips over himself rushing to the edge.

It’s a little hard to see since he’s way down there, but Koichi doesn’t miss the shiny silver and blue of Ingenium’s mecha-inspired hero suit. He’s waving up at him, and Koichi hopes that he sees him waving back.

He’s prepared to turn on his heel and run down to meet him, but he sees Tensei hold his hand up, in a gesture for him to stay right where he is. Koichi tilts his head curiously, raises both arms in a confused shrug.

He’s far away, but Koichi sees him give his trademark grin. He goes five steps backwards…

And Recipro-bursts his way up the side of the building.

“Holy sh--”

It’s less than half a minute when Ingenium makes it up and over the ledge. Smoke rises from the engines of his arms and it’s really concerning, but the way the Turbo Hero is just smiling at him with a salute, like he’s in a mission to rescue him from the burning building of his heart just... makes him melt in a stupid puddle without any sense of comprehension.

“Hey there, Crawler,” Tensei says, stepping closer to him.

“Hey,” Koichi stammers out. “Um… that was neat and all, but you know we have an elevator, so--”

The pro laughs. “Yeah, but elevators are pretty slow, and I wanted to see you faster than they would allow me.”

Anyone who is interested is free to canvass Koichi’s corpse of its vital organs. Just. Say the word.

“Yeah, you were… pretty fast, haha.” His voice catches like he’s still in puberty. He clears his throat. “I didn’t know you could run up the sides of buildings. That’s pretty insane.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know I could too.”

“Uh.”

Tensei collapses on the floor, legs crossed and arms waving in front of him like they’re boneless. “You wouldn’t happen to have any juice there, would you? My arms are feeling pretty wobbly, and--”

Aaaah wtf! “Y-yeah, hang on a sec, Iida--”

Koichi glides in his apartment in the speed of light and rummages through the scanty contents of his fridge. He has to dig a bit to find the stock of grapefruit juice at the back.

(Since that incident with the Catbus, he buys a stock of them on impulse and carries a bottle with him during patrols. In the tiny chance that he runs into Tensei and he needs extra fuel, he’s frickin’ ready. And if he doesn’t, well… grapefruit juice doesn’t taste that bad, so…)

He’s back to Tensei in record time. He tosses the bottle to him, and the pro chugs it down gratefully. He instantly looks refreshed at the last gulp, puts down the bottle with an aahhh and only grins at Koichi’s distress.

“What the heck, Iida! You haven’t done anything like that before?!”

He laughs awkwardly. “I’ve run up two storeys before, but--”

Koichi’s apartment complex is, like, ten storeys high. “Y-you could have gone splat or kaboom on the way up here, man! You could have been a really bloody human firework!”

Tensei shrugs. “I didn’t though! This tells me a lot about what I can do with my quirk!”

He’s a little too chill for someone who could have fallen ten storeys down onto the dirty Naruhata pavement, Koichi thinks. He gives him an exasperated look and collapses next to him. “Yeah, I guess, but… you didn’t have to do all that just to see me…”

He grins at him again, leans his head closer to his, like he tends to do from time to time. Koichi reckons that it’s because Tensei doesn’t have a good sense of personal space, but all the same it makes his heart throb painfully in his chest. “I felt like I did. Let me show off from time to time, Haimawari-kun.”

Ahh you cheesy bastard, Tensei, you bleeding show-off. It’s a good thing it’s so dark, because he’s sure he’s a cherry tomato by that time, and he can’t blame it on the half-empty can of beer next to him. “Hah! Sure, do that… I’d show off my new moves to you too if I could. You’re lucky I can’t, you’d feel like a total slowpoke hahaha--”

What the fuck is he saying, he doesn’t know anymore. This back-and-forth shit-talking thing (Makoto insists that it’s flirting, but Koichi disagrees because hah why would Iida Tensei flirt with a guy like him?) is more natural when they’re running out the streets and out of breath from trying to outdo each other. Without the excuse of physical exhaustion to explain away his stammering, Koichi’s a little worried of how brainless he might have sounded then.

Tensei only looks more and more amused, and doesn’t get any less close. “I dunno about that, Crawler. Been a while since we had a real race.”

“Heh, you’re right.” Koichi has been more careful using his quirk in public, out of disguise. He doesn’t wear his All Might hoodies when he’s around Tensei, unless by accident.

A silence falls between them, a slightly uncomfortable one where Koichi is hyperaware of the steadily increasing proximity between them, of the alcohol in his veins, of his rushing pulse. Trying to distract himself, he reaches out for an unopened can of beer and offers this to Tensei, who accepts.

He pulls the tab off the cheap, lukewarm thing, tilts it close to his. “Cheers.”

Koichi nods. “Cheers.”

They take a swig in unison. Fireworks explode above them, spurts of colors in the sky. The shine of the lights above do something interesting over the steel of Tensei’s suit.

“Hey, so… if you want to take your suit off--”

“Hm?” Tensei looks down on himself. “You want me to strip down? I usually expect dinner first, but for you--”

“That’s not what I--” Koichi stammers, as he flushes in an ever deeper scarlet that he doesn’t think is even possible. Ah, how drunk is he, huh? How Asian is he that he would turn this red, just from drinking this teensy amount of beer?

He takes off the metal plates more carelessly than Koichi reckons he should be handling them, and lets them down on the floor next to him with a sound. Tensei looks grateful for the extra breathing space as he leans back to appreciate the growing noise and lights above them. “This is an awesome spot, Koichi. The view’s great from up here, huh?”

“Yeah, you know it.”

(And the younger boy leans back, away from him, and tries not to appreciate how Tensei looks in just that tight black bodysuit thing he has underneath. Lean, broad, muscly, like a Greek god, and...)

A few quiet moments pass by. Tensei finishes a can. Koichi works on his third one and he doesn’t know why he’s suddenly drinking so fast. He coughs a little to clear up his suddenly tight throat. “So it’s weird because you almost died going up here, but thanks for coming up here, I guess… it’s pretty cool being up here, by myself--”

Perfectly content, and lonely, and quite possibly drunk by himself by this time, but not as drunk as he feels right there next to him--

“--but it’s cool not… looking at all the pretty lights by myself this time,” he struggles out. Stupid, really, he isn’t even looking at the fireworks anymore, just the beer can under his nose, like he’s reading tea leaves and begging for some clarity.

“Yeah. I’m glad I invited myself up here, too,” Tensei says gently. “I’m shameless I know, but knowing you’re alone up here, I couldn’t help myself--”

Koichi laughs nervously. “Yeah, you are pretty--”

When he turns his head, Tensei’s nose is two centimeters away from his. His eyes are looking right into his, freezing him in place.

“... pretty,” he swallows, already lost. “... shameless.”

Tensei makes a sound in his throat, so quiet that he can’t hear it among the sounds of explosions, but he’s so close he feels the hit, like he Shooty-Go-Blammed himself in the chest. He might be agreeing or disagreeing but fuck whatever they were talking about, Koichi can’t remember why the small talk matters anymore.

Tensei puts one gloved hand underneath his chin, a lackadaisical grin on his face showing off that sharp incisor that Koichi thinks is very cute. “Pretty,” he agrees.

He feels the change in the air, feels the charge spark in between them, through his eyeballs and his little brain.

They lean in closer. Eyes flutter closed. Koichi’s heart is beating fast and hot and electric.

Lips touch.

Explosions go off in his brain.

Ahhh, Koichi screams in his head, as the sensation of Tensei’s insanely soft lips on his beery virgin ones immediately makes him question reality. One hand goes up to experimentally touch the back of the older man’s head, fingers threading through that soft, dark hair. He pushes a little, nudges him just a little closer to him. The minuscule distance between them practically disappears.

“Ahhh--” This time his mental scream is an audible gasp when Tensei pushes him down on the concrete, supporting his head and back with gloved hands, and continues the kissing with Koichi underneath him.

Sparks of light litter the night air, like violent blooming flowers against the infinite canopy of darkness, in booms and kablooeys and claps and other ridiculous noises. Koichi doesn’t care to wax poetic about them, not when his heart is probably doing the same shit, with Tensei and his warmth is right there above him, feeling so nice and right.

Yeah, he belongs right here, right in his arms. What the hell has he done all year, the blur that is his 19 years of life, before this?

Eventually they have to break the kiss to get some of that chill air between their lungs. They gasp in unison, a dashing smile on Tensei’s face, and a dopey smile on Koichi’s. The older man caresses the side of his face. “Haimawari-kun,” he says gently.

“Yeah? Ah, it’s Koichi, by the way.”

Tensei nods. “Koichi-kun,” he repeats.

That right there is the stuff of dreams. Koichi feels like he’s overheating, despite the winter night. “Hah, is it new years yet, Iida? We should be counting down, or something--”

He gets another sweet kiss on the lips instead. Moments stretch before him. The concrete under him feels like the softest cloud as he allows himself to melt under his touch once again.

“It’s Tensei,” he breathes sensually into his ear. “And… honestly, I don’t care about the time, Koichi, just--”

There’s jovial shouting down at where the city square is, and more light and noise, far away from their rooftop.

“Yeah,” Koichi agrees with a smile. “Fuck that clock.”

They laugh like a couple of idiots, and kiss some more and damn, he could do with more of this in the coming years.

Soon, it’s January. The air is getting a little colder. They spend the rest of the first day of the new year in Koichi’s humble apartment, warmer than either of them could ever hope for.

#bnha fic #bnha vigilantes #tenkoi #koisei #haimawari koichi #iida tensei #koichi x tensei #new years kiss #let's celebrate everyone

[ayyponine]

anyway my dad has now also read the big pdf on abuse i sent him and i feel so valid??

im finally hearing both my parents say it’s outrageous my sister’s abuse went that far for so long without them seeing it and stepping in. i sort of started crying halfway through the conversation and said i still feel an enormous amount of guilt fr not being stronger in the past or the present (eg earlier this year, when ellen wanted to stay here over the summer –> my mom says she can’t stay at our house though for my sake and should see if she can stay at our dad’s or a friend’s place –> sister stays in mexico and is PISSED at mom fr choosing my side instead of hers –> refuses to speak to my mom for MONTHS meaning my mom cant talk to or even see her one grandchild on skype for months. all because i can’t get over the way she treated us and feel unable to let her back into the same house again). he said i really shouldnt, that he, my mom and especially my sister are to blame. fr yall dutch speaking ppl my mom said before that my sister altijd al heel egoïstisch geweest is, my dad today said shes meedoogenloos en rancuneus :)))) while ive been feeling weak and ashamed and guilty and disappointed w myself for years?? ive never felt this valid in my fucking life

did i mention hes going to mexico in october and he’s planning to give her a stern talking to :))) idk what to think abt it tho im like one half extremely anxious whatever he says will only make her angrier and feel more entitled to take it all out on me (i mean, the example above clearly shows that she thinks even now i am STILL a villain and everyone who’s even a bit considerate twrds me and what’s best fr my wellbeing deserves punishment). but im also one half 👀☕💁️👏👏 and finally feeling like

i mean i mentioned the thing abt her cutting contact w mom bc of choosing my side, plus i mentioned it’s hard fr me to be faced with her “happy new life w a guy and a kid in mexico live laugh love natural organic sunshine no stress xoxo :)” knowing it all started with mom and i being afraid to have her in the house (mom always getting just a bit anxious coming home frm work bc any day felt like it couldve been a day i unknowingly crossed a line to provoke another violent, possibly lethal outburst frm my sister) and agreeing to send her on a permaculture course across the atlantic to keep her happy and far away frm us, that she forced my mom to pay fr spontaneous spiritual trips she didnt have the dough for and my dad got angryyyy bc he didnt even know abt that shit :)) so it kinda feels like not only that ^ meme but also

just sort of spilling tea and sitting back as the shit she’s purposefully manipulatively done to me to wear me down finally boomerangs back to take its fucking toll on her. knowing she had it fucking coming while im finally starting to believe she has no business blaming me for her habitually shitty behaviour, that she needs to step the fuck up and take some of the fucking blame shes been deflecting because the shit SHES caused, her own words and actions, are bouncing back to bite her in the fucking ass.

one regret i do have is not adding photo proof of her being a dick even at a ridiculously young age bc at one point my dad was like “this has been going on for years, frm you were ten, eleven years old” so i wish i had preemptively added that shit as a title page image or smth. sort of like “hey anyway, check out this picture frm when she was seven and hating on her five yr old sister fr having a picture taken while it was HER first communion so i wasnt allowed to have anything :) remember we had to take it twice because she didnt want me to have anything so she stuck her hand out to ruin the shot :)) anyway”

another regret is not having found an even crazier picture. because i know theres a photo of me as a newborn being held by one of my family members while my sister just looks at me with an expression of clear and complete disgust. much like the pictures above we’ve always kind of laughed it off like “haha she really didn’t like her younger sibling taking the spotlight huh” and like it probably is just a kid being weird, we can’t say if even then, frm the start, she had decided just to fukn loathe me and it probably is just a weird and random but forgivable kid thing but damn if it isn’t poignant re: the slow build of dislike and bullying to me crashing bc of her complete hatred and long term abuse huh.

#abuse #tw abuse #it's kinda wild to hear yr dad say he thinks you've been a very strong woman when youve only ever felt like a scared and weak little girl #i feel valid in this chilis tonight

[agent-shield-blog]

Curfews and Cats

You are rushing back to the tower trying to make it back before curfew, but a fury creature get’s in your way.

Pairing: Reader X Peter Featuring: Reader X Peter X Tony X Steve X Wanda Warnings: None, unless you don’t like cats

You and Peter were best friends without a doubt. You did everything together including getting in trouble together. But you both didn't care so long as it was together.

You had been out walking the streets reasonably late at night and scrambling to get back to the tower before anyone noticed that you were tiptoeing on your curfew.

"(Y/n) come on we can't be late for curfew three nights in a row! Tony will have our suits if we miss one more time this week." You and Peter ran down the streets. Peter, just a little bit ahead, was pulling on your sleeve trying to get you to speed up.

"Peter I'm going as fast as I can in these heels. And don't even think about asking me to take them off. We both remember the gum pile of last month." Peter couldn't help but laugh at the thought. It was warm that day which meant things were melting and becoming sticky. You were both late for a meeting, and you had decided to take off your shoes. You stepped in so many pieces of gum you almost gagged when you get through the front door.

The front entrance was in view, but suddenly your legs came into contact with something. This caused you to stumble and trip forward into Peter. Peter landed first on the sidewalk catching your fall as you landed on top of him. Now staring face to face, you could feel the heat race to your cheeks.

"Sorry, my fault." You rolled off of Peter and sat next to him on the sidewalk. Peter lifted himself up and rubbed the back of the head.

"First of all ow! Second of all what was that?" You looked around for a second until a small black figure appeared from the shadows.

"There right there." You pointed at the mystery object as you stood up and quietly approached it. You pulled your phone out of your pocket and turned on the flashlight. Soon you could see that the mystery object was a small calico cat.

"Oh my gosh Peter, look it's a cat!" You immediately approached the cat and sat down next to it. Within a matter of seconds, the cat was all over you, It was purring and rubbing up against your arm. You began to pet it, allowing it to climb over you.

"(Y/n) you cant just go petting random cats, you'll get some disease from it!" You rolled your eyes as the cat sat down on your lap still purring like crazy.

"Peter I know I'm young, but I think I found my true love! I can't leave this poor guy we are emotionally attached. We have a bond." Peter sighed as he walked over to you and the cat and kneeled down.

"(Y/n) we don't have time for this we have to be back in ten minutes!"

"Oh, you cant be so heartless Peter. Look, its so skinny and has no tag. It's probably starving and just wants a warm bed for the night. Look tomorrow well go see if it has a chip or something and if not I'll keep it." Now running out of time to argue Peter sighed as he tried getting you up off the ground.

"Fine deal. But you're going to have to carry it back, and we'll have to sneak it past Tony. Oh gosh, I swear (y/n) if we get caught because of this stupid cat." You enveloped Peter in a hug before reaching down to pick up the cat. It didn't squirm as you picked it up and let you carry it back with ease.

As you approached the front doors to the tower, you turned to Peter.

"Okay we got him here but how do we sneak him past everyone." Peter looked around for a second before turning back to you.

"Um okay didn't think this through umm. Oh, I know! Put him under your sweatshirt, and I'll just block you from any angle which might look like your hiding something under there."

"This isn't going to work but fine." You both rushed through the doors and into the elevator. Yours and Peters rooms were located on the same floor as the commons and kitchen, that way it would be hard for you guys to sneak in and out.

Knowing that Steve and Tony would be hanging out in the common room to make sure you were back by curfew, you prepared yourself, and the surprisingly well-behaved cat, for maybe your hardest mission yet.

The doors slid open, and Peter stepped out first. He looked both ways before giving you the all clear. You slowly continued forward until you heard a someone clearing their throat. You both turned and saw Steve, Tony, and Wanda chilling in the commons. You and Peter smiled as you greeted the others.

"Hello everyone would love to stay and chat, but we are super tired. Welp see you guys in the morning." Peter tried to take a step forward but no success.

"Ahh ah ah not so fast. Cutting it close to curfew again are we?" Tony questioned as he sat up from his spot on the couch. Making sure to use Peter to block your stomach, you finally chipped into the conversation

"Technically we are five minutes before curfew so no harm no foul right? Right. So I guess we'll see you in the morning." You nudged Peter, who quickly led you past the common room and into the elevator.

Steve turned his view from Peter and you to Tony who was now lying on the couch with his arms covering his face.

"You know she had a cat under her sweatshirt right? I could hear it meow and everything."

"Yeah but I'm too tired to care. Plus it's in there DNA to save things, especially (y/n). In all honesty, I'm not surprised there aren't more cats around here. Haha, maybe she just has a whole room full of them that I don't know about." As soon as the words left Tony's mouth, he realized how plausible that was. Just imagining a room full of cats, just waiting to escape and roam all throughout the tower was giving him nightmares.

"(Y/n) Peter, we need to have a little chat!" Tony called out as he sat up from the ouch making his way to your rooms.

#avengers imagines #avengers fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #marvel imagine #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #avenger fanfiction #avengers imagine

[jackson-wren]

Death and Loss Don't Exist when Phil Lester is Plowing You Into the Floor

They were watching a movie. That's how it started. Just an innocent marvel movie that Phil had picked out, Civil War to be specific, and Dan had been doing fine: curled against Phil's splayed legs, cheek pressed against his knee. Boxes surrounded them, and in the dark it almost felt as though they'd entered another world. Soft lighting played around the TV in a haze, and Phil started to nod off. What felt like seconds went by, and then Phil is groggily awoken by cold wind winding its way up the bottom of his pant leg. He cracks one eye open, only to be met with a darkened TV monitor and empty space where Dan had been. "Dan?" Phil works himself onto his elbows, trying to peer around the boxes. No response. Maybe he's gone to bed. Tired and slightly annoyed, Phil swings his legs off the sofa and stands, turning side to side to crack his back. The soft pad of his feet barely make any sound as he trudges out of their lounge and into the hall, ready to get downstairs, wash up and go to sleep. He doesn't see the shape on the ground until it's too late. "Shhhhhocolate milk!" Phil trips over whatever it is and hits the edge of their banister. Hard. Now annoyed, tired and throbbing from the probable puncture wound in his hand, he blearily regains his balance, poised to yell. Instead, when the shape lets out a sad sigh, he just shakes his head. "Dan, come on. Now's not the time. The movers get here at five thirty tomorrow." Dan makes no move to get up. In fact, he doesn't move at all. Phil knows how this is going to go, but he's tired for god's sake! And they've gotta be up early. When the nudge to the spine Phil gives him doesn't do anything, he groans under his breath and then bends down to touch his lips to the shell of Dan's ear. "Was it something in the movie?" Dan makes a sound that has a somewhat negative connotation, but Phil wants better than that. "Use your words, baby boy." That gets him a whimper. "No." "Then what is it?" Dan just sniffs. "I can't help unless you tell me, Bear." "I just-" The catch in his voice is muffled slightly by the carpet, but Phil still hears it. "'Just' what?" The words that follow come at flash-flood speed. "It's just that five years have gone by, Phil. Five!! And it's not that we're moving, that I don't mind. It's not even that it's five closer I am to dying. It's- it's five closer you are to death; five closer to the inevitable time when I'm going to- when I'll have to live without-" Phil brings his hand up to Dan's shaking shoulder blades. "Do you want the usual?" "No." It's wet with unshed tears. "Make it hard. Rough. Violent. Ground me." Phil's other hand is on his belt buckle before Dan finishes his sentence. It takes a few seconds longer than normal to undo it in the dark, but something about the way Dan phrased it- Violent. Ground me- something in that has sent Phil's brain into overdrive. The leather pulls out of his jeans with a whap that he can feel. "Throat or hands?" "Throat." Phil happily obliges, and straddles Dan, thighs resting on his ribs. Phil is essentially sitting on Dan's back, but he hasn't made any sounds of protest yet. He takes his time working the belt so that it's smooth and soft around Dan's neck, each touch sending smaller-than-usual tremors through Dan's body. Once it's been looped and tightened, like a dog collar, Phil moves on to the next step. He's gentle when undoing Dan's own fly and belt, gentle in getting them down to Dan's knees. Phil manages to shimmie them off of Dan's legs, and then the fun truly begins. You see, this is normal for them. Once, twice a week, Dan will have one of these fits and Phil will fix it for him. It's happened during gaming videos before, like Chimbot, where he'd had to cut the camera because Dan was so damn out of it. That had been a good one. Fucked him right into the sofa. They'd had to turn the cushions over. Cum stains, specially on suede. "Biting?" "Yeah." Phil starts at his calfs. His teeth graze the skin, and for the first time, he feels a shiver of movement from the man pinned beneath him. Phil smiles. Then he bites in earnest. Dan's little cry that slips from numb lips stems Phil on, so he trails those teeth marks up Dan's legs to his thighs. That's when they change. Phil starts to break skin. Coppery heat melts into Phil's mouth, and he pulls away momentarily to gasp, pressing the heel of one hand down on his quickly hardening dick. "Bruises?" "What do you think?" Dan is breathless now but still not shifting as much as Phil needs him to be. So he takes a leap. In one movement, Phil is back on Dan's thighs, but this time he's pinching. Dan starts to make these sounds, these sounds that remind Phil of a mouse he'd caught in a Haveaheart trap when he was seven. Squeaky. Desperate. Dan's boxers came off with his pants, so Phil takes his other hand and brings it down on Dan's bare ass cheek. That gets a reaction. Dan jerks, then slowly cants his hips into the carpet. Phil can imagine that doing so probably hurts, rug burn on your nuts and all that, but Dan seems to be enjoying it. With every slap that Phil administers, Dan jerks and then grinds. Phil's own erection is now seriously tenting his jeans, so finally, after Dan's pinched thighs have started to go purple and his ass is cherry red, Phil asks: "Lube or nah?" "Nah." Dan's voice has a bit more conviction too it. Progress. Phil doesn't even ask if Dan has prepped. Dan's always prepped. Even at the age he is, he's still as horny as he was at eighteen. Maybe hornier. Phil gets his own zipper undone, but that's as undressed as he's going to get. He takes the base of his dick through his pants, guiding it so that the tip peeks out ever so slightly. "Do you want it?" Dan's head finally raises from the carpet just enough so Phil can see his blown out eyes. "Oh lord, yes." The first push in is euphoric. It's just skin on skin on skin and Dan makes a sound like he's dying. Phil's always been told he's 'above average' and that people are 'apprehensive to bottom' for him, but never Dan. Dan has always groaned like a pornstar and bucked back against him, wanting more. This time is no different. Dan's grinding his crotch against the ground, fibers of polyester sticking to the soaking head of his dick. He cheek is being abraded as well, but God, he could go on like this forever. Death and loss don't exist when Phil Lester is plowing you into the floor like his life depends on it. Phil's balls are slapping against Dan's asscrack, and if Dan keeps squeezing then releasing, this is going to be over for Phil embarrassingly fast. Phil bends forwards, having slowed his thrusts down to pelvic grinding. Dan whines. "I'm going to edge you and you're not going to complain. Understand?" Dan nods. And with that, Phil's right hand wraps itself around the belt that had been resting against Dan's spine and tugs. Dan's back arches, his legs kick, and his fingertips scrabble at the tightening leather coil around his throat. Phil's nose touches the hair at the nape of Dan's neck, and he has to close his eyes from the sheer intoxication of it all. Dan's flexible as hell considering that Phil's still buried in his ass, but because of the angle they're at, Dan's clenching even harder than before. Or maybe that's the lack of oxygen. Phil can see how pretty Dan's cock is, curved up and brushing his black shirt with iridescent precum. Phil groans. His tongue seems to have a mind of its own and decides to lick the outline of puffed skin around the belt. Dan's choking tiny gasps out of his half-crushed esophagus, but when Phil bites down, Dan's breathing stops. He sucks hard, eyes closed, and wraps his left hand around the base of Dan's dick. He pulls one last time on the end of the belt, then releases it. Dan dry heaves, hard, collapsing forwards, but Phil's right hand, previously occupied with leather, catches him. "You're doing so well, Bear. So well for me." Dan can't even form words. Tears run down his face in little rivulets and blood puckers on the surface of his torn lips. Phil circles his hips, then picks up his speed, fucking Dan so hard that his knees scoot across the carpet. Phil lets Dan drops to his forearms, even as he's still trying to remember how to breathe. He allows this for less than four seconds. Then Phil's hand is fisted in Dan's curls, yanking, and he gets a good look at just how wrecked Dan is: bloody, crying, begging. Phil pulls out quickly, aligning his hips so that his dick slides into Dan's crack. "You like that whore? Huh? Me rubbing your crack? Bet you'd like my tongue in there too, right?" Dan moans. "That's what I thought. You're gonna make me cum, slut. Gonna make me-" Phil has just enough presence of mind to squeeze the base of Dan's dick with his free hand before his cum coats the back of Dan's shirt and the bottom of his own. Phil lets the shakes consume him for a bit, enjoying the feeling of letting go. But then something brings him back. Dan. "Daddy, please! Please, daddy let me cum. Please! Oh, daddy I need it. Need it so bad. So fucking bad- just ple- I- I need-" Phil takes his hand away. Dan screams. He falls forwards, grinding like a bitch in heat against the rough fibers of the carpet, ass clenching on nothing but air. "Yes daddy! Oh daddy, oh so good daddy. Yes. Mmmmmm, daddy thank you. Thank you daddy." As his frantic movements begin to slow, Phil places a hand on Dan's heaving side. "Baby, can I roll you over?" Dan gives a jerky nod. When Phil sees the front of him, he feels a proud smile begin to work its way across his face. Dan's throat is purple. His shirt is soaked, up to his nipples, and his dick is bright red, practically steaming. Phil sits back on his haunches. "Did that work?" "Hmm?" Dan takes a deep breath, semi recovered, and manages to get himself onto his elbows. "Did that work. Did I make you forget?" "Oh, Phillip Lester." Dan arches an eyebrow. "What do you think?" Phil grins. "Do you want me to carry you downstairs? We've gotta get you cleaned up." "I can manage." But as soon as Dan begins to stand, to put any weight on his feet, his knees give out. Phil laughs but helps him up anyway, and hobbles him down the steps, and, eventually, into the tub. "Love you, Bear." Dan leans into Phil's hands, scrubbing at his hair. "Love you too, Phil." ************* ****** ************* "Shit." It's raspy at best. Phil had thankfully gone to deal with the movers when they'd arrived. Dan hadn't even woken up. But now, apparently, the movers have packed up their entire apartment. They'd slept in Phil's bed for the night, since they didn't have to take it with them, and as Dan rolls painfully to the side to flip on his phone, he's grateful for it. His body hurts. Like got-into-a-nasty-bar-fight hurts. But thankfully for him, that's a turn on. Not so thankfully, however, is the fact that he's got raging morning wood. Or afternoon wood. It's one o'clock. He swings himself out of bed, barely getting his footing, and grabs his car bag from the end of it. The only clothing item in the backpack is a long sweater of Phil's, but in Dan's muddled state he doesn't really care. Taking the stairs slowly and with a death grip on the handrail, Dan grandpa-walks himself to their bathroom. Quick tooth brush, one last nostalgic look at that patch of carpet, and he's out the door. Only problem? He hadn't actually payed attention to how he looked. From the front door, he can see Phil in the taxi they're taking to the new place. The movers are getting the last of the boxes loaded up, and Dan takes a step towards them. One guy puts a crate down, wipes his brow and makes eye contact with Dan, then has to do a double take. "Oi! Mate!! You okay?" "What? Yeah, fine. Why?" The man huffs a laugh. "You look like you went six rounds with a prize fighter. What's up with the neck?" Dan gently places his fingertips against it and finds it raw and swollen to the touch. He tries to give a winning smile. "Nothing! Got tangled in a-" A cough breaks him off. "A garden hose. Have a n-nice day!" Dan speed walks to the taxi, opens the door and swings himself in. Phil's already laughing before the door is closed. "You think they believed me?" Dan turns to face Phil, who gives him a once over, eyes sticking to the obvious hard line of his cock through the thin sweater, snorts out a laugh, and pulls him in for a kiss. "Not a chance."