#Threaded Bar Anchors

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

👍 Wedge anchor All production processes are inside our factory

[eupheme]

— you’ve got me wanting you

[part iii of sugar, sugar] | [part ii] [masterlist]

wolverine/logan howlett x neighbor!f!reader

rated e - 7.4k

tags: jealous/posessive!logan, baker!neighbor!reader, wingman!wade, flirting, feelings, (another short) miscommunication, immature humor, light angst, use of alcohol, threat of violence, use of alcohol and smoking, semi-public sex, bathroom sex, PiV, creampie

As the days pass, you think your time spent with Logan is pretty much perfect. Well... almost.

(Or - a dash of insecurity, some badgood advice from Wade, a near-fight at a bar, and the confession of overdue feelings.)

Those two nights spent with Logan turn into more.

The days are bleeding together, blurring. You fit well with him, you think. Together in Wade's apartment - spanning that space between their chatter and silence. Softening edges, though you think he's softened, too.

A stray cat coming around. 

Bristling, with narrowed, untrusting eyes. Slowly learning that he can lean into your touch. 

Your days since have been spent humming as you work. It had been an anchor once, this routine of yours. Getting up early used to give you something to get up for. Enjoying the whirlwind of prepping, measuring, making, decorating. 

Now - you're grateful for how quickly the day passes because it means you can't overanalyze. Because it means by the time you catch your breath at the end of the day, you're already heading home to him. 

Takeout was brought over to their apartment. A crappy movie with a hand curled around you, sending your heartbeat racing. The night ending at yours, hours between dusk and dawn spent learning every inch of each other. 

You think it's pretty much perfect.

Well... almost.

“Do you think Logan likes me?”

It slips out of you. Something that’s been worrying at you, a splinter trapped just beneath your skin. You regret asking almost immediately - the sun glinting off the silver needle as you push it through the lycra suit. 

“You mean the guy that’s been fucking your brains out for the past couple weeks?”

“Wade.”

“Oh, sorry.” He lines his knife up, poking a hole in the top of his styrofoam container - coaxing the waitress from lunch to give him a ‘take-home-margarita’. A cheerful “baby knife!” as he sheathes it again,” I mean the guy that’s been having totally-chaste-and-appropriate adult sleepovers with you?”

You understand what he’s getting at. Stalling, holding up his suit - another gash sewn shut with black thread, “You sure this is okay?” 

“Mhmm,” He hums, “Gives me that bride-of-frankenstein vibe I’ve always wanted. Besides, anything is better than before.”

“You insisted, you helpless little man-baby.” Al adds, from her lounge seat, “Learn to dodge.”

Wade splutters - your lips twitching, as you work.

“See what I live with?” He gripes, “Maybe the two of you outta trade. It’d be cramped, but I bet the three of us could sardine it.”

“You wouldn’t last a week without Althea,” You snort. A beat, before you gather the courage to circle back to the topic at hand, “And besides, that’s just it. I’m not sure he wants to sleep with me." 

The summer breeze feels better up here, on the roof. The whip of the wind cooling you, as you work your way across the once-again battered suit - propped up against the brick parapet. 

“Okay, time out. Missing link here.” Wade gives you a sideways look, before his head pivots, "You cannot hit me with this fake virginal act when I literally heard you two fuck an hour after you met."

A beat, "And like, pretty much every day since then. I think I even heard a howl last night-"

Your eyes roll, "Wade. He’s not a werewolf, he did not howl-"

"Well, not anymore.” Wade smirks, “And funny that you assume I meant the Moan Wolf, but I could have meant you-"

You groan, head cradled in your hands, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, we'll keep it down. It's just-"

It’s just you’ve been here before - this liminal space between an excellent physical connection, and more. You've done the hookup thing - casual, friends-with-benefits, lonely strangers. Thought you had learned how to keep your emotions in check, especially with those past experiences.

But you’ve never met someone like Logan before. 

He makes you feel bare. Soft-hearted and stripped down - wearing your feelings on your sleeve. Opening yourself up - only for your fingers to brush up against a brick wall, in return. 

Wade must catch your tone because he sets down the styrofoam container - the pink umbrella tucked against his ear. 

"Alright Sugarbuns, tell Papa Bear what's bothering you." 

You grimace at the names, another flicker of regret lingering in the corners of your mind. But you find yourself talking. Letting those worries flow from you in a rush.  

But Wade would know, wouldn't he? It's his friend, after all. 

"He leaves after."

His eyebrows raise, and you continue, "I mean, he'll stay for a bit but he always winds up on the couch by morning.  I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and he’s out there. I mean, I thought he'd want a bed, after where he's been staying, no offense-"

Thought he’d want to stay with you. 

You nudged at it once. Getting nothing more than a grumbled excuse about not sleeping well, something about nightmares. Something you accepted, only to find him tucked in your bed a few days later - curled in your sheets when you had rushed back to the apartment after leaving your phone. 

Hadn’t wanted to push, even if it confused you. Wouldn’t he want comfort, after a bad dream? You always did. 

"Offense taken, Blind Al and I are excellent bedmates," Wade interrupts, "But please, continue."

His joke eases you a little. Risking a sideways glance, finding him already looking at you.

“I like him, Wade. I just really want this to work out.”

He hums, sympathetically. Knowing all too well the complexities of like and love. How you feel deeper than you’re letting on - he always was perceptive, after all. 

A beat, before your head turns. 

"Do you think it's me?" 

He does laugh then, his shoulder leaning to bump yours, "Sugar, you have a two-hundred-year-old boyfriend who's gone through a massive amount of trauma and has an alcohol problem, and you want to know if it's you?"

"Fuck." The heels of your palms press into your eyes, "Okay, okay-"

"I literally traveled through the void with him, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles-style. The John Candy to my Steve Martin, and even after saving the world he still wanted to kill me."

"Wait," Your head lifts, "Why would you be Steve Martin in that scenario?"

“He’s the main character, as am I.” He barrels past your question, "The point is, if he didn't like you, you'd know. You just need to be-"

"Patient." You finish, "Yeah, I know." 

And you do know. Even since that first meeting, you've known that he's been eaten up inside. Cracks of the man beneath leaking through his gruff exterior, as you had sat together on that couch. 

But Wade called him your boyfriend, but he's not. Not really - no conversation to indicate that's how he saw himself. 

It just left you confused. Vulnerable. Enough that you did dumb shit like this - going to Wade for romantic advice. The man who proposed with a ring pop and thought that a prostate orgasm was a sign of being soulmates. 

"Maybe you’re giving him too much. Withhold a little," Al interrupts, making you jump, "That's what landed me my second husband. Begged for it like a dog, and was married the next month. God rest his soul."

Wade mouths an exaggerated “what the FUCK" at you, before shooting a dark look in her direction - only just then seeing her smirk.

"Oh, you’re joking? She came to us for help and you’re joking-” A sniff, as Wade turns back, "So anyways, don’t do that. Do something normal. Like internalize it, until it makes you snap."

His face screws up, as he adds, “Or, maybe try it? That bricked me up a bit-”

"Or,” Al adds, “Maybe you should just talk to him, Sugar."

Althea always knew how to cut to the chase and give the hard advice you needed to hear. You just wish you weren’t afraid of the answer.

‘You’re both right,” Your head dips against Wade's shoulder, “I owe you. Again.”

Silence lingering, though it’s not uncomfortable. Leaving you to think about what he said.

The suit passed over to him, when you tie the final knot, “Done.”

“Thanks,” A beat passes, as he gives you a sideways look, “Any chance you want to cash in on that favor tonight?”

You know better than to agree without more info - an eyebrow raising as you wait.

“Vanessa is coming over tonight.” Wade gives you a meaningful look, “It would be great to have the apartment to ourselves for a bit.”

The serious tone does not last, as he smirks, “I fully intend to break my months of celibacy the second the opportunity arises.”

“Months?” You hadn’t realized it had been that long. Thought he would have moved on, in some ways. 

“Years, actually,” He adds, casually, “Turns out my obvious romantic hangups plus this-”

A gesture at his face,” Are a total boner-killer. As well as having an elderly roommate, apparently. Especially one who won’t leave.”

You shoot him a sharp look at the self-deprecation, Al’s voice cutting through.

“I told you, I’m hitting the casino for singles night.”

“Okay. I can drop Al off and pick her up,” Your mind is already racing ahead, “And Logan and I can go out to dinner or something.”

The prospect is exciting. Despite the time spent together, you haven’t really gone on too many dates yet. After your long hours and his rotating work schedule, your meetings have mostly been late-night. Quick meals whipped up in your kitchen. A rotating pile of delivery menus. 

“That would be great.” He smiles, “Thanks, Sugar.”

“Of course.” You smile, before adding, “What are you going to make?” 

A frown, when he hesitates.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to wing it.”

“I wasn’t winging it,” He protests, “I was going to hit up ol’ reliable.”

“For a second-first date? You can’t do takeout from Buns and Roses.”

A sigh, as you turn to face him, tugging out your phone, “You should make something nice. I have this recipe bookmarked for engagement roast chicken. I’ll help you-”

He tugs your phone out of your hand, scrolling through the eight-paragraph opener before the start of the recipe. 

“Make this for her, show her you’re serious-,” You start.

Wade finishes, with a smile. 

“-and there’ll be a cock ring on it before midnight.”

You keep catching yourself looking at him.

It’s almost embarrassing how bad you have it. Still not used to seeing Logan like this - away from your small apartment. 

Seeing him at work was different - a very cognizant realization that you were on the clock. The counter between you like a barrier, even when you slip a coffee and pastry across it. A lightning-quick kiss pressed into his cheek. The relentless teasing from your coworkers, after. 

But here - crammed in a booth, his hand slipping just under the hem of your dress, a palm curved against your thigh - it’s something else, entirely. Even in this dark corner, you have to resist letting your hands wander. Eyes flicking to the deep cut of his button-down flannel - dark hair peeking out from the curve of his white tank. The blue and grey pattern pretty against his skin. 

A curl of smoke pours from his lips, a cigar fit between two fingers. 

Logan had been curious to find you in the apartment when he got home. The aroma of the roast chicken wafting through the space, as you talked Wade through the last steps. The slow sweep of his eyes over the pretty sundress you wore, tugged from the back of your closet. 

It hadn’t taken much convincing, when you asked him to get dinner out with you. Even with Althea in tow, safely dropped off for her night out. 

“This is nice.” You smile, and his eyebrow lifts.

A glance around the room.

Dinner spent at a local pizza joint - stories shared, wound between updates about his new job at the local lumber company. About Laura, who you met two weeks ago. So much like Logan that it still catches you off-guard. Shared expressions, shared tempers. 

You think that it must have been hard for both of them, this reunion. That comparison between the Logan in this world, those memories that stay with her. She views him the same - even you can see that. He’s told you it came as a shock, but it’s easy to see how he’s warmed, with time. Finding joy, within the shared grief.

The conversations spill over into a bar you know well. Unsure what to do with yourselves with the order of “staying away”, the sun still setting when you had stepped inside.

“Not sure nice is the word I’d use, sweetheart.”

“Anywhere is nice if I’m with you. I am sorry, though. I know it’s not-” Your hand waves, shyness creeping in as you lean into his shoulder, “Wasn’t sure where else to kill some time. Dopinder and Buck run a tight ship, it’s really not so bad.”

“Mm. Guess this is nice, then.” He corrects, a hint of a dimple as he smiles, “But you let me take you somewhere safer next time, yeah?”

“I’m safe with you.” 

You miss the way he looks at you, as you take a sip of your drink. The brush of his fingers against your skin. His voice going low, goosebumps rising as he murmurs in your ear. 

“How much longer do we have to stay out?”

A question that’s been on your mind as well. 

“Well, Al’s thing is over at ten,” Your teeth worry at your lip, “But, I guess we could sneak back early. It’s just, Wade-”

“What about Wade?” 

It’s unfair, how he crowds you in the booth. Torso twisting to face you. The warmth of his hand - how you’re aware of each and every movement he makes. It takes you a moment to answer.

“Wade is… Wade,” You manage, “But he doesn’t really ask for much. I owe him, you know?”

“You owe him?” He chuckles, “He’s lucky you stuck around after he tried to give you cocaine-”

“Hey,” You smile, “That was Al.”

That had been your second run-in with your neighbors. Only desperation had sent you over to the apartment, needing a cup of powdered sugar for a personal favor. Under-estimating how much you needed, in your rush to finish some cookies for a friend’s baby shower. 

Meeting Al instead. The powdered substance swapped when her roommate had rearranged the apartment as a prank. Only Wade bursting from the bathroom, a towel slung low from his hips, had saved you from disaster. The nickname had formed when you hadn’t written them both off. 

“And besides, Wade was the one who introduced me to you.”

Logan’s expression softens, “That is something, isn’t it?”

He holds your gaze for a long moment. Eyes drifting lazily down to your lips, with a low hum, then further. It sends a heat blooming in your cheeks, an unconscious press of your thighs together.

“I’m, um, gonna let Dopinder know we’re heading out.” You breathe, “He’ll worry if we irish goodbye.”

“You sure?” He husks, with another exhale of smoke - and you can feel the heat rising from your cheeks to your ears. 

“Yes,” It comes out breathy.

“Um, yeah. You finish that, and I’ll be right back.”

Your elbows pressing into the sticky bartop as you wait - watching Dopinder work his way through pouring pints of beer for a crowd of bikers, all in dark leather.

A glance over your shoulder, finding the booth tucked in the corner. The dark head of hair, the expanse of his shoulders - a thick arm slung across the back - as Logan waits for you. 

It makes you smile, and you almost miss the bump of a shoulder against yours.

“Oh!” You squeak, shifting to the side to make room, “I’m so sorry, I-”

The apology dies on your tongue, as you glance up at the man leaning against the wooden post at the end of the bar. Eyes drifting over the black field jacket, up to dark eyes. 

“Been a while, darlin’.” 

You inhale a breath, in surprise. Close to two years ago, if you remember right. Numerous meetings spread out over months, before he slipped out of your fire escape and into the early morning.

No note, no text. Walking out just as suddenly as he had appeared.

It had never been anything serious - he had made that clear - but you can’t pretend that it hadn’t hurt. 

“It has,” You agree, a low twist in your belly, “How have you been? Didn’t think I’d see you outside Hell’s Kitchen.”

Unable to help that flicker of worry, even after everything. It’s always been ingrained in you - thinking of others more than yourself. 

“Should ask you the same,” His eyebrow arches, “This isn’t your kind of place. Taking up mercenary work, beautiful?”

“I’m here with someone.” It comes out clipped, a glance over your shoulder - the nerves eased when you spot his form.   

“Mountain man?” 

A scoff - lip curling over sharp teeth, “Taking you to a place like this… You can do better than that. You can do-”

“You?” It’s your turn for your brow to raise, “We both know how that goes, Frankie. This-”

A pointed finger, gesturing around the room, “Was my idea. Things are different. I’m different.”

There’s the hint of a smirk - dark eyes that drag slowly down. Flicking back up to yours, as his voice pitches low, “I’m sure some things are the same.”

Your head shakes, “Not like that.”

There are lingering shades of purple that fade to yellow across his cheekbone. Never was good with this. All that time spent glancing out your window, waiting for him to show up, battered and bloody like he used to. All he did was keep you out, keep you at arm’s length.

Maybe that’s why you’re afraid of it happening again. A little shake of your head - a reminder that you need to be patient like Wade said. Logan isn’t him.

“I know what I want, and it’s-” The words die, as you look for him, again. Finding only an empty booth - your stomach tying up into knots. 

A palm touches at your hip, a chest pressing snugly against your back. Startling you, as you breathe, “Logan.”

“This asshole bothering you, sweetheart?” It’s growled out, Logan’s eyes fixed on the other man. 

“Nice guard dog.” There’s an amused appraisal - narrowed eyes, tongue trapped against teeth. “He do tricks as well?

The fingers at your hip curl, the smallest tug backward to bring you closer. The words ground out between bared teeth.

“You watch it.”

Christ. This was bad, you need to find your tongue - and quickly. 

You twist, a hand resting on his chest. Only now does Logan’s eyes drop to yours, the tight pull to his features only just ebbing.

“This is Logan,” You smile, your palm pressing over his heart, “He’s, uh, my-”

And for a brief second, your words fail you. The tension is thick enough to cut, acrid in the air. Would labeling this right now send him running? 

The man cuts through before you can finish.

“Frank Castle.” His eyes flick back to yours, as he adds, “Sure you can guess how we know each other.”

The muscles beneath your palm twitch. A light pressure against your hip, urging you away from the bar - the words low in your ear, “Alright. Let’s go.”

A nod, and you’re giving Frank a tight smile - letting Logan guide you towards the back. No more than a step taken before his voice cuts through.

“You still got my number?”

You shoot him an exasperated look, “Frank-”

“Gonna be back in town for a while, baby girl.” His arms cross, as he leans, “Call me when things don’t work out.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before a fist closes around the collar of his jacket. Logan stepping into his space, a forearm shoving Frank hard as he pins him against the post.

“I’ve had enough of your bullshit, bub.”

Fights are common in Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children, but you can’t say you’ve ever experienced one. Fear licks inside you, meeting Dopinder’s equally worried gaze as he starts to rush over.

Frank’s smile is dark, “You don’t want to start this.”

It’s met with a growl. Silver points peeking between the dips of Logan’s knuckles, the fabric straining in his tight grip.

“Fucking try me, you piece of shit.”

There’s a metallic click - the press of something cold against Logan’s groin. 

“Should shoot your dick off for that.” 

“Okay!” You shove between them, then. A hand on Logan’s arm, tugging - the other at his neck, trying to guide him back to you. 

“Hey. It’s okay,” It’s softer now, soothing, “Baby, let’s go.”

His hazel eyes are wild when they find yours. Face twisted in a snarl, deepened with the shadows cast in the dim room. Blinking, as he comes back to himself. A dark look as his arm eases - stepping away.

This time, it’s you that leads him towards the back exit. Something gritted out as you leave that you miss, but sends Logan bristling. An apologetic look thrown at Dopinder, before you’re stepping together through the swinging door, into the wood-paneled hallway. 

Ducking down one of the hallways, next to matching doors leading to bathrooms, and a storage closet. An exit sign, gleaming red at the end. 

The music and voices are muffled. His face silhouetted in the light of a vintage beer sign, his features outlined in gold as his back presses against the wall. A gritted, inhaled breath.

You haven’t seen him like this before. Seen him mad several times. Grouchy and annoyed with Wade. The sharp temper that hid his hurt when he thought you didn’t want him.

None of those moments match him now. You’re not sure what to make of it - the way your skin prickles. Something in your belly flutters, a warmth that drips from behind your ribs, settling low. You never wanted anyone to get hurt. But that look in his eyes, how quick we was to find you - it makes you inhale a breath.

“We-,” You start - your fingers still curled around his bicep, “We should talk about this. You okay, Logan?”

His eyes flick to yours, jaw working. The fury has bled from them, the sharp etches in his face easing, even as his expression stays guarded. 

“Yeah. ‘m fine.” Logan rasps, “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

A beat, before it slips from him, “Was he one of the ones Wade scared away?”

“What?” It takes you a long moment to remember. Your brow pinching, as you shake your head,” Frank? No. It was-”

The pull of his brow is back, his frown deepening with your explanation. 

“It was just casual.” You finish, lamely, “It wasn’t anything. Never was.”

“Didn’t sound that way.” It’s gritted out. 

His head turns, eye contact dropping. A hand, raking through his hair - pushing the dark strands back, “Listen. If you want to go with him, it’s fine.”

You’re left stunned for a moment. His jaw working, hands jamming into his pockets. It’s defensive - it’s familiar. 

“I don’t want to go with him-” You start, but it only makes him sigh. 

“Then what were you gonna say, Sugar?” The look he finally gives you is searching, “I’m your, what-, your neighbor?”

“No!” You cry, “I was going to say you’re my boyfriend, but you’ve never-”

Logan’s pitches low, “I’ve never what?”

Your shoulders droop. Curling around yourself, as you lean into the wall next to him. He leans, matching your height - trying to catch your eyes. 

“I don’t know, Logan.” It’s almost too quiet to hear. He might have, if he had been anyone else. “I told you I liked you the day after meeting you. But you…”

A little shake of your head, “You keep everything so close to your chest. You leave in the night. It’s okay, I just… sometimes I don’t know what to think.”

When his arms cross this time, there’s something in his eyes. A dark glimmer, the tug of his lips.

“You think that I don’t like you, sweetheart?”

A tilt of his head, a sharp edge slipping into his tone, “You think I wasn’t ready to tear that asshole limb from limb for talking to my girl that way?”

Something low in your belly twists, desire thrumming in an echo that radiates through you. A sharp inhale of breath at his words.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” You manage, transfixed.

It’s easier, this time, for him to step into you. Hands ghosting along your neck. Tipping your face to his, so you can’t look away. Can’t miss what he tells you.

“If-, if I open up.” It comes out hushed, his words soft and low, “You won’t like what you see, Sugar.” 

You reach for him - fingers curling around his wrists, “I like what I see just fine.”

He huffs. The barest hint of a smile, before his expression goes solemn. 

“This,” The word is punctuated by the way his thumb sweeps against your cheek, “Never goes well for me. Sleeping on the couch puts me between you and anything coming through that door.”

Your pulse races with the remorse in his words. He’s touched on the barest of details of his past. Those small moments shared in the night you met, riddled confessions in the late nights that have followed. 

“And the things I dream about-,” His eyes go hazy - lost in a memory, “They pull me back. I don’t want to hurt you because I can’t tell them from reality.”

The words slip from you automatically, without thought. Guilt floods through you, an ache from wondering - doubting. 

“You won’t hurt me.” 

“I will.” He breathes, “Sweetheart, I will. It’s not an if, it’s a when.”

Your head shakes - a stubborn set of your jaw, “You won’t. Please don’t shut me out, Logan. Please try…”

He huffs - eyes dropping to your mouth, as he leans. Hands slipping to cup your head, angle you to meet the press of his lips. A soft sigh that you swallow, something tender in the way he draws you to him. A hand curling around your back, splaying between your shoulder blades.

“Give me some time, okay?” Logan murmurs, when the kiss breaks, “Let me draw out the first good thing I’ve had in a long time. Just for a little longer.”

“Don’t have to draw it out.” Your body still curves to his, anchoring yourself to him. A hand touching his jaw so this time, his eyes have to stay on you.

“You deserve good things, Logan.” Your mouth brushes his, “Let me give them to you.”

The sound he makes is almost wounded, as if he wants to protest. 

As if he wants to believe you.

Breath ragged, as his hands trace down to grip at your hips. Leaning into you, your touch. What you offer him. A thigh fitting between yours, nudging against your core - and you think surely he must see how your eyes darken.

The rapid flutter of your heart, how it races for him and only him.

“Yeah?” He husks, as if reading your mind, “You ready to get out of here, Sugar?”

“Bathroom.” You breathe.

“Can’t wait that long.”

He’s on you the second the door swings shut. Fingers twisting at the lock, as his head dips - mouth finding yours again.

There’s a desperation to his kiss this time. One that you match with the way your palms trace up his chest. Fingertips at his neck, tugging him to meet you.

A thrill shoots up your spine. You’ve never done anything quite like this before. The space behind your ribs is soft and tender from his confession - already breathless before he deepens the kiss.

Backing you up against the old, chipped vanity that lines the wall. The stalls hanging open - empty as his hands trail down your spine. Fitting beneath the curve of your ass, tugging you up to fit on the counter. 

Finding your jaw again - guiding your lips to his, meeting the sweep of your tongue as he fits between your thighs. 

“Been wanting to get my hands on you all night.” He breathes, against your lips, “So fucking pretty, you know that?”

It sends a pulse through you, down to where you’re already responding to his touch. Your knees close around his hips, urging him closer. 

“Logan, please,” You hum, fingers tugging at his belt buckle. A palm pressing against the front of his jeans, where his cock strains against the denim. 

His moan is ragged, bucking into your touch. Fingers tracing up your waist. Letting your tits fill his palm, as you work him free.

“This okay?” Logan rasps, eyes half-lidded, “Pretty fuckin’ filthy, sweetheart.”

It’s hard to hold back a moan of assent, when his lips presses against your neck. Open-mouthed kisses up the column of your throat, the scrape of teeth pressing into your jugular.

“Good,” He growls against your skin, “Would’ve bent you over that fucking bar if you’d let me.”

It’s possessive. It makes you shiver - a sweep of his tongue, the suck of lips as he marks you. The sharp sting of his bite fading into sweet bliss. 

“Need you.” Your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking. The lightest of tugs to bring him closer, your thighs inching further apart.

He groans, “You have me.”

The pretty dress you wear is pushed up to your waist. His palm cupping you, feeling your warmth before he’s tugging the fabric of your panties to the side. 

Need rushes through you. A heave of your chest against his as your mouth meets his, greedy. A tilt of your hips, a leg lifting to hitch around his waist. Your hand curling around the edge of the counter, the other guiding the tip of his cock against your slick folds.

“Hold on, honey.” Logan’s fingers slip against your pussy, nudging inside, “Gonna be sore.”

“I can take it,” You insist, pleading, “I can take you, wanna feel it.”

His eyes darken. A little inhale of breath, watching as your lips part as two fingers press deep. Your teeth already sink into your bottom lip, muffling a whine.

Slipping them free, after crooking inside you. Wrapping his hand around his cock, a rough stroke to smear your slick around him. Lining the tip up with your opening, as his hands fit against your waist. His hips pressed snugly against the chipped counter, as he begins to tug you to meet him. 

You can feel every inch, as he moves you. He splits you open, your shoulders arching against the dirty mirror as your nails bite into the laminate. A hand pressed against his chest, as you urge him to go slow. 

A held breath coming in a rush, as he slips deeper inside you with a grunt. Filling that ache you’ve been carrying - your eyes dropping down to watch the slick shine of his cock. Sinking into you with the slow saw of his hips, a clink of his belt with movement. 

“Just for me, yeah?” He rasps, a hand drifting down. Fingers splitting where he fills you, drawing slick tips up to circle your clit.

“Just you.” You nod, breathless. Rocking into his touch, taking more as you adjust to the weight of him inside you. 

His teeth flash white, in the dim room.

“That’s my girl.”

The moan you’ve been holding back slips from you, as you clench down hard around him.

He hums, “You like that?”

“Yes.” You whine. Reaching for him, as he tugs you closer. The slow plunge of his hips turning into a shallow grind.

Fingers circling and pressing, in rhythm with the heady drag of his cock against your walls. Your fingers grasping onto his arms, his shoulders - the kiss is messy when he meets the tilt of your head. 

Leaning into you as his tongue licks into the cup of your mouth, your tits pressed up against his chest. A broad hand slipping from your waist, curving against the swell of your ass and squeezing.

“That’s it,” He rumbles against your mouth - eyes half-lidded. A groan when you nip his lower lip - grinning at the way you gasp, when his hips surge forward, “Atta girl, taking me so well.”

Each swipe against your clit feels like a countdown - hips angling until he finds that spot inside you that makes your teeth click together. That slickens him up even further, until he’s pounding into your wet, tight heat. 

Your fingers pinch down. Breath going short, until you’re panting. Unable to do more than buck into his touch, as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you.

“Couldn’t even wait to get home,” Logan growls, “Needed this cock so badly, didn’t you?”

“Needed you,” You whine, hips rocking to meet his. Eyes fluttering shut, as the winding pressure builds, “Fuck, needed you. Gonna make me-”

The words break on a bitten-back whimper. Your muscles go stiff, bracing yourself in his arms. 

“Want you to look at me, sweetheart.” He coos, with that steady roll of his hips. Nudging deep inside you each time, as his fingers circle against your clit, “Eyes on me when you come, alright?”

Your answer is a breathless nod, as you listen. 

You don’t think you could look away if you tried. Not with him right in front of you. So close you can see the pull of his brow in concentration, the pretty shade of his eyes. 

Fixed on you, as his lips part. The soft pant and grunt as desire throbs in your veins, your fingers curling into a fist in his flannel.

“Come for me, baby.” He urges, “Wanna feel you, let me fucking feel you come.”

It’s there, swirling inside you. Liquid heat between your thighs, yanking you to an invisible edge. Leaving you to dangle, breath held -

“Oh my god, Logan-“

You’re falling - clenching down hard around him. His name is a chanted prayer as he fucks you through it - a ragged, pleased sound rumbling in this throat as you pulse around his cock. The slap of his hips growing louder, more wet as your release coats his cock. His base and balls sticky, when they press flush to your cunt.

“That’s it,” He growls. Fingers leaving your clit, so he can grip your waist. Drive into you harder, chasing his own impending release.

“Come on, that’s my girl.”

It’s pulled from you, sweet and smooth.

“Yours.”

Logan’s moan is ragged, coming from low in his chest. His pace stutters - the steady thrust turning sloppy. A messy rut of his hips, grinding himself as deep as he can before he finds himself again. 

You forget the dingy bar. The flickering overhead lights. Filth and phone numbers scrawled on the walls. Everything narrows down to him.

How he holds you. Looks at you -  so much said in the way they soften. You don’t know how you ever could have doubted. 

Blinded with uncertainty. Fears from before, that will no longer have a hold on you. 

“Logan,” You sigh, your heel digging into the curve of his ass. Eyes still on his, as your plea slips from you, “Fuck. Don’t pull out.”

You want to feel him. The throb of his cock when he comes deep inside you. How he lingers, slick and dripping from you - now, and later, and tomorrow. 

A gritted-out groan, as the sharp tempo increases. Fingers pinching hard enough to bruise, and you’ll wear him there, too - fading marks against your hips. 

“Yeah?” Logan husks - that look back in his eyes. Pupils blown wide, as his lips part with a groan, “Gonna be my good girl, gonna fucking take it?”

“Mhm,” It pitches high, as you nod. 

“Fuck.”

It comes out choked, as he loses himself in you. One, two, three thrusts, and Logan is growling - hands slipping down to tug you flush against him, as he spills inside you with a muffled shout. 

Hips grinding himself deep into you, his words a rough rasp in your ear, “Take it. Just like that.”

He pulses inside you, filling you with each twitch of his cock. Marking you fully, as he tests his teeth against your shoulder. A moan, as your thighs hitch around his hips - nudging him deep, where you’re wet and warm and wrapped around him.

Leaving him to grind every last drop into you, slumping back when his grip finally loosens. Your limbs feel like liquid lead, head tipped back against the glass. A groan muffled against your neck, as your fingers slip beneath the tugged-open flannel.

Nails scratching along his back, the tight muscles beneath easing.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Logan hums when he finally leans back - and you already miss his hands on you, as they shift to brace against the counter.

It feels cruel that he teases you like this. When you swear you can still feel the throb of his cock inside you. When he’s still sheathed to the hilt.

You groan, “Don’t make fun of me, Logan.”

“‘m not sweetheart,” He huffs, eyes going soft.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be.”

There’s something off about your apartment - he can sense it the moment they make it to the landing. 

This is exactly what he had been trying to tell you. The when, not if, something will go wrong. His senses flickering into overdrive, nostrils flaring. 

Catching the light that creeps from under the door, when he knows you clicked it off. His hand automatically leaves yours, reaching out to tuck you safely behind him.

“Logan?” There’s confusion in your voice, a hand at his shoulder.

He shushes you, his words a low growl.

“Someone’s in your apartment. Stay here, sweetheart.”

There’s the soft snick of his claws, your fingers untwisting from his shirt. A breath, and then his hand is closing around the knob - a sharp jerk of his fist as his shoulder slams into the wood.

Teeth bared, as he bursts into your apartment with a snarl. 

All that fury bleeds to relief, and then disappointment.

“How’d you get in here?” Logan grits, his claws sheathing. 

Your voice joins his, from where you had peeked around the doorframe, “You okay, Wade?”

Hazy, morose eyes peer back at him - a hand lifting to wiggle “baby knife” at him. A newly-opened bottle of your cooking sherry in the other - a plate balanced on his chest, filled with a half-eaten chicken breast and vegetables. Legs stretched out on your sofa, Dogpool curled between his ankles. 

“She didn’t show,” Wade mutters, with a miserable smile, “Didn’t want to be alone.”

Logan can’t help the soft flicker in his chest when you go to him. Sinking to your knees by the couch - moving the plate to the coffee table, lifting Dogpool into your arms. She licks your chin as Wade lets loose a long, drawn-out sigh - flipping to face the back of the couch. 

"What was the point of the first two movies?" The words are muffled into the fabric, "Why would Disney do something like this? We were picking out baby names for fuck’s sake-"

“I’m so sorry,” You soothe - a hand on his back, “What can I do to help? Can I get you anything?”

Wade’s head turns to the side, with a long sigh.

“Thor’s phone number.”

“How about I take this,” You tug at the bottle, until it loosens, “And I text Peter? We can have a movie night, okay?”

He turns further, until he’s facing you again, “Even that one you hate?”

"Don’t hate it." You sigh, “It’s just so sad. I don’t know why it’s your favorite.”

“It’s not my fault they made that tree star look so goddamn delicious.”

You’re beckoning Logan over, a gesture to take his place. You hand on his arm, beseeching - but you don’t have to beg this time. The snarling dog inside him calmed - the fury from the bar and from the hallway ebbing at your touch. He can still feel your lips against his, when his eyes close.

The uncomfortable itch of opening up oneself still lingers, but it’s soothed by the way you smile at him in thanks. By the words that he still clings to.  

Logan has to fold himself into the space, knees folding. Mary Puppins tucked in the crook of his elbow - his other hand patting against a curved-in shoulder. 

Sincerity, as he offers, "Tough luck, bub.”

“It’s her loss.” You call, thumbs tapping away a message. 

“Her loss.” Logan echos, “You’re… you’re a good man, Wade. It’ll work out.”

It comes out clumsy. It always does - he never had a silver tongue like the Professor did. His edges as sharp as his claws, never one to waste words if his fist could do the job. 

Wade flips back over. The hint of a smile, “That’s the second nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Before his eyes are flicking over to where you pace, voice lowering.

“And I gotta ask, did you maul Sugar? What is with that mark on her neck?”

Logan huffs, lips twitching.  

“We’re all set,” You smile, “Your Emotional Support Peter is on his way. He’s bringing Al and some ice cream.”

A glance his way, the question written so plainly in your eyes - the lift of your brow. “That okay?”

It’s not the way he imagined this night going.

Had thought he’d take you to bed when he got back. Take things slower, this time.

Using his touch and the greedy press of his mouth to make sure you understand that he heard every word you told him. That he meant each one he said back - make sure you never made the mistake of thinking he didn’t care for you again.

But when he looks at you - how you’re ready to sweep into the kitchen to make some popcorn, he thinks-

That he might just prefer this. Even as messy as it is. 

He smiles back. 

The couch is crammed with far too many people. Five squeezing into a space meant for three at best. You’ve been half perched on his lap all night, his arm slung over your shoulder - tempted to pull you the rest of the way.

A couple months ago, his skin would have crawled to be this close to others. Would have peeled himself away with a scathing word and a sharper bite.  

But something softened him, during his time in this world. Days, to weeks, to months. 

Couldn’t go back, he knows that now. All the wishing and TVA TemPads couldn’t undo what was done - he’s known that for a while. It would take a long time, but he could try to come to terms with what happened. Try to do better, moving forward.

Starting with himself. A scrap of paper - snatched from a bottom of a flier with a brightly-printed 12-step program, shoved deep into his leather jacket pocket. Relearning how to be patient with others, and even more so with himself. Trying to listen what you and Wade told him.

He’s done walking away from things. You make him believe that whenever, if ever, he manages to open that tightly-sealed lid… you’ll stay.

The thought is one that he'll cling to.

“Alright. Enough bullshit.”  

It’s announced, as the credits roll - breaking him out of his thoughts. A creak of the couch as Wade shifts - crammed between you and Al, his head twisting on her shoulder to peer over his way. 

“‘m being serious now.” He insists, though the words slur together - the bottle stolen back during the movie and drained, “I’m so happy my two besties are falling in love, even if I am a jealous little bitch.”

A gasp, as he remembers - a reaching over to pat Peter’s shoulder, “Not that I’m forgetting about you, sugar bear. You too, Blind Al. I’d be just as happy if you two were dating. It'd be like a less fucked-up Harold and Maude."

A derisive snort from Al. 

Peter smiles, “Just happy to be here, pal.”

“Anyways, life sucks balls. Big, fat, sloppy, wet, balls, but goddamn if seeing you two happy doesn’t fill me with hope.”

Logan can hear the hitch in your breath. The pressure of your fingers, entwined with his. Embarrassment flickering across your face, when you are unable to help glancing his way. 

Exasperation and something else mixing in when you meet his gaze. Something soft and tender and directed so solely at him, that for a moment - he forgets to breathe.

Falling in love, huh?

Yeah. He might just be. 

a/n: i adore frank castle, haha. i thought he would be a fun person to pull in for a jealous!logan scenario - and thank so from the bottom of my heart for all the love on sugar, sugar - I honestly had no idea so many of you would like it, and I can’t tell you how much it means to read your sweet asks and comments 💖 this is all I have planned for them right now, thank you for letting me share this series with you!!! (though I am definitely not done writing for logan!)

[dvchvnde]

Your grogginess lingers in the days after. A side effect of the painkillers, he says, but when you check—tucking the pill against your inner cheek when he leaves to go fetch something from the kitchen—it's just Tylenol. Prescription, of course. Extra strength with codeine. It shouldn't make you feel this sluggish, this out of it. 

Exhaustion clings to you like a second skin. One that doesn't quite fit; tight, constricting—an artificial veneer that leaves you feeling itchy and uncomfortable where it rubs into your flesh. Sinking anchored hooks into your consciousness that tug you down into a permanent state of hypnagogia. Suspended in a constant fever dream. 

Threads of fatigue weave through each eyelash until keeping them open becomes an arduous task. It's easier when you just give in—

“Need tae rest,” Johnny says when you tell him about it. About how much it worries you. “Ye’ve been injured, doe. Need tae sleep an’ heal.” 

Adds: trauma, maybe, when your skepticism shows over dinner of caribou burgers, rice pilaf, and more bannock. The way he says the word—so nonchalant for all its ugliness, cruelty—nudges inside your chest, and you waver. Flickering toward the striped scar on his temple. He'd know, wouldn't he?

Still. 

The unsettled feeling in the pit of your stomach lingers, mouldering inside of you. Festering. Fed by the stretch of days that bleed into each other; of waking up to the same sequence, a new routine, over and over again without any escape. 

This new perspective hurts. Aches. But you adapt—change shape—until your days are spent languishing away in bed reading the books he gives to you, or listening to him putter around the house like a restive bird searching for an escape. 

This cabin is too small for his wings, it seems.

But despite having a stranger impede in his space, Johnny cares for you with an intensity that makes you feel smothered. Claustrophobic. He tends to everything, rarely letting you lift a finger. 

The embarrassment of that, of it all, fades at the end of the first week when he puts you in the tub, and slowly washes away the grime from your skin with a tender touch and eyes that bleed sin. 

(“Ah’ll take care’a ye,” he rasps, voice thick in his throat. “Donnae worry about a thing, doe.”)

It's fine, you think. It's fine in the daytime—

Your nights, however, are awash in seafoam. 

Clips, snippets; disjointed and broken. They flicker past like scenes of a movie you're unfamiliar with but never linger. Never stay long enough for you to find some form of comfort within the hazy silhouettes. 

Moments of waking up on a bed with a hand on your forehead, murmuring to you. Words eliding together in the slurry of your mind, incompressible. Unknowable. A warmth against your skin. A rough hand on your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheek. 

The most jarring are the ones that come late at night when you remember the phantom weight of something slung over your waist, knotted tight between your breasts. Scorching heat glued to your spine. 

You think he's been crawling in bed with you. The thought alone makes you want to sob—

“Pretty wife ah go’ fer ma’self.”

Morning comes, and the worry from the night before is dissolved into an uneasy pinch in your guts. He’s normal—intense, dizzyingly so—but. Just a man. An odd one with a white, jagged grin. All teeth. Charming, you know. The sort of thing you'd fall for back home in a bar. Boyish. Simple. 

But he's—

Strange. 

Touches you a lot. Fingers tucked in the crease of your elbow, hand on your shoulder. Your knee. It moves higher up, planting itself on your thigh. Much too high to be appropriate. To be anything else outside of—

Well. 

No. 

You can't think about that. Not when your safety is tucked between those even, white teeth. With a broken ankle, negligible survival skills, and no sense of direction—

Thinking about that will crush you down to fine powder. 

You bury it around an unease smile. Polite and distant and edging slightly in hysteria when he leans down, eyes burning, burning, and murmurs something under his breath about his little doe. All his. 

(wife—)

It's a mistake. His accent is thick. You've misheard what he said. Don't panic. Don't scream. Don't offend him. He's nice. Nice, nice, nice. Just a nice man in the middle of nowhere who has a scar on his temple that looks like a shooting star, and madness in the back of his eyes that blooms when you catch him staring at you. Always. Like he can't bear to tear his gaze away. 

He's a puppy. A dog. A good fucking boy. Stop being so crazy—

He brings you bread with fresh, homemade jam. Blueberries that grow along his property line. Juice. Water. He sits in the chair beside the bed and eats with you, tells you stories of his life back home. Scotland. Where he played football (an’ no’ tha’ shite ye call soccer) with his friends when he was home from deployment. An avid runner. He'd pace the streets of Edinburgh until his belly ached too much to continue. 

Tells you of this place he'd go to after. Eat his body weight in eggs, hash. 

His life feels like an improbable adventure sometimes. Deepening into dangerous territory when he admits, at your gentle prodding, that he was in the military. Secret sect. A taskforce. 

(“Need’tae know,” he wags his finger at you, a toothy grin tugging on the corner of his mouth. “Or ah’d ‘ave tae kill ye.”

You convince yourself he's joking, and offer a weak chuckle. It tastes of madness in the back of your throat.)

In these moments, there are three elephants in the room with you. So smothered are you by their presence, that thoughts of loneliness dwindle down to nothing. A faded memory haunting the hollow of your throat. 

The most obvious one is the mangled scar on the side of his face, slashing across his skin like a shooting scar. He touches it sometimes. Fingers pressing tentatively to the lumpy, misshapen mess of pink flesh. 

It's soft most of the time. A tender pat, like he's reminding himself it's still there. 

But sometimes, sometimes, he digs his fingers in so hard, they turn white. Like he's trying to chisel through flesh to scoop out everything inside. These moments are usually accompanied by bad days. Ones where he disappears outside for hours on end, only slinking back inside when the sky turns black. Haggard, knuckles pulpy mess of red. 

Or when he stays inside, despondent. Solemn. He stares at the wall without blinking. It takes him a long time to respond, as if the words are stuck inside his throat. And when he does, they're stilted and hollow. Monosyllabic. A broken amalgamation of incomprehensible colloquialisms and shattered English. 

When you ask what he said, he gives you a strange look. Like you're the one speaking in tongues. 

“Ahm jus’—” he makes a vague motion, and says nothing else. 

The pity is intense. You ache for this odd, broken man. To suffer so much—

It draws your attention to the second elephant. The one who pushes back into the corners, trying to hide. This growing thing that crackles in the air between you. Unfathomable. Intense. You're not sure what it is, or why it's here. It feels intimidating. Infinite. 

It crawls into your lap in the dark, this twisted, hideous babe, seeking comfort from the person who viciously pushes it away. A dog coming back to lick the hand that hurts it because it knows no better. Bad dog. Good boy. The wires cross, spark. 

What else do you do when pain and comfort come from the same hand? It whimpers this question out as it cries itself to sleep curled up on the lap of a person who refuses to touch it back. Cold comfort. 

You think of baby chimps and mothers with cotton skin and metal bones. 

Loneliness, you find, makes you desperate. It aches, a pulsing wound, spread over the whole of your pericardium. What do you do when the armour that is meant to protect you breaks? Cracks.

You don’t like to think about it too much because this path, this looping trail, leads you right into everything else you refuse to acknowledge. Particularly, the third elephant. 

Or rather—

The fact that the other side of the bed is always warm when you wake up in the morning. 

Johnny tells you he sleeps on the couch. 

Sometimes, when you press your face into the pillow, you can catch the lingering scent of pine, cloudberry. 

(You fold it up into a square, and shove it between the metal bars of your mother's ribs.)

[delicious-in-imagines]

Hello!! Could I request some nsfw headcanons for Kabru and Mithrun?

Of course, love! Requests are OPEN!

NSFW will be below the cut! Spoilers for Mithrun!

Kabru of Utaya

This man is going to eat you alive. I said it before, and I'll say it until I'm blue in the face - there is nothing that is going to escape his notice. Every single weakness is going to be carefully catalogued until he knows just how to take you apart bit by bit.

This is a man who lives on his knees. He'll usually start by slowly disrobing you, turning each shed layer into an act of devotion. The languid way he trails his lips up your skin, inch by inch revealed and scorch with the warmth of each kiss that he gives. There will be no hiding from him, settling his hands on your hips as he rests his head along your knee, staring up at you with lidded eyes and a knowing smile.

He doesn't really do quickies - I'd say the opposite, slowies, even. With lips and tongue and teeth, prying and pulling with the calloused surfaces of his hands, he'll tear you apart to the very core. I see him as someone who loves to indulge in overstimulation, taking and taking as much as you'll give, until you're begging for mercy at his wicked tongue.

He gives as good as he takes, so if you want to take the reigns to give him a taste of his medicine, he's more than willing to lie back and allow you to have your wicked way with him. His face and chest will flush as you chart your own path across the smattering of scars and blemishes across the dusk of his skin.

His eyes will flutter shut, lips parted in soft moans with every sensitive spot that you discover and ruthlessly tease, paying him back for the same behavior. He'll grit his teeth with his brow furrowed the closer and closer he gets, until his body draws taut, crying out your name - though it's drowned out by the sounds of the bar above his room.

Mithrun of the House of Kerensil

As each new desire begins to slowly but surely take root and unfurl, those inklings of his past self begin to filter through - as well as echoes of the man he once was. To put it short, he is a possessive lover. He wants everything that you're willing to give and more, you've stuck with him so far. A lot of feelings from the past were consumed, shame being among them. He's indulging these new desires as they crop up, and pairing those two together... he doesn't care where the two of you are.

He's absolutely the person to pull you just around the corner for a quickie, grappling at your heated flesh and sinking into you with lips and teeth anchored at your neck and shoulders. There is not an ounce of shame in his body, and when you're done, he'll spare a moment to make you look presentable - though he looks completely unbothered by your barely private tryst.

He loves to have you on your knees, lavishing his skin in attention and praise, threading his fingers through your hair and looking down at you as you service him. He's a stoic man, even in these situations - to the point you may think that he isn't enjoying himself. His pleasure shows, it doesn't tell - in the way his brow furrows, biting at his lips, and staring down at you through lidded eyes. He doesn't moan or gasp, and it's only the slight hitch or heave in his breath that tells you just how much he's enjoying your mouth around him.

Any position that he can grab at your body under him is his favorite, being able to bend and twist your limbs while he shares this newfound pleasure with you. I like to think that he doesn't last long when the two of you first become intimate on account of just how long it's been - but he's absolutely going to go as many rounds as his body is willing to give him.

The afterglow is probably the softest point that you'll get him, when the two of you are basking in the remnants of pleasure, and he curls around you. His fingers will play across your skin, indulging in the closeness and brushing gentle, chapped lips across your skin. He'll murmur out nonsense against your skin, and is one of the few times that he'll vocally express his love for you.

[florencemtrash]

Flame, Shadow, Beast : Shadow

Azriel x Reader x Eris

Summary: Years after Eris frees you from his father’s prison, you’ve managed to find a new love, new friends, and build a life for yourself in Autumn. But when a certain Shadowsinger stumbles upon your home, dragging in painful memories of betrayal and longing, you’ll have to face the things you left in the past and make choices about the future you want.

Warnings: Angst (specifically a very angsty Azriel)

Flame, Shadow, Beast: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Azriel gripped his glass so tightly in his fist he wondered if it would shatter. 

Another year gone. Another year without you. Another year where the guilt ate at his stomach and heart so fiercely he wondered if he was hollow on the inside. 

Azriel! WAIT! No! Please, no! AZ! HELP ME!

“Azriel.” Cassian’s voice brought him back to reality, a reality where he sat at an empty booth looking murderous as he tried to drown out the past with his ninth drink of the night.

“Cass.” He said stiffly. His voice was as steady and clear as if he hadn’t drank at all. Cassian could never tell if it was because the alcohol didn’t affect him, or because he was incredible at faking sobriety - either was possible when it came to Az.

“This is the fourth night in a row.”

“You’re perceptive. You should take my job.” Azriel’s voice was so dead and emotionless it frightened him.

“Stop this and come home.” Cassian said, almost begging. 

Azriel grit his teeth and said nothing, downing the rest of his drink and silently gesturing to the bar for another one. When the drink came, Cassian snatched it up first. Maybe the drinks had affected him, because on any other day, Azriel could strike faster than lightning.

“Rhysand has a job for you.” He said, pulling on the small collection of words guaranteed to bring some life to his brother.

Azriel’s spine snapped straight and Cassian flinched at how quickly his brother - brooding and sarcastic as he may be - was replaced by The Shadowsinger. 

“What’s the job?”

Find Bryaxis. Those were the two words that had sent Azriel flying into the night sky and across all of Prythian, chasing after the demon that had eluded them since the end of the war against Hybern.

For over a decade they’d all held their breath when it came to the ancient creature. For over a decade they’d been plagued by more pressing matters than a beast who seemed content to remain hidden and out of mind. Still, Azriel hadn’t forgotten about him. No, he was like a loose thread on a piece of clothing - forever destined to tug and unravel at Azriel’s shortening patience and sanity. 

Nesta had felt something. Something she wasn’t sure of - Bryaxis looming over all of Prythian like a shadow before curling up into a sliver of smoke and disappearing for good. 

They’d written to Elain to see if she had seen anything through her Eye, but she’d also been experiencing blind spots in her vision. The future was always full of events, some malleable and some concrete, but it was more unclear than ever before - like someone had shattered a mirror and she was left to string the pieces back together.

Azriel shook his head, emptying his mind of thoughts of Elain. It would do him no good. Thoughts concerning Elain were painful enough now that she’d left the Night Court… they were made even worse because they always traced their way back to you. Like how rivers must always find their way back to the sea, Azriel found himself drawn back to memories of you, so bright and full of heat they blinded and burned him. Your smile, your laugh, the grim determination on your face as you stared him down during sparring matches. You’d been his anchor without him even knowing it. 

And now you were gone. And it was all his fault.

Stupid, stupid fool. He hissed at himself.

Threads of information concerning Bryaxis were sparse and limited, but Azriel chased after them all, finding himself deep within the gleaming workshops of Dawn, the silent and cherished libraries of Day, and the sea-whipped bellies of Summer Court ships before finally tracing Bryaxis to the Autumn Court.

This has to be handled delicately. It is imperative that no one discovers you. 

Azriel saw Rhysand’s familiar graceful penmanship, read the words, and immediately crushed the note in his hand, casting it into the dying fire. The paper folded and crumpled from the heat before turning to ash.

He huddled down in the mountains that crossed the line between Winter and Autumn, grateful to be free from the cutting winds. Beyond the frozen lake were rolling hills of bejeweled forest. He wouldn’t risk flying now. From here he’d travel through shadows and by foot, getting as close to the Forest House as he dared.

If his intuition was right (and it so often was), if Eris knew Bryaxis was within the borders of his court, he would keep him close. Close enough to monitor, close enough to kill if need be. But what The High Lord of Autumn would want with Bryaxis, Azriel had no idea.

With the issue of succession dealt with and Eris planted on the High Lord’s seat, there came less and less of a need to continue relations between Autumn and Night, at least between Autumn and the Court of Dreams. After the war and until a month ago, nearly all of Eris’s dealings had been with Keir and the Court of Nightmares. Rhysand wanted to change that, and that meant if Azriel wanted to search for Bryaxis in Autumn, he would have to do it in secret. Eris would sooner pluck out his eyes than let any member of the Inner Circle scour his lands voluntarily.

Azriel traveled from town to town, inching ever closer to the Forest House, which curled up beneath the earth like a sleeping giant. That was the issue with the Forest House - hardly anyone knew the size of it, and that meant Azriel could be walking above a watchguard stronghold and not realize until it was too late. 

Something stirred within him when he reached one of the Forest House border towns. Everywhere people seemed brighter, livelier than when Beron had been alive, but this place… this place was filled with an uncharacteristic casualness and joy. The marketplace bustled with activity even in the early morning. Plump fruits, freshly baked bread, and sticky treacle candies wrapped in wax paper were laid out with care on hand-built carts decorated with golden chrysanthemums and sunflowers. 

You would have loved this place.

No. This wasn’t what he’d come for. He’d come to distract himself with work and to find Bryaxis.

Azriel slipped up the trees and settled in between two arching branches, straining his ears to hear the talk that went on below. His shadows slithered out to gather information his senses couldn’t reach.

“Faula’s with child, can you imagine! After so-”

“Thirty?! Why, how could you charge so much! The High Lo-”

“Four dozen eggs, two pounds of flour, six slabs of butter, and-”

“Will Our Lady be coming?” 

Azriel’s ears pricked up, blocking out the hushed conversation that went on around the pair of females who sat on milk crates and peeled apples under the cover of a thatched roof. The crisp sound of a knife sliding between fruit and peel followed by the thunk of a cored apple dropping into a barrel was a soft rhythm to Azriel’s ears.

“To ours?! Good gods, Rebessa, to think that she’d spend the harvest here.”

“She lives close by. It’s not as though we’re strangers to her and she’s wonderfully kind!”

“I hear she’s been invited elsewhere.”

The female gasped, her hand flying up to her mouth. “Elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere.” 

“Do you think he’ll-”

“Shhhhh. You mustn’t say anything. I’m not even supposed to know.” 

“Well how’d you find out?”

“Syndra says he’s been visiting jewelers and carpenters every week. He could be preparing a new room… or a bridal chest.”

“About time! And will he be going with her?”

“He follows wherever Our Lady goes.”

“Shame. He was unnerving, but welcome. Haven’t lost a sheep or hen in ages.” 

They continued on, whispering between their bowed heads of matching ruby-colored hair. Autumn Court members were crafty and secretive by nature, an unfortunate byproduct of existing beneath the thumbs of one brutal and cunning High Lord after another. But it would seem their tongues had loosened in the years since Eris had come into his power.

Our Lady. 

Elsewhere. 

He.

Azriel rolled the words around in his mind like a rough-cut stone in a tumbler, then set off to find the “he” who followed this Lady wherever she went.

As he slipped through the village, searching for a home that would be fit enough for a Lady of Autumn, there were two things he noticed. First, the stirring in his chest had grown stronger, like the pulling of the sea as it went out with the tide or the beating of a firefly’s wings against glass. Second, for a town of this size, even one that lay so close to the Forest House, there were only a handful of guards left to trot around atop their horses and an additional handful that patrolled the paths to the fields on foot. Whoever this Lady was, she offered them enough protection and power that Eris would willingly leave it vulnerable - at least in appearance.

Azriel’s nerves sparked with interest, his heart thrumming with the adrenaline that came with staying hidden. It was like a game of sorts. A game of how far he could go, how deep into a court could he burrow, how many secrets he could steal from tight lips without getting caught. 

When he came across the cottage beyond the borders of town, nothing but the faint trail made by footsteps and horse hooves hinting at its existence through the break in the treeline, he was unimpressed. No wave of power rushed over him. No hunting dogs or other monsters were posted at the door. The only thing that strengthened, and had continued to strengthen as he neared this place, was that fluttering tightness in his chest. 

He couldn’t tell if it was his instincts on edge or a bad omen of what was to come. 

There was a flat, empty stretch of land from the treeline to the front door. He called upon his shadows, drawing his power over himself to hide as he slinked across the grass soundlessly. His feet knew where to step, his lungs knew when to take breath, until suddenly he was at the side door. A peek in through the window confirmed his suspicions. 

There was no one here. 

He pressed his fingertips to the walls of the house, feeling the magic splinter outward like a ripple on a still lake. It was an unassuming, but powerful spell that wrapped around the house like a second skin. But Azriel was craftier than that, poking for weak spots in the magic and finding an opening in the chimney. 

He broke through the veil of magic, slipped into the darkness, and emerged on the other side inside the house. 

It was the smell that dropped him to his knees, the scent of witch hazel, rosemary oil, and oranges, clean and bright and warm all at the same time. 

It smelled like you. 

All thoughts of his mission and staying hidden at all costs were wiped from his mind. Now he searched for you.

He walked as if in a trance, finding pieces of you everywhere. He found you in the half-drunken mug of tea sweetened with honey and lavender syrup on the kitchen counter. He found you in the embroidery on the curtains - dainty flowers and vines used to patch up the holes and scratches with a personal touch. He found you in the fingerprints that stained the outer leaves of the books on the table. 

All these small things spoke a truth he hadn’t dared hope for in over a decade.

You were still alive.

He whirled around, searching the space with desperation for any further signs of you. But the house was empty and still, pieces of furniture missing like you’d been preparing to leave.

You slipped into your house, pressing a finger against your lips in warning to Bryaxis.

Stay silent. 

The monster obeyed, his neck twisting to the side at an unnatural angle as his body grew in size, shadowy flesh warping and stretching until he’d taken the form of a bear. 

Your eyes turned black. Power whispering at the edges of your mind just waiting to be called upon. You flexed your hands, calling your sword from the ether and feeling its familiar weight drop into your palm. 

There was a stranger in your home. A male from the looks of his build and height. He rummaged through the drawers by the door, deft fingers pulling out letters and keys while his other hand gripped his weapon.

You aimed the sword in the center of their back, tracing their spine with your eyes and pressing it against the space between two vertebrae, right at the root of their lungs.

“Drop the sword.” You commanded, pressing harder. The blade sliced through the layers of leather armor with ease. A wrong move, too deep a breath, and you’d slice through their spinal cord and leave them paralyzed on the floor.

Azriel’s heart hammered away in his chest and the feeling there twisted and ate away at him. Turn around. The voice commanded. Look at her.

His hold on his sword went slack, the metal singing before it clattered onto the floor. Without being asked, he unsheathed Truth-Teller, dropped it to the floor and slid the weapon back towards you, holding his breath as your boot stopped the ancient blade in its tracks with a solid thump.

You hadn’t recognized him. How could you? It was unnatural to see him in undyed leather armor and his raven black hair was tucked beneath a matching hood. The rich browns of the amour whispered of Autumn. He must have stolen it shortly after crossing the border into your court. But Truth-Teller? There was no mistaking it.

You grabbed him by the back of his jacket, spun him around, and slammed him against the wall before ripping off the hood with a snarl. The cool touch of your blade against his throat and between the slats of his ribs couldn’t stop what he knew was coming. 

The bond burst to life and burned within his chest, swooping and singing like a bird off a cliffside. It was a breath of fresh air. An answer to all his maddening questions.

“Hello Y/n.” His voice rang out in the house, deep and dark and all too familiar. 

You froze, eyes blowing wide open as you tightened your hold on the knife and sword until your knuckles turned white. 

Aside from the clothes he didn’t look any different from the last time you’d seen him. Same black hair, same hazel eyes that shone a million different colors, same beautiful, sculpted face spoiled by an uncharacteristic look of shock and awe. 

He looked the same as he did on the day he handed you over to Beron. 

You for Elain. 

You in exchange for the female he loved.

The betrayal still stung like salt rubbed into a fresh wound. 

Fury set your blood boiling and you answered its call, drawing back and slamming your fist into the side of his jaw so hard you felt something crack and split.

Azriel fell to the ground, catching himself on one hand as the other flew up to his jaw. 

Dislocated. 

He popped it back into place, wiping his mouth and seeing his hand come away red with blood. 

Azriel’s heart threatened to stop in his chest. His eyes crawled over the sight of you, hungry and desperate for every inch of proof that you stood before him. Your eyes were alight, brighter than any fire the world could set ablaze. Everything about you was wide and full of feeling as you stood above him, 

Inside his chest, the mate bond continued to purr happily, refusing to be silenced.

“Y/n.” He said again. The words fell like a prayer from his lips. “You’re alive.” 

“No thanks to you.” 

Bryaxis growled in agreement from your side, lips pulling back to expose teeth stronger than metal and smooth as porcelain. Azriel’s eyes flickered down to him in surprise before going back to you. 

“Bryaxis. You’re his master now.” A flash of pride warmed his chest. Leave it to you to take control of one of the most dangerous monsters in existence. Cassian would lose his mind when he found out.

Again, the creature growled, this time in disgust.

At the mention of the creature you’d come to consider a worthy friend you snapped out of your stupor and pointed the sword at his chest, just beneath his sternum, pressing down. Any more force and you’d break skin. Angle it upwards and push and you’d reach his heart.

“Y/n, please.” He begged. It was another shock to your system. You’d never heard him beg for anything. 

“What do you want?” The words came out hard and trembling.

“I came to find Bryaxis and bring him back to the Night Court. I… I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” 

“Obviously. And yet you’re in my house. Uninvited, might I add.” There was an edge to your voice that hadn’t been there before, a harder gleam to your eyes despite everything else remaining the same. There were some scars that did not write themselves onto skin.

“I… How did you survive?” 

Your lips tightened and turned pale, “Are you shocked? Disappointed?”

Azriel flinched. Your words may as well have been another blow to his face. The flesh around his jaw was beginning to bruise, shifting from an inflamed red to a mottled purple. 

“No!” Azriel lifted his hands up in surrender. “We searched for you. We searched for you for weeks… You have to believe me.” You searched his eyes for an answer, expecting to be met with his usual unreadable expression. But you found the exact opposite. He seemed… lost. Like he didn’t know what to do with himself. If you didn’t know better you would say the Shadowsinger looked frightened.

“I’m sorry.” he gasped, “For everything.” 

It was too late for apologies. Far too late. You told him as much.

“I know,” Azriel swallowed thickly, “I know.” He said again, quieter this time. Something within him dimmed.

“Bryaxis isn’t coming with you.” You said, breaking the silence and finally taking the pressure of your sword off his chest. Azriel moved back onto his feet as swift and strong as a river. “Now get out.” 

You turned your back to him, shrugging off the uncomfortable feelings that weighed on your shoulders. You’d be happier when he was long gone.

“You can run back to Rhys and tell him you failed.”

“Y/n-” His hand brushed against your arm, willing you to look at him again. And you did. You whirled on him in an instant, shoving him back with the hilt of your sword.

“Don’t touch me.” You growled. He flinched again like he’d been burned. 

“I’m sorry, Y/n. I-” He scrambled for words that wouldn’t come. Anything to hold on to you for a little while longer, “Why didn’t you come back to the Night Court? Why didn’t you come home?”

A stupid question to which he already knew the answer.

“That was never my home and there’s nothing left for me there.”

Azriel shook his head, hair shining like a raven’s wing in flight, “That’s not true.” 

I’m there. He sent his pleas through the bond. I’ve missed you so much. I’ve been waiting for you for years… for my whole life. 

“It is true.”

“And there’s more for you here?” Azriel asked quietly. “You live here on your own, no friends, no family.” 

“I didn’t have friends or family in the Night Court either.” You weren’t going to tell him about Eris or Halvor or the others. He didn’t have any right to that knowledge, “You proved that when you traded me away to Beron.” 

Azriel tipped his head forward, closing his eyes to the feeling of shame that weighed him down.

Azriel! WAIT! No! Please, no! AZ! HELP ME! 

“It was Rhys and I who made the decision. The others didn’t know. Don’t hate them for what we did.” 

Your laugh came out like a sharp bark, “I have a hard time believing that.” 

If the circumstances were different, he might have pulled down the neck of his shirt and shown you the thin scar on his shoulder, courtesy of Nesta stabbing him with a kitchen knife after she’d learned what he’d done. She would have gone for a second attempt if it hadn’t been for Cassian. He’d dragged her away screaming and crying. 

“It’s true. I swear it.” Azriel whispered.

You didn’t say more, didn’t give him the satisfaction of continuing the conversation. His eyes burned into you, moving across your body with a lover’s touch like you were a well and he was looking to drown.

Before you would have melted under his gaze. Before you’d wanted nothing more than to see him look at you this intently. Things had changed.

“I’ll give you an hour to leave these lands. If you’re not long gone by then, I’ll send Bryaxis after you.” 

The creature bristled with excitement, teeth bared in a terrifying smile.

“Y/n-” Azriel begged. “Please. The others-”

“I don’t care about the others.” Your voice cracked and you hated yourself for it. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“I don’t care what you believe or don’t believe.”

“Y/n…” He knew you were serious about your threat and that time was ticking, but he needed to see you again. He needed it like flame needs oxygen. “The others didn’t know…” 

To your surprise he dropped down to one knee in front of you, eyes tilted towards the ground.

“I hate what I did to you. I hate that I hurt you and.. And I know…” He swallowed thickly, “I know I don’t deserve any kindness or forgiveness, but at least let the others see you… Let them visit,” He added after a short pause, “In Autumn, if that’s what you want.”

“Get out, Azriel.” 

To hear you say his name broke the dam on old memories, painful and numerous. Memories of you screaming out for him to help you when Beron’s men strapped the ashwood chains around your wrists and ankles. Screams begging him to take you home. Anywhere other than Autumn. Anywhere other than under Beron’s thumb.

Azriel! WAIT! No! No, no, no, no, no. Please, no! AZ! HELP ME! 

“Please. Consider it.” Azriel murmured. You turned away from him, looking at the engraved clock on the wall. Every tick tock of its hands felt like a death knell. 

“They’ll be glad to know you’re alive and safe… more than you know.” 

You said nothing, heard nothing as he took his things and slipped out of your house. But you felt his absence like a stone in your stomach. It wasn’t until Bryaxis nudged your waist that all the anger, sadness, and longing crashed in around you. You broke down on the floor, and began to sob into Bryaxis’s side.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______

Author's note:

Yeahhhhhh, Azriel fucked up. But I feel like this would be in character for him? He gets fixated on the people in his life that he's able to 'save' (i.e., Mor and Elain) and especially because of the whole '3 sisters for 3 brothers' thing, I think he would be willing to make big sacrifices to save Elain if it came down to it... but perhaps I'm wrong. I would be curious to hear other people's opinions on it.

Anyhow, sorry for the sad and angsty chapter.

Love,

Florence B.

Taglist: @nightless @mmb-09 @thesnugglingduck @cleverzonkwombatsludge @kemillyfreitas @logankemaek @the-sweet-psycho @a-frog-with-a-laptop @flameandshadowx @applerubyy @esposadomd @imma-too-many-fandoms @bubybubsters

[hippolotamus]

Happy (incredibly belated) Birthday to mi amor, @disasterbuckdiaz 💙 thank you for your patience

honey, when you call my name | 12.6k | E (Buddie)

“I was at the bar, Buck.” Eddie’s voice is quieter now, dripping with uncertainty. “I walked in- and I saw the team. Then I saw you. At the pool table. Kissing someone.” Eddie inhales sharply and it feels like the air is being ripped directly from Buck. “And when I saw that I- I had to leave.”

The words play back in Buck’s mind in slow motion as he tries to piece them together. None of it makes any kind of rational sense. Eddie was there? He saw Buck and then had to–

“Did you have sex with her?” Eddie blurts out. 

That is not at all what Buck was expecting. Ever since Shannon died there’s been an unspoken rule between them. A silent pact to never inquire about or interfere with the other’s romantic life. And sure, Buck broke that with Ana, but only because Eddie was having panic attacks. What else was he supposed to do? This is completely different in every way. Because his best friend, man he’s hopelessly in love with, and star of every filthy fantasy, wants to know if anything more happened with a stranger at a bar.

The implication clicks, allowing something bright and hopeful to flicker to life in his chest. A wish Buck never dared let himself believe would be fulfilled. “Would it matter if I did?” 

Buck doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s nostrils flare slightly before he attempts to cover it with a mask of indifference. How he seems to be struggling not to look away again. 

“It’s not like it’s really my business anyway.” Eddie shrugs and begins picking at the label on his drink with his thumbnail. 

The flickering ember of hope draws from Eddie’s reaction, daring to glow the tiniest bit brighter. “I didn’t, you know. Do anything with her, I mean.”

Eddie pauses his fidgeting, just long enough for Buck to notice before starting again. The casual silence that had been there before is anything but now. It feels weightier, the ease replaced with tension and doubt, and Buck starts to wonder if he’s completely misinterpreted the situation.

“Did you want to?”

“No!” If this is going where Buck hopes it’s going he wants to be as clear as he can. He quickly adds, “Not with her.”  

Eddie jerks his head up, staring at Buck with equal parts curiosity and disbelief. It pins him in place, leaving him helpless to do anything but stare back. He doesn’t risk moving, his breathing rapid and shallow, too afraid of severing this potential new thread weaving its way into their well established connection. Another anchor point in their root system, twining them together.

“And if it had been someone else?” Eddie asks.

Not that Buck is the most effective communicator, but he kinda wishes Eddie would just say what he means already. However, he supposes, two can play at that game. “I guess it would depend on who’s asking.”

Eddie hums, shifting to set his bottle down on the counter. It lands with a semi-hollow clink and a gentle slosh as he maintains his hold, tapping one finger on the neck. As if he’s contemplating, trying to sort out a complicated equation. He briefly squeezes his eyelids shut tight, pinching his lips together, something warring within him. With a loud exhale through his nose, his body finally relaxes again and releases his grip, letting both hands rest at his sides. 

There’s something else, too, when Eddie faces forward again. A new aura of confidence rolling off of him in waves. It’s vaguely reminiscent of a different night in this kitchen when their roles were reversed and Eddie stood down, unyielding to whatever the fuck Buck thought he was doing. 

Not now though. 

Now he looks intently at Buck. He sees him. He sees him in a way that makes Buck feel stripped down and exposed. A raw vulnerability that intensifies as Eddie steps towards him, his boots echoing with each heel strike. Another and another until he’s standing in Buck’s space, effectively caging him in. 

Eddie takes the beer from his hand, placing it off to the side. It seems like a hallucination, some sort of wild fever dream. But then Eddie’s fingers are tucked under Buck’s chin, his thumb sweeping across Buck’s bottom lip and making him shiver. Christ it feels so fucking real. Please let it be.  

This close, Buck can make out flecks of green interspersed with warm golden browns. He can smell the oud and lavender cologne Sophia gave him two Christmases ago. Eddie swears up and down it’s not really his style, but Buck knows better. He only had to be tortured by it every time Eddie came home from a date. Maybe it can be his now. A scent from his person. A type of claim letting everyone know he belongs to Eddie. Even if it’s just this one time. 

“And what if I’m asking?” Eddie inquires, low and husky in a way Buck’s never heard from his best friend before.

“Are you?” Buck responds, barely above a whisper.

read the whole thing here

[beanghostprincess]

Okay but that comment about Buggyvand Shanks just.... finding a baby in a treasure chest gave me the silliest, goofiest, saddest idea ever.

On the one hand - the fates align perfectly for that. It just comes full fucking circle with them finding a baby in a chest, so similar to Shanks being found.

But Uta.

If Shanks and Buggy find a baby in a chest together, it'll absolutely go full Oh Ours Now, but Shanks would have this overhanging terror. He failed one child already. With a story so like his daughter's Uta's, will this baby be cursed too? Is it him? Is he the curse? This thread of connection, is that going to be the nail in the coffin of this fate? Is it even alright for him to be happy, to have a child, when he's already failed one so thoroughly?

It would be agony. Therefore I propose two options.

1) Uta and Buggy finding one another very early on in their respective times. Buggy somehow through a series of incredibly unfortunate events winds up on Elgia. She takes one look at Uta, goes "well, I guess I HAVE always had a soft spot for redheads. And this one is only half so it's fine probably" and offers to take her away from there. She gets the story from the child later on, in tiny increments, and it has a big reveal when Uta happens to go to her after a horrific nightmare, just to find her throwing knives at a bounty poster of Shanks. There's panic and tears and questions and suddenly two girls find themselves holding one another and finding solace in someone hurt by the same man's best intentions.

Uta joins Buggy on the down low. When she hits an age where she can feasibly, safely perform, Buggy helps her find her footing, helps facilitate opportunities, and Uta is a star, a singer, and she's so successful and happy. ((And if Buggy had a recording of an interview when Uta first started out, when a reporter asked the split haired girl who her biggest supporters are, when Uta gives a blinding smile and says "I am who I am today thanks to my mom!", well... fuck off and mind your own business))

Marineford goes down, a traumatic experience for everyone. When Buggy got arrested, Uta took a leave of absence from the spotlight, went home, and Cabaji, Mohji, Ritchie, they all were there for her as best they could be. Alvida, too, to an extent, and Uta was surprised because while Alvida was her auntie, she hadn't expected the woman to be such an anchor for her. They get word of an execution, and the crew is docked at a small island for the week for supplies, planning, etc. Uta is in a bar with Alvida, both pouring over maps and eating, when there's a commotion. Someone is setting up a projector Denden, it's chaos, and suddenly Uta can't fucking breathe because that's her mom on the screen, bruised, exhausted, pale, and in colors she'd never be caught dead in, on a battlefield.

She watches the entire streamed events of the war.

She bites back a scream when she sees Luffy, she chokes when he calls Ace his brother. She can't look away, can't miss a single second of it, she isn't there why isn't she there but she's viewing it so if watching is all she can do, then she will do it.

She is knocked breathless when she sees her dad Shanks on screen. When she sees her mom and him fight, when she sees that look in his eye and when did he lose an entire arm?? But that little piece of her that never learned to let go, it uncoiled because if nothing else, if Shanksbwas there, her mom would be safe - traumatized, maybe, hurt without a doubt. But she would live. And Luffy would live. And that's all she could ask and pray for.

Shanks offers Buggy a lift home. Uta is torn between relief and bristling fury, but she decides to be grateful. Buggy agrees, if only because the enemy you know is safer than the one you don't. Uta can read the lies on her tongue as easily as breathing.

Buggy calls them that night.

Uta is in a daze, but Buggy asks her if she's alright if Shanks drops her off. "You don't have to see him," she tells the girl softly, voice hushed, "and he doesn't know. It's on your terms, baby, I just need to know where to tell Limejuice to dock."

Uta's speaking before she can think. "Come to us, mom. I'll be fine. I just need to see you."

And she. She is alright. Part of her aches for could-have-beens, for what-ifs, but therapy has helped, and she isn't that blind little girl anymore. She's strong. She's successful. She's human and hurt and that's alright. But more than anything, she is her mother's daughter and Nothing Will Stop Her. Nothing Would Dare.

The reunion is comical. Shanks is speechless and Uta just arches a brow at him before turning to Buggy, giving a mischievous grin, and loudly calling out, "Mama, I missed you!!"

Redhaired Shanks, Emperor of the Seas, The Man Who Stopped A War With His Arrival, faints flat on his deck. Uta doesn't bother stopping her cackle.

Things are... rocky. Buggy immediately gets fussed over by the medics in their little troupe, then set on a strict order to rest and recuperate. Alvida proceeds to threaten Shanks with further dismemberment if he upsets her sister or niece. Uta flits between helping around on ship, sitting with her mom, and Thinking.

She has some things to say, after all.

Things she goes to tell late one evening about three days after the meet up. Turns out Buggy had already beat her to tearing the redhead a new one the night they all met up and Uta unflinchingly met him face to face. He hears her out. Listens to her ramble and rant and rave. And at the end, he asks if he still had the right to offer her a hug. She barrels into him, and it's different, him having one arm, but he smells the same, squeezes the same, and he feels so safe, even years of heartbreak later. She asks him why.

And he explains.

They work on it, on their relationship. And in doing so, it opens an avenue for him to work on things with Buggy as well. It's new and hard and complicated but it's worth it. It's worth every ounce of effort and then some.

Then one day, on a rare date, Buggy and Shanks happen across this little treasure chest. It's exciting, the adventure fir Shanks, the rltreasure fir Buggy, and they're both so excited, they pop the hinge, flip it open and-

Two big florid eyes blink up at them, pink eyes framed by green lashes, bright emerals wisps of hair on a tiny little head. The baby hiccups softly, a tiny little fist escaping the bundle of blanket, and Buggy is furious. "Who the fuck leaves a BABY in a treasure chest in the fucking WOODS," she's screeching. Then she freezes, worried to scare the infant, but the baby just giggles, little arm waving, and Shanks is staring the child down like a man seeing a ghost. Buggy scoops the baby, pausing at the odd feeling. She moves the blanket, and a soft little oh leaves her mouth. He's missing an arm. He's... oh. That's why.

They bring the baby back to Karai Bari, debating what to do. Buggy is adamant they at least find him a place where his needs will be met. He's too tiny for a prosthetic, not yet, but she's seen too many people be dropped for less. He's innocent. He needs someone to be there and love him and raise him right.

Uta is taken by him, his infectious laugh and curious fingers. "Why not just keep him?"

Buggy and Shanks stare at her, the Seraphs looking up from their blocks, Croc and Hawk glancing up from their books/maps. Theyvstare, a sioent question. And Uta just smiles, shrugs. "I turned out alright. Besides, dad, with mom, Father and Papa around, you're not gonna do anything monumentally stupid this go around. I think I'd like another baby sibling. What do you guys think?"

She holds the baby put towards the little seraphs. Birdie hums softly, shuffling closer. "Brother," he asks softly. Uta nods. "... I am fine with this." He then proceeds to poke the bake's little cheek, earning a giggle and grasping little hand gripping his own. He even smiles.

Angel just hums softly before looking back to the adults. "I... want to keep him." Then he grabs a green crayon, a pink crayons, and goes back to work on his family portrait. "Ours now."

How can they say no to that?

So Shanks and Buggy get their baby, Uta has a family bigger than she ever dreamed of, Crocodile and Mihawk are along for the ride- everyone's happy.

Now baby just needs a name.

This is precious to me. Perfect. The bond between Buggy and Uta always makes me so emotional,, Buggy would be such a great mom to her and Uta finally finding a home after what happened with Shanks is,,, Perfect. But then they meet again and they start a little family with the new baby and,, This is just so well-built, imo. Perfection. Also, Buggy and Shanks getting back together romantically would be great because it's not like there's anything stopping them anymore and Uta keeps saying Buggy deserves better (kind of to tease her dad, but yeah) but she actually is extremely happy about it. Not to mention Crocodile and Mihawk there in the middle of all the drama makes everything better, tbh. That family is HUGE. And both Uta and the baby are extremely protected (not that Uta needs protection because she's a menace to society, but whatever). This is extremely sweet 😭 My girl Uta deserves a family like this and a happy ending.

[powderblueblood]

From your prompt list, for Eddie Munson, If it strikes anything in ya. 🖤🖤

" A woman falls in love with you and you think that's a curse?"

200 CIGARETTES SENTENCE PROMPTS! tripped and fell into hai verse sowwy!!!!!!!!!!!!!

eddie reacts in a way you think should be memorialized in history books, a full pantomime of his flailing hands, his rings catching the low light of the bar, his grimacing face with his tongue sticking out.

"blegh!" and, a lightning quick recovery to point at you directly in your face, "exactly. cursed."

you swirl your straw in your cranberry and whiskey which doesn't taste very much like either. you're helping drunk sam to prop up the bar at the hideout before the new year's rush starts; eddie had begged you to come keep him company, come keep him anchored because apparently shit gets weird here when the veil between this year and the next thins.

"you'll be a terrific anchor. all you have to do is sit there with that sour look on your face--exactly! that one!--and remind me that i'm not having a good time, no matter how many decrepit drunks tell me i am."

anyway, this is confusing. you knit your brow. "but why?"

"expectations!" eddie barks, fwipping a bar towel from his shoulder and grabbing a glass out of the drip tray to dry. "someone falls in love with me, right, and then i've got to like... keep them entertained. keep finding reasons to--..."

he trails off, mouth screwing up a little bit. hold on. hold on. there's something there. you try and reach for the thread before he tugs it out of your grasp. unraveling eddie munson's become an unlikely hobby as of late. he's like a ball of yarn someone let get tangled in a dump, so you keep finding all sorts of weird rocks and sticks and trash and ephemera every time you ask him a real question.

"hold on. what do you mean?"

"what do i mean what?"

"keep them entertained."

he sighs. really stepped in it now, because you're not a just drop it kinda girl, just like he's not a just drop it kinda guy. you two haven't read into that. might be worth cracking out the reading glasses, i don't know.

"i don't know!" eddie shrugs, "i'm-- you get someone to love you, and then you want them to keep doing it, right, so you need to like... it's a lot of pressure!"

"no. shut up," you wave your hand in his direction, "are you seriously trying to say that you think falling in love is a curse because you think you've got to perform a certain way to keep people interested? like no one--" you snort a little, tone going to the mocking zone, "--could ever love you for you?"

he puts his hands on his hips, partaking in your laughter a little too. but it's strained. "i don't need to take this from someone who hid a brain the size of a planetary moon behind a can of aquanet for the better part of her high school career so some haircuts would give her the eye, okay? you know aaaaall about performing."

eddie knows he has you nailed so you throw your straw at him. fucker.

"those come out of my paycheck, jackass."

"sorry for bankrupting you," you say, not done. "but eddie. c'mon."

"i'll come on anything you want me to."

"seriously."

"seriously, i will."

"no-- like, you can't possibly expect me to believe you think you're unlovable." you press your forearms into the bartop (ew, sticky) like level with me here.

eddie flings his bar towel around his neck, tugging at either end hard. "i'unno."

"unlikable, sure, you're the most irritating person i've ever met but--"

"--but i don't have the best track record for getting people to stick around." he lifts his shoulders, like it's nothing, like whatever. he's even smiling. pleading, in a way. drop it, for once.

no. anger bursts under your sternum like a tiny firework.

"so?"

eddie double takes, something like fear or frustration flashing in his dark eyes. they're only made darker by the shitty backlight of the bar. makes him look older, which makes you feel weirder. "so?"

"so none of that was on you." you say. like it's nothing. sipping your drink. "none of that was your fault."

eddie's eyes drop from yours. he stares at the sticky bartop.

"and you're never pretending. at least, i've never seen you pretend."

there is no act of anti-god, no dastardly intervention that will let you stop yourself from speaking. this is what you get for sitting around the hideout at six in the evening on new year's eve.

"you've always been horribly yourself to me and i still... can't stand you." a beat. because you're waiting for eddie to look back up under the glower of his brow. his mouth is kind of a snarl, kind of a smile. "so don't treat it like a curse when it isn't, asshole. don't jump ahead in the story."

don't jump ahead. he says it all the time, talking about dnd, talking about some dumb anecdote, talking about music. don't jump ahead in the story.

he looks at you like, you remembered, and pulls a bottle of no-name brand tequila and two shot glasses from behind him.

you shrug at him like, you're around, and have to get up and do a walking lap of the bar after that shot. disgusting!

[slafkovskys]

why do those birthday bash pictures have me thinking about being friends with the hughes’ and they all love you and jack is a especially find of you. and he probably has a few drinks and he ends up a little off to the side with you, both of you giggling, in your own world. jacks putting his hat on you, then hitting the brim so it covers your eyes, making you laugh. and you can’t see it, but his smile could light up the entire room when he hears the sound of your laugh, knowing he was the one that caused it. and the boys all look over but when they see it’s you two, they smirk and decide to let you be…for now. and ellen and jim give each other knowing looks, wondering how long it will take for their son to do something about his feelings because they’d love to have you be part of their family

you can feel his presence behind you before you see him. his arm curls around your waist and you lean into his chest easily, an automatic reaction as you keep up your conversation with the girl you had met only a few minutes before. the cool can of his beer meets the sliver of skin that was exposed between your shirt and jeans and causes chills to erupt over your skin.

his lips graze over your ear, “come with me?”

you send the girl (amy, you think?) an apologetic smile as you turn your head slightly, “where do you want to go?”

“over there,” he nudges his head in the direction of the only empty corner in the bar and you hum, letting him pull you away without another word. he lifts you up onto the tall bar stool and bullies his way in between your legs, “that’s better.”

“is it?” you question and he hums, playing with a loose thread from one of the holes in your jeans. “what’s going on, j?”

“just over the party,” he admits easily, like he almost always did with you, “want to go home. go to bed. will you come with me?”

you send him a soft smile, pressing your lips to his warm cheek, “it’s your brother’s birthday and we’ve barely been here for a couple of hours. do you think that you can make it at least one more?”

he looks at you and you think you can see the wheels turning in his head before he looks back out to the floor of the bar where a good bit of his friends and family had gathered to celebrate luke’s eighteenth birthday. his hand squeezes your thigh and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, something he did when he was geared up, “for you, yeah.”

“jack,” you grasp his jaw with your hand and gently force him to look at you, “you would tell me if something was wrong, right?”

that seems to spark something in him (or maybe it’s the drinks you’ve seen him and quinn splitting all night finally catching up to him) and it all tumbles out, “we’ve been with my family all day and yeah, i love ‘em, but i’ve only got a few more days at home. i want to be with you… alone.”

the thought crosses your mind to remind him that this was his family after all and you were only you, but you knew jack well enough that when he was in this state he would whine, argue, and pout until you would agree with him, so you just smile at him and tug on his sweatshirt, “well one more hour and it’ll be just us, j.”

“can’t wait,” he attempts to bury his face in your neck, but the brim of his hat stops him, “hate this stupid thing.”

“no one’s making you wear it,” you shake your head. he looks at you with the same look he has when he’s planning something and you watch as he quickly snatches the hat off of his head and it secures it atop yours, knocking down the brim so your view was obstructed. the quick movement causes you to rock in the chair and you squeal, reaching out to grab onto his arms to anchor yourself, “jack!”

he laughs, grabbing at your hips to help steady you. as a courtesy (or maybe to try and prevent a further scolding) he pushes the brim of the hat up and pushes your hair away from your face, “that better?”

“no,” you try to look in the dirty mirror beside you that had some liquor’s logo on it to make yourself look more put together, “you ruined my hair.”

“i hate to break it to you, but it was ruined before i did anything, babe,” you whip your head around so fast and jack’s laughter only grows louder which, unbeknownst to you, had started to draw the attention of the other patrons in the bar, but you were too caught up in each other to notice.

“so, what do they have going on?” one of quinn’s friends asks as he sidles up to the family’s table on the opposite side of the bar. no one had to look and see what was going on, but they did anyway only to find you taking jack’s hat off of your head and placing it in your lap, running a hand through his hair to fix it. jack’s got a soft smile on his lips as you do so, turning his head and pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist as you do so. “they’ve been inseparable all night.”

“you’re guess is as good as ours,” jim sighs. “we’ve been saying for the better part of a year now that maybe they’ll figure it out, but that hasn’t happened yet.”

“he loves her and she loves him, they’re just too young to figure out the logistics of it,” ellen shrugs as she takes a sip of her drink. she shares a look with her husband who gives her a nudge because they already knew as they had said, they were just waiting on jack to figure it out.

quinn smirks, pulling up a list on his phone and flashing it, “we actually have a pool going on for how long it’s going to take them to man up and get together. do you want in? it’s free to enter, but the prize money grows by the day.”

[lonelychicago]

the water filled my lungs, I screamed so loud (but no one heard a thing)

buck/eddie | 6b spec fic | angst | 706 words

"Buck!" Eddie shrieks, yelling at the top of his lungs after watching it all unfold in the nightmare-ridden milliseconds. As he watches Buck fall.

The rainstorm is relentless, making the ladder wet and slippery and despite the ambulance lights and the flashlights from below— Eddie can barely see.

But Buck is hanging from the ladder truck.

Almost 100 feet in the air.

With no helmet.

The loud noise of the thunder is deafening, but still, it drifts away to the thundering of Eddie's own heart beating into his chest, roaring in his ears.

"Buck!" He screams but the blonde is unconscious, he thinks. He's hanging by his harness and dangling in the air— his body motionless.

Still—

Eddie sceams for him.

Usually, Eddie can keep his calm. He can force himself to take a step back and keep control in the midst of a crisis— He's a soldier, he's good at warzones.

But something about the clatter of Buck's helmet against the floor, something about the screams of their teammates below, something about the way Buck was basically hanging by a thread in between life and death.

Eddie loses all semblance of control and doesn't even think—

He just acts on impulse as he sprints up the ladder as fast as he can without slipping— his adrenaline pumping through his veins and kicking in full power.

Eddie is surprised by how fast he's climbing the ladder without stumbling but he doesn't stop. He can't stop.

He keeps going until he reaches Buck and grabs the man's harness, trying to pull him up.

The ladder is too slippery, the rain is too strong and Eddie ends up with his ribs digging against the steps and his arm aching from holding Buck's dead weight.

"Buck! Buck! Wake up!" Eddie screams so loud until his throat feels raw and his voice breaks. "Buck!"

Buck is unresponsive, his eyes are closed and he looks— He looks lifeless. Like every one of Eddie's worst nightmares coming to haunt him.

Eddie grunts and groans and his arms are starting to ache, but he won't give up. He won't! Because Buck never gives up, he's always fighting and pushing forward and after all these years, after all they've been through— The least Eddie can do is fight for Buck until he's able to do it himself.

The least Eddie can do, is save him.

After all the times Buck has saved him— in and out of the job.

“Buck! Come on!” Eddie begs, pleads, prays to anyone who's listening. He begs and prays for them to get out of this one alive. He grunts, as his exhausted body tries to pull Buck up. “Please!"

Eddie's entire body is clenching its muscles as he tries to pull Buck up but everytime he tries, the harness slides down more and more until it's almost slipping through his fingers. The gloves are not making anything easier but it's too late for Eddie to get them out.

Eddie is just shaking because of how fucking terrified he might drop Buck— that he might not be able to save the love of his life. That Eddie might not be strong enough this time.. Buck is heavier than he looks, and Eddie just—

His body is already hurting by the way Buck’s weight is anchoring him down so that the metal bars of the ladder dig painfully and uncomfortably against his ribs and chest.

And then—

He loses the battle.

He lets go.

"Evan!" He screams, almost a guttural and inhuman sound— like his very soul is living his body. Like his heart is falling just alongside Buck.

It is, if he's being honest.

He is powerless as he watches with horror and despair as Buck falls from the ladder and into the cold, hard pavement. As blood starts pooling from his head, the sickest shade of red tainting the street and washing away in seconds with the water.

He watches powerless as Hen and Chim make their very hardest to save Buck after Eddie failed.

He failed.

Guilt and a mix of emotions that are too strong and too overwhelming for him to decipher right now pool inside his stomach until he's dizzy and nauseous.

He failed Buck.

[pompomegranate]

homesick

⇢ miguel o'hara x f!reader

⇢ warnings | angst. casual alcohol consumption. mentions of death and miguel’s past in atsv. descriptions of loneliness, depression, etc. shifts from miguel’s pov to your pov. note that this part is not 18+ but the next part will be. meet cute? but not really? let me know if you want to be tagged in part two – i won’t block minors/blank blogs for interacting with this part one, but will for part two! edit: i’ll be fleshing this out into a longer series. read more about this in the next chapter/on ao3!

⇢ a/n | on the anniversary of the worst day of his life, miguel o’hara meets you. you can tell he’s suffering, so you do your best to comfort him. strangely enough, the loneliest man in the universe opens up to you.

⇢ chapter one | chapter two | ao3

One night per year, Miguel allows himself a break. It’s barely even that.

He eats, sleeps, breathes heroism. It’s embedded in his DNA – but there’s a small part of him (a very, very microscopic part at that) that aches for freedom. Freedom from the burden that comes along with shouldering the weight of the entire universe.

It’s not a holiday, per se. For anyone else, it’s just another day, but for Miguel, it’s the only day that matters. This time, it falls on a Friday – last year, a Monday. A Saturday the year before that.

He doesn’t tell anyone he’s leaving – save for LYLA, the only one who’s even remotely allowed to get close.

…until you.

It's not your fault you happened to be in the right place at the right time on a day like any other. You weren’t expecting to meet anyone.

The drinks slide down easy, the casual conversations even easier, but you want some time to yourself, so you settle in on the balcony, drink in hand.

The setting sun is balmy and warm on your skin. As the night approaches, the city bustles, alive and breathing beneath you.

The balcony is surprisingly calm, quiet. The buzz of the city below drowned out by the smooth beats rattling the thick walls of the bar. it’s loud in there, it’s loud down there, but not here.

You exist in this sliver of space that feels unreal, almost dreamlike, like the stars aligned perfectly so that you could take a deep, settling breath.

If the universe were as loose as your favorite sweater cardigan, you’d be nestled in the microscopic gaps, a sanctuary between its threads. You give it your thanks by taking a little extra time to drink in the sunset. You’re content. 

And this place is where you find him.

Of all the places he could be, this seems like the last one he’d enjoy. He's stiff and unrelenting, his hard-ridged, tense body sucking the air right out of the sky as he peers down over the edge.

“Hey, want some company?” You’re hospitable as can be when you approach, still high off of the gorgeous atmosphere.

“No.” His response is immediate, the word, icy and biting, cuts through the air like a sharp blade. “Thanks.”

He says he wants to be alone, but… you sense his loneliness. He doesn’t need solitude, nor does he want it. But clearly, friendliness does nothing to crack his hard exterior.

You stay, elbows perched against the brick-lined balcony, the gentle summer wind caressing your exposed skin.

There’s barely three feet of space between you, but even then he’s a thousand miles away.

He hasn’t made a move to look at you; he hasn’t glanced your way once. Time keeps ticking, the sun slinking lower till golden hour envelops everything it touches, long brush strokes painting the city in its gilded warmth.

You’re nearly done with your drink. Is a refill worth it or should you just make your way home?

It should be an easy decision, but this chiseled stranger is anchoring you in place. You’re too curious to leave, but not nosy enough to prod.

“Apologies if I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he murmurs finally. “I won’t be here long.”

You shake your head, the movement catching his eye. He glances your way and you finally get a glimpse of his rich brown irises, a similar color to his disheveled hair, thoroughly raked through with his long fingers.

His brow is set, deep wrinkles framing his eyes like warning signs.

But… although everything else about him is intimidating, his eyes are not.

There’s a fire that burns in him, the flames threatening to lick your skin raw if you get too close, but his irises, sooty and morose, tell a different story.

You stamp away your nervousness, instead pulling from the little bit of courage you’ve gained from your curiosity.

“I’m not uncomfortable.” Stay.

His posture relaxes ever so slightly at your admission.

More time passes and it’s clear he’s reflecting. He can’t tear his eyes away from the street.

“You don’t seem like the type to take to strangers.”

A ghost of a smile and he turns to face you, finally.

“It’s easier this way.”

Something in the way he says it makes you want to embrace him.

He says it like there’s no other way, like he’s resigned to his fate. Like no one could ever possibly understand.

That doesn’t stop you from trying.

“It could be easy, though,” you start, taking a tentative step towards him. He doesn’t pull away.

“You don’t know me, I don’t know you,” you continue. “If you won’t judge me, I won’t judge you.”

You flash him your palms and shrug. “I promise I’m a good listener.”

“I’m not much of a talker.”

You shrug again, less animated this time. “There’s no harm in trying.”

He winces ever so slightly and a brief spark of something you don’t recognize flashes across his face.

“We could start with your name,” you say.

“Miguel,” he says, voice gravelly, almost unused. “O’Hara.”

“Miguel O’Hara,” you repeat back. “We’re getting somewhere.

––––

He doesn’t know why he told you his name. Of course, you wouldn’t know that he’s Spiderman, because this earth’s Spiderman hasn’t been bitten yet.

So, he’s safe – for now.

There’s a tiny part of him – buried deep – that wants to blurt it out. I’m Spiderman. I help people. It’s consumed my entire life. I’m a good guy.

Does it matter? If he told you the truth, you might not think so.

And similarly, any self-importance, any need for validation died inside of him when he lost her that day. Today.

He stares down at the paved road, soaks it in.

The parked cars and meandering bodies twisting between the spaces – careless sprints across the street to greet friends who linger in the lamplight. Beat up parking meters and camera phones flashing – idle chatter and the bliss of shared company.

Miguel soaks it in like he does every year, reliving the worst moment of his existence on repeat while the world keeps turning without him.

He can still feel the earth crumbling beneath his feet as he helplessly tried to outrun the inevitable – the demise that he brought upon himself.

She’s weightless and trembling in his hands, terrified and screaming for him – and then she’s gone.

One moment, she’s the center of his universe; the next, it’s as if she never existed.

One moment, he’s at the dinner table helping her with her homework, icing homemade cupcakes for her class party, bringing her to Saturday morning soccer games at the local park – and the next, the world he tried so desperately to fit into fades away into nothing.

Bound by fate, a finite end.

Miguel was never supposed to be happy. It wasn’t in the cards for him.

The universe proves it to him time and time again.

“So… Miguel. How are you? Really?”

He tears his gaze away from the ground and back to you again.

You watch him with a curiosity and care that he’s not used to. It’s been a long time since anyone paid attention to him like this.

Fuck it. Maybe it’s time for a change. A brief break in the neverending cycle.

----

sorry this is short !! i wanted to put out this part to see if anyone’s interested in being tagged in part two – which is going to include smut, and like i said in the a/n please have your age in bio! just comment below if so :-)

i’ll be putting this on ao3 tonight as well if you’d rather read it that way! likes/rbs/comments appreciated <3

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

👍All kinds of size threaded rods #fastener #threaded rods din975 #fasten...

[mitochondriencocktail]

30 💖 (for bojere ofc)

30 ...as comfort

Bojan's heart seized. The room tilted. The voices around him went fuzzy as if buried under layers of cotton and styrofoam. The grip around his pint glass stiffened. The muscles in his jaw were taut with tension.

"Excuse me," he managed. The thread of whatever conversation he'd been a part of had been frayed, his mind taking dull scissors to the chat and hacking away at it messily until he'd lost it entirely. Whatever the reaction of the person in front of him, Bojan barely registered it as he strode down the bar's long hallway. With each step, the chatter grew quieter until he was pushing the door to the bathroom open.

Bojan beelined to the largest stall and locked it.

He was having a fucking panic attack.

He set his beer down on the ground and leaned one hand against the wall, the other coming to rest on his chest. His heart was rattling in his chest. Breathe four seconds in, hold four seconds, and then exhale four seconds. Repeat the stupid box breathing ad nauseam because his brain couldn't get the fucking memo that this was supposed to be a fun night out with friends in Finland. He'd finally found enough time to visit Jere properly, no work, no tour, no press, and this was how his body decided to repay him.

What'd even caused it? He wracked his overstimulated brain, but nothing immediately sprang forward.

The sound of a door opening.

"Bojan?"

Shit.

"Bojan, you in here?"

Jere. Breathe in.

Footsteps approaching.

"Are you okei?"

Breathe out. Jere.

A knock at the door.

Bojan's jaw refused to unclench, words straining to leave his mouth, but he managed a tense, "Yep," that was far from convincing.

"Bojan?"

His eyes followed the sound of the voice that appeared lower now and--in a brief moment of amusement--Bojan barked out a laugh. Jere had squatted down to his hands and knees on the sticky bar bathroom floor, face peering through the gap.

"Hei," he smiled, but it quickly fell once he took in Bojan's pained expression. "Let me in?"

It was enough to jolt Bojan from the wall and unlock the door. Jere stepped in and quickly re-latched it, turning his attention to focus solely on Bojan.

"Panic attack," Bojan ground out. He found it hard to maintain eye contact, the rapid beating of his heart, the clamminess of his palms. "Stupid, I know."

Jere wordlessly folded him into a hug and Bojan couldn't even bring himself to care that his friend's hands had just been on the floor. He rested his head in the crook of Jere's shoulder and, his face taut with resistance as he fought against the tears, began to cry. His arms wound around Jere's waist as the panic poured out of him.

"This is so fucking stupid," he laughed out through a sob. "I don't even know why I'm panicking."

"You not have to know right now," Jere said softly against the side of Bojan's head. "Right now we just fix."

He pressed a kiss to Bojan's temple.

Bojan nodded into it, clinging to Jere tighter as another wave of panic wracked his body. They stood there, the music down the hall thumping softly, Jere an anchor amid it all. Bojan's not sure how long they were in there, it could've been minutes or hours, but Jere finally spoke.

"We go home."

It wasn't a question.

Lacing their fingers together, Jere led Bojan out the bathroom door, glancing left at the front of the bar. He must've sensed Bojan's hesitance because he led them right towards a fire exit instead. The door handle clunked as they shoved it open and the brisk winter air hit Bojan's face. But through the haze of his panic, he barely registered the chill running down his spine until Jere was draping his coat over his shoulders. He took Bojan's hand once more and clasped it tightly.

His jaw was set tight. He scanned around the empty roads in a way that reminded Bojan of a bodyguard checking the perimeter for threats, but in this case it was just errant fans or inquiring friends.

"Taxi be here soon."

"Jere-"

"We go home," Jere repeated. A squeeze of Bojan's hand. "Together."

[local-flower-girl]

Hey there! Thank you for making an exception for my request, your writing really is amazing and I can't wait to see what you come up with! Also there is no need to apologise, tumblr can be a bit iffy with stuff and you would have had no idea!

My request was for a Rufus x Female!reader in a sort of angst/hurt&comfort scenario - if you're ok with writing that! I had seen a thread about his upbringing and how his father had been... far from great and very neglectful. I'll leave it up for you to direct the events as i always love the stuff you come up with, but anything to do with Rufus finally getting some tlc and comfort? (perhaps for some prompts: a bad dream or at a younger age (19?) he just ran away and turned up on the doorstep? Again, completely up to you what direction you choose to go!)

Thank you again for letting me send my request in, I hope your having a nice day/evening :)💚

In His Father’s Shadow

The soft caress of satin bedsheets hugged warmly at your skin. Shifting your body weight onto your side, your eyes fluttered open. It took you a moment to adjust and rouse yourself from your disturbed slumber. You extended your arm to the opposite side of the bed only to be met with emptiness. A slight warmth lingered upon the disheveled bedsheets; the heavy imprint of a body no longer beside you was all that remained. For the past few nights you had noticed Rufus’ absence. His inability to sleep seemed to be far more complex than just mere insomnia alone, or at least that is what you had noticed. Instinctively you knew… something was bothering him.

You lifted yourself up, perching upon the edge of the mattress. You glanced at the digital clock upon your bedside table. 3:00 am. There was a still, hollowed silence that annexed the room. A plain expanse of darkness that felt unsettlingly subdued. The only source of illumination was the intermittent flurry of car lights sweeping past the window. The bedroom door creaked, capturing your attention, and through the crack a pale light emerged. From the adjoining room you overheard movement and the clatter of glass, followed by a swift sliding of the apartment’s balcony door.

Rising to your feet, you unhooked a robe from your nightstand, shrouding the silky material around your shoulders. The uneven floorboards creaked as you steadily made your way towards the door. As you entered the open plan space of the apartment, Dark Star lay upon his back shifting intermittently within his sleep. Sprawled out across his dog bed, his large paws twitched as a continuation of deep growling snores left his snout. You tiptoed carefully around as not to wake him. Upon the marbled counter of the bar was a discernible half empty decanter of Whiskey, alongside a packet of menthol cigarettes and an engraved lighter. Something felt wrong. Rufus’ infrequent habit of smoking was usually a telltale sign of stress. In truth he despised the smell of smoke, since it reminded him of his father and the stifling reek of cigars.

You peered round the corner of the balcony door and found Rufus leaning upon the brick balustrade. He stood wearing the bare minimum of a thin white shirt and boxers; the loose, transparent fabric of his open shirt swishing gently in the breeze. He appeared oblivious to the cold as he stared out at the cityscape before him, lost in deep thought, and seemingly unaware to your presence. His hand firmly clenched at a squared glass of whiskey, the ice rattling as he raised it towards his lips. Within his opposite hand he held a cigarette. You watched as the continuous vertical streams of grey smoke dissipated into the air.

“Bad dream?” You asked gently, hugging at the frame of the open door.

He anchored his gaze upon the view in front of him, all the while his vacant demeanour remained.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” He replied bluntly; a disgruntled pinch of his features as he raised the cigarette to his lips. His lungs reluctantly opened up, inhaling the toxic vapour. He held his breath briefly before releasing the thick, curdled plumes with a sense of relief.

You approached him, pulling your robe tighter around your waist as the cool outside air prickled at your exposed skin. Noticing your discomfort out of his peripheral vision, Rufus spoke up. “You should go back to bed — wouldn’t want you catching a cold.”

“I could say the same thing to you.” You retorted.

You went back indoors, picking up a blanket from a nearby couch. You carried it outside wrapping it around Rufus’ shoulders. He remained rigid, flicking the ash of his cigarette into the dark abyss below. You stood beside him, looking out into the distance. You gazed out at the dispersion of green smog upon the city skyline; tiny puffs of pollution rising steadily from rooftop chimneys, accumulating into the dense miasma. The glow of a nearby reactor lit up the streets in a green glittered, mako infused haze. Those small traces of visual beauty entangled amongst manmade destruction.

“What’s wrong Rufus?” You paused waiting for an answer. “You know you can talk to me…”

You watched as a shabby looking cat, balanced precariously upon the rusted metal supports of the building’s fire escape. Rufus remained silent, periodically sipping at his Whiskey.

“Is it about your father?” You asked innocently.

With that he turned to look at you, confirming your suspicions. Just a few days earlier Tseng, the leader of the Turks had made an unexpected house-call to the apartment. Whenever a retainer from Shinra would visit, Rufus would hide you away, not wanting you caught up in bureaucratic nonsense. At first you had thought him to be overprotective, coddling you like a child. However, over time you had realised, even witnessed the cold-hearted truth for anyone involved with Shinra. Governmental knowledge was dangerous and knowing too much was a surefire way of getting abducted, or worse, killed. Rufus wanted you to have nothing to do with that part of his life. That being the main reason you were both hiding out in a quaint little apartment nestled in sector eight.

“That does not concern you.” He answered abruptly, turning away.

His stern words pierced you deeply, like a blade to the chest. The deep furrow of his brow and the subtle tremble upon his hands was a clear sign of his inner turmoil. Even for someone as self assured as Rufus, it was only natural for a build up of troubles to coagulate into stress and uncertainty. It saddened you to think that he had been dealing with these problems alone.

“Yes it does!” You cried. “I can see you’re hurting Rufus… please don’t shut me out. I want to help!”

He frowned, placing his glass down upon the balustrade. Using his free hand he slicked back the loose, unruly strands of hair from off his face.

“He’s dead.” He spat, without an ounce of remorse or a slither of emotion. His paled complexion and stone cold glare hollowed his handsome features. “Bastard got what he deserved.”

You were unsure as how to respond in that moment, knowing his rocky past and the type of relationship he had with his father.

“I’m sorry…”

He scoffed, almost laughing to himself. “Don’t be!—” He lifted his drink once more, consuming the entirety of the amber liquid before bitterly slamming the glass back down. “—He was never a father to me… he never saw me as a son, just his coached successor!”

“I’m guessing that’s the reason why Tseng came to see you the other day?”

“He handed me his last will and testament… in the result of his death everything was to be handed down to me —” He stared down at the darkness below the balcony, contemplation weighing heavily upon his face. “— The company, every liability and mistake he ever made.” He shook his head in anger. “Old man must be laughing to himself.”

“You don’t have to deal with this alone. Let me…”

“I don’t want you involved!” He interrupted. “This is my burden to bear.” The red flicker of embers scattered as he stubbed the remains of his cigarette butt upon the brickwork.

You grasped at his hand, gently brushing your thumb over the length of his fingers. “Share that burden with me.”

His features laced with conflict and turmoil, softened ever so slightly as he turned to face you. He grabbed at the edges of the blanket, wrapping his arms around your shoulders, and pulling you into his warm, cloaked embrace. It was rare for Rufus to express warmth and affection, but within that moment he wanted only you to see his vulnerability. You rested your head against the firmness of his chest. The heavy thuds of his heartbeat quickening against your cheek.

“I can’t ask that of you.” His voice was firm yet you detected a slight waver to his composure.

“We both knew this day would come eventually. We couldn’t keep hiding forever… but this is your chance to change the Shinra name. Right all the wrongs and leave some good behind in this rotten world!”

“Redemption.” He murmured, closing his eyes in thought.

His grasp around you tightened for a moment longer before he released you. As you stepped back he placed his hands upon either side of your face. With his nimble fingers he tucked the stray wisps of your hair behind your ear before leaning down to capture your lips. The sweet notes of whiskey infused with bitter menthol lingering upon his breath.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, gazing back at you.

“Please, you don’t have to apologise. You’ve had a lot to think about.”

“It’s predominately the thought of something happening to you…” He admitted wholeheartedly.

“I’ll be fine.” You reassured, stroking your fingers through the short length of his blonde locks.

“I promise to protect you, no matter what the cost!”

That ambitious spark of confidence had returned as a positive glint reflected within his eyes. In the past, his stubbornness and pride would never have allowed him to admit weakness or defeat. Since knowing you he had mellowed considerably. Whereby he was once harsh and driven by ambition, over time you had shown him the error of his ways. Even though you loved him for who he was, he was slowly but surely becoming a better man, no longer living within his father’s hulking shadow.

[onlythegoodpretzels]

"We'll get it out."

Followup to this sketch!

Been coloring this for a while! So many people to shade. But I finished it in time for @augustofwhump's Day 7 prompt: Promise.

Snippet of WIP fic for it under the cut, ft. more promises and Shiro flashbacks.

***

“Ok. Ok, let’s get this off.” Hunk balked for a second, but he managed to reach for the muzzle. Ulas winced but held rigidly still as Hunk ran his fingers tentatively over the surface.

“This isn’t what muzzles are for,” Hunk said into the quiet. “On dogs, I mean. They don’t keep their mouth closed, its only to keep them from biting. They need to be able to pant. This…this is just…cruel. What’s it even for?”

Shiro forced himself to see the mechanism rather than just blur over it. He might know. He might know, and he didn’t want to know, but he might. “Most Galra don’t pant like dogs do.” He shivered. “And they are cruel.”

Curved bars matched the shape of Ulas’ head and neck tightly, holding the heavy cage in place. Tightened automatically, too seamless to pry under. The muzzle’s central panels were dark and opaque, emblazoned with the imperial sigil over where they sealed the wearer’s mouth. The only holes for air were two narrow slits in front of Ulas’ ears, whistling softly as he breathed.

The higher bar, the one that curved under Ulas’ eyes and across the back of his head, was a disturbingly familiar, magenta-ish metallic color.

Dizzy something ached in the back of Shiro’s head, where the crescent scar jagged across his neck. “There’s two components here.” He tried not to wince, and moved slowly as he pointed. “This section, is a prisoner head collar. Across the skull under the eyes.” Hunk froze, fingers shaking on the bridge, but Shiro made himself keep going. “The muzzle was anchored to it. Maybe activated from it.”

They were looking at him, both of them. Katie’s face was torn between furious curiosity and blazing anger. Hunk looked sad and scared and like he knew ---

Shiro couldn’t not blink. He couldn’t not lose the thread, suddenly blotted out by phantom ---

Pain dug into his neck, the sound of his own muffled cries in his ears, hard edge biting into his hair.

Galra words. Over him. “Face down, and it stops.”

He hadn’t. He’d snarled and fought, scrabbling against hard metal, dragging against the awful snap of the shortening chain wrenching on his head. He’d kept his knees under him, his chest off the ground.

“Prove you know the word, olka. Or do you want me to make this worse?”

VRRRR

Pressure crushed suddenly into his jaw, the panels of the muzzle grinding into him from all sides. Pain jagged and sudden, shallow spikes extruding into his cheeks and under his chin.

He screamed.

“Coryx! Enough! You already confirmed ---.” 

“If I wanted your opinion, Ulas ---

“Shiro!”

Shiro blinked, torn suddenly in between. He was down on his knees and he was standing with his arms curled over his face. He was howling into a gag and he was heaving gasping, whimpering breaths in empty air. It was dark, purple, and it was bright, blue.

Ulas the Galra pushed another dark form over him, armored, unbattered,, and Hunk his friend stared up at him, hands out, pale with worry. There were Galra yellow eyes behind Hunk.

He couldn’t keep Hunk safe here! He had to get him out!

“It’s ok. Shiro? It’s ok.” Hunk’s eyes shimmered, like he’d been crying. “I promise. It’s not on you. It’s not going to hurt you again.”

The panic tilted, unbalanced, as the reluctantly focused. Hunk didn’t sound scared. What was going on? At first Shiro only saw the damn head collar, muzzle extended. Not --- not on him. He could see it and all its awful crosses. 

The strap dug wrong into fur, biting into Ulas’s face. The same face. Ulas sat curled in on the table, face narrowed, eyes sharp. He swiveled his ears forward and Shiro realized with a start they were even rounder now. “Shhhhr,” Ulas wheezed, face drawn with pain from trying to talk. “Mkkkkkr.”

The memory had a tail, a faint echo that barely clung on now. Hands on him, holding him pinned. Unhooking the tension dragging him down. Makur, stop. You’re exhausted.

Ulas’ voice. Shiro knew without even having heard it.

He shuddered, lowering his hands. He didn’t want to know anything else right now. He nodded shakily to Hunk. “S-sorry. I’m ok. Let’s just…get this over with.”

Katie watched him, her face clouded with things she wasn’t saying. Like a trap he might fall into someday. But instead she said, “Yeah, now that you pointed it out, I can trace the interface signals between those two pieces.” She waved a small detector wand near Ulas’ jaw. “They are real chatty.”

A small panel lay on the table next to her, with bent metal and detritus next to them. It looked like while Shiro was freaking out they’d made some progress. He cursed being so easy to make useless.

Hunk hesitated, but when Shiro came back, he followed. Ulas didn’t turn his head, jarringly pliant as Hunk reached into a small opening in the neck loop of the muzzle. “There’s lots of conduits in here. And I still have no idea what energy source they use.”

He should stay quiet. He should focus and do what he had to and not jab at any of the rest. But Shiro watched Ulas shudder, and couldn’t. “Tell us if it hurts you,” he ordered quietly in Galran, confused again with how steady his voice came out. “I want to know.”

Ulas twitched, blinking rapidly. Then, as Hunk worked, he began to make small, soft sounds, back of the throat, no attempt to make them into words.

Not very bad then. Despite himself, relief chilled up Shiro’s shoulders. He knew Galra could shriek if they were in pain.

Hunk paused, looking queasy at the sudden feedback from his work. “Is he…um…ok?”

Shiro nodded, swallowing hard. “Quintessence can be intense if it touches skin. Be careful if something splashes.” Tingles across his tongue were something he needed to not think about right now.

Hunk’s eyes widened. “You know what this is? What state of matter is it? Does it sublimate?” He bit his lip. “Wait, I think…”

Before Shiro could answer, the muzzle lit up, awful purple lights. The snap smell of sweet and glass itched along Shiro’s mouth. Ulas flinched, sitting suddenly straight, hoof cloves lurching sharply apart. “Whoa!” Hunk wrenched back, hands fluttering in the air like he wanted to help but was too scattered to know where. “Well it’s on, but it’s expecting some kind of cue? Like a key?”

But something jarred in Shiro’s head. He’d tried to remember this, over and over and over again. “Wait, Hunk, keep it…Ulas, grax.” He caught Ulas’ arm with one hand, curbing and steadying him at once, and reached for his head with the other. Ulas yelped, dragging away from Shiro’s hand for a second. Then he seemed to catch himself, and, slowly, painfully, he come back.

The muzzle’s awful edge loomed centimeters in front of Shiro’s fingers. Some part of his brain was trapped in a screaming circle, convinced if he touched it somehow it would crawl up him and find his scar, bite into it again.

Shiro tapped the muzzle in sequence, thumb and forefinger. He tried to be gentle, and he heard how each key hurt in Ulas’ faint, louder sounds. Jaw. Side. Center. Jaw. Jaw. He let himself slide between which finger and which place quickly, without thinking, just where they ought to go.

Neck.

Neck was last.

Vrrrrrr.

Shiro froze, still touching the back of Ulas’ neck, his entire body locking rigid. The sound made him want to swing at something --- anything --- make it go away. Force it farther from the parts of him it wanted to capture. Hunk startled, pulling out of the guts of the collar as the contraption clacked and shifted. The tight bars glinted hungrily, shimmering as they woke up.

“Hell yeah!” Katie swarmed forward triumphantly, suddenly too close. “Shiro, you’re a genius! I need you to write that down later!”

Ulas reached up as the muzzle began to fall, but stopped as Katie caught it. It kept whirring and unknitting, bright lights glaring like eyes.

It was unlocked. He’d unlocked it. Something about that shook Shiro so hard it was hard to see the parts reconfigure. But he shuddered --- why weren’t the muzzle panels dematerializing?

But he saw Ulas’ face crumple in pain when Katie pulled to ease it off his head. “Wait!” Shiro caught the crest just as Ulas whimpered, ducking to follow the pull. The jarring urgency cluttered so far into him it felt like he needed to run somewhere. Spikes. Were there spikes?

Hunk and Katie stared at the two of them. Katie let Shiro brace the muzzle, eyes wide, and Shiro realized he’d spoken in Galran again.

“Wait. Something’s wrong.” Shiro blinked hard, trying to stay present.

It’s ok. Faelbar’s voice filled up his entire body. We are not hurt.

Shiro wanted to tell him, yes, he knew that, but for some reason it helped anyway. It helped him keep his voice steady, keep the panic roiling somewhere in his fingers from shuddering out into Ulas when he asked, “What? Where?”

Ulas blinked hard, clawing the air between them in small, reflexive motions. This close, Shiro felt a faint double-shudder in his breaths, like something was garbling up his throat. How long had it been on him? Katie hadn’t said how she’d found him, only that it had been bad.

“Show me.” They needed to know. He needed to know.

Slow, tentative, Ulas caught the edge of the muzzle near Shiro’s hand. His fingers were jarringly, confusingly big. He nudged against the edge, angling his head slightly back and forth, figuring out the right way to move with whatever was hurting him. Then, with a wet, ragged pant, he pulled back, the straps scraping deep furrows in his fur as they dragged by.

For a moment Shiro saw his face, so familiar it made him freeze. Long, shallow, inhuman snout, bony, wide forehead, light shimmering off the strange flat span between his eyes and nose. Shallow gouges scraped and scabbed across jutting cheekbones which were incongruous with the hollow cheeks and narrow chin under them.

But Ulas held his mouth open, and then Shiro wasn’t seeing anything else, because a narrow chain snaked between his teeth. As he moved, Shiro felt rattling in the muzzle. It was attached.

Tense, unsettled feeling tingled up Shiro’s fingers. He didn’t recognize this. He didn’t know if it had ever…

Ulas reached some sort of end on the chain. He paused again, orienting, and then leaned away, extending a tapered orange tongue. His hand tremored next to Shiro’s.

No wonder. The chain anchored to a dark eye bolt connector pierced six centimeters from the tip of Ulas’ tongue. Yellow winked around the studs where it had tugged against him. 

Shiro tasted bile. Shit. He’d sounded muffled and pained even when the muzzle let him speak, before the druids changed whatever stopped him short. It must have been there, punishing him for every word. And now it sat tethered so close to the muzzle he couldn’t speak at all.

“Fuck no wonder you couldn’t talk.” Katie’s entire body tremored with fury.

“Wait, that --- that’s what it’s for? That’s awful!” Hunk covered his mouth with his hands, clearly vividly imagining the sensation. “What is wrong with these people?”

Galra who speak against the empire don’t exist. You won’t ever find one.

Shiro wasn’t sure who he remembered saying that. He didn’t want to know. He held still in a way he didn’t recognize, sweat pricking on his neck that he was holding the other end of something that painful. Ulas mumbled wordlessly, falling back forward, trembling from the effort of holding the chain weight.

Damn it. Shiro didn’t think he had piercing scars on his tongue. But now he’d have to check.

“Katie, bring one of those casings.” Shiro was startled by how calm he sounded. The palpable panic in the other two made him very still inside, like if he touched it it would explode. “Hunk, what do you have to cut this?”

Thankfully, having something to do was right for both of them. Katie snatched the nearest capsule of Altean medical something with its square edges. Hunk balked a step away, but he leaned forward, peering at the inside of the muzzle. Shiro didn’t dare glance down himself, keeping all of his attention on Ulas.

“Here.” Katie held the tin out to Shiro.

“It’s for him. Hold it horizontal.” Shiro blinked, forcing himself to meet Ulas’ eyes. He didn’t want to. Something about the tether in his tongue, and how Shiro could feel it dragging even right now, and how clearly trapped it meant he’d been when Katie found him.

He was the one Shiro was supposed to meet. Supposed to find. The voice shouting to him to run in his night terrors.

But he hadn’t been looking. Hadn’t be sure he would. If Katie hadn’t found him… “Bite down on this. We’ll get it out.”

Ulas slowly lifted his ears. This time when he tried to answer it was visible, his tongue bending but then snapped down by the chain. “Uhhzzz.” He winced, and stopped, instead parting his teeth and tilting carefully so Katie could slide the metal jam into the crook of his jaw. She stared, mouthing numbers quietly to herself. Shiro had no idea what for, he just had to assume it would come up if it were important. 

“Shiro?” Hunk grit his teeth, hand fluttering forward but stopping short of touching the metal rim. “I…none of my repair kit tools will be small enough for this.” Instead of looking just upset, he looked…angry? “Maybe the Alteans have something. I’ll find Coran, and --- “

“No.” Shiro blinked, momentarily dizzy, as repercussions and tradeoffs cluttered off his head. Where had that come from? Had he always been thinking like that? “I don’t want them seeing this.”

He kept his worries to himself, that Allura might decide she liked this safeguard, that he would have to explain to an alien sovereign about what humans would and would not do. But not well enough, probably, judging by the sharp, suspicious look Katie shot at him.

Hunk frowned. “They wouldn’t,” he said softly. But he crossed his arms nervously and didn’t keep heading toward the door.

Maybe. Shiro wasn’t sure what he thought was likely anymore. He shrugged. “I can do it.” He flexed his hand, the mechanisms whirring softly.

Hunk swallowed. But he didn’t argue. “Do you have that kind of dexterity with that thing?”

“You can melt metal?” Katie grinned wildly at him, before she caught up with what she said and frowned just a intensely. “That doesn’t sound safe like this.”

“Cut.” Shiro pressed his fingers together, forcing himself to consider. The Alteans felt dangerous. But so was he. It was sort of refreshing to get direct blunt questions like that instead of people being careful. Usually Hunk tried to tiptoe around it. “Yes. I do.” Shiro paused, expecting more from the certainty, some memory, some data. But, no. Nothing. He just knew.

He glanced at Hunk. That was a lot to trust someone’s tongue to. But, then, it was also the least massive responsibility they’d been handed recently.

Hunk set his shoulders. “What can I do?”

Hell he deserved to be so far away from anything like this. Shiro swallowed down the guilt. Two jobs, only one of which he thought Hunk could manage. “Help him hold still.” As Hunk crossed cautiously to Ulas’ other side, Shiro caught Katie’s eye. “Hold this steady?”

She grit her teeth and barked, “Yes.” Her hands were small and she perched on the edge of the table, both of which helped her be stabler than either of them. Katie looked very pale. “It’s ok,” she told Ulas firmly as she took control of the chain.

He didn’t shiver this time when Hunk reached around him. His entire frame sagged minutely, like the support reached much deeper than just bracing his neck and shoulders.

Shiro looked from one grim face to the next. “Ready?”

Hunk and Katie nodded.

Ulas pinned his ears back and let his tongue droop loose. His yellow eyes tracked Shiro’s face, not his hand.

Eerie. Shiro wasn’t sure how he knew where eyes with no pupils were looking. But he did. He lit his arm, the cold rushing through his shoulder like a warning. It lurched him viciously, suddenly alert, ready to fight. 

Reaching between the muzzle and Ulas’ pinned tongue splashed awful light across the gashes in his face. This close Shiro could almost smell them. It glimmered on his tongue, and edged the scabbing there. Shiro caught the chain, feeling desperate puffs of air on his fingertips.

He had to do this exactly right. A mistake would burn, he thought, best case, or cut, worst.

But the chain was slippery, trailing yellow and clear rivulets from Ulas’ mouth. And the links were small with complex jagged edges. Reaching for it, Shiro felt the barbs, the twists. It was designed to hurt even without pulling. It spun between his fingers before he could get a good grip, shrieking at the heat.

Ulas’ eyes lurched too orange, too dark, and he keened. Involuntary motion dragged his tongue back. The piercing clacked when it brought him up short.

No! They didn’t get to make this worse. THis was something he got to do with the arm that helped.

Shiro snarled and crushed down hard, the kind of hard that made his brain balk, ready to feel pain from the metal. But he wasn’t soft like that, not anymore. The chain sliced cleanly off the muzzle.

For a moment, Shiro was too stuck to see anything other than the chain, the muzzle, and how blood beaded up on Ulas’ tongue as he flinched back. Shiro’s fingers ground into the face plate almost of their own accord, while pain screamed out of his jaw and nose. Memory or not, he could barely tell.

Someone. Someone made him want to destroy this thing. Right now SHiro couldn’t quite put a finger on a face or a voice or anything like that. Just the fierce, burning hatred loose in his head.

Ulas shuddered, hand coming up to catch the links trailing down from his mouth. It looked like a snake trying to twist into him, and he made a faint, pitched pain sound that jittered all the way up Shiro’s spine.

Give it to me, Faelbar hissed. I’ll crush it. Shiro had the echoing, massive feeling that the lion knew what the pain felt like, because Shiro had. That he wanted nothing more than to wipe the horrible thing off the face of the universe.

That helped. At least he could make this one let go.

[bullet-prooflove]

Kismet - Connor Rhodes x Reader

Tagging:  @cosmic-psychickitty    @brianbabygirlzvonecek    @ikbenplant   @rosaliedepp   @mrspeacem1nusone   @daniacat    @htariq    @sowrongitslottie   @readingbookelf    @earthtolottie    @crazy4chickennuggets   @cixrosie   @202rosebudd   @halsteadloversworld   @i-spaced-sorry    @lxna-mikaelsxn​   @1234-angelika​   @wolfers-stuff    @katia-01-05   @voidsteffy   @formulapierre    @aaronhtchnrs​

Being here at Chicago Med brought back a lot of memories, some good and some bad.  Connor remembers the thrill of it all, the surgeries, the challenges, the family that he’d never had. The people had been vital to him and truthfully, they still were, which was why he was here today. It’s been four years since he’s stepped foot in this place and now, he’s decided to return. He thought that the memories would fade over time, that the anxiety he had would subside, but the truth is it’s still as prevalent as the day he left.

His tenure here at become a horror show towards the end. A litany of stress and anguish. When he looks back, he wondered how he survived what Ava Bekker put him through. Therapy has helped but at the time he had thought he was drowning in the insanity of it all.

“We’re alike you and I, we’ll both do anything to get what we want.”

Her words ring in his mind as if she had just spoken them. He’d believed her at the time, they were both hungry, both ambitious but he was driven by the desire to learn and Ava, she was driven by ego. They were a matching pair until they weren’t.

“The ends justify the means.”

He remembers the tone of her voice as she said it, the look in her eyes. Everything was calculated down to the final detail even her escape from justice. There had been a moment when she picked up that scalpel where he thought she was going to kill him, he saw the glint of malevolence in her and he thought, this is it. This is how it ends.

But it didn’t end, not really.

He’d been fucked up for a while after she’d committed suicide and that was the point. It had been a final fuck you because she knew, no matter what she had done he would still try to save her. It was a form of torture, he’d held her life in his hands, tried to bring her back but she had escaped like a thief in the night. He had gone home and cried that night. Not for her but for everything she had taken away from him. There was cruelty in what she had done and it damn near broke him.

He was lucky you’d been around that night because the desolation, the loss it had all been too much. When he called, you’d come running, you’d taken one look at him, and you had known what he needed. You hadn’t been anything more than a friend at the time, someone to share a drink with at the bar but he trusted you with his thoughts, his feelings. He had been shaking when you’d gotten there, he hadn’t been able to stop. When you had held him, he had fallen to pieces, his face buried in the curve of your shoulder as he clung for you to dear life. You were his anchor in a sea awash with sorrow, the only thing that could bring him back to himself when he felt so lost, he could barely see through the darkness.

“You doing ok?”

Your voice broke through his thoughts as he sat on the bench in front of hospital. You were still as beautiful as the first day he had laid eyes on you, he felt that swell of heat in his chest as you held out a takeout cup of hot chocolate with a gloved hand, the mitten still buttoned to the back of it. He’d bought them for you at a Winter fair last month, they were sunshine yellow with threads of red and orange woven in. Autumnal colours. They reminded him of the first time he kissed you in Millennium Park, the leaves falling from the trees before the winter chill set in.

“Yea.” He answered automatically before taking his drink from your hands. He paused for a moment reconsidering his answer. “Actually no.”

You were the only person he couldn’t lie to. He put on a brave front, but you saw through all the armour he built up between himself and the rest of the world. you always did. His thumb caressed the indentations of the cardboard cup as you sat down along side of him. You nudged his shoulder gently and he took solace in your proximity. You were a safe haven for him. He could say anything to you, and he knew he wouldn’t be judged for it.

“It’s a lot being back here.” He told you, his dark eyebrows furrowing into a frown before he took a sip from his drink. It was perfect two shots of vanilla, whipped cream. He could already feel the warmth of the sugar soothing over his jangling nerves. “It feels like this place is haunted, my dad, Ava, Doctor Downey, it feels like they’re all just in there, rattling around the halls.”

“You have a lot of memories here.” You said softly, your hip pressing lightly against his. “It’s natural to feel a bit overwhelmed.”

He tilted his head to look at you, those brilliant blue eyes meeting yours as his hand came to rest upon your knee.

“There’s a lot of good ones here too.” He informed you. “It’s where I met you. I was in the right place at the right time.”

He wasn’t even supposed to be on shift that day, he’d finished an hour before. But Marcel had been out sick, and the nightshift needed cover and there you were hurling in Ruzek, because he had cut his arm on razor wire while chasing down a suspect. It had been a couple of nights later the two of you had caught up at Molly’s, he’d asked after his handiwork and sparks had flown.

He had been weary after he’d broken up with Ava, he hadn’t been looking for anything that night, but he’d found it. You were easy to talk to and you made him laugh.  His job kept him serious and all the shit with Ava, game playing, the suspicions…

It had been a very long time since he’d actually laughed out loud, he almost didn’t recognise the sound of it. Drinks, turned to dinner, dinner turned to tender nights wrapped up in one other, making love until the sun came up. Before he realised it you had become as important to him as oxygen.

“Kismet.” He said quietly as he recalled the early days.

“You believe it was fate that brought us together?” You asked him, a small smile playing across your lips. His fingers entwined with yours, he could feel the edges of your wedding ring through the material of your glove.

“I think if we hadn’t met here, it would have been another place to another time.” He told you earnestly. “The way I feel for you… I think we were always meant to find each other.”

“I can’t tell you how much I value you Connor, what the two of us have…” You trailed off, your cheeks colouring as you looked into his eyes. “I think we were written in the stars.”

He smiled then and it was like the sun was shining for the first time in the bleakest winter. It warmed you somewhere deep inside because you knew he felt it too.

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