#but the one under his eye was due to a glass shard piercing him when he landed :c

[ianthedebonair]

He fell first...

But he fell harder.

Gotta be one of my favorite tropes 🥰

[blackbutlerfandomnerddomain]

Character Profile Full name: Hiiragi Monoma

Pronunciation: HE-raagE Mono-ma

Meaning of Name: Hiiragi briefly translate to "holly" while Monoma means "among things"

Hero/Villain Name: Winter Prince

Nicknames: Mo-San, Hii-Niisan, Princey-Poo

History of Nicknames: Mo-San was given by his classmates from a really early stage of life while Hii-Niisan was a given nickname by his siblings, but Princey-Poo is a special nickname by Yuzuriha

Nationality: Belgian-French-Japanese-American

Quirk: Mimic: When touching someone with all five fingers of his hands he can can copy someone else's Quirk with side effects being the person's side effects of their Quirks, the person's hair color or eye color or mole or such, and the emotion the person will feel right after using their Quirk.

Birthday and Astrology Sign: June 24th 21XX, Cancer

Age: 15

How old do they look: 15-16

Gender: Male (he/him)

Orientation/Sexuality Preference: Question but seems to like both

Birth date: June 24th

Birth place: Paris, France

Appearance: Eye color: A misty blue green that many refer them as "broken mirror shards" when looking at them

Eye shape: A gentle almond shaped round

Do they wear contacts or glasses?: None Hair: Short well groomed dirty blonde hair

Height: 5'6

Weight: 106 lbs

Body build: Muscular and well built

Body shape: Semi-rectangle

Complexion: A soft warm beige

Blood Type: A

Handedness: Right handed

Hand type: Big and gentle hands

Nails: Short and clean

Movement: Very nice fluid movement and well respected

How do they walk: Head held high chest first back straight style walking

Posture: Back straight and well respected

Flexibility: Slightly bellow average

Speech Mannerisms: He speaks very calmly with some snide remarks and tough tongue but sometimes speaks in different languages

Scars: One small scar on his outer left shoulder, another on his right kneecap

Birthmarks: None

Piercings: One ear piecing each

Tattoos: None

General face structure: Pretty handsome and seem to look a lot like his father

Defining physical traits:  His eyes Clothing: Uniform: A normal male UA uniform

Casual outfit: A blue button up shirt and grey jeans with black dress shoes

Preferred outfit: NA

Hero/Villain costume: A skin tight black body suit under a white vest and black pants and a deep blue dress coat with a semi long tail and frost design on the sleeves and tail

Equipment / Support Items: White gloves he removes

Characteristics:

Personality: Very much like his father, pretty full of himself and not afraid to whip his tongue around foully along side sarcastic remarks, but is very calm and loyal and gentle behind it all. A typical tsundere if you will

Big Five personality traits: Loyal, calm, sarcastic, gentle, awkward

Most prominent personality trait: Loyal and snarky

Best traits: Loyal, gentle, calm, smart, "cute"

Worst traits: Sarcastic, snarky, ambitious, full of himself

Likes: Traveling, poetry, his family, his friend group, writing, piano music, cooking good meals Dislikes: When someone plays dirty, accusing him as being a backstabber since his dad dealt with that before, being ignored for no reason, bad food

Quirks:  (not the superpower but little silly things they do) Due to living in a pretty big household he sometimes snaps his fingers when he's think hard mainly so he can focus on his thoughts and nothing else, he chews on his pencils a lot, when he zones out he looks mad apparently Fear: Being left behind, losing his friends and family

Hobbies: Playing the piano, sports like soccer(football), swim, cooking

Skills/Talents: Fast swimmer/runner and good at cooking as well as piano

Strengths: Fast runner/swimmer with easy fast reflects Weaknesses: His family

Reason to keep on living: His family and making the world a better place

What is their self-image like: His self image is very low but he tries not to show it

Coping mechanisms: Cooking or playing the piano

Favorite things: Roses, daisies, fine foods, golden rings, astrology tarot card readings, his siblings and parents

Health:

Physical: Pretty healthy

Mental: Low

Emotional Stability: Average but slight below

If faced with crisis, what is their go-to: He fights and fights hard

Nutrition: Pretty normal

Habits: Chewing his pencils, snapping his fingers when he thinks hard, will eat last until those he care for start eating one by one

History, Background, and Future:

0-4: Was born by Neito Monoma and a Quirkless surrogate mother in Paris, France during the early summer and lived there for a few years very happy and loved by his father

5-8: At age 5 he moved Japan with his father to a home his grandparents, Mr and Mrs Monoma, bought to see their grandson a lot and started attending elementary school as normal. However at age 8 was when he began to be nip-picked and teased by his grandmother over his grades, friends, appearance, everything sometime after Neito started dating

9-11: At 9 he began a start of a friendship with Hachi and Nariko after a long while of them trying to gain his friendship. This sadly mad his grandmother's bullying grow worst until it was finally caught by Neito pretending to have left for work to spy on the house and witness it. The two left and moved in with two of Neito's old classmates who soon became Hiiragi's second and third father figures over time as he plays with Hachi and Nariko freely. At his 10th birthday he met Yuga Aoyama

12-14: He met and befriended more people as he studied hard and decided to become a hero at UA along side Hachi who joined in as well

15-Present: He gets accepted into UA and vowed to work hard to be the best person he can be for everyone he loves

Did they like their upbringing: Not really but he loves the outcome after the abuse

How has their upbringing shape them: Pretty low in the mental health department but tough and loyal as hell

What did they enjoy most about their childhood?: Spending time with his father, Hachi and Nariko, and his other friends as well as his special visits with Aoyama

What did they hate most about their childhood?: The time with his grandparents

Current Dream: Traveling around the world working as a good boss at a great company while being a pro-hero

Long-term goals for Future: Become a pro-hero, travel around the world, and spend time with his family

Home: A nice three story home a quick train ride or fast car ride from the UA campus

Home Life as a Kid: Loving though had issues

Home Life Now: Loving and supportive

Quick Family background: Any Friends: Kohaku Usagiyama, Rose Takami, Zora Midoriya, Yuzuriha Midyoria (they dont agree but they are), Tsuki Bakugo, Hoshiko Bakugo, Arashi Jiro-Yaoyorozu, Chiharu Jiro-Yaoyorozu, Hachi Kaminari, Nariko Shinso, Mitsuri Ashido-Sero, Gou Iida, Sakura Todoroki Any Family: Neito Monoma (father), Denki Kaminari (father figure), Hitoshi Shinso (father figure), Hachi Kaminari (best friend/brother figure), Nariko Shinso (best friend/sister figure), Shota Aizawa (grandfather), Hizashi Yamada (grandfather), Oboro Shirakumo (grandfather), Eri Aizawa (aunt), Yuga Aoyama (father figure)

[tranzfalgar]

okay it’s time for some stardew valley headcanons for the bachelor/ette(s) so let’s GOOOO

Alex:

- he always awakes before his grandparents, and on warmer days he’ll go down to the beach to watch the sunrise.

- friends with elliot! the two of them sit on the side of the dock sometimes and just chat about life.

- knows how to make cookies, as evelyn taught him when he was a bit younger

- wary of the saloon, as he doesn’t really like the smell of alcohol and only goes into it if he’s forced to!

- if you marry him, he can and will pick you up randomly to surprise you while you’re working!

- if married, he will “bench press” your kids once they become toddlers, and it always makes them giggle

- hates the winter and gets cold really easily. on the first day of fall he’s already bundled up wanting it to be summer again.

Elliot:

- willy is like a father to him. the two of them sit on the docks and watch the fish swim by together

- sometimes he’ll braid his hair, and leah will bring flowers from the forest and weave them into his hair.

- has a rlly pretty singing voice, and likes to record piano covers in his spare time

- if you marry him and the two of u have kids, he’ll always braid their hair in the morning and tuck flowers behind their ears.

- he brings home fresh fish he caught and makes himself dinner every night. that’s why he’s an excellent cook.

- has actually caught a legendary fish before!

- his eyes change color, they can go from blue to green to brown in the same day. people call them the “prismatic shard of eyes”

Harvey:

- he’s so clumsy that sometimes he’ll even trip over air. due to this, he has little bruises all over his knees and elbows.

- his favorite animals are birds. sometimes he’ll go outside and just give them some bird seed. he loves watching them fly around.

- not only is he fascinated with planes, but he’s also fascinated with the weather. as a kid he used to watch the weather channel, and he dreamed of becoming a weatherman.

- when he needs to focus really hard, he’ll pull his hair back with a headband

- him and his mother were and still are very close, and he writes letters to her at least once a week

- he cannot cook to save his life, but he’s an incredible baker! will make you little treats if you’re friends or married

- he always wears a wristwatch, but the time is always 6 minutes behind. he likes it because it has a plane engraved into the side against his wrist.

Sam:

- he had adhd, and his stims include flapping his hands, tapping his foot and strumming his guitar

- he has a beautiful singing voice, think like wilbur soot but a bit more high pitched?

- the reason he likes cactus fruit so much is because he just plants them and lets them grow. he loves succulents because they don’t give him an allergic reaction!

- cannot play video games for shit. sebastian and abigail have banned him from multi-player games because he just sucks so bad.

- love language is acts of service, simply because he likes singing for people he cares about and doing little things for them!

- if you marry him, he will bring his guitar into the coop and/or barn and sing to the animals. they have learned to run over a greet him, since they love his singing.

- his hair is actually curly, but you’re unable to tell due to how much he gels and straightens his hair.

- has mastered the art of the puppy dog eyes

Sebastian:

- loves the hell out of halloween, but is scared of literally everything. he nearly cried watching a horror movie with sam and abigail.

- really good with a slingshot! so if he were to go into the mines, he would wreck some monsters shit with his slingshot skills

- he had glow in the dark stars on his ceiling, but removed them. he used to love the stars and space, but came to resent them because it was his sisters thing.

- he like…irl blushes. like an anime character. when he’s embarrassed, upset, flustered, his face will go all pink. everyone picks on him for it.

- has/had a crush on most of the towns singles. he is a bisexual disaster and secretly a romantic so….take from that what you will.

- a natural born ginger, but dyes his hair. he also has freckles on his nose! and he has an eyebrow slit because of a scar!!

- for some stupid reason, he takes really good care of his hands? like he always makes sure they don’t get calloused, and his nails are always painted black, despite using his hands all the time for work.

Shane:

- he cannot cook. he burned pasta noodles because he didn’t know you had to put water in the pan.

- he still has a chicken plushie from when he was a baby, and it still sits on his bed. and if he cuddles with it at night? no one needs to know.

- has a huge birthmark on his side shaped like a heart

- really good at mixology, so i think that when joja gets shut down, shane works at the saloon and makes the drinks while gus cooks. he adds a whole new section on the menu!

- friends with sebastian. they paint each other’s nails from time to time, or sit in the rain together and just talk.

- kinda strong as hell? he lifts boxes in joja for work, as well as carrying around jas, so i’m assuming he could just….pick the farmer and his friends up?

- he has the most contagious laugh, it used to be a rare sound, but now that it’s a pretty common occurrence, shane makes people laugh all the time with his own laugh.

Abigail:

- buff. she is buff as hell. her and alex work out together sometimes, since she expressed a desire for adventure. she has picked up sam and sebastian with no warning and thrown them into the ocean

- can talk to animals due to her being the daughter of the wizard! so sometimes she’ll go to marnies farm and just chat with the cows or something

- if she sees a tree, she WILL climb it. she loves it so much, it’s just so adrenaline inducing for her.

- her and sebastian tried to go into the mines before but sam stopped them because it wouldn’t have been very safe. they were all 14.

- trying to learn to play the ukulele with a little help from sam. it’s frustrating, but she really likes the sound of it, and she’s determined as hell.

- absolutely cracked at any and all video games he plays. mario kart? she will kick your ass. animal crossing? her island has 5 stars. pokémon? she always wins. you can’t stop her, she’s too powerful.

- she has glasses, but prefers contacts, since glasses would get in the way of her adventuring.

Emily:

- not only can she sew, but she also makes her own soaps and candles! any form of creation she adores.

- loves flowers, and has a lot of little potted ones in her room. she raises them, gives them little names and personalities, and then brings them to sandy and tells her all about each flower

- she can roller skate, and it’s her preferred method of transportation. she can do a bunch of fun tricks as well!

- has an eyebrow slit

- making cute little baskets of homemade gifts is her favorite thing to do for her friends. sometimes she’ll just leave them on their doorsteps for no reason other than she wants to!

- can SPRINT in heels. like even 6 inch heels she can just RUN and it scares everyone who sees it.

- she loves the sounds of birds chirping in the morning, and she’s able to identify the name of the bird by its chirping and calls

Haley:

- is able to perfectly crack and drink from coconuts. that’s why she loves them so much.

- has the worst sense of direction. she’s lucky she lives in a small town, or she’d get lost all the time

- the spring is her favorite time of year, simply because she loves to capture life coming back in those spring months. baby animals, blooming flowers, her friends on the beach or just chilling in the sun, all of it

- her most prized possession is the very first picture her and emily took as kids on their parents polaroid. it’s taped to her mirror

- has a little beauty mark under her lip, but it normally isn’t visible due to being covered with makeup!

- she’s able to do her own nails! this is because she is ambidextrous, yet she doesn’t know, because it’s never been brought up

- she fucking LOVES learning about and identifying plants, trees and flowers. she knows so many it’s crazy. she has a great memory.

Leah:

- resident true crime enthusiast and ghost hunter. she drags elliot with her around town to go hunting for ghosts. they also watch documentaries together!

- has a bunch of little scars on her hands from her artwork

- to get inspiration for works, she’ll go on walks at different times of the day, different seasons, different routes, and she’ll turn each walk into a work of art. depending on all the environment and those who she runs into, each piece is vastly different.

- animals love her, and will sometimes just follow her around for no reason. she doesn’t mind at all, she kinda loves it.

- friends with emily. they are currently teaching each other their own forms of art, since they love learning from each other!

- really good at dancing, she’ll dance while she’s working on projects and she’ll hum a song to herself

- her favorite statue was created after she went on a walk, ran into abigail, and the two of them went swimming in the ocean and stayed there as the sun set and the stars came out. she has a little crush on abigail.

Maru:

- her hair is ALWAYS tied up, it’s impossible for her to work if her hair is in her eyes

- when she was a kid she wanted to be an astronaut, because she loves the stars, but she found she prefers the science and math behind it all

- she pierced her own ears, she has little star earrings!

- watches cartoons and geeks out about them with penny when they meet up in town!

- for some odd reason, she is terrified of butterflies. no one who knows her, or even maru herself have ANY idea why, but she will run away if she sees one.

- her favorite memory was the one night her and sebastian stayed up really late as kids and snuck outside to look at the stars (back when sebastian still loved them) and they ended up seeing a meteor shower

- she presses flowers as a hobby, and just keeps them in a little notebook alongside her ideas for projects and gadgets.

Penny:

- while she’s cleaning her and pam’s home, she finds herself singing to herself. she has yet to be caught by anyone

- each day, her hair is done ever-so-slightly different. each morning, she likes to change it up, and sometimes jas or vincent will give her something to put in her hair

- also interested in ghosts, will occasionally join elliot and leah on their adventures

- she is naturally really warm, so she doesn’t have to bundle up as much during the winter. the kids cling to her because she’s like a human space heater

- has a bit of a geeky side, and she loves to watch cartoons a lot. when she can find the time, she always watches them. they being her lots of comfort.

- has a small scar on her side from when she tripped over as a child onto something sharp. she likes it because with two freckles, it makes a little smiley face

- loves the water and the feeling of sea wind in her hair. she secretly wants to learn to drive a boat, so she can feel that wind in her hair whenever she wants.

[volleychumps]

can u make another iwaizumi angst with happy ending pls? where iwaizumi has been going through some shit and s/o tries to take care of him but being the clusmy ass, s/o ends up pissing him off big time and it turn to a huge fight? make me cryyyyyy and then mend me with a fluffy ending! thanks!

Phattest of the bets- here we go Hajime>:)

Outburst. (Iwaizumi Hajime x Reader)

Warning(s): angst to fluff kinda fic, slight cursing, oop if you’re heart hurted I hope I mended it :), timeskip! Iwaizumi, slight blood due to light injury 

--------------------------------------------------------

“Y/N.”

“Hey.” 

You let out a breathy laugh when Iwaizumi stumbles through the front door, bag brimmed with important papers hitting the floor with a slight thud before he collapses on top of you, arms wrapping around your waist tightly. More laughs bubble out of your throat as you struggle to support him, ignoring the heavy weight of the boy before lifting a hand to stroke his hair lightly. 

“Tough day at the university?” 

“You have no idea.” The spiker huffs against the juncture between your shoulder and neck, and you hum, pushing him slightly to examine Iwaizumi’s sharp features, smile growing when he leans into your touch. 

“Can we just go straight to bed?” 

“You have to eat first.” You reply softly, helping him shrug his jacket off before kissing him on the cheek, frowning when you see just how dark the circles under his eyes were. “Are you sleeping okay?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Iwaizumi’s reply is short as he brushes past you, voice strained as your frown deepens with worry. “Let’s just get dinner over with so I can get the hell to sleep.” 

You blink at his tone, contrasting from before you told him he couldn’t have what he wanted. Almost like a child, in this situation. 

“I can bring it to you-?” 

“Y/N. I said let’s get it over with.” 

Your eyes widen a fraction, retort almost slipping off your tongue like venom before you bite it. Like your loving boyfriend, you had a slight temper- but today you decided to make an exception, seeing how exhausted he was after working the overtime shift. Pressing your lips together, you nod before entering the kitchen with him on your tail. 

“I made agedashi tofu!” You try to lighten your voice, glancing behind you to see his reaction to his favorite food, hoping to see that same grateful smile pass his face-

but it doesn’t.

“Thanks.” Iwaizumi’s tone is dismissive as he continues to scroll on his phone through emails for school, and you wilt slightly-wishing he could see the flash of hurt that passed your face. 

Wordlessly, you prepare the dish on a plate before walking over to him and begin to set it in front of him, catching a glimpse of his phone screen in the process. 

“Is that for the sports science exam coming up-?” 

“Jesus, fuck-” 

Iwaizumi flinches away from you, annoyance filling his features at the fact that you were looking at his phone screen,

not noticing that he wasn’t the only one startled in the process. 

Your jaw slackens when Iwaizumi’s broad shoulder collides with your arm holding the platter, the food falling onto his thigh as you lift a hand to your mouth-

the dish was still piping hot.

 Your breath gets caugh in your throat as you rush around to soak a towel, filling a glass with ice as soon as it happens to aid the redness growing on Iwa’s thigh- your boyfriend falling scarily quiet. 

Iwaizumi stares at the burning food on his thigh, something in him finally snapping. 

“Here-!”

“Why the fuck can’t you do anything right?” 

Huh?

Your grip loosens on both items as you freeze with a doe-eyed expression on your features. Iwa’s voice was scarily soft as he chuckled humorlessly, dark eyes looking at you with a piercing look that read danger.

And then his voice rises, the coil inside of him lit. 

“Are you usually this goddamn clumsy?! Jesus fucking christ, Y/N! Do I need to give you a visual example of how to place a shitty plate on the table?! Because here-!” You flinch when Iwaizumi grabs the glass from your hand, slamming it on the table afterwards as the glass breaks into shards, a gasp slipping your throat. 

“Did you get it through that pretty, empty little head of yours?!” 

Iwa softly gasps when a choked sob leaves your throat, the burning on his thigh and his now-bloodied hand suddenly unnoticeable as he realizes how far he had escalated a small situation. You swallow back the lump in your throat, slowly falling to your knees to try and pick up some of the shards. 

“Ow-!” 

“Y/N don’t-” Iwa reaches out for the fingers you had pricked, tone suddenly soft. 

“Don’t touch me!” You hiss, eyes blurring with unshed heat as you retract your hand back in a flinching motion, Iwa’s eyes widening a fraction as you slowly raise to your feet, blood trickling down your fingers as you let the venom slip. 

“I go to school too. I get home half an hour earlier than you do, and I’m tired as hell- but I still went out of my way to make you your favorite food because I know you had exams today!” 

Iwaizumi flinches as your tone raises, wanting you to yell some more because he deserved it- 

but you don’t. 

“I do it because I love you, you dickhead.” Your voice cracks, Iwa’s chest brimming with guilt as he looks at all the prepared food behind you, ready to pack his lunches for the next week. “But you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to pretend like you’re the only one who’s tired and has shitty days and use it as an excuse to treat me like that. Get over yourself because I’m pretty damn tired too, and I don’t deserve this shit.” 

The tears are streaming freely now, Iwa going to stroke some away- heart sinking when you flinch back as if you were afraid of him. 

“I-I’m sorry I burned you.” 

Iwaizumi’s expression remains stoic as you rush past him into your shared bedroom, hearing the slam of the door echo throughout the apartment. Only when he hears the lock turn is when he covers his mouth tightly with his palm, his own set of tears dribbling over his knuckles as he muffles his sobs into his hand. 

You were afraid of him. 

Iwa takes in deep breaths through the nose, hope sparking in his heart when he hears the door open only to shut tightly a few seconds after. Stepping over the shards, he goes to investigate with a heavy heart-

only for more drops to fall off his knuckles and onto the floor as he picks up the burn ointment, bandages, and disinfectant. Slowly, regret and guilt brimmed in his chest, he slides his back against the door until he’s sitting, hanging his head between his knees as one hand loosely holds the bottle of burn ointment. 

Even in a fight, you cared about him. 

The one good thing in his life right now, and he let his temper win.

“Y/N.” His voice croaks, grip tightening on the ointment. “God, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that I’m an idiot. I don’t care about the burn or my cuts anymore, what about your hand?” 

Iwaizumi feels a small sense of relief when he hears your own back against the door, sliding until you’re on the floor with your knees tucked into your chest. His voice softens even more, wanting to selfishly see you. 

“Y/N? Tell me you’re okay.” 

You stay silent, examining the scarlet on your finger as a few more stray tears slip your eyes, wanting nothing more than to hold him. 

“Tell me you’re okay, Y/N. Please-”

“To be honest, I’m kind of scared.” Your voice falls to a whisper as Iwaizumi clenches his fist in anger at himself, hanging his head even lower as he wonders if what was done was the slightest bit reparable. 

“I get it if you don’t want to be with me. Just say the word and I’ll-” 

Your legs are moving before you can think, and suddenly your hand is on the lock twisting it and throwing the door open. Iwaizumi’s eyes widen as his jaw slacks, tackling him into a hug from behind, standing on your knees as you hug him tightly in his sitting position. Iwa curses, loving the feel of you holding him as heat begins to flood his eyes again, the fear of losing you becoming too much to bear. 

“Don’t say even more idiotic things.” You whisper, hugging him even tighter as you feel Iwaizumi- solid, strong, stone-hard Iwaizumi- quiver as he wonders what he did to deserve someone like you. 

He sniffs, wiping his eyes with his sleeve harshly and turning to you with puffy eyes before handling you with a gentleness that you rarely got to see, sitting in front of you silently as he fiddles with the bandages and disinfectant. 

“Let me see.” 

“Hajime, yours are worse-” 

“Don’t care.” He mutters, gently taking your wrist as if you were porcelain, before opening some disinfectant and eyeing you. 

“Hold on to my arm. It’s gonna sting.” 

You bite your lip, clenching Iwa’s muscle as the sting of the disinfectant seems less painful than usual, not being able to hold back your soft smile when he takes the utmost care in wrapping the kitten bandage around your finger. 

“You next.” You go to grab the disinfectant, frowning when Iwa shakes his head. 

“I don’t deserve it.” 

“Why so sad?” You attempt a joke, pulling Iwa’s hand back and beginning to give him the same treatment as Iwa tries to keep a straight face, eyeing you as if you were some beautiful discovery before pulling you tightly into his embrace as his chin rests on your shoulder. 

“Hajime I’m not done-” 

“I love you.” 

You smile into his shoulder, pretending not to notice the tears that were wetting the back of your shirt. 

“Don’t be afraid of me. Don’t flinch away from me. I’m so goddamn sorry-” 

“Hajime.” 

“What?” He furrows his brows as if you were challenging him when you pull back, wondering if you would tease him for his heartfelt words before you kiss him fully, smiling into it when Iwa sighs as if he was releasing pent up emotion. His hand holds you there for a minute before he pulls back to rest his forehead against yours, thumb stroking your cheek distractedly. 

“We’ll get through this.” 

Iwa’s lips quirk up in a half smile before he kisses your temple, using both hands to cup your face. 

“I don’t deserve you.” 

“You’re right, you don’t.” 

Iwa rolls his eyes at your cheeky grin, still finding you perfect despite the red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. 

“Brat.” 

“Dickhead.” 

“Can we...go eat dinner after we clean up?” Iwa looks off to the side, suddenly embarrassed as you gape at how unbelievably cute he was being, before holding his hand out to you.

You smile softly, eyes suddenly dry before standing and wrapping your bandage-wrapped finger around his. 

“Yeah. I made your favorite.”

---------------------------------------------

General works: @takemetovalhalla @kasandrafaye @dreebbles @savemesteeb @yams046

[quizzyisdone]

Old Scars // Future Hearts | GN Bell! Reader x Russell Adler

A/N: One of the unfortunate side effects of MK-Ultra is the hallucinations that linger long after the conditioning is broken, Adler has learned. After pulling Bell out of another one of these delusions, Adler lets his walls down, even if for a moment, and regales the story of how he got his infamous scar. (3.5k words)

*Title inspired by this song from All Time Low

Warnings: Strong language, mentions of: hallucinations, brainwashing, mental illness, death, nudity

“It was never personal.” 

A weapon, aimed towards the heart.

It would’ve been instant death.

But it wasn’t.

White, searing pain wracks the body. 

Gripping at the stomach, writhing in excruciation.

A taste of copper fills the mouth. 

“What did you do to them?” Another gruff, harsh voice rings from the distance.

Then, nothing.

You shot up from your bed, screaming as your hand ghosted over the old wound from all those years ago. You could make out the silhouette of another figure beside you groggily sit up as well, rubbing his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Bell?” His voice was husky, the raspiness of it exaggerated by the veil of exhaustion from just waking up. Him. It was him.

“Get away from me.” Your voice quivered as you darted from the bed, not caring as the cold chill of the night dotted goosebumps all along your bare skin due to the loss of warmth. You slowly backed away from the bed, your stare fixated on him. You looked like a deer in headlights, your body frozen in time, your mind in limbo as you struggled to decide whether or not to flee.

He decided for you, making the first move. He pushed the blanket off of him, and got out of the bed. “Bell.” He said cautiously. “Calm down.”

“Y-you shot me.” You could feel the hot tears begin to roll down your cheeks.

Do not trust Adler.

“Bell. You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He is lying to you.

The voice. That voice again.

Do not trust Adler.

He took another step towards you, and that was all the affirmation you needed to listen to the disembodied voice and bolt from the room. 

He is lying to you.

You ran to the nearest door you could find. the legs that carried you no longer felt under your own control, like a marionette dictated your every move. 

When you opened the door, there was a hallway, it was bare, save for a picture of you and him framed and hanging on the wall right outside of the room you just came from. In your haste, you accidentally ran into the wall, inadvertently causing the picture to fall from where it was mounted. Upon impact, the glass shattered and you tripped. Your hands collided with the shards, embedding themselves in your palms. A trickle of crimson began to stream down.

You looked behind you, and you could see even in the darkness that he was right there, a cautious type of worry glossing over his eyes as his hands were raised defensively.

“Baby, are you okay?” He asked as he knelt down beside you, careful to avoid the glass that had gathered on the floor. He attempted to take your hands in his own to assess the damage, but you jolted away from him once more.

Do not trust Adler. The voice repeated.

You tried to shut the voice out, in your head you knew this was unreasonable, and yet the ghost of the past still acted as the puppeteer, forcing words to fall off your tongue that did not feel like yours. 

“Get away from me!” You shouted abruptly, sliding backwards before getting back up again, bolting to the nearest door you could find. 

You slammed it open, and in your unthinking haze, you left the door ajar. The glass dug itself deeper into your palms as your hands began to desperately search the wall for a light switch.

...Adler… The voice becomes more and more distorted.

“G-Go away!” You screamed, your voice shrill and piercing as you clenched your jaw so hard you swore that you nearly broke the bone. You covered your ears in a last ditch attempt to escape the man behind you and ward off the man in your head.

He... lying… you…

You found the light, illuminating what was a bathroom. You glanced at yourself in the mirror through blurred vision, your chest heaving with exertion and panic, hair that was disheveled from sleeping and a few strands stained with the blood from covering your ears with your hands. Your eyes were bloodshot, the color of your irises beautifully amplified by the redness.

He appeared behind you, his brows deeply furrowed with his bright blue eyes marked by concern. The voice begins to sound like static at the reflection of him.

...trust...Adler…

The voice disappeared, fading into nothingness for the time being. Exhaustion began to loom over your body once more and you found that you no longer wanted to run from him anymore.

Him. 

Him. It was just Russell.

The realization hit you like a brick. Your thoughts became more and more coherent, and the perceived threat from only seconds ago was now your salvation, your saving grace. He always was. The bathroom was no longer part of some unfamiliar compound. It was not only Adler’s bathroom, in his house. It was your bathroom in your house.

“I-I’m so sorry.” You whispered. “I did it again, didn’t I?” Alder nodded solemnly as you brought your head to your hands, lightly rubbing at the temples.

“Breath. Relax your jaw.” He soothed, still maintaining a cautious distance, as if he was any more forward, you’d fall back into that delusional state. “These nightmares, the hallucinations you’re having. They’re getting worse.” He sighed, slowly and gently going to grab your wrists, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bathtub. “You need help, baby. Professional help.”

Adler opened the cabinet under the sink, grabbing a pair of tweezers, some rubbing alcohol, and bandages. He kneeled next to your trembling form, his hand outstretched. “Give me your hand, Bell.” His tone was ever so commanding, but soft at the same time. You did so, albeit a bit reluctantly -- the after effects of such a hallucination still affected you.

“You know just as well as I that I can’t get that kind of help.” You watched as his expression hardened, his lips pursed at the abysmal sight of your palms. 

“Why is that so?” Adler asked as he grabbed the tweezers, focusing his attention on the smaller shards of glass. You winced as he pulled the smallest piece out from your hand, causing even more crimson red to dribble out of the wound. He used his thumb to apply pressure to prevent even more blood from gushing out.

“I don’t even technically exist, I-I don’t have an identity.” You flinched when the sudden feeling of rubbing alcohol stung at the open flesh. “I think you need that kind of stuff. Y’know, for the papers and stuff. Not to mention I couldn’t afford it.”

“Nonsense. I can pay for whatever. I’ve been talking to Hudson about an identity, though. This can’t keep happening, Bell.” Adler pursed his lips as he plucked yet another piece from your hand. “You’re gonna end up seriously hurting either yourself or someone else. It’s scaring me.” He admitted, and the thought of him being scared of you or what you could do stirred something deep inside you; a mixture of shock, a twisted sense of pride that you could affect him in such a way, but most unmistakably, it was sadness, guilt.

“I know.” You said dejectedly, your voice cracking as your face set into the most pitiful expression Adler had seen since when you laid strapped to that gurney in West Berlin. “I’m sorry, Russell.”

“Hey, baby,” He shot you a sweet and earnest smile as he finished bandaging up your wounded hand. “It’s not your fault. It’ll be okay, I got you. Alright sweetheart?” He reassured sweetly.

You nodded and gave a weak smile as Adler took your other hand in his, bringing it to his lips and delivering a soft kiss to your knuckles. His other hand raised to your cheek, cupping it and tenderly wiping away the multitude of tears that had gathered on your face.

“I’ll run you a bath, yeah? Wash your hair, get you cleaned up.” He said, helping you get up from the rim of the tub. 

You meekly accepted the offer, grabbing a towel from the adjacent linen closet as Adler turned on the tap. “Grab two.”

“Why?”

“Take a guess.” He quipped, and you giggled as you grabbed another one. “I’ll be right back, go ahead and get in.” Adler nodded towards you and you cocked an eyebrow but listened to him nonetheless. 

You put a testing finger under the running tap, taking care to avoid your freshly bangaged palms. The water was too cold, as always when it came to Adler. You adjusted the handle, turning up the heat. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice. 

You stripped bare of your sweat-drenched clothes, putting your foot in the water, only to hear a wolf whistle from the man behind you.

“Goddamn.” Adler muttered as he gawked at your nude form, a lop-sided grin on his face.

You bashfully grinned, cheeks turning a unique shade of red under his gaze. You glanced behind you to find him holding a beer and a bottle of water.

“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes. “You’ve seen me naked a thousand times.”

“And everytime it’s like the first.” He gave your rear a playful squeeze and chuckled deeply.

“That beer better be for me.”

“That sucks for you then.” Adler said as he handed you the water bottle and you sat in the tub. You watched a bit more studiously than you should’ve as you watched Adler strip bare as well. 

Even though you’ve also seen his nude form a thousand times, you couldn’t help but admire it. Scars that you’ve no idea of their origin ran their way across his chest and stomach, muscles flexing with every little movement, as well as considerable amounts of hair the roamed from his pectorals, to his abdomen, and tantalizingly down from his navel to beneath the waistband on his pants.

“Well there’s the pot calling the kettle black.” He pointed out, removing the rest of his clothes. “You know it’s rude to stare, Bell.” Adler’s statement snapped you out of your thoughts as you glanced back up to his face. You bashfully smiled, as he had caught your somewhat hypocritical, lingering gaze. He popped open the cap on his bottle, maneuvering behind you into the bath.

He winced, looking down at the steam running off his skin from the heat. 

“Christ, it’s fucking hot!” He cursed as his face contorted into a comedic caricature of pain and disgust. He gave his body a few minutes to adjust to the temperature. 

As soon as he had acclimated to the hot water, Adler relaxed, leaning backwards. “Did you turn up the heat while I was gone?”

“Maybe.” You giggled.

“I’ll give you a pass this one time.” He pointed at you and his face set into a playfully serious expression. “But only because you’re in bad shape.” Adler said as he ruffled your messy hair.

You leaned back against his broad form, humming contentedly before silence descended between the both of you for a few minutes. Combined with the steady tide of his breathing and his thumbs rubbing small circles on your hip bones, it was nearly enough to lull you to sleep. 

You craned your neck upwards, a delicate finger going to lightly graze over the scarred flesh of his cheek. Part of you expected him to recoil from the touch, as he always used to, but no longer did. There was some pride in that, that he trusted you enough to be so intimately vulnerable with another person again.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Adler broke the silence.

“You don’t flinch when I touch your face anymore.” You smiled sweetly with eyes lidded from looming fatigue. “Does that mean you might tell me one day?”

“Tell you what?”

“How you got the scar on your face.” Adler looked away from you for a moment, his mouth setting into a frown. For a moment, you thought you ruined the sweet moment. 

“I have plenty of stories to tell you. Tiger attack, freak shaving accident, jumping off of roofs, the cat…” He trailed off, nodding towards his cat perched on the ledge of the sink, watching you two intently. She was so aptly named Greasy for her dirty and shaggy appearance. 

You smiled lightly and breathed out. “No. Not a fake one. The real one. You didn’t have that in my memories of you from Vietnam.”

“The real one?” Adler sighed, retreating back into his thoughts for a second as he took a swig of his beer and chewed at the bottom of his lip. “I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

You beamed at his statement, trust seemed to always be in short supply, especially when it came to Adler. That vulnerability to trust you with a secret that he swore he’d never tell anyone, it was a testament to how far you came.  

He placed the bottle down on the rim adjacent to him. “So, back in ‘69, SOG received intel from Langley about some POW camp that needed liberating. Y’know, usual shit. Except this one was the Hanoi Hilton.”

“You say that name like I should know it.” You cocked your head.

“Sometimes I forget you weren’t actually there. That’s not what it was actually called.” Adler chuckled. “I think it was actually called Hỏa Lò. Anyways, VC started keeping POW’s there in 1964, and that place wasn’t exactly known for it’s wonderful treatment of captives. MAC-V-SOG had been trying to free the prisoners there ever since we learned of the damn place. The op I was on just happened to be the one that failed the most spectacularly.” Adler laughed dryly and bitterly, perhaps an attempt to mask the pain, the gravity of the actual situation.

“It was also the last time we’d try until the end of the war. If I’m being honest the only reason SOG even wanted to go in was because Woods was there. Place was smack dab in the middle of a Viet Cong stronghold. I didn’t have very high hopes for the op in the first place, but shit, I didn’t expect it to go that bad.”

“What happened?” You turned around to face him completely, ignoring the swish of water that had splashed onto the floor.

“Well, seeing as most of SOG was indisposed at the moment, busy fighting our other secret wars in southeast Asia,” Adler sighed, rubbing at his temple, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was nervous. “They sent us in with a squad of Marine infantry. All of them had just been drafted, fresh out of bootcamp. The eldest couldn’t have been any older than 20.” 

Adler’s face contorted into an expression mixed with disgust and guilt as he rubbed at his eyes. “They were just a bunch of fuckin’ kids, barely out of high school. I-I mean fuck, right? This was the first mission command decided to send these bunch of teenagers on.” He bit his lips, no longer looking distraught, but angry. 

“Everyone on that goddamn squad died but me.” He slammed his fist down, his jaw tense and he closed his eyes, trying his hardest to calm that swell of anger that seemed to boil in his veins whenever he thought about the fateful day. He knew he could be scary when he was angry. But that didn’t seem to deter you.

“Baby,” You went to grab his hand that was resting on the ledge of the bath, but he swiped it away as soon as he felt your touch. “You don’t have to say anything else.”

“No.” Adler opened his eyes and let out a deep breath, moving his hand back again to meet with yours, entwining his fingers around your palm, staring intently at it. “I’ve never talked about this with anyone, it’s hard. I’ve been through a lot, things that would completely ruin most people, I won’t lie,” His voice cracked, and he took a deep inhale “This was the one of the few that ever really got to me.”

You listened intently as he regained his composure and explained the rest. 

Apparently Woods wasn’t even there, he was shipped off the Da Nang six months prior. The intel was flubbed, and it was almost as if the North Vietnamese troops expected Adler and his men’s arrival. After failing so miserably, the squad had managed to make out with only about three of their men to exfil. But the Viet Cong wasn’t known for their timid, live and let live nature. They had pursued them after they barely managed to reach evac and shot down their helicopter in the middle of the jungle. 

Everyone on that chopper died on impact, except Adler of course. He had the pleasure of gazing on everyone’s mangled bodies, contorted in ways a man shouldn’t be able to bend. He was only severely injured, but being dead would’ve felt like a mercy. Not only had his leg been broken and his shoulder dislocated, but shrapnel from the crash dug itself into his face, etching into his cheeks the scar you could see today. 

After the crash, the radio was completely destroyed and comms were down, leaving him no way to contact anyone. Essentially, Adler had been stranded right in the middle of VC territory. It had been five days without food and two without water before he stumbled into a village in friendly territory.

“I told command that this shit was going to fail, people were going to…” He trailed off, clenching his fists, his eyes narrowing and avoiding contact with your own. “Did they listen? Of course not. I should’ve dug my heels in more, should’ve been stubborn, should’ve refused. I mean, these were kids they were sending in with me. Maybe they’d be alive today if I just fought harder.” His voice became a pitch higher as he tried to stop the tears that threatened to fall as he avoided your gaze.

“No. There was nothing you could’ve done.” You turned his cheek to look at you, his eyes now just a bit puffier and redder than they were before, he was trying his best not to fall apart in the moment as his lip quivered ever so slightly. It was so… strange to see him like this. The vulnerability was a welcome change, but still strange nonetheless.

It was a significant shift from the paradigm you and Adler had created together, normally he was so strong, so sturdy even in his most melancholic moments as he let you break down in front of him. How long had it been since he allowed himself to bare the most intimate parts of his mind?

“No, I know you’re trying to make me feel better, Bell, but I know what happened.” He pursed his lips, waving off your attempts at comfort. “It was my fault.”

“The hell it was, baby.” You cupped his unmarred cheek tenderly in your hand, placing gentle kisses on his scarred one. “None of that was your fault.” You said before placing one last, deep one on his lips.

“I have a feeling that arguing with you is useless on this one.” He whispered softly, letting out a weak laugh.

“It always is.” You said, your tone low and sweet. “I know, no amount of me saying it isn’t your fault will make you actually believe it.”

“I suppose.” Adler sighed, inwardly relieved that such a difficult conversation appeared to be dying out. “By the way, you’re shivering, baby.” Adler noted, rubbing his hands along your upper arms in an attempt to warm them.

“Because the water’s really cold now and you’ve got the AC on high.”

“Well, guess we’d better wash you up then.” He smiled, going to grab the soap as he gently washed your body, a comfortable silence descending over the two of you as you revelled in the feeling of his hands combing through your hair, lathering soap and massaging your scalp. 

In your exhaustion, him drying you off and the trip from the bathroom to the bedroom was a blur. It was beyond you as to how you ended up in one of his shirts, fighting off sleep as he held you to his chest. Adler rubbed gentle circles on your bare thigh while his free hand lazily ran through a lock of your still damp hair. 

It had been so long since it’s been like this. Adler thought to himself, musing at how reminiscent this was of his short time with his ex-wife. The uncharacteristic protectiveness, gentleness even, he felt over her was amplified in how he felt for you. All he could hope for was that this would last longer than his previous one. 

“I love you.” Adler whispered. “You know that?” He should’ve said it earlier, but it was better late than never, and the tired grin on your face was worth it.

“I know. I love you too.” You mumbled, settling in once more as you succumbed to your own drowsiness.

[jordanstrophe]

War of Royalty

Masterlist

CW: medeival whump, slavery, kidnapping, noncon touching/stripping (rather mild and non sexual), very protective possessive caretaker, branding mentioned, manhandling, fight scene, stabbed whumper

King Arvend threw the scroll across the room from this throne, watching a cleaning servant instantly snatch it from the floor and take off with it. He sighed as he dragged a hand down his face. 

“This letter from Ravenhill is... Disturbing.” He rasped. 

“An empty threat, my lord. They wouldn’t dare set foot within the kingdoms.”  Margrave spoke; one of four horsemen. 

“I should have flattened them when I had the chance...” He growled, his fists tightening. “I'm just... I have him to worry about now.” His posture loosened as he sank further within his throne. 

“Worried about whom?”

“The boy, Eden.” 

Margrave's head snapped towards the King, taking a long inhale to hide his hesitation. “With all due respect, your majesty, that slave will only bring you trouble. He’s practically a stay dog plucked from the streets.” 

“I know you mean well, my friend, but I care not where he came from. I chose him and he’s mine.” He hissed.

“Then why? Why did you take him?”

The King didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at him as he stared at the golden jeweled rings on each finger. 

“My lord, he is just a child’s toy to you. That little entertaining pet is nothing but a distraction-”

A woman bolted in, her face as pale as snow and gasping heavily. “Y-you’re majesty! A window in the corridor is broken! There’s an intruder in the palace!” She cried. 

Margrave’s face froze as he turned towards the soldiers. “Guards! Into position!” He snapped, his words instantly causing a flood of a dozen knights welding spears and shields surrounding the King.  

“Margrave please! This is nothing but a pathetic attempt to frighten us. But regardless, I want you to find someone for me.” The King spoke. “Your majesty, it is my duty to protect you, I will not leave your side!” He hissed, unsheathing his sword. “Your duty is to protect me and my household! I want you to find Eden!” He slammed his fist against his throne.

“Th- the boy!? Have you gone mad? You would send your trusted warrior to defend a slave over yourself?” Margrave shouted.  “Silence! If someone’s in the palace, they would be a fool to come for me.” The King grasped Margrave’s shoulders, turning him to face him. “Please, I’m asking you as a friend... That boy is important to me. Go.”

“But my lo-”  

“GO!” 

Margrave forced his lips shut, letting his gaze be pierced by the King before bolting for the corridors. He passed the shattered window, colored stained glass shards glistening in the carpet as it crunched beneath his boot. 

That stupid slave... It was all Arvend gushed over these days. The King used to be a strong heartless warrior! But now, he had a speck of a soft spot in his heart. 

A speck of weakness. 

He shoved the heavy door open, letting it slam on the wall just so he could watch the slave jolt off his feet with a gasp. 

“There you are...” Margrave hissed, slamming the door behind him as Eden quickly shut the book in his lap. He wouldn't let the boy speak before pinning him to the corner with his elbow resting on the wall over his head. Eden cringed when the man’s hand slowly ran up his chest to his collar, pulling it down until he could see the brand of Ravenhill burned into his chest. 

“So it’s true...” He whispered. 

“Enough!” ”Eden shoved hand away, ducking under his arm to get out from his height. “Wh-who are you?” He shuttered, quickly pulling his collar back up to cover the brand.

“I guess you can call me your knight in shining armor for the hour.” Margrave shrugged. 

“Okay... Mr. Knight in shining armor. How about you keep your hands to yourself.” Eden grumbled with his arms defensively crossed over his chest. Margrave just crumbled in laughter, before his hand shot out and grabbed his hair, yanking him closer as he gasped.

“Listen here, you little rat... The only reason I’m here is because the King sent me to watch his favorite pup. There’s an intruder in the palace and he dubbed you valuable enough to send his most trusted man to protect it.” He hissed. 

Eden glared up at Margrave for a moment, before seeing the door behind him silently open as a hooded figure crept in. They made eye contact as the figure tilted their head to the side, motioning a finger over their lips with an inhuman smile.

“B-behind you-!” 

“wha?-” Margrave turned around too late as a sword hilt was pulled from its sheath against the man's face. He shouted as he released the boy, staggering back and hitting the desk. Eden scurried to the far side of the room as the figure fully unsheathed the blade, chuckling as they approached the man. 

“Bah! Why you lowlife-” Margrave spun around in the nick of time to block the swing from the intruder, pushing the sword to the side as it stuck into the wood of the desk. He kicked the figure off, grinning as they lost their grasp on the sword. “I would be expected to turn you in alive, but alas, I just don’t have the patience today.” Margrave smirked, cornering the man as he raised his sword. 

“Long live the king.” The figure hissed with a smile, ripping a dagger from their cloak and throwing it into Margrave's shoulder. He gasped as he dropped his sword, clutching his arm before the figure took a blow at his head.

The figure slowly turned towards Eden, whose face was drained from all color with his hand over his lips. They stepped over Margrave’s unconscious form, listening to the boy’s cries when he was yanked off the wall by his collar. 

"We've been looking for you, little Eden..."

ʕっ• ᴥ • ʔっ Thank you for reading!~ @tears-and-lilies  @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @starnight-whump  @bumpthumpwhump @whumpcreations @myst-in-the-mirror @heathenville @grizzlie70 @castielamigos-whump-side-blog  @thegreathowdini @kim-poce @digitalart-dwa @kittyfrostsworld @andwhump @sunflower1000 @kim-poce  @lonesome--hunter   @cupcakes-and-pain @as-a-matter-of-whump

[plush-rabbit]

I Want To Hear You Say It

Chapter 4: Missed Comfort

Word Count: 3.8K

A/N: I just realized that this is my story and I can choose what happens

Prev.

Memories are fragmented, pieces of glass that has broken and shards that escape him and hide elsewhere, leaving his past broken, blurry and incomplete, painful to pick at and there has to be a reason why, there has to be a reason why whenever he thinks about who he was before he was found by All For One, that he scratches at his skin, tearing the flesh off from body, dirty blood that covers his hands and leaves him gasping for air, making him fear that he’ll suffocate before the memory grows clear. He can remember kind words, he can remember breakfast and playing, he can remember something soft under his chin, he can remember love for a moment, a moment that leaves him sick and broken, clasping his hands around his neck and hoping that he’ll die. He can remember the harsh stare, eyes that belong to a monster, eyes that are unforgiving with a hand that is merciless, the harsh feeling of the ground and the eyes that can only look away until he’s forced to face the monster in front of him, the monster that strikes over and over again and it fills him with hatred, it fills him clarity, the one moment where he can breathe and he stares into his reflection, covered in his own blood with red rimmed eyes, and he’s home.

Tomura Shigaraki stands in a room with few possessions, his body cold as he lays above the worn out bed, springs that dig into his back and a pillow that is far too flat to bring any sort of comfort. 

He grew up in the care of All For One, molded and cared for, the embrace clear in his head and there are flashes of memories that are clear, ripe for the picking and allowing him to view who he is now. But he brushes past them. He brushes past the dust on the floor and the tantrums, past the cold wooden floorboards under his feet, the weight of the hands on him are lighter and heavier all at once, lifting him into the air with the promise of love. The hands pinch around his body and threaten to drag him into the depths of hell, moaning out to him, his name broken and unsure, calling him something too different and too similar that leaves him retching and covering his mouth with his hand.

Tomura Shigaraki can remember Kurogiri. He can remember the wisp of a man, purple and black mixing, shades light in certain areas, mixing and swirling with the darker colors, creating a beautiful shade that disappears and is never shown, a shade that was never meant to be seen hides deep within the man. He can remember the apprehension, the choked up feeling, like something small was lodged in the base of his throat, uncomfortable and manageable. He can remember the soft words, the hands that touched him, defying physics and the vapor having actual feeling to it, actual touch that moves the hair across his face. He can remember the shared meals, proper and simple, the hatred in his eyes that soon turned into acceptance and silent compliance with every meal. 

People come into his life and they leave. So far, the League of Villains has remained whole. Kurogiri separated but for the good of the mission. For the good of the plan. For the good of him- Tomura Shigaraki. People separate and they come together. 

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s developed a kinship with the team. He’s developed genuine emotions towards them. He doesn’t want to call them friends. It feels odd- heavy and foregin, the word unspoken of, even when he was just a child, he never spoke the word, flinching when he thought of it because he knew that he was alone. All For One was his sensei, his master, a father-like figure to him but never a friend. Kurogiri was … something. Kurogiri was something else, heavy and comforting, wanted and pushed away. The team right now, they are his comrades. They are the people that he cares about- their wishes and likes, their desires and wants- that’s what he cares for. He’ll spit at the idea of caring, deny it with a wave of his hand, but he cares.

He’s lived a lonely life. And in the blink of an eye, it became filled with people. And he was accepting of that, he can handle people following his bidding, he can handle people if they’re there to serve his cause. But then you come along.

You aren’t there to serve anything. You are nothing to him. And yet, you still fill his mind. He lets it wander and you come into view, the way you brushed his hair and dried it for him, offering to pick something that he’d like to eat. You called him a friend. You were lying. You told a lie to save your skin from a prying neighbor. It’s easy for him to believe that you told a lie. You did. You lied only to protect yourself. But then he can feel your hands again and the touch has faded, it’s nothing more than a ghost that caresses his skin when he’s falling asleep, his own hands crawling to hold the place where you held and his sleep ruined when his hands are not like yours. They don’t hold the same delicacy, the gentleness that made him feel at ease- they aren’t your hands. Your touch is fading and he hates it. He hates that he misses the way you cared for him, the way you let him into your home and cared for him. He is a wounded man, alone in a world with only a few companions, and it’s been so long since he’s felt a touch that wasn’t filled with malice, that wasn’t a rough, teasing punch or a reassuring squeeze of a shoulder, but one where it was focused on him and being gentle, treating him like he were glass. 

He doesn’t want to admit it to himself but he wants to see you. He needs to feel your touch again. He needs a moment where your hands are on him and then he can be satisfied, he can be fine without your touch that haunts him.

-

Learning your schedule is relatively easy. People don’t want to admit that they’re predictable, they want to remain a mystery, they want to be hidden from view and open up when they feel like it and you are no different. You stick to yourself. You don’t talk to people in your apartment complex- minus a few people who stop to chat, a forced smile that takes place on your face. Even at work, you give polite smiles, you eat alone in your car, watching a video on your phone and always peering outside the window, like you’re scared that someone is watching your every movement. You’re polite and you stick to a routine, you treat yourself to the bakery and leave with a white bag curled in your hand and you pass by the alleyway where you first met. And there’s a leap in his heart when you pause, and he can see your hand tighten around the paper bag and then you move on. You continue to walk, faster, a pace that catches the eyes of a few pedestrians and before you can reach the stairs, your keys are in your hands, and you’re inside your home and you’re out of view. 

It has to be a sickness that he has.  He has to be sick with the way that he always finds himself wandering into the alleyway, crouched where you found him and he hates that he can’t remember your scent, hates that he was too disorientated to focus on the important details that you had. He hates that he only realized that he wanted- that he craved and desired your touch when you were gone. He doesn’t bother lying to himself, he’s not in the area to clean any loose ends, the blood that had fallen from him has long since dried, fallen into the crevices of the ground, weeds that have bloomed and raised where he had squashed them. He’s here filled with hope, hope that diminishes whenever you don’t arrive at the same time that you once did. And he hates himself when he feels disappointment, the feeling coursing through his body and leaving him empty, leaving him with acid in his mouth and blood on his neck. 

It was fate then. You worked a late shift and you came to him. You had saved him because he was meant to continue on. You pushed him to live another day. He wonders if you know who he is. How would you react? Would you accept his views? Do you believe that society is damned? That everything within hero society is corrupted and needs to be changed? Would you accept him? 

He laughs to himself. It’s a short burst of laughter, bubbling past his lips and it’s short until he presses himself further into the brick. Of course, you’d accept him. Of course you would accept him. You did it once. You let a stranger into your home, welcomed him and brushed his hair, held him in your hands and let him live in your life for a moment- you’d accept him with open arms. 

-

It was a miscalculated risk. Heroes that were unaccounted for due to how close they were. He’s injured, face trickling with blood that mixes with his sweat and he’s unsure of where the wound is. His clothes are singed at the end, fabric crumbling and fingers painted in soot as he runs through the night, gasping for air. It’s cold and sharp, entering his lungs and chilling his throat, every breath painful and heavier, as he runs. Red ruins his vision and he swipes it away with the back of his hand, blood flickering onto the pavement, seeping into the cracks and leaving nothing but dark spots. He runs and he runs. His legs hurt, aching at the joints, muscles pulled taut, and he knows that if he stumbles, he’ll collapse. Father is held tight against his face, piercing at his skull, hands pulled taut around him, pulling him back and the hands on his neck choke him.

He knows where he’s going. He’ll deny it to himself, lie and say that it was his own moving on it’s own accord, leading him past the convenience store, hands ripped from his body and shoved into pockets, bulging and pale gray fingertips that peek beneath the pockets, stiff fingers intertwined with each other and he’s lying to himself, telling weak lies that even he can’t believe. He runs towards you, running and gasping, a burst of adrenaline spiking through his body and sirens are ringing through the air, colors flashing and you’re so close. He runs, sweat mixing with blood, a heavy red color that reminds him he is only human, he’s covered in his blood, he’s covered in people’s blood and ash, weighing him down and clinging to his ankles, dragging him to hell as the devils rush behind him. His steps are heavy, slapping against the stairs and he’s knocking at your door, pounding and there’s a moment of fear where he thinks someone else will awaken before you do and he’s begging, calling your name in a whisper that cracks and cuts through his alreadys scarred lips and he’s begging for you to open the door, a silent prayer that is echoed into the night and there’s nothing more than he wants to do than to touch you.  He’s close to touching the doorknob, desperate to find safety inside until the light turns on underneath he’s cursing you in his mind for being so careless, for letting the person outside- letting him know that you are home- and he steps away and the door opens and you stand him front of him with heavy eyes, a disheveled appearance with an annoyed expression that only lasts for a second, a moment where he has you entire attention and then you break and you call his name and he stumbles inside and he’s safe.

The door is closed behind him and the ringing stops. He’s inside your home, leaning against the wall, and he’s filthy, coated in grime and sweat, blood that runs down his face from an unknown wound, legs heavy and he slides down the wall and he can see you, standing away from him, a horrified look on your face and maybe this was a mistake. That you didn’t feel whatever he felt. That you were just trying to be nice. A hand reaches, fingers outstretched and he can imagine how soft you’d be, the look of horror frozen on your face as he’s the last thing you see and then you kneel down, and you’re shaking and your words are stuck in your throat.

Your hands are soft. Softer than he remembered, cusping his face and he’s grateful for it, leans into your touch until you grab at something foreign on his face, and Father is removed and held so tenderly in your hand. His eyes widen. He forgot to remove Father. Sirens grow closer and you look out the door and he’s weak and unable to stand as you lift and walk towards the door and there’s a shake of your hands, you clasp around the door knob and you seem to struggle with yourself internally before you latch on the locks and turn back to him. You call his name and he calls yours and he wants to lean in but he’s bloody and you are clean, and he sits against your wall as you hold Father and walk away. 

He sits on the floor and closes his eyes for a second and when he opens them, you’re crouched in front of him, Father beside him and he watches as you bring up a wet rag and whisper to him. “I’m just going to clean you up, okay?” Your voice is shaky, hands matching as they dab against his forehead, your other hand pushing his pale blue hair upwards. “Tomura?” He grunts in response. You pause, your lip is bitten and he wants to know what you’re thinking. “Why are you here?” You dab and the pale blue cloth in your hand turns into a horrible shade, sweat, blood and dirt standing the ruined piece of fabric. Realization has set into your eyes, the fear leaking off of you and yet your hands are nothing but gentle. 

“I wanted you to touch me,” he mutters and your hands still. “I needed it.” He lets his words hang in the air. He can feel the press of your palm against him, and you don’t respond. You clean him, cleaning the sin from him. “Do you know who I am?” 

“I think I can take a guess.” Your hands leave him and you turn from him, pulling out a pack of wipes, the white bright against your palm and then you’re cleaning at him again, discarding the wipe after wipe, the pack becoming thin as you clean him. “Are you going to-” you swallow nervously and you meet his eyes, unsteady and glistening with unshed tears- “you know.” Your eyes dart to his hands and then back to his eyes.

He laughs. It’s rich and filled with something indescribable and he leans towards you, peeling himself away from the wall and you stiffen when his forehead rests against your shoulder. Father has slipped and is on the floor. You’re still, faltering against him and he wants nothing more than to touch you. His lips brush against your neck and he can hear a sharp intake of breath, hands that react and grip the sides of his shirt, pulling him closer to you, and he wonders if you’re crying as he’s pressed against you. 

“I could never hurt you,” he whispers against your neck, nuzzling closer, feeling your pulse quicken. “You were so nice to me-” his hands are unsteady as they brush up your shirt and he hears you whine, and his fingers are pressed against the soft side of you, and he smiles, hidden from you- “I will never hurt you.” It’s the truth- a wholehearted truth that he will never use his quirk against you, he’ll protect you, watch over you and dig his nails into you. He won't ever hurt you, he won’t have you bleed because of him, he’ll keep you with him and protect you, have his hands wrap around you in the loving way that his do, remind you that he’s letting you live and giving you all his love- whole and innocent, twisted and pure. “I love you,” he murmurs and there’s a swell in his chest when you twist his shirt in your hands and your pulse beats against him. “Perhaps it’s too quick to tell each other that-” he hums into you, smelling the sweet scent of vanilla on you- “but I love you. And I’ll protect you.” His nails dig into your skin, red appearing, a pale shade that stings and doesn’t stain his fingertips.

Perhaps it was too quick to give each other your love. But when he pulls away and he sees you crying, hands still gripped against his shirt, a rise and fall of your chest and he smiles. His hands leave you and your shirt flutters and it’s covered in grime, sticking to your chest and it’s wrinkled. Tears fall from your eyes, tracing down the curve of your face, polling and dripping off your chin and you can only look at him with wide eyes and you’re doubling over, gasping for breath, your hands wrapped around you, trying so desperately to control your breathing and you look over, watching the door with hope that vanishes in a second. It’s quiet outside. There are no heroes around. You look back at him and he smiles at you.

“Shigaraki?” You ask him, and there’s a frown on his lips. You need to check if it’s really him, praying that this is a sick joke, exchanging your life for a moment of false reality, to be laughed at because this is some cruel, sick joke that doesn’t exist and isn’t happening before your eyes. “Tomura Shigaraki?”

“You can call me Tomura,” he coos, his hands bringing your face up, held so tenderly, so carefully, with poised and raised fingers, trying not to touch you and you’re crying and he’s shushing you. “You don’t have to cry,” he murmurs. “I mean it-” he leans in closer and your eyes shine with fear, colors mixing together to create a lovely shade of color that he has never seen before and when you cry, it glosses over and he tilts his head, smile stretching past his lips- “I would never hurt you.”

“Be-” your voice cracks and there's a soft pink that licks at your lips and he leans in. “Because I was nice to you?” You’re so hesitant and so scared, trembling under his palm and your tears pool onto him.

“Because you cared for me, yes.” He could never hurt you, never bring himself to cause you to cry. He’s so careful to pull away, hands fisted once he’s moved and he looks around and grabs at a wipe, brings it under your eyes and he shushes you when you flinch from him, his hand gripping at the side of your face, string and firm. “I hate seeing you cry,” he murmurs. You’re scared and new to these feelings. He won’t push you. He’ll stay by your side, faithful and patient, wait for you to come to him and profess your love, and he’ll wipe away your tears. “I love you,” he repeats.

He rises and pulls you up and you stand in the entrance, you stumbling into his chest, and his arms holding you up and he’s nuzzling into the crown of your head, and when you start to sob, shaking into his chest and clinging to the back of his coat, hands threatening to spill from the pockets, he pats your back carefully, run the side of his hand down your back in a comforting motion, slowly turning until his palm is against you and your sobs are muffled into his chest, with your tears staining his shirt. Your name is whispered into the room and you cry until you pull away and he stares at you patiently and you can hardly meet his eyes when you tell him he can use the shower and he stands alone, as you walk into your room, letting the door remain open.

He showers and he lets the water fall from him, dries himself with the same towel he had used from the other day. He washes himself free from grime and wears the same clothes, filthy and hanging from his body, sticking uncomfortably and he wears clothes that are his and he smells like you. His hair is wet and tangled and he brushes at the knots, and makes himself look presentable. He won’t have the first night that he sleeps here cognitive sullied by the outside world. He sits on the chair in your room, watches as you pull the blankets up to your chin and have your back turned to him. He comes to sit at the edge, his hand slowly coming down until he’s holding onto your neck, stroking it, feeling the way that you jerk and go painfully still, and he whispers your name. It's a gentle call, feeling you brush against his fingertips, calling out to you because he knows you’re still awake. 

“Yes, Tomura?” You respond and there’s a level of politeness that sticks to your words and makes him frown. 

“I’ll be back to see you soon, okay?” He has to leave for now. He needs to go before he can give in to his wants and touch you, to let himself bury into your chest and hold you, and sleep beside you. “But I’ll be back, okay?” He pulls away and the bed creaks as the weight shifts. He’s closing your door, and his eyes are on your body and he’s smiling to himself. “Don’t try anything dumb, okay?” He doesn’t wait for an answer- you’re smart, you know who he is. It isn’t a threat, it’s just a phrase that he knows will keep you in line from trying anything reckless- he’s viewed you, watched you and he knows that an empty threat will keep you in check. “I love you.” He whispers your name and it’s filled with love, enough to make him sigh and close the door, lean against it for a moment and let his imagination wander on how you’d welcome him into bed and hold him. The door to your apartment clicks shut and he’s walking out, Father holding tight against his face, and a strange calmness flooding throughout his body.

taglist:

@dillybuggg @gladiatorandroid @mrgorewhore @justanotherlifeff

[razrbladekiss]

Tyrants | Chapter One - Disclosure

A/N: This was supposed to be a Jax x Fem!OC fanfic, but it took a little turn as I started to write more of it. So, it’ll be Tig x Fem!OC, but Jax does play a very important role in this.

SUMMARY: A sick turn of events sees Isla Telford thrown in at the deep end, battling to govern the sudden pressures of all that her father's club decidedly bestow upon her.

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

WARNINGS: Brief mentions of murder, the guy that got his ass shit is in this one. Jax and Tig get their own warnings, too, for obvious reasons.

The older I get, the more I realize that age doesn't bring wisdom. It only brings weary.

John Teller was always so astute.

His judicious character befell his son, too. Jax had that same perceptive nature as his old man--everyone would comment on that.

To Isla, it was admirable. For Jackson Teller to be a man of such stature--to hold such a reputation--and to remain somewhat level-headed through it all, was only something she could commend.

She'd seen many of her father's friends crumble under the pressure of Samcro, unable to balance the weight of living with the responsibility and commitment to the club, and meet their unfortunate demise--in some not-so extreme cases.

But Jax was different. He'd always been different.

Maybe that wasn't so great, however.

"You're fucking insane, Isla."

"Not insane." She mumbled, sifting through the box of shitty medical supplies that Gemma had left atop the pool table last night.

"Just trying to patch this shit up so Hayes doesn't kick the fucking bucket before Jax gets back here."

Tig snarled. "But it might be infected, and the bullet is still in this dude's ass--"

Isla whipped her head to glare at the man, her eyes wide, forehead slick with sweat--and a little blood, too.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Isla--"

"Tig, with all due respect, unless you're gonna help, please get the fuck outta here."

"That's not gonna suffice," he pointed out, referring to the medical tape, ignoring her scolding.

She wanted to throttle him. Truly, Isla was willing to wrap her crimson-coated fingertips around Tig's neck and squeeze the absolute life out of that man.

"I know." Her lips kneaded together in frustration, watching her father dab an alcohol-infused pad on the wound. "But unless you've got any better ideas, then we're just gonna have to keep reapplying this shit."

"But the infection, Isla."

"But the lack of medical equipment, Tig."

He slapped his palm against the table and glared at her, pointedly. "Why've you gotta be such a bitch all the time, huh?"

"Watch it, Trager." Piqued, Chibs growled.

"I'm not a bitch all the time," she dismissed her father, wiping at her palm with a wet rag. "I'm actually able to control the way I act around other people."

"Oh, fuck you--"

"Christ!"

The Scot's yell was muffled by the cap of his whiskey bottle, his hand pressing against Cameron's skin as the man screamed into the cloth Isla had placed underneath his head.

"God, for fucks sake, both of you just pack it in."

"Chibs--"

"Shut the fuck up. You're a fucking geriatric and you're spending your morning bickering with an almost thirty-year-old. Grow up, Tig."

Despite laughing at his comment, and enjoying the irritation wash over the other man's face, she felt bad.

For riling her father up--who was simply trying to help the innocent Irishman caught in the literal crossfire--she felt fucking awful. Especially because he never seemed to get mad at her all too often.

Tig, though...That was a different story entirely.

"I'm gonna go see if Clay has any more shit lying 'round here." She declared, throwing a damp towel onto the table, backing out of the room.

Her heart was in her throat, stomach in damn knots. Isla wasn't confident that Cameron was going to make it--not with such a deep wound.

And in his ass, too? Jesus. She wasn't confident at all.

Of course, she'd seen men get shot. Her own father, for one. But she hadn't seen somebody have to go so long without actual medical attention.

Chibs was ex-army med, but there was only so much a man could've done with a bottle of liquor, gauze, and a towel.

She was relieved that the bullet hit Cameron and not Clay, though. As sick as it sounded, she was so fucking glad that he'd managed to dodge the line of fire--initially intended for his own skull--and come out completely unscathed.

But for every ounce of relief she'd felt, an even more fervid sense of anger prevailed at the thought of Jax taking so damn long with those medical supplies he'd sought to get last night.

Gemma mentioned something about heading to the hospital--or a friend's house, or something--but Isla wasn't paying any mind to the woman as she, and Chibs, were trying all ways to stop the bleeding coming from Cameron's ass cheek.

It was the most bizarre turn of events she'd ever experienced.

One minute, Isla was sipping on a glass of wine while she eagerly awaited the spirited ping of her tiny microwave oven, ready to spend a rare--though well fucking deserved--night alone.

However, things took a drastic turn when she received a call from Tig--on behalf of a very busy Chibs--casually requesting her assistance because the Mayans had tried to assassinate Clay.

But Tig failed to mention that the man was completely fine.

She'd spent fifteen minutes on the way over mentally preparing herself, wondering what hell she'd walk into when she set foot into the clubhouse. But it was normal--strangely so.

Isla wasn't a professional, she didn't exactly know how to handle such a trauma, but she trusted her father and she just wanted to make sure he had a helping hand.

God knows that Tig wouldn't have been very much use, and Juice was a little nervous--though, he was doing incredibly well throughout the ordeal regardless of his internal apprehension.

"How's it looking?" Gemma threw at Isla, getting to her feet.

"Bloody."

She quickly scanned the room, taking in the uncomfortably sparse bar. It wasn't usually so empty, so quiet.

Clay, Gemma, and Juice. That was it. Not even Piney--not even Epps.

"Is he doing okay?"

It was still early in the day, though. She guessed that they'd pop in once they properly came around.

"He's better than he was last night." The brunette nodded. "Dad is certain the laceration is gonna get infected if we leave it any longer without trying to get the bullet out--"

"You've gotta wait 'til Jax gets back here, Isla, we can't risk Hayes dying on us."

"I know, Clay. He's just fucking tired--he's been up all night. We need a real medic on the scene before something bad happens. It's only a matter of time."

He mumbled something to himself that only Gemma seemed to catch, but Isla didn't particularly give a damn at that point. Like Chibs, she was exhausted.

The tattered and torn plaid shirt she had thrown over a random tank top--now smeared with another man's blood--was wrenched between her fingers as she pulled it off, folding it not-so-neatly.

She hadn't dealt with such a bloody wound in a while. Not since her mother's palm, decorated with shards of glass, was in dire need of stitches and her father was across the country, unable to offer his medical assistance.

"I'll grab one of Jax's shirts for you--"

"No, Gemma, it's okay," she smiled, taking a seat on one of the couches opposite her.

The older woman pinched her eyebrows together skeptically, watching Isla shift. "I insist."

"It's fine." Isla was adamant. "I'm gonna head home as soon as Jax gets back here--if he gets back here--so, really, it's fine."

A minimal amount of already dried blood was spread over her wrists and fingers, and the excess had been rubbed off on her crimson flannel, so she didn't particularly feel bad about making any mess.

Though, she shouldn't have felt bad. Not after she'd been coerced into helping and eventually receiving that shitty reception from Tig.

"Aren't you cold?" She questioned, waiting for Isla to capitulate, but she never did.

The thought of wearing one of Jax's shirts--after it being given to her by his fucking mother--didn't sit right with her for some reason. Plus, she didn't particularly feel like walking out of that building wearing the damn reaper on her back.

She didn't want to flaunt their patch. Not any more than she already had been for the last ten years.

"Where the fuck is he?"

Clay glared at the clock on the wall, realizing they'd been without the Vice President for hours. In an attempt to put him at ease, Gemma ran a hand along his shoulder.

Isla could only watch them--admire, perhaps.

"He told us he was gonna swing by Tara's place for the equipment. But that was last night, man." Juice shrugged, circling the lip of his beer bottle with his thumb.

She felt her throat thicken with a sick sense of trepidation. She hadn't heard that name in years.

"Tara?" She stuttered, feeling Gemma's piercing glare.

The woman hated Jax's first love, though she never said it aloud. Isla knew her perception of her, however, and she'd started to feel the exact same as the years went on.

Bitch.

"Yeah, y'know, Tara Knowles--"

Her heart sank--fuck that, it dove straight to the deep caverns of her chest, throbbing away into nothing. Until she felt completely void of all emotion. Completely fucking numb.

"I know her, Juice." Her response came hastily, snappy. "I'm sorry. I just didn't expect you to say that."

He shrugged it off. "It's alright. I wasn't expecting her to be back in town, either. I thought you already knew."

Suddenly uncomfortable, Isla's head shook.

The crow situated at the bottom of her spine began to smolder, blistering away at her skin until she physically flinched.

It was a brilliant idea at the time, getting a matching tattoo with Jax's old lady--the one woman she truly adored and trusted, never once feeling an ounce of malice toward.

Because that was a rare thing for Isla, and she wanted their friendship--and relation to Samcro--to prevail for eternity, she supposed.

But as time went on and Tara decided to distance, and eventually alienate, herself from the club, an ample sense of regret persisted for fucking months.

Isla loathed her ink. She hated the negative connotation of the crow she once lauded, and the mere idea of that thing being slapped above her ass forever churned her stomach.

It wasn't one of her finest moments, she had to admit. But she was young and extremely fucking dumb. She'd bet top dollar that Tara felt the same--if she hadn't gotten the crow covered up already.

"Jesus, Jax, where were you?!"

Her eyes flicked upward, attention on the blonde as he sauntered across the wooden floor of the bar.

She hadn't even noticed his presence until Clay spoke, but she soon started to heed how Jax was trembling a bit with every step that he took.

It wasn't obvious. To most people, the slight shake of his wrist would've gone completely unnoticed. But to Isla--to the most observant woman in Charming--his discomfort was striking.

Jax ignored him, stomping his way toward the back room. His line of sight never satisfied Isla's. It didn't even come close to it, either.

Something had happened. It was obvious that, in the time he had been with Tara, he'd encountered something grizzly enough to chill him to the bone.

Which was saying something, what with the horrific shit that he'd already seen in his time.

"Jax!" Clay yelled, following closely behind him. "Hey, asshole, where the fuck did you put the bag--"

"I've got it."

If she had the option, Isla would've allowed the floor to swallow her fucking whole.

"Tara." Pissed, Gemma acknowledged. "You're here because?"

"I asked her to help, mom."

"But Chibs had it covered. He just needed some actual instruments--"

"Gemma, quit it."

She simply nodded at her son, not wanting to cause another problem that she'd have to fix later--which, honestly, Isla was shocked to see.

"He's in there--"

"I know." Jax cut her short, ushering Tara to the back of the clubhouse--striving to get her into the room before she heeded Isla.

But she did.

The first person she clocked--aside from Clay--was Isla Telford, the woman she had purposely alienated herself from ten fucking years ago.

It wasn't anything that she'd particularly done to Tara, more like the crowd she ran with--and the way her loyalties never seemed to lay very closely to her friends, or anything outside of the club.

Isla wasn't a part of Samcro--she didn't want to be a part of Samcro--but her coalition was strong enough to convince anybody that she was more than merely a daughter of a Sgt. at Arms.

She had been brought up around the Sons--her father's choice, of course--and when her mother passed, she had no choice but to dive a little bit deeper into that world. But, as expected, it was constantly under the watchful eye of her old man.

She was dedicated to them. They were, essentially, family, and she was an honorary member.

"Isla." Jax mumbled, nodding his head toward the entrance of the clubhouse as he closed the back-door. "Outside."

He pulled a carton of cigarettes out of his leather vest, shaking the box as he strived to seem a little less suspicious to Clay and his mother.

The blonde wobbled to her feet--knees weak after hours of standing--while simultaneously pulling her bloodied flannel back onto svelte, freckled arms, recognizing that the chill was to hit her the second she stepped onto the gravel.

Jax was casual while he strutted ahead, taking long strides that Isla found fucking impossible to keep up with.

He pushed the door to close behind her, offering a cigarette that she hastily declined.

"What's she doing here?" Was how she decided to break the silence, her eyes searching for a hint of something written on his face.

But there was nothing. Not an ounce of emotion--scarily so.

"She's fixing Cameron up--"

"Not at the clubhouse, Jax. I meant back in Charming."

He ran a thumb across his lower lip, trying to soften his gaze on Isla, but it was futile. He looked discomposed--unsettled.

"She's uh--she's workin' at the hospital now." She started to nod, waiting for his elaboration. It never came, however.

"Oh, that's nice. I wonder what happened in Chicago...Do you know why she's back here? Or how long she's gonna be staying in town--"

"You sound like my fucking mother--give it a break with the thirty-seven questions about Tara, damnit."

He snarled, heeding the distaste of his words the second she glowered at him.

"Excuse you?"

"I didn't call you out here for a sweet little conversation, Isla, I called you 'cause I need your help--"

"With what?"

Jax's hand hooked onto the back of his neck while he tilted his head to look upward, thinking of a way--any fucking way--to explain just what damn mess he'd found himself entwined with over the course of the last twenty-four hours.

He didn't know what to say or how to say it--if he should've fucking said it. He trusted Isla with his life--always had--but sometimes he appreciated that she mightn't have appreciated finding herself tangled within Jax's boisterous, at times frightening, life.

But it was too late for that. She'd been dragged through the deepest shit and wasn't crumbling that easily.

"Jax--"

"Kohn." He stated simply, waiting for the cogs of her brain to begin turning.

"What about him? You got in trouble with the ATF or something? Because we can handle that--"

"I already did." Jax laughed humorlessly, finally meeting Isla's line of sight.

The skin underneath his eyes was red raw, blotchy and irritated after he had used the sleeve of his hoodie to scrub away the tears he'd shed.

The tears he hadn't wanted to shed, but had fallen freely--uncontrollably--from those cerulean hues Isla never tired of looking at.

"What do you mean by that?" Nervously, she quizzed.

He didn't even have to say anything. She fucking knew. She knew exactly what he meant by that, but there was a tiny morsel of something within her that hoped and prayed that he'd declare that her gut feeling was wrong.

But he couldn't. Because it was right. Like always, Isla's intuition didn't fail her.

"Jax, honey, what did you do--"

"I killed Kohn."

[atiny-doodles]

one

HALA

genre: fantasy, romance, alt. universe

warnings: drinking

disclaimer: pirate!ateez x siren!reader, mc is already given a name, female mc

series masterlist

-

“Cheers for defeating the Kraken!” Captain Hongjoong exclaimed. Raising his glass of whiskey, his crew followed him and erupted in cheers. The noisy pirates were sailing in secluded waters, partying like they would every night they completed a mission. The first mate scoffed and walked away from the obnoxious crowd, leaning onto the side of the deck. He was the only sober one of the crew, and as acting captain he took his job very seriously to look out for danger when the rest of his mates weren't looking after their ship. "Trusty crew mates, more like crusty crew mates." he muttered to himself in spite.

Seonghwa is the first mate of the crew that navigates the well known Hala. The ship stands for their pride and glory. Her name, meaning no matter what comes in their way, whatever obstacles they face, they will always make it to their treasure.

Looking out at sea, the slim tall man took a deep breath and tried to calm down despite the chaotic men that surrounded him. Although Seonghwa was very strong as well as an excellent fighter, his facial features were almost feminine. Tall cheeks paired with a rounded nose and plump lips. But his eyes were the dyed cold blue of Arctic water, so when he would glare at you, you could feel the sharp shards of ice pierce your soul.

As he felt someone wobble next to him on the deck, he bit back the urge to roll his eyes. “What do you want, Wooyoung?” he grumbled.

“Aye, aren’t ya bit grumpy today Seonghwa?” Wooyoung laughed. “Ye should loosen up sometime, cap’n treat us to drinks for a reason!” He leaned over the edge of the ship for support in his drunken state, but even so the sailor continued to take a big desperate swig out of his beer.

Wooyoung was the crew’s potions master. He created medicines and studied healing sorcery on the prestigious islands of Evereta. He could’ve been an elite sorcerer one day, but he ran away from that life. Anyone could’ve seen the elite life of the rich didn’t suit Wooyoung. Although he was very handsome, with his long dark locks parted in the middle and muscular arms glistening with melanin in the moonlight, he was a very loud outspoken fella. The man couldn’t be a gentleman to save his life. He belonged right here, with the rest of the crew.

“No thank you,” Seonghwa replied to Wooyoung. “At least one of us needs to stay clear minded and take care of you dim witted men.”

Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “Yada yada, ye were always the more uptight one of the crew Hwa.” Seonghwa furrowed his brows at the mention of his impudent nickname, but decided against saying anything about it. But much to his dismay, Wooyoung leaned closer to him, as if he wanted to tell him something in secret. Seonghwa tried to back away but before he could escape Wooyoung caught his arm.

“The truth is I actually found something.” Wooyoung pulled out an item from his trouser pockets. A circular piece of sea rock, emerald green in color and bumpy in shape. From afar it would look like any other regular sea rock, but close up, Seonghwa could make out that it was shaped like a ring.

“It fits ye slender fingers perfectly!” Wooyoung exclaimed, trying to put it on Seonghwa’ pointer finger.

“Alright, I think it’s time for you to get to bed.” Seonghwa pushed him away, clearly fed up with his antics.

He grabbed the ring from him and pushed the sulky Wooyoung all the way to his sleeping quarters. Dropping his mumbling mess on the bed, Seonghwa turned to leave his ring on the table when one of his books caught his eyes.

Wooyoung’s shelves were normally filled with potions and spell books of sorts, and it was rare he strayed away from reading outside of his magical studies.

But this shiny emerald green book matched the hue of the ring. It shined almost metallically under the candle light. The bumpy hardcover of the book mimicked that of sea rock, similar to the ring, and it was titled Sirens. He noticed Wooyoung bookmarked a page and turned to it. A picture of a mythical creature, half fish and half maiden, adorned the page. It was marked with a wanted poster, a similar picture of the half fish creature on it.

‘Wanted, dead or alive’ it read with a hefty sum of thirty thousand kroogle awarded with it. Seonghwa smirked. Of course, the only reason Wooyoung would read or research anything was if there was some treasure attached to it.

Taking a second look at the ring, he decided to keep it with him instead of leaving it with Wooyoung. Surely he would want to hunt down the owner of the ring, and it would just be a hassle to hunt down a make-believe siren.

Seonghwa walked back outside to be greeted with just the captain. Everything on the dock was cleaned and everyone else probably already went to sleep.

“Hey Seonghwa,” Captain Hongjoong greeted. “Go to sleep, I’m going to man the ship tonight.”

Although he seemed sober, he tripped over a few steps. Seonghwa didn’t miss the slight drowsiness in his eyes either. Running up to him, Seonghwa grabbed his captain’s arms to stop him.

“Hongjoong, just dock the ship. We can continue sailing tomorrow.” he said.

The captain nodded. “Yes. I think it’s good we rest tonight as well. There’s an island a couple miles south from here. I’ll dock there tonight and we can resupply tomorrow.”

Seonghwa smiled. Even in his high state, Hongjoong was still thinking like a Captain. At times he was the tough Captain Hongjoong of the Hala crew and at moments like this he took care of his members with the care of a father. Seonghwa and the crew always appreciated that.

After the Captain stopped and headed off to bed for the night, Seonghwa decided to take a well deserved peaceful nighttime stroll on the beach. Seonghwa started to trudge away from the ship. Taking in a deep breath of the fresh sea air, his body started to feel less heavy. Resting on the sand for just a few minutes would be okay, right?

Laying down, he looked up at the stars and the moon. The shiny dots sprinkled the sky blurred a bit by the painted white streaks of clouds, centered with a glistening crescent moon. From the ocean, he heard some distant light humming. Ignoring it, he thought his head was just filling in the silence of the environment. But then the humming turned into a voice.

“Laaaa” a distant woman sang. Sitting up, Seonghwa looked around. But sure enough, he was alone. The voice seemed to get closer and closer, but it was a soothing melody.

Interested, Seonghwa stepped closer to the sound. It was coming from the place where the waves of the sea splashed against some rocks in the distance. Stepping closer to the ocean, he let the water kiss the tips of his boots. Encouraged by the voice getting louder, he let the song fill all of his senses before he let his whole body sink into the water.

Oooh, Come to me my darling

Renounce thy senses stray

I’ll give you all your desires

So come join my ocean hold

With that, the mysterious humming followed, and he let it swallow his senses. He felt like he was in a deep peaceful abyss, and let everything go. He closed his eyes, slowly feeling his conscience slip away to the sea as well. Until he heard someone speak.

“Laila stop!”

Seonghwa snapped his eyes open, only to shut them again due to the stinging water. He thrashed around in the water slowly feeling the air flow out of him. Before falling into unconsciousness, he heard one last thing.

“We don’t have time for this! The princess has…”

[candy-and-writing]

Siren Song

This is my entry for @mermaidxatxheart challenge #jamies500writingchallenge with the AU Siren/Sailor. I decided to kind of put a twist on it, so I hope it still fits!!!

Summary: You are a Siren. Your voice is an aphrodisiac that lures people into a spell. The only way they can break your spell is if they sleep with you. Steve accidentally hears you singing after a mission.

Warnings: dub-con, smut, drugging, gags, restraints, fingering, oral sex, Steve waiting too long for the woman he loves

A/n: Feedback is welcomed and appreciated! I was a dumbass and waited until the day before this was due to write this, so if there are any error, please let me know :)

I am NOT responsible for your media content consumption. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and/or dark themes. By reading this work you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work posted on any third party app or website; if you are seeing this work anywhere other than tumblr and archiveofourown, it has been reposted without my permission.

"What's your status, Siren?" Tony's voice came through your earpiece. You finished flattening out the line of your dress, taking a sip of your champagne before you answered.

"So far, so good. I have eyes on the target, let me finish my drink and I can engage—"

"No!" Steve spat in your ear, making you flinch. "Y/n, do not engage, do you understand?"

You scoffed. If Steve didn't want you to engage, then what was the point of you being here? At this point, you weren't even batting any eyelashes at anybody—under strict orders from your Captain not to. 

"Come on, Sailor," you purred. "I can help. Let me do my job."

"You use your power on me again, I'm gonna quarantine you," Steve growled. You chuckled at his threat.

"Then what exactly is the reason I'm here, Captain?" you asked, taking another sip of the overtly expensive drink you held. "You want the target incapacitated, I can incapacitate him for you. It'll be easy."

"Incapacitated, not oogling over you."

"You got a problem with my powers, Sailor?"

You heard Steve sigh. "You know that I don't. I got a problem with the men here, especially the man we're trying to catch. He doesn't have a good rep with pretty dames like you, I'm trying to keep you safe."

"You think I'm pretty?" You feigned surprise, bringing your hand to your chest to mimic shock.

"That—" he paused for a moment before letting out an aggravated breath. "That's not the point and you know it. Just keep your distance for now, when we're ready we'll let you know."

You sighed. "Yeah, that's not happening, Cap. Sorry."

"Y/n—"

You turned off your comms, swaying over to your target, a man named Viktor Yakovich. He was a HYDRA lackie known for sex trafficking and importing drugs in and out of the Harbour. You passed him, fingers dragging along the chest of his iron pressed suit, rolling off his shoulder and when you looked back to meet his eyes, you winked.

The wide-eyed, jaw-dropped expression he wore showed you he was enthralled. He watched as you sauntered to an empty seat at the end of the bar. You ordered a drink, a fancy strawberry vanilla tequila cocktail with a misconstructed french name. You watched the bartender make your drink, pouring different liquids into the mixer. He shook the tin almost violently before he poured the drink into a cocktail glass, adding three small strawberry slices into your glass. You thanked him as he handed it to you and took a hefty sip. 

Just as you finished the last of your cocktail, Yakovich stood leaning against the bartop, eyeing you with a level of lust that had chills running down your spine.

"I'll have a double whiskey on the rocks," he said to the bartender, his accent thick, "and another of whatever the lady is having."

"Extra shot of tequila, please," you added. Viktor smirked at you.

"You are quite beautiful," he commented. "What brings you here?"

You made up some story about your father being too sick to attend the luxurious gala himself, so he sent you as his representative. It was a story engraved in your brain, a caring daughter worried about her poor father's health. His liver was failing, you told Yakovich.

Yakovich was quick to give you his sympathies. You thanked him, sipping on your new drink. Gathering your courage, you set your hand on his thigh, rubbing your thumb softly against the fabric of his trousers. You watched his eyes widen, his shoulders raised as his breathing hitched. 

"Why don't we go upstairs?" Your voice lowered several octaves. Yakovich grinned, offering you his arm.

--

Your head pounded as you regained consciousness, groaning. You're vaguely aware of the pain in your body, the heaviness in your legs and how your arms almost felt numb. The dim light above you all too bright as you clenched your eyes shut in protest, grimacing. Your mouth was dry, the corners of your lips ached, and you felt a piece of plastic lodged between your teeth. You tried to bring your hand up, but something was keeping your arms rooted in place. As your mind became clearer, you saw your wrists were tied to the edges of the chair, arms pulled taut at your sides. You were gagged and tied down. Great.

What was the last thing you remembered? Yakovich had taken you to his hotel room above the ballroom. You remembered you had kissed him, he had pushed you against the wall. He moved you to the bed after you felt a sharp prick in your neck and then—and then it went black. The damn bastard had drugged you. But how had he gotten out of your spell? That wasn't supposed to be possible. 

"Well, well, well. . . looks like the little dove is awake." The rich Russian accent sounded oddly humorous, which sent a shudder up your spine. Footsteps echoed against the chipped concrete. Yakovich stepped into view, a wicked grin plastered on his face. You frowned at him, tilting your chin up defiantly. He chuckled at you, roughly grabbing your chin. "I know all about you, little dove. You were HYDRA's most powerful weapon, made the Winter Soldier look like child's play. But. . . you defected. How come?"

You shrugged. Mumbled through your gag some jarbled excuse. Really you were just making noise. Yakovich sighed before backhanding you across the cheek, your head snapping to the side with a sharp crack. You bit down on the plastic wedged between your teeth, a yelp getting stuck in your throat.

"Oh, dove. You make such lovely noises. It is such a shame I won't get to hear more. Kill her now."

A knife was at your throat. You held your head up, glaring at Yakovich. There was a crash, shards of glass shattering on the cement floor. Something flew past your head with a deafening whoosh, Steve's shield striking Yakovich square in the chest, sending him flying. The knife had left your throat, Tony blasting the blade out the man's hand as Sam drop kicked him.

Steve was in front of you, reaching to unbuckle the gag behind your head. He threw it to the ground, his hand cupping your cheek.

"Hey, Sailor," you rasped, your voice hoarse.

His thumb brushed over the red marks at the corner of your mouth. "Are you okay?"

"I had it handled," you smirked. Steve chuckled incredulously, dropping his head. 

"You're unbelievable," he laughed.

He tore the twine that was wrapped tightly around your wrists. He rubbed the dark red marks, trying to get the blood flowing back in your hands. He whispered something that sounded similar to 'oh, baby', looking at the marks surrounding your wrists.

"Let's get you out of here. Okay?" Steve's hand went under your knees, your arm draping the back of his neck. He carried you out of the warehouse, the quinjet parked a few meters away. Steve sat you on the exam table that came up from the floor. "The others will be here soon, okay? They just gotta take care of Yakovich."

You nodded, swallowing. The pain was starting to set in—your head throbbed in sharp pains, your wrists were burning in piercing pulses. You were so dizzy, your world spun around you until you had to hold onto Steve. He looked at you, concern swimming behind his eyes as his hand covered yours over his bicep. 

"I'm fine," you said weakly.

Natasha, Tony, and Sam boarded the quinjet. 

"Hey, kiddo," Tony smiled. "How you doing?"

"Never better," you grinned. "Where's Yakovich?"

"Local police are gonna hold him while we get you back to the Compound," Natasha said, "then Tony and I are going to bring him into S.H.I.E.L.D. . . . What happened?"

You shrugged. "I don't know, I-I thought I had him. We were upstairs, I was—um, you know. . .." you scratched the back of your neck. "And then it just went black."

"I thought people couldn't resist your powers?"

"They're not supposed to be able to." You frowned, rubbing the bridge of your nose. There was so much pressure building up in your head, you just wanted to take some aspirin and sleep for a week. 

"You gonna need medical?" Sam had his arms crossed, a frown on his face. You shook your head.

"I'll be fine."

"Y/n," Steve said sternly. Natasha went to the front of the jet, pressing buttons and flipping a switch. The ramp pulled up and sealed the entrance as the engine roared to life.

You sighed. "I'm fine, Sailor. Seriously. I just need a hot shower and to get out of this dress." 

Steve tried to argue with you. "You might have a concussion."

You reminded Steve about the serum that was coursing through your veins. The same one HYDRA had forced into you, the same one Bucky had coursing through his veins. Except it didn't make you strong like him or Steve. It had done something to your cells, and with a few genetic alterations, HYDRA was able to give you your powers. 

And HYDRA wondered why you left.

--

You let the dress slip off your body, leaving you in a lacy pair of wine red panties and a thigh holster. You discarded the holster, sliding the lace off your legs before stepping into the shower. 

The water was warm, soothing your taut muscles. Your shoulders were so tight they felt like concrete. You sighed, leaning your head back into the water stream.

You left the bathroom clad in a towel, your hair damp. Your head felt better than it had when you arrived at the compound. Your wrists were bruising, the dark red marks encircling your wrists turning a violent purple. You had a bruise forming on your cheek, too, from where Yakovich slapped you.

"Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y?" you called. 

"Yes, Miss L/n?" the A.I responded.

"Can you play some music for me? My 'Calm' playlist, please?"

"Of course, Miss L/n."

A Lana Del Rey song echoed through your room. You thought it was called 'Love song' but honestly, you couldn't be sure. You hummed along, drying your hair with a separate towel.

In the car, in the car, in the backseat, I'm your baby

We go fast, we go so fast, we don't move

"I believe in a place you take me," you sang, eyes closed, scrunching the water out of your locks. "Make you real proud of your baby."

You stood, grabbing a lavender and cedarwood lotion off your dresser. You sat back down on your bed, bringing your leg up.

"Oh, be my once in a lifetime—" You rub lotion up and down your leg, massaging it in. "Lyin' on your chest in my party dress."

You dropped your towel, moving to your drawer chest. You grabbed a pair of white cotton panties that were a size too small and an old Yankees shirt that was too big. It used to be Steve's, but one day he was doing laundry and the shirt shrunk. You snatched it before he could throw it away.

"Dream a dream, here's a scene." You pulled a pair of green fuzzy socks over your feet. "Touch me anywhere 'cause I'm your baby."

You turned around, running into a solid wall of muscle. You yelped, Steve grabbing your arms to steady you. You looked up at him, frowning.

"Hey, Sailor, whatcha doing?" Steve was silent, staring at you intently. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as they raked up and down your form. "Steve?"

"I've never heard you sing before," he commented, his voice a few octaves lower than you've ever heard it. "Your voice is beautiful."

Your eyes widened, inhaling a sharp breath. You thought you had set F.R.I.D.A.Y up so when you told her to play music it also activated her soundproofing protocol. Tony assured you no one could hear you. 

"O-o-o-o-o-kay." You twisted out of Steve's grasp, holding your hands out in front of you. "I think you should go. Go take a cold shower or something, okay?"

"Oh, but, sweetheart. . . you said I could touch you anywhere."

You slowly stepped around him, Steve stalking you with a dark look. Your knees hit the bed and you crashed down, looking up at him in—in what, fear? Anticipation?

Steve hooked his finger under your chin, tilting your head up. He looked down on you, a crooked grin splitting his lips. You swallowed, looking at his smooth, plump lips. You quickly looked up to meet his gaze, his bright blue eyes swallowed in lust. You called out his name, your voice barely above a whisper. 

And then his lips were on yours. A small whimper died in your throat, his lips soft as they moved against your own. Your eyes fluttered shut, Steve's grip on your chin tightening. His knees came up to rest on either side of you, straddling you. He pushed you down, leaning down to cup your cheeks as he sucked at your bottom lip. His heated length pressed against your center. When his tongue pressed into your mouth, you pushed against his chest again only to have him press your hands against the mattress.

Heat pooled in your core as you felt the effects of his arousal. It was a lot like secondhand smoking, the way it affected you. Steve was hooked, caught in your trap like a fly in a spider's web. 

"Steve. . . Steve, wait." He pulled away, his hot breath hitting your lips, your noses almost touching. "You don't want this—please, snap out it."

"Come on, Siren," Steve smirked. "All that flirting. . . and you didn't see this coming?" His lips met your neck, trailing kisses down the column of your neck. Your lip trembled as he sucked a bruise into your skin, in the juncture between your shoulder and neck. 

"Steve, please. You can fight this."

A hand trailed up past the hem of your shirt. "Oh, I don't wanna fight it, sweetheart. Look at you, all dressed up for me in my shirt, pretty as a picture."

His hand palmed your breast. You pushed against his chest, trying desperately to get him off. He nipped at your collarbone, pinching your nipple until you yelped. He shushed you, pushing the shirt over your head and up your arms. He ripped the fabric apart effortlessly, manhandling you to lay across the bed before he grabbed your wrists. Using the shreds of the old shirt he tied you to the bars of your metal bed frame. You were surprised by the amount of panic that fled through you as you pulled against the makeshift restraints, the cloth digging into the bruises around your wrists.

His lips teased your shoulder while he gently played with your breasts. He added the slightest pressure as he squeezed, your breasts fitting perfectly in his hands as you shuddered out a breath. 

"Oh."

"That feel good, baby?" Steve mumbled into your neck. You helplessly nodded, whimpering as he rubbed his hard length against you in a rhythm that had your traitorous body moving your hips against him. 

You tried to remind yourself that it was the effects of your powers, that both of you were under a spell and this wasn't real. It wasn't intimacy, this wasn't you and Steve so madly in love with each other it drove you insane. It was raw, unadulterated hunger. Nothing more than a spell.

"Steve, please," you whimpered, a particular grind against your core making you gasp. "You know how this is going to end—do you want that?"

"I want you, that's all that matters."

You cried out Steve's name as his lips latched onto your nipple, rolling the other sensitive bud between his fingertips. Steve couldn't mean that—if he wanted this, that meant you couldn't force him out of your spell. He was bewitched until he fucked it out of his system.

Steve's fingertips danced down your torso, hovering over your belly button and stopping at the line of your underwear. He traced the edge of the garments, mouthing at the spot where your neck and shoulder met. His fingers hooked into your waistband and he pulled your panties down your legs, dropping them on the floor. Steve groaned, inhaling your scent.

"Smell so good, baby," he murmured, "bet you taste even better."

Your cheeks flushed. You weren't sure you wanted him to put his mouth on you. It was wrong, Steve wasn't in his right mind. He wasn't thinking straight.

A strangled moan left your lips as Steve plunged two fingers into your slick heat, looking for the spot inside you that could shatter you. That coil inside you was tight, threatening to explode and send you over the edge. You began to babble mindlessly, endless pleas of 'Steve, please' and vulgar curses. You struggled against your restraints, trying desperately to touch him. You wanted to feel him. He pumped his fingers in and out of you slowly, drawing out the stimulation. 

Then his lips were on the little bundle of nerves just above your entrance. You squealed, bucking your hips into his face. You thighs clenched around his head, pushing his face impossibly closer to your center. He removed his fingers from your entrance, leaving you feeling desperate and empty. You whimpered at Steve, gasping when his tongue darted into your entrance. 

He devastated you with his mouth, his tongue teasing your aching clit again and again until the little bundle of nerves was vibrating. As soon as you felt your release forming, he'd move back down to your entrance, teasing it in and out of there just deep enough to have you begging for more.

"Taste so good, baby." He hummed into your flesh, sending vibrations up through your clit, his hips rutting into the mattress. He pushed the pads of his fingers up, still teasing your bundle of nerves and that was all it took. You cried out, the coil snapping like a taut rubber band, your hips involuntarily jerking as you cried out and struggled against your bonds.

Your entire body was buzzing, your limbs boneless as you panted below him. Steve climbed atop you, fervently pressing his lips to yours. You could taste yourself on him. Licking your lips as he mouthed at your jaw, you closed your eyes. Your brow was sweaty as you tried to catch your breath. Powers or not, you hadn't cum like that in a long time.

When you opened your eyes, his knees were wedged between your thighs, the tip of his cockhead at your entrance. Steve hummed, brushing himself against your wet folds. You dug your teeth into your lower lip, trying desperately not to whimper. Steve leaned down to kiss your cheek before he pushed into you slowly, his thick cock stretching your walls.

Your breath left your lungs, a cry breaking in your throat as Steve groaned into your ear, your silky heat clenching him like a vice. You pulled against your restraints, wincing as pain burned your wrists. He shushed you, nibbling at your shoulder as a means of distraction. When he bottomed out, a growl reverberated through his chest.

"Fuck." Steve's hot breath hit your ear. "You feel so good, Y/n. So tight."

You preened as Steve picked up his pace, easily falling into a hard and fast rhythm. You screamed into his chest, Steve pushing your legs up and effectively folding you in half, the new angle allowing him to hit deeper. You were losing circulation to your hands by how hard you were pulling against the strands of fabric but you didn't care. All you felt was Steve and the way the tip of his cock hit the tip of your cervix.

Your orgasm came out of nowhere—rose so quickly and crashed over you like a tidal wave, sending you reeling. You screamed, seizing up and convulsing around Steve's cock. Steve cursed, feeling you pulsate around him. Black dots invaded your vision as Steve slammed into you harder, faster, and then pulled out suddenly, hot spurts of cum shooting onto your lower stomach. With an animalistic groan, Steve fell to the side.

It took several minutes for either of you to gather your bearings. You were still tied to the bed, breathless and coated in cum when Steve rose, the color in his eyes returning. 

"Y/n, I—" Steve faltered. The guilty look in his puppy-dog eyes making your chest flutter.

"Can you just untie me?" you said quietly. "Please?"

"Oh—yeah. Um. . . yeah." He undid the knot, letting you bring your hands down and sit up. He felt his heart skip a beat at the fresh marks around your wrists. He jumped off the bed and for a moment you were worried he was going to run away, but he gently handed you his shirt before pulling his pants over his hips. "Hold on, okay? I'm gonna get you a rag." You watched him disappear into the bathroom. You pulled his shirt over your head, massaging your wrists gently. 

Steve came back into the room with a damp rag. He handed it to you, hesitant to sit down as you wiped yourself off. "Y/n, I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault." You tossed the rag on the floor, looking down at your wrinkled sheets. "Just—I should have been more careful about singing."

"No—no, don't blame yourself, sweetheart." 

"Listen, I'll go to Tony in the morning, tell him what happened." You sighed. "Maybe he can fix F.R.I.D.A.Y's protocol. I'll ask to be removed from missions, too, if that's what you want—"

"No, no. Y/n, I don't want that." Steve groaned. "I'll talk to Tony. I'm the one that invaded your space. I caused this, I'll fix this."

You bit your lip, ringing Steve's shirt in your hands.

"What is it?"

You sighed. "Nothing, it's just. . . I just Siren Song-ed you into sex and—and you're my friend, I don't want this to ruin things."

"It won't ruin things," Steve promised. "I was actually hoping we could. . . maybe go get some—you know, actually, never mind. It was a bad idea."

"Steve," you smirked. "What is it?"

Steve sighed. "Would you want to go get coffee with me? Maybe tomorrow?"

A smile spread across your face. "You wanna get coffee with me?"

"Yeah. I was gonna ask you after the mission, but things went a little. . . sideways."

You breathed out a chuckle. "I'd love to get coffee with you."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

Steve let out a sigh of relief. "Good, good. I'll pick you up after the briefing tomorrow? We can go to the coffee shop in town with all the books?"

You smiled. "That sounds great."

"Good." Steve flashed you a toothy grin. "I'm—uh—I'm gonna let you get some sleep, okay? You've had a long day."

You scoffed, slipping your legs under your covers. "Yeah. Goodnight, Sailor."

Steve stood in the threshold, shirtless and sweaty, his hair messy as he peaked past the door. "Goodnight, Siren."

[patriciasage]

i’ll cover you

Author: Patricia_Sage

Fandom: The Adventure Zone - Amnesty

Pairing: Duck Newton/Indrid Cold

Summary: 

Duck’s not wearing his helmet.

That’s the thought that enters Aubrey’s mind as Duck flies through the air and into the side of the barn. He crashes through the painted wood and lands in a cloud of dust and hay.

[posted in full under the break but you can find me on AO3]

Duck’s not wearing his helmet.

That’s the thought that enters Aubrey’s mind as Duck flies through the air and into the side of the barn. He crashes through the painted wood and lands in a cloud of dust and hay.

“Duck!” Aubrey yells. Her friend answers with a groan and a cough. Aubrey feels a mixture of relief and concern; he’s alive, but he doesn’t sound great.

The abomination, an unsettling beast with many limbs and many, sharp teeth, moves to pounce through the hole in the wall. Aubrey’s about to blast it with flame but something beats her to the magical punch.

The Mothman crashes into the abomination and the two of them break a huge tree trunk in half with their impact. “Timber!” Ned shouts. He and Aubrey avoid the tree as it hits the ground. They make eye contact over the fallen log. “I was under the impression that Indrid would rather not engage in combat,” Ned says. Aubrey shrugs. She spies gleaming red in in the grass nearby and pockets Indrid’s glasses. They run toward the sounds of a monstrous scuffle.

This outing was meant to be reconnaissance only. The Pine Guard trio had brought Indrid just in case his visions could give them some clues. Instead of a peaceful investigation of Mrs. Rahimi’s acreage, they found the source. The abomination is a horrifying approximation of a creature. In the setting sun, they had seen it consuming one of the cows with a huge mouth and way too many limbs. It noticed them before they could retreat.

Indrid had stepped back, alarmed. “I’m not – I didn't see it until - I don’t have a weapon!”

Duck had moved in front of him, Beacon drawn and gnashing for a fight. “S’alright, dear, we gotcha. Hang back.”

Indrid is done hanging back, it seems.

The Mothman is locked in a thrashing embrace with the abomination, slashing with his claws and stabbing with his pincers. His huge, dark wings are fluttering to balance him. The abomination has too many limbs for him to block, though, and he’s taking some hits.

“Shoot it, Ned!” Aubrey commands.

Ned lifts the NARF Blaster with a steady hand. Aubrey can see the apprehension in his eyes, but his mouth is set in a determined line under his beard. He pulls the trigger.

The abomination lets out a guttural sound and twists out of the Mothman’s grip. To everyone’s horror, it begins running toward the barn. “Shit!” Aubrey says, letting out a blast of fire that misses the creature and smoulders in the grass. Ned fires another foam bullet, but it only catches one of its legs. It barely slows.

The realization that Duck hasn’t emerged from the barn yet sits like a stone in Aubrey’s chest. The abomination is coming to finish him off. Aubrey and Ned are sprinting as fast as they can, but they know they won’t be able to catch it.

There’s a thunderous beating of wings as the Mothman swoops down from above and grabs the abomination. As he raises it into the air, it goes limp like a cat that’s been scooped up by its owner. But as they ascend higher it begins to struggle. Aubrey and Ned watch in awe as the Mothman’s huge wings carry the abomination up into the pink sky. “I can’t believe he can carry it,” Aubrey says, catching her breath. Next to her, Ned agrees. They crane their necks and follow the red dots of the Mothman’s eyes as he gets smaller and smaller.

The abomination is dropped from an incredible height. It falls, flailing, until it meets its gruesome end. Aubrey and Ned flinch as the creature is impaled on a nearby fencepost. “Ouch,” Aubrey mutters. The abomination doesn't move.

“Your precision is impressive –” Ned says as the Mothman lands, but he pushes past them without even a glance and dives through the hole in the barn’s wall. Ned and Aubrey follow, avoiding the splintered shards of wood around the opening.

There’s a horrible, suffocating moment when Duck doesn’t move, crumpled in a pile and covered in bloodstained hay. Aubrey nearly rips Ned’s shirtsleeve in her grip. But then the Mothman places a gentle, clawed hand on his hair, and Duck stirs with a groan. “Wha’ happened?” he mumbles.

“Dude, you gotta wear your helmet!” Aubrey says. When she moves forward, the Mothman whirls around, snarling, wings fully extended as a shield. Aubrey freezes, looking up into huge, red eyes and pincers dripping with the abomination’s blood. “H-hey now.”

Ned is at her side again, hands extended placatingly. “Friend Mothman, we mean no harm.”

Aubrey can barely see Duck behind the Mothman’s imposing form, but she hears him hiss in pain as he moves into a seated position. “You don’t gotta talk to him like –” He cuts himself off with a sigh. The Mothman deflates a little and she sees Duck clumsily stroking the feathers of his wings. “He’s still Indrid. He just got scared. But I’m alright.”

“With all due respect, Duck, you don’t look alright,” Ned says. It’s true. Duck is bleeding from a head wound and his shirt is stained red where the abomination pierced him in its grip. He’s holding his ribs gingerly.

“Yeah,” he rasps, “I should probably go to the hospital.” He gives the Mothman a final pat on the back with his free hand. “Come on, ‘Drid. Let them in.”

The Mothman moves aside, allowing Ned to move to Duck’s side. His wings are folded and twitching and he’s wringing his clawed hands together in a very human way. Aubrey attempts to shake off the instinctive fear that rises at the sight of his imposing insectoid form and approaches him. She takes his red glasses out of her pocket and offers them.

He puts his glasses on and he’s Indrid again, tall, skinny, and pale. Tears are streaming down his face. He looks pitiful and Aubrey considers her inability to distinguish fear from anger in his Sylph form.

Duck hears Indrid’s sniffles and turns from where he’s now propped against Ned’s side. “Oh, darlin’, come here,” he says, beckoning with the hand not currently wrapped around his friend. Indrid hurries over and collapses into a cautious but desperate hug. He wraps his long arms around Duck’s broad shoulders and buries his face in his neck.

Ned is an awkward yet sympathetic part of this embrace, and Aubrey nearly laughs at his expression. It’s kind of a strange third-wheel situation. She takes pity on him. “Alright, time to go, boys! We’ll have plenty of time for hugs and tears when Duck is snug in a hospital bed.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry,” Indrid says, wiping his nose on his cardigan as he pulls away.

They exit out the front door of the barn. Mrs. Rahimi is nowhere to be seen, thank God, and they make their way across the field to Ned’s car. Aubrey wants to comfort Indrid as they follow closely behind Ned and Duck, but she doesn’t know whether he would want his hand held by her. He’s stopped crying now, watching Duck attentively with a worried and protective expression. She decides to just ask. "Can I hold your hand?"

He starts a little when she speaks. She realizes he must be entirely focused on Duck's futures if he didn't predict her question. He thinks for a second, then answers in his soft-spoken, unsettling way. "Yes."

His hand is cold. They walk in silence for a while. “You did good,” Aubrey says.

He looks down at her for a moment. “I don’t even really remember what happened, if I’m being honest.”

“You made an abomination shish kebab is what happened.”

“Oh.”

The setting sun reflects off of Ned’s car. Aubrey sits in the passenger seat next to Ned while Indrid holds Duck tenderly to his side in the back seat.

Aubrey picks up Duck’s helmet from the floor and hands it to him. He flips her off with a crooked, tired smile. They drive to the hospital.

[ddarker-dreams]

Atonement. Yan Fugo x Reader [COMM]

Streams of light sneak through the closed curtains, illuminating your sleeping form. Fugo listens to every breath that leaves your slightly parted lips, enthralled at the sight. More than ever is he grateful to see your chest rise and fall, skin no longer deathly pale. Rosiness fills your cheeks once more, signifying your health returning. 

It isn’t enough to alleviate the deeply rooted guilt within him. 

Fugo’s never been a devout type. His parents practiced, for the sake of their image.  Religion, or anything like it, never offered him anything substantial. Logic is what ruled his world, dominating his thought process. 

If there were a god, surely Fugo had earned his scorn. The dreadful memory is too unclear to recount properly. He believes in the heat of the moment, even a skeptic like him had cried out to the heavens for help.

Purple Haze -- no, he -- almost killed you. 

A Stand is a manifestation of the soul. Fugo’s tormented, pitiable existence further proved this point. All of his hidden ire locked away, only to be unleashed in Purple Haze. What he worked his entire life to push down came rising up like acidic bile, taunting him further. Reminding him of his troubled past, where he failed, and how he’ll fail again by being incapable of controlling himself. 

Pain shoots throughout his body, his teeth gritting together firmly. His fists remain clenched by his side, shoulders stiff and eyes threatening to spill tears. How pathetic, is all he can bitterly think. That when you need him most, he’s on the verge of sobbing like a child. Fugo admonishes himself for the sorry act, and uses the back of his hand to wipe away at his bloodshot eyes. 

That’s right. He’s here to take care of you. To atone for his sins, you being his confessional. Fugo has run away in the past, but he refuses to do it again. Not with you at stake. 

No one else needs to assist in your recovery. Due to the nature of your own Stand, you were able to fend off the brunt of Purple Haze’s virus. While not being the same as a certified professional, Fugo is confident in his knowledge of human biology. All of your needs are met while you rest, recovering from yesterday’s traumatic events. 

Fugo reaches down to your forehead, replacing the now dry rag with a freshly dampened one. His fingers brush over the soft skin of your face, greedily taking in the sign that you’re still tangible. Alive, with him. 

Cowardice tempts him further. When you finally wake, will you rebuke him? Threaten to leave him? It makes logical sense why you’d desire to do so. Even then, Fugo wouldn’t budge. This position is one that took a long, sleepless night to reach. If he has to keep you by his side using force, then… so be it. 

You’re his lifeline. His anchor. The only person he’s ever loved this deeply. For you to leave him is inconceivable, no one will sway him on the matter. Not Narancia, not Bucciarati, not even you. The distressful event reopened his eyes to countless possibilities, strings of coincidences that lead to your death. Or worse. Having tested fate once, he won’t indulge in it again. He will keep you by any means necessary.

This is Fugo Pannaccota’s resolve. 

“Mmn….” 

A quiet, familiar voice makes him snap his attention to you. Your nose twitches, eyebrows furrowing together. Fugo feels his heart hammer violently, knowing that this is the moment he’s been waiting for. He steels himself, staying calm is vital. No matter how much the well of emotion within him overflows, he needs to stick to the plan. 

He’s been by your bedside all this time, waiting patiently for you to awaken. Practicing what he’d say, what his actions would be. To lull you into a sense of security, no matter how false it may be. Fugo told himself it was for your own sake at the start, deep down, he knows the shameful truth. It’s a fulfillment of his own, greedy needs. 

Fugo swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing in anticipation. “[First]? Are you awake?” 

He waits through the tense silence, smiling when you whisper his name softly. Exhaustion is prevalent in your voice, your eyelids fluttering open to the sight of your dutiful boyfriend. Fugo takes your hand in his, not realizing how tight he’s holding it. You wince at the contact, but don’t comment on it. 

“You must have a lot of questions,” Fugo sits down on your bed, which groans under the additional weight. He purses his lips, reciting the practiced speech he prepared for this occasion. “I want to apologize for putting you in danger like that.”

No response. You look like you’re thinking too, still getting your bearings. Fugo takes a deep breath, rubbing the pad of his thumb over your hand.

“Purple Haze… it acted without my prompting. When it saw you being held hostage, nothing I did or said had an effect. It wanted to save you. I’m sorry for all the trouble it’s caused.” 

Fugo closes his eyes, unable to look at you. It’s humiliating to admit his lack of control over his own Stand. This is what he decided would be the most effective avenue, emphasizing it as an honest mistake. Denying his part in the act would be denying responsibility, which you might not take kindly to. 

You squeeze his hand back, earning a startled noise from him. 

“I, um, don’t really remember everything. But I know you’d never hurt me, Fugo.”

You smile, skin under your eyes crinkling. “I trust you.” 

He can’t hear anymore of this. At any second, he’ll shatter like broken shards of glass. Your words target his delicate heart, guilt all he can comprehend. You’re making it easy, way too easy. To manipulate you, to satisfy his self-centered desires. 

This is what he wanted, so why does he feel so disgusted with himself? When you look at him like that, your eyes filled to the brim with adoration, he wants to yell at you. To tell you how corrupted he is, that he’s undeserving of your presence by his side. 

You said you trust him. 

Fugo can’t help but smile, for a reason polar opposite of your own. His is a sardonic one, self deprecating in every fathomable way. He is the worst. The lowest of the low, undeserving of your compassionate presence. It doesn’t change his overarching ambition, sealing your destiny away for good. 

“Keep resting up. If you need anything, I’ll be here.” Fugo squeezes your hand one final time, and leans back into his chair. You nod your head after a moment’s consideration, closing your eyes once more. A few minutes of silence is all it takes for you to descend into the throes of slumber, unaware of Fugo’s piercing stare. 

The developments lead him to sigh shakily. From his pocket he procures a fresh set of keys, trying to remember which one will unlock this door. You must be famished, since you haven’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. That won’t do, Fugo muses. Regaining your strength is of the utmost priority, so he gets up, jingling keys in hand. 

How terribly naive you are. And for that, Fugo is grateful. Not having to resort to more violent measures that plagued his mind the night prior to keep you in place is ideal. He’s careful not to wake you when shutting the door, locking it behind him with a dreadful click.  

Without knowing it, you’ve opened Pandora’s box within him. 

[chocosvt]

⚬ pairing: demon!minghao x reader ⚬ word count: 3478 ⚬ warnings: blood, bodily injuries, death ⚬ genres: god i don’t even know... angst, unrealized pining and romance, weird tension, reader is just as evil as minghao?

✧✎ synopsis: three-hundred years have passed, and the second son has awoken from his slumber, waiting for a new soul to devour.

✧✎ a/n: this au was many things, and in finality, it morphed into this. usually i have a lot to say in my author’s note but today i bring you nothing! enjoy!

Three-hundred years had passed, and you knew due to the bell tower.

Its reverberations shuddered throughout the town, permeated the density of the smoke curtain which had swallowed the sky for centuries, and vibrated the very oxygen that fluttered in your lungs. It was a calling to check your mailbox, for reaching inside unveiled a folded note. At first, you glanced to your neighbour across the street, to the elderly man who lived on your right, and finally to the pig-tailed girl who’d just celebrated her fifteenth birthday on your left.

Yet they had retrieved nothing from their mailboxes exempt from a soft-spoken prayer, a testament to their gratitude that their lives had been spared. But you—you were the unholy meal.

With a sharp arrowhead of stone pressed to the skin between your shoulder blades, you were forced into the cavernous opening based midway along the mountain. It fed deep into the earth’s heart, and as a watchman pierced the spear’s tip further into your flesh, you began the cold, damp descent that would lead you to a deserved death, a death that could no longer be prevaricated.

After a painful stumbling over jagged flints and pieces of crystal, you emerged into the Blood Room, where three other contenders from the town were already aligned. There was not one look exchanged between either meal; however, you did recognize a specific helix piercing and the russet locks of Joshua, who you recently spotted dragging a body down to the ravine where the forest waterfall bubbled. Still, despite Joshua’s inept piousness, you knew he was not a meal worth being served.

A watchman approached you with a pocketknife. Splaying out your fingers, you observed calmly as he created a small incision against a distinct line travelling the length of your palm. As the dark, crimson fluid leaked from the wound, it was then collected in a glass dropper. Each watchman approached a scroll which hung from the stone. A drop of Joshua’s blood was tested first. It rolled about halfway down the sallow paper, which was impressive to say the least, indicative of even the boy’s worst transgressions. 

The next possible meal had their sample beaded onto the scroll, though it had soaked up rather quickly, even before Joshua’s, and you knew their sins were pitiful and their soul was much too pentant. Similarly, the blood of the other meal drew short. You couldn’t help but think the contenders were quite pathetic. 

At last the glass dropper containing your blood was being set against the paper. A slight squeeze, and the liquid bulb started its trickling. It streamed down boldly, leaving in its wake a luminous red tint that outshined even Joshua’s viscid plasma. You watched the bulb surpass one meal, then glide past the second meal, and just as you anticipated, the droplet rolled to the very end of the scroll. In fact, it began dripping onto the dust of the icy floor.

“The test concludes.” A watchman rumbled, his voice bouncing against the rock. His spear pointed toward you criminally. “Your blood runs the thickest and your heart beats the slowest. You are the unholy meal. The second son has awoken from this three-hundred-year slumber, and it is your soul he will devour so that he may be appeased and tire.”

You fought to keep an emotionless, flat face.

“Feed him well, for the weight of your blood carries more sin than purity.”

Briskly, the latter three contenders were swept away.

Joshua may have thrown his first corpse into the waterfall and watched it gush like a leaf down the black ravine, but his single body could not compare to the hundred that you’d left to float for years.

The bare bottoms of your feet were engrained with shallow cuts and stained by the powder to the numbing stone. You had not eaten or drank for over forty-eight hours, and your strength, which could often be as robust as great titanium, had seemingly dwindled to an emaciated, dried flower.

From the tales your mother relayed amongst your youth, you knew it was important to not make a face in the presence of the second son. Unlike his older brother, Jun, who would only be appeased by a meal who smiled and flaunted their guilt, Minghao chiefly adored a meal who showed no more emotion than the limestone tumbled along the mountainside. It was best to please the Demon Sons before they untied your soul from its fleshy bindings and swallowed it whole.

Or else in their next awakening, they might demand a meal of the entire village.

Minghao gestured to the garnet-coloured mat which had been lain across his bedroom floor. There were bowls of flavourful rice, steaming, clay pots filled with different soups, plates warmed by sliced bread and tin cups almost overflowing due to the plentiful wine inside.

“Hungry?” He asked, to which his soft, wispy voice was rather surprising.

Your countenance remained blank, unmoving, apart from your mouth. “Yes, I am starved.”

“Sit,” the second son invited, “I want you to be satiated and full, until you feel sleepy.”

Heeding his order, you sat cross-legged on the side of the mat opposite to the demon. His robe, embroidered with ruby lace, rippled behind his feet when he walked, and the collar’s diamond shape revealed underworldly markings which drew attention to the pale expanse of his chest. Even through the material cloaking his arms, you could faintly decipher the kohled tattoos. You had even recognized the familiar symbols chiselled into the walls during your trek to the demon’s chamber. When Minghao took his seat, he grabbed one of the black horns curling from his hair and dug his thumb into the pointed end.

“They are becoming weak,” he admitted, “I’m sure my brother’s wings are close to shattering from his broad shoulders. I’m sure the nerves are peeling and laughably brittle.” Minghao reached for a bowl, using wood chopsticks to fish the orange, tangy rice into his mouth. “You know, as first born, he is granted those wings. It’s his rite.” He lowered the bowl, a faded grin crossing his lips. “I remember, he used to embellish them with the bones of his meals, hanging their cervicals and metacarpals and pieces of their skull across each wing like a charm bracelet. But myself? It is not my meals’ bones that I save.” He shook his head, picking up another sticky rice ball.

Suddenly, the demon paused. “Are you not going to eat?”

It was difficult to speak when the interior of your mouth felt coated with chalk. Inclined by fear rather than your hunger, you reached for a bread loaf, then broke its golden crust in half, listening to the satisfactory crackle.

“I was absorbed by your pretty voice,” you spoke with not a single intonation, “forgive me.”

As you tore a piece from the warm inside and poked it into your cheek, the pottery bowl which he held broke into pieces due to the crushing grip of his hand, orange rice and clay shards spilling onto the mat. You had visibly flinched. The demon’s body trembled as he inhaled a slow, subdue breath. 

“Dearest, if you ask me to lend my forgiveness, I will pierce a stake through your beating heart and pull it out onto my plate.” His teeth were claws in his mouth as he growled. “Do you understand?”

You hid your quivering, bottom lip by bringing a tin cup to your face, the slick formula of the wine flowing down your throat. It was thicker than the wine you drank at home, and there was a copper-like aftertaste that almost rendered your expression to pucker, but you remembered to keep staid.

“I understand.”

The void, starless nature to his gaze disappeared. Instead, his eyes returned to their settled oak. Allowing more wine to soak against your tongue, there was a distant familiarity to its unique flavour.

“Are there things you regret?” Minghao retrieved you from musing, and spooned some rosemary soup into his mouth.

Once more, you took another sip, swished the alcohol between your cheeks, and swallowed. The demon observed you with an intent eye. Something flashed against your memory. It was a pale face drained of its pink and lively colour. In fact, it was your husband’s face, Soonyoung’s face, right before you tipped his body over the ravine’s misty edge and into the gurgling chasm below.

He had been your last murder.

“I regret…” You began, lowering the wine, “I-I regret…”

A stutter. An emotion. An inkling of your distress. 

Minghao’s grasp around the soup pot tightened and the tattoos needled into his flesh seemed to slither as though they’d been disturbed. Your mind grew stifled with obnoxious imagery. It was too much, all at once, and this dizziness spun at the centre of your cranium like a comet in orbit.

You leaned further over the wine, staring blurry at the liquid.

“I regret… I r-regret…”

Then it came to you, the underlying taste of the wine. So familiar because you should have known it better than anyone, especially considering your habitual dirty work, how often that fluid caked under your fingernails and spattered your clothing. No, it was definitely not the bones Minghao kept. 

A moment later and you fainted onto the mat.

You awoke to a damp coolness folded against your forehead, and to Minghao who sat at the edge of his bed, where he had rested for three-hundred years. He removed the cloth and began dabbing it along each arch of your cheek, cleaned your jaw’s long edge, and at last wet your lips until they gleamed. Expelling a subtle breath, you kept your face as blank as possible.

“How do you feel?” He set away the cloth in order to sweep his sleight fingers down your temple.

“I’m well,” sounded your meek voice, “you have taken care of me.”

In between the black fringe that feathered the demon’s lashes, you met his eyes. Minghao’s hand slid to your throat, where his palm pressed flat against its column and his fingers curled taut with the sensation of hot steel. 

He felt you gulp.

“I implore that you bathe. Rid yourself of this fabric which has been stained by wine and broth. I will leave you undergarments and a robe.” He leaned in closer to your face, and you couldn’t help but glance at his jagged teeth when he said so adoringly, “my wish is to paint you. I would like clean flesh.”

Clad in nothing but the undergarments, Minghao stood before your body, holding a wooden bowl. The inside was smeared with a rustic-coloured substance that almost bore the same consistency as honey. His chosen brush had fanned bristles, and when he stroked their wetness along your skin, it was a smooth, somewhat ticklish feeling. You found yourself enjoying it. Specifically the longer strokes, ones that began at the top of your shoulder and licked across the soft underbelly of your arm, only to gently flit away at the brittle bones in your wrist.

He decorated you in content. 

As the boy lowered to his knees and illustrated unintelligible runes against your inner thigh, he was focused, sharp. Another dip into the wooden bowl, and Minghao moved to paint your other thigh. You examined the horns pushing between his hair. Without thought, you stroked your hand against one, feeling the small grooves that created every divot. The demon never stirred, but continued to paint down your leg, and you wondered if he truly hadn’t noticed your touch or perhaps quite liked the way you caressed him.

Despite the fact you were merely prey being toyed with until dinner time, when you looked at the demon who touched your skin and treated you with such reverence, you felt this unbeknownst tenderness in your heart.

As Minghao instructed you to raise a foot, he immediately stiffened.

“What is it?” You questioned flatly.

He set the bowl and brush down.

“Dearest, the soles of your feet are cut and raw. It appears worse than usual.”

You wobbled slightly, almost losing your balance. “I was shown no kindness on my journey to meet with you. Because I am your meal, I can ignore the stinging.”

“No,” Minghao shook his head and rose up, “I will wrap your feet in precious calendula leaves. The paint will dry quickly, then you can sit.”

“If I may ask one thing,” you remarked, fiddling with the sleeves of your robe, “how painful is it to have your soul devoured?”

Minghao plucked the last few calendula leaves from their flowers. The petals were rather striking, the aurora of a setting sun as you mother always described. It had been a longtime wish to see the sun one day, though considering your fate, such a dream must remain only that. The leaves swathed each foot with the help of a clear, sticky gel.  

“Very painful.” The demon responded. He shifted next to you on the bed, then grabbed one of the orange flowers. “This is why we sleep so far beneath the crust, so the people do not hear the meal’s delicious screams.” He grasped your hand which had suffered a slit from the watchman’s pocketknife, and he began to rub a flower bud across the wound.

“Do you remember your last meal?” You asked, staring at Minghao rather than the skin’s miraculous healing.

The demon looked straight into your eyes as he grinned. “I do remember,” he sounded wistful, “it had been three meals, since the man I consumed in an even further past had greatly upset me.” Minghao dropped the flower, slowly interlaced his fingers with yours, squeezing.

“I had treated him well. I cleaned his cuts, I allowed him to bathe, I offered him my finest silk, and then, when we ate, I asked him what he regretted.” His hand became colder than ice. Minghao’s eyes started to widen, illuminate with a shiny madness, and when he leaned in closer your every facial muscle was begging to twitch. “He cried to me. Can you believe it? I had never been so upset. It caused me to fill with rage. He wept for forgiveness, absolution, a relief from his pain. Who am I, but a being who takes pain like a supplement? In that moment, I leapt across the dinner table and devoured him. His soul tasted like salt and alloy. I could not eat his heart, which was given to my brother. He will always eat the heart, because it so plumped full of your terrible emotion.”

The demon’s hand fit to the side of your neck, his thumb stroking along a particular vein where your pulse was thundering. “Well,” he sighed, “not your terrible emotion, but most peoples.”

In that moment, you took your deepest breath, and did not respond until you were certain that not one note of your voice would tremble. “I understand.” You placed your hand overtop the demon’s as it continued to cradle your neck, “did you paint this man too?”

“No,” Minghao shook his head, “I use my paints sparingly.”

With a soft fingertip, he began to trace a thin line he had brushed. It started at your jaw, then fell down the length of your warm neck. It dragged across your collarbone and in between your chest. Over the ribs, to your stern hip. The fingertip circled sweetly against your inner thigh a few times, and at last glided to your knee where the demon’s touch drifted away like a summer breeze.  

“You are the most beautiful meal I have ever seen,” Minghao murmured, holding your gaze which threatened to water, “I was delighted to accent a body like yours, so gorgeous and strengthened by sin.”

Since your arrival at the demon’s bedroom, you knew it was vital to preserve a blank face, and yet, it came to a point where you could not restrict the whims of your emotion. A tear bled from your eye, your bottom lip started to quiver, and your brow pinched together in a wrinkle. There was fear to your gradual outbreak, but it was an infinitesimal fraction compared to your gratitude, that the second son could somehow honour you more than your own unfaithful husband, who’d been your last body discarded into the ravine. 

In reality, how different were you to this demon? Year after year, the suppleness of your heart became hardened with immorality, pummelled of its empathy and completely wrung from compassion like a soaked, heavy towel. A common routine: dragging a corpse through the wildlife, your lips pursed and whistling the tune you’d overhear the pig-tailed girl humming on her front lawn. Dump the body. Return home. Peel an apple, bake a pie, and feed a slice to your next victim, watching the froth dribble from their lips as you sipped your drink and folded a leg over your thigh. But that was life under the cinder sky. It’s what kept people mad, what kept the demons fed. Either flee or have the light of your being rubbed into another dark ash. 

The demon immediately turned rigid. 

His spine bristled straight and the tattoos started to crawl beneath his robe, rustling like serpents who navigated the tall grass. You figured your death would be the most painful, since you had not only broken at the last minute, but soiled the significance to Minghao’s paints, casted the illusion that you were not appreciative of his gestures. In a snapping wrench, he practically tore you from the velvet blanket, dragging you to a door in his bedroom.

When it was opened, a frigid wind dusted at your face, and a slender corridor was revealed, stretching so far that it led into complete blackness. With a hand against your lower back, Minghao shoved you into the tunnel.

“Go,” he demanded, his words echoing off the stone, “go and do not turn back.”

Your voice was breathy, confused, “I don’t understand. I-I—”

“It leads to an opening at the opposite side of the mountain. You will leave, and you will never-” he gripped your chin, and his gaze intruded even the most clandestine pockets to your soul, “ever return to this town. Escape these cinder skies. I will not repeat myself.”

Before you could make sense of anything, before the door could be slammed in your face, your solace left to the rock and damp air, you slipped a hand around the demon’s neck and kissed him. His mouth was just as soft as his voice, and when he angled his head to better taste the tears that  stained your lips, you felt it would be impossible to make this journey alone. The silk of his tongue brushed inside your mouth, causing your knees to tremble, therefore you gripped weakly at the demon’s hair. His sharp teeth pricked your bottom lip and it welted ever so slightly with blood.

“Come with me,” you begged, pressing your forehead to his, “please, do not go back to sleep.”

But Minghao merely giggled, and the fact that such an innocent sound could leave the chest of a demonic entity had disoriented you. 

“What creature are you?” Minghao hummed, “that I can see your emotion and only want to hold you closer? Maybe it is because you are the first meal to bare no regret. You know your flesh is stitched by the sin of your own hand. Even your sweet tears. Oh! My brother would adore you! Though he would’ve devoured you by now no doubt.” He gave a gentle shove, removing you from his body.

“Will you please come find me?” You entreated.

Time was of the essence. The tenebrosity seemed to have a curl on your ligaments, tugging you backward into the tunnel. 

Minghao smiled, his hand reaching out to wipe the blood from your sore lip.

“Dearest, I will come find your dark soul anywhere,” sounded his honest purr, “but I suggest you travel hastily. If I leave, I must first wake my brother, and the rage of a demon whose slumber has been interrupted... It cannot be compared to anything. I’m afraid you’ll faint again.”

Trusting that Minghao would seek you out, you began the journey down the tunnel, your hand swiping against the stone and your feet taking calculated steps. Amongst the black air, there was no concept of time. Seconds, minutes, hours, they felt ineffectual in a place where not even your own fingers or toes could be seen. Eventually, you came to a light that burned against your eyes, and emerged at the opposite side of the mountain, like Minghao promised. And as you padded into the jade forest, you felt one final vibration shake the pine needles scattered across the earth, heard some boulders from the mountainside crumble down in swirling, dry dust clouds. 

Shuddering, you knew it had been the abhorrent cry of the first born son. And for once your compulsion to escape the grey skies was a real desire. 

✧✎ a/n: yes.................... :) thinking that i could also make an au for jun in this universe? i will have to do some Major Thinking. i still have nothing to say! like i don’t know where this au crawled out of, but it’s Here now. it’s pretty morbid n freaky sfeheff but nonetheless i hope you liked it and as always i luv hearing ur guys TH0TS. 

[reigning-rhapsody]

Bittersweet

Strifesodos, past Gengeal; 2841 words

No TWs

The ear piercing noises of pots and pans and what sounded like now unusable plates briefly silenced the patrons crowding Seventh Heaven and let about everyone in the bar flinch in unison- all but one. Cloud merely quirked up a brow as his head shot towards the kitchen where the newest member of the staff, though it had been months since he’d joined and kept some work away from the ever so eager-to-work Tifa, had been on duty to cook for the evening.

I am, by no means, a great cook, he’d warned them at first, which turned out to be more than true, but his tastebuds didn’t lie, nor did his memory. He could tell what needed more salt and what had to stay cooking on the stove just a bit more until it was at its best, and he knew quite a few recipes for someone that, apparently, was no good as a chef. He wants to evade working any more than just as a bartender, Cloud assumed at first exactly because of that, but as good as the man was when it came to acting, as he had proven quite a few times, what he told was no lie.

Tifa insisted he should try cooking, and Gaia, it was worse than Marlene’s mud-pies from when she was younger. According to Barret, at least, who entered the establishment with a growling belly longing for a meal right as their chef in the making had finished his… attempt. A burnt pot and sore stomachs were the victims in the aftermath of Genesis Rhapsodos’ cooking despite everyone who passed him in the process paying attention to him wearing the glasses he was supposed to have sitting on his nose.

If one wanted to trust the promises given by Tifa, who insisted that teaching her new co-worker how to make some proper dishes was essential, he was a fast learner, and occasionally he even suggested to make a few meals he had memorized. No one knew as to why it was that he had recipes in mind, but no one bothered to ask either. One thing was clear though, the guy sure liked apples.

“Cloud, can you check on him?”, Tifa’s voice rung behind the blond addressed by it, barely able to be heard as the chatter and laughter picked up among the patrons again. She was busy, carrying two trays with food and drinks and a plate on one of her outstretched arms on top of it, so it was understandable she didn’t even wait for an answer and moved to the table that awaited their order. His next delivery would be in about twenty minutes and as slow as he could make himself walk, to evade whatever mess just occurred behind that door a few feet ahead of him would was impossible. Better get it over with quickly.

With a sigh, Cloud turned fully to face the direction of the kitchen and closed the gap that separated him from the door with a few swift steps slipping past filled tables. The blond swung the door open while his unoccupied hand rested in the pocket of his baggy pants. “Hey, the hell-?” He started, cutting himself off as his Mako infused gaze fell upon a kneeling Genesis staring at the floor like he was about to propose to it. Or rather, to the soup on the ground surrounding an upside down pot, porcelain pieces of what once upon a time were bowls circling the romanticized mess like ivory rose petals.

Genesis didn’t look up, nor did he answer, nor did he acknowledge Cloud and pretended the delivery boy wasn’t even present. He picked up the shattered vessels meant for the customers to eat what he begrudgingly prepared out of, seemingly doing his utmost to keep his eyes averted, or fully hidden to begin with.

Cloud narrowed his eyes and stepped forward so the door could fall shut behind him, swaying in and out of the room a few more times and allowing whatever curious mind sat in the much busier space of Seventh Heaven to catch a last glimpse of the scene playing out in the no-customer space, although who was sunken on the ground being covered by Cloud standing in front of him. He approached Genesis, both hands now in the confided space of his roomy pockets as he simply stared down at who he usually had to crane his head back for to make eye contact. Seeing someone who held himself so highly on the floor picking up shards with his own hands, it was amusing in a slightly sadistic way to say the least.

He knew that speaking up would only end in a discussion, then an argument and then a passive aggressive verbal fight that could break out into something physical at any given second. At least it sounded like that, anyway, but if it was the truth stood in the stars since the pair usually got interrupted when they got into another of their near daily banters. So he kept quiet and stayed put until the slender ginger would say the first word. And so he eventually did, pausing his task to exhale a defeated sigh and with what was left of his pride for the day.

And yet, he didn’t look up. “Not. A word.”, Genesis punctuated with a clearly irritated voice and Cloud just replied with an entertained huff. “Need help?”

“No.” “Uh-huh.” He didn’t have the time to put up with the mage’s stubbornness and crouched down, reaching out to grab the pot whilst his eyes remained on the culprit of the ruined meal. Finally eye-to-eye, Cloud noticed the missing black frame supposed to reach behind Genesis’ ears, “So, let me guess…”, the younger man started, turning the pot around and holding it by the handles, “You knocked this all over because you’re not wearing the glasses?”

That earned him a venomous glare, but an exposed one. Unlike Genesis’, his own vision was just fine, and thus not spotting the black supposed to be added to the color scheme around his face wasn’t just an illusion. “I don’t need them,”, the redhead barked back, “As I’ve told you before. You all are being dramatic over nothing at all.”

Hearing him out of all people judging what crosses the line of being too dramatic made Cloud snort and shake his head at how ridiculous that was, much to the wannabe-cook’s further annoyance. They locked eyes, three triplets and one glassy, milky-white outcast cataract.

The cracks scarring the porcelain skin roped themselves from his left eye over the same side of his cheek, shimmering through the applied makeup that attempted to hide them in vain as it had been vanishing with the sweat glistening on the man’s face from standing in a hot kitchen for hours on. Like veins dotted with thorns, they reached down his neck, reaching over the visible parts of his equally pale chest that was exposed due to the button up Genesis wore being partially undone. He could only guess how much of his body they tainted. They are what caused that vision problems too, as he’d been told by Genesis.

“I know I’m just mesmerizing, but make yourself useful if you refuse to let me handle this on my own.” An arrogant voice pierced Cloud’s zoned out thoughts and he blinked himself back into reality, not having the best experiences with anything piercing him. If it wouldn’t have been a vocal trigger that brought him back though, it would’ve been the smell of something burning.

“Agh- shit!” Genesis cursed under his breath and got on his feet again, groaning at his aching legs that fell asleep staying in the same uncomfortable position for some time. Cloud followed and watched the man place down the pieces of the bowls he’d already picked up next to the stove where a pancake was smelling like the victims of his flames- although it wasn’t on purpose for once.

Another swear muttered as he turned off the heat, or at least what Cloud assumed to be one since it was spoken in the ginger’s native language, and grabbed a spatula that rested on the workspace to his right to try and scratch the pitch blackness off the bottom of the pan. After some hard work was put into saving what could be saved, or what he hoped to save at least, that being the pan, Genesis put the inedible dessert on a nearby plate flipped over.

Both pairs of eyes in the room stared at it in silence, Cloud approaching with caution like what was sitting there was a Behemoth about to jump up and eat both of them whole whilst minding the puddle of broth, veggies and meat on the floor. He then stood next to the creator of the ‘food’ and stared it down. Roasted darker than his outfit, the smell was absolutely unappetizing and nothing looked appealing about it at all. It even took he blond a bit to figure out that there were apple slices mixed into the darkness, swallowed by it like stars during a cloudy night sky.

“Well… not that it was satisfactory, anyway.” Genesis admitted in defeat, much to Cloud’s surprise, although his ego must have been knocked down a few from their earlier confrontation. He might even go as far and claim he saw the slightest, embarrassed blush tinting the ex-SOLDIER’s pale cheeks, though mentioning it would only result in more than just a pancake ending up scorched.

“How the hell did you survive this long?”, Cloud asked with a wrinkled nose.”

“Thank you for your, as always, comforting words.”

“And what do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. It’s-”, Genesis took a deep breath, tightening his ponytail by dividing it into two strings in his hands and pulling, “There was never a need for me to learn how to cook. As a child, we had someone that cooked for us, and when I went to Midgar I first lived off of cafeteria food.. which I, eventually, resented and blatantly refused to eat. Then it was takeout, mostly, and once we became firsts we got an apartment together, so I had Angeal cooking for me.”

The drop of his name briefly silenced Genesis who still had his leer cast upon the failed attempt of a pancake. His lips thinned and he swallowed dryly, hands placed flat on the surface of the workspace. He exhaled a breath through his nose and his shoulders twitched weakly in a half-chuckle. “‘You’ll stay out of the kitchen when I’m cooking. You’re banned from the stove, Gen.’”, Genesis mocked a deeper voice to the best of his abilities, a bittersweet smile curling on his lips, “Sugar sweet, no? I never needed to learn how to make anything for myself. It was a thing I had done for me, and people never minded, either.”

“Not that that would have gotten me to start learning.” He added after another few seconds filled with nothing but the mechanical whirring of the fridge a few feet away from them. “Angeal, he uh… He loved cooking, but baking even more. The pie he made was to kill for, and whenever he made it, I would sit there and watch. Talk to him, sometimes even help. Providing he let me, that is.”

Finally, he looked up again and turned his head to look at the other swordsman. “No matter what I will make, it won’t live up to what he did.”, his head then hung low once more, “Nor would it satisfy him.” The normally so confident and boasting voice, teasing and preaching highly poetic metaphors nobody but him understood, grew lower in volume, quieter with every word vocalized and brought to live by it, although it sounded dead, unenthusiastic. It wasn’t a voice that fit Genesis.

“Or me.” His hands visibly gripped the edges of the big table harder, like he was trying to ground himself so he wouldn’t fall into a void that existed to eat him up from the inside, fill him with the worst of what life had to offer. His eyes fell shut, knuckles turning white and his fingers shook ever so slightly until he straightened his posture to one that equaled that of a candle and let out a shaky breath between agape lips, mismatching eyes fluttering open again. “I should clean this up now. Don’t you have a delivery to fulfill, hm?” Genesis ushered, his intent to get Cloud out and not show any more weakness than what just occurred beyond noticeable. It went under his skin, let the hair on the back of his neck rise and spread goosebumps across his arms.

It was… so damn depressing to witness.

“Ah. Ah- yeah, right.” Cloud reminded himself and reaches for the PHS in his pocket, flipping it open to check the time. He had a few more minutes. Watching Genesis move to a cabinet where a few kitchen towels were stored from the corner of his eye, the blond warrior pocketed his phone again, ran a hand through his artfully spiked hair, took a deep breath that let his chest puff out, counted his blessings and took off a glove with his teeth to grab the round little mistake sprawled out on the plate. Leather glove dropped in his lowered hand once it returned from brushing back the sunny mess on his head, he made sure the golden-brown side was the one facing the floor and placed it against his lips. He swallowed, opened his mouth and took a generous bite.

The first few times of chewing were experimental, eyebrows knitted together and eyes nearly pinched shut, though he discovered that keeping the part which wasn’t tainted by the lord of the Underworld and all evil himself judging by the pitch blackness trademarking it did make it a lot more bearable. Whenever some of the burnt bit brushed over his tongue he just gave it his best to swallow that piece, his tastebuds welcoming the sweet flavor of the apples dancing over it whenever he was lucky to have some in his mouth the more bites he took.

Two down, about two or another three to go. It wouldn’t be a chore to eat it if it weren’t for the burnt side, he had to admit, so Tifa wasn’t lying when she said he improved and was indeed a fast learner.

“You’re insane, Strife.”

Cloud nearly choked on the load of pancake occupying his mouth the moment Genesis caught him forcing down the food. He cleared his throat and properly swallowed what was left on his tongue. He ‘tch’ed, glaring at the dessert like it was his worst enemy. “I didn’t eat anything yet today’s all. Don’t want Tifa to get on my ass for not eating again.” “And how would she know?” “She… just does- you should be glad I’m making what she’ll say to you less worse.” The sunny haired man silenced himself by ripping another huge piece out off the pancake, so much it only left one last bite instead of a possible three. Although his angles eyebrows raised into a less hostile expression when he saw the slightest bit of a smile growing on the auburnet’s plush cherry lips. He stopped chewing for just a moment, taking in- no, admiring what he did by refusing to let someone sulk and keep self loathing. “Get out, or I’ll tell Tifa all of what just occurred was your and only your fault.”

Cloud playfully rolled his eyes, though did as told and moved towards the door, no intentions of a further exchange made- not on his side, at least. “Oh, also-”, he was stopped by Genesis speaking up once more, coming to an abrupt halt and half turning around, “You should pay me a visit when I am on cooking duty again sometime, maybe I have more blissfully tasting food for you to devour.”

Cloud snorted, “No promises.”

“Don’t you speak to me with a full mouth, learn some manners.”, Genesis retorted with a playful hum before truly dismissing the other with a flamboyant wave of the hand that didn’t hold a soup-soaked towel.

This time truly exiting, Cloud pushed the last small bite of the pancake into his mouth and chewed with stuffed cheeks, hands returning to his pockets as he eyed the bar counter where the delivery was stored. Forcing down the rest of the half-bitter-half-sweet mistake, he glanced over his shoulder one last time to see Tifa hurriedly moving into the kitchen. He exhaled in amusement at the distant chatter coming from behind the door swaying door before it fell shut completely and blocked out the conversation though. Cloud moved behind the bar to crouch down and grab the package that needed to be driven to Junon and set on his way out of the warm and cozy confinement to let the cold air hit him full on.

Genesis sounded more like himself again, he noted.

[lupin-for-president]

Pretty Pink Paper

(Jeddy)

—

James Sirius knew it was foolish, falling in love with his blue-haired best friend, who also happened to be seven whole years older than him. It was the type of situation that would only end up hurting James in the end, he knew that better than anyone.

But he just couldn’t help it.

It was impossible for him not to fall in love Teddy—especially with the way Teddy acted around him. The way Teddy spoke to him. The way Teddy touched him. The way Teddy smiled at him. The way Teddy looked at him.

Teddy treated James like he was the most important person on the entire earth.

And James drank it up like honey.

Everything about Teddy was so addicting to him. There wasn’t a single thing about the scrawny little punk that James didn’t wholeheartedly love and adore.

The way Teddy always laughed —a little too hard— when James would be the one to tell him a cheesy joke.

How Teddy would always match his eye color to his outfit and make sure to ask James’ opinion on it before leaving the house.

The way Teddy’s nose would scrunch up whenever James would be applying his blush and eyeliner for him, muttering a “Hold still, Ted” as he held the cap between his teeth.

How Teddy’s arms felt draped loosely over James as he leaned over to show the boy how to play a certain piano chord correctly.

The way Teddy would struggle to stay awake throughout an entire movie —no matter the time of day— and always ended up falling asleep on James’ shoulder.

How Teddy would use any spare minute of his free time to teach James more new tricks to do on his broom so that he could impress his friends.

The way Teddy would stick out his lip —and beg and plead— until James finally caved in and played with or braided his hair, Teddy smiling smugly at the tiny victory.

How everytime Teddy was upset, the first person he would go to would be James, and he would bury his face into his chest and cry until he felt better.

The way Teddy would interrupt James’ reading by running into his room and playing air guitar while singing at the top of his lungs.

How Teddy made a chocolate cupcake for James’ birthday every single year —refusing help from anyone else in the house— and ended up burning it each and every time.

The way Teddy ruffled a hand through James’ messy brown hair every time he walked past him, flashing him a cheeky closed eye grin as he did so.

How Teddy was always there, no matter what.

It wasn’t James’ fault that he fell in love with Teddy. It was the cruel fault of the universe for having put someone so exceptionally perfect into his life, then expecting him not to be affected by it.

It was James’ fault, however, that Teddy happened to find out about these feelings.

Teddy shouldn’t have been sneaking around in James’ room, sure, but James was the one that had forgotten to put the old, tattered brown shoebox back in its hiding place under his bed.

That exact brown shoebox was the very gateway to the most extreme form of embarrassment that James Sirius had ever had the displeasure of facing throughout his entire sixteen years of life.

It was the shoebox full of his love letters, all of which were —very blatantly— addressed to Teddy.

He had just celebrated his birthday a week prior and he was more than thrilled to be lounging at home during his summer break from Hogwarts. He and Teddy had been basically inseparable since the beginning of summer —not that that was anything new— and James was genuinely very happy.

That is, until he came back up to his room from having grabbed a plate of cookies in the kitchen, only to find Teddy —sitting on the edge of James’ bed, a brown shoebox in his lap, and pink slips of paper in his hands— with furrowed brows and his lip tucked between his teeth.

Teddy hadn’t heard James come in at first. In fact, he didn’t even know he had entered the room until the sound of glass shattering pierced through the air, James having dropped his plate full of cookies due to the sudden trembling of his hands.

A small piece of James was hoping —praying— to whatever gods above that maybe Teddy hadn’t really read any of the letters at all. But from the wide eyed, red faced look that Teddy gave him upon getting caught, what little hope James had flickering inside him was immediately distinguished.

He felt sick, nauseous, and insanely lightheaded as he bolted out of the door, making a beeline for the bathroom. A singe of pain surged up from the bottom of his foot as he realized he had stepped on a shard of the broken plate during his hasty escape, but he didn’t dare pause to check it.

He could hear the heavy footsteps following quickly after him —and the faint shouting, too— though it was muffled from the pounding of his heartbeat ringing in his eardrums. As soon as he made it to the bathroom, he shut the door and pushed his foot up against it, turning the lock just in time to be greeted by a chorus of loud banging.

“Jamie! Jamie, open up!” Teddy shouted from the other side, hands bashing against the wood.

James couldn’t answer due to him falling to his knees in front of the toilet and emptying out the contents of what was —most likely— his breakfast from earlier. He didn’t stop hurling until there was absolutely nothing left, his forehead drenched in sweat as he panted to catch his breath.

“Open the door, Jamie! Come on, it’s me. Just open the door, we can talk this out!” Teddy blurted, his hard knocks not missing a beat.

“Go away,” James answered back weakly, his voice strained.

Rivers were trailing down his cheeks now, dripping into the corners of his cracked lips. As the sobs wracked through his body, he pulled his knees up firm against his chest, fingers digging deep into his upper arms as he tried to calm himself down. A small pool of blood started forming under his right foot from the cut, which only caused his blood pressure to spike even more as he glanced down at it.

It had been a while since he had experienced a panic attack that was this bad. It had actually been almost a full year, in fact.

Normally, the only thing that would successfully calm him down was if Teddy cupped his face firmly in his hands and whispered countless soothing words to him as he forced him to maintain eye contact. Teddy would always constantly switch the color of his irises —sometimes even making them swirl— in order to make James’ attention focus on anything else but the initial cause of the attack.

But this time, Teddy was the cause of it.

And now James was having to calm himself back down all on his own.

And it wasn’t working.

And he couldn’t breathe.

And his chest hurt so bad.

And all he could think of was the sight of Teddy.

Brown shoebox sitting in his lap.

Pink slips of paper in his hands.

Reading each and every one of James’ sinful and foolish desires.

And the thought of Teddy being absolutely disgusted with James for even daring to think about him in even the slightest bit of a romantic way plagued James’ poor mind.

It was all too much.

And the world felt like it was spinning.

And the only thing keeping him rooted was the pain from his nails digging into his skin and the sound of Teddy’s worried screams.

It felt like it went on for hours.

But that’s because it did.

Ginny finally came home from training four hours later to find a shaking and stressed Teddy, tear tracks tattooing his flushed cheeks as he hysterically explained what had happened and how he had tried to use a spell to unlock the bathroom door but that he couldn’t even think straight enough to use it and James had been quiet for a long time now and he was so bloody worried that he had done something while locked in there by himself and he couldn’t break into the bathroom to check on him and his mind was reaming with the worst possibilities and—

Ginny cut him off with a hug, giving his torso a quick squeeze before pulling back and asking which bathroom James had locked himself in. Teddy shakily informed her it was the guest bathroom on the second floor, and the two of them raced up the stairs to see what could be done.

Of course, Ginny was able to cast the spell perfectly on her first try —it was a spell she had learned in her first year at Hogwarts after all— and the pair both let out the greatest sigh of relief when the door creaked open to reveal a sleeping James, seemingly unharmed apart from the gash on the bottom of his foot.

Ginny crouched down beside him, pressing a hand to his forehead gently before brushing away some of the hair in his eyes.

Teddy recognized that helpless and drained look of James’ unconscious body instantly. It was a look only he was exceptionally familiar with. He had seen it quite often —more often than he would like— whenever he would cradle James after he had tired himself out from an attack, immediately falling asleep against Teddy’s chest. Teddy was always the one there to make everything better.

But this time, that wasn’t the case.

“It’s all my fault,” Teddy whispered, his voice raw, “This is all my fault.”

“Teddy, honey, no,” Ginny shook her head, standing up to place a hand on Teddy’s flushed cheek. “It was an accident. You didn’t know what was going to be in that box.”

“It doesn’t matter what was in the fucking box,” he breathed, shaking his head, “I shouldn’t have been snooping through his stuff anyways. If I hadn’t, then he wouldn’t have caught me, and then he wouldn’t have had a panic attack without anyone here to—”

“Teddy,” Ginny cut him off, “We can play the blame game later, alright?”

“But—”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not right now. Please, can you just carry James to his room? Then you need to go get some rest, too. Before Harry comes home with questions as to what’s going on with his sons.”

Teddy stared at her for a moment before nodding, stepping around her and towards James’ sleeping form.

Regardless of being a grown man, he still found himself always listening to Ginny’s orders, no matter what.

He knelt down and looped an arm under James’ legs, his other wrapping securely around his back. He rose to his feet slowly, not wanting to wake the snoozing boy in his arms. Much to his surprise, James subconsciously buried his face into the front of Teddy’s sweater, releasing an incomprehensible string of murmurs before relaxing in Teddy’s arms once again.

Teddy nearly started crying again right there.

He silently brushed past Ginny and down the hallway, towards James’ bedroom. Upon entering, he made sure to stay clear of the broken glass littering the doorway.

He laid James down in bed gently, pulling his wand out of his back pocket and waving it strategically at the wound on James’ foot, watching as it immediately scarred up, all traces of blood vanishing. He then turned towards the broken plate and crumbled cookies on the floor, flicking his wand to gather the remnants up and —ever so gracefully— discarding them into the trash can.

Running a hand through his bright blue hair, he turned back to James, his eyes trailing all across his young, peaceful face. He tugged the blankets up over his sleeping form, tucking him in nice and warm. Brushing his fingertips along James’ forehead, Teddy leant down, moving the messy brown curls away to expose his smooth tan skin.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered —hardly above a whisper— as his lips ghosted against James’ forehead, “I am so sorry, James Sirius.”

When he pulled away, the cause of this entire dilemma caught in the corner of his eye. The brown shoebox that was still placed on the corner of James’ bed. Teddy knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help but to reach out for it anyways, his hand diving in and grabbing the first piece of pretty pink paper that was sitting right on top.

All at once, Teddy felt his world shatter as his eyes took in the messy scrawl. He even had to place a hand over his mouth to muffle the sob that threatened to break through, a single tear descending from the corner of his eye.

The last part of the love letter read:

“One of these days you’re going to find all of these, and I need you to promise me something when that time comes. Please, don’t blame yourself for the attack I have afterwards, because I can assure you it isn’t your fault.”

Teddy shoved the note into his pocket before closing the box and sliding it back under James’ bed. Sending one last glance to his sleeping best friend, he silently left the room, doing his best not to blame himself for everything that had happened.

Just like James had asked.

[peakyxtommy]

The Midnight Hour

Warnings: Swearing, Violence, Angst, Fluff, & Death (Minor) Word count: 3.5K Summary: There’s a hit on the Shelby Mansion, while Tommy is away. Reader heads off with Rival Gang Leader.                                                  

A/N: Felt inspired by S4 Ep.1. Gang leader is made up. Enjoy!

It was another late and quiet night in the Shelby household. You were rocking an upset Charles back to sleep in your arms (due to teething), but enjoying the comfort he brought you while your husband was away in London expanding the business.

You haven’t seen him in almost a week and were used to going longer than this but on nights like these it made you miss and long for him more than usual. Feeling the weight of not knowing if you were going to see him again. The dangers of being a part of this world, but you chose this life. It was like a switch you had to flip on and off in your head sometimes.

You trusted Tommy with yours and Charlie’s life. He would try to call at some point in the evening just to say goodnight to you and Charlie, say I love you, to you both. You couldn’t stop thinking of your phone call with Tommy earlier in the evening, - after 3 days of not hearing from him -, of him checking in with you and the fondness in his voice as you made him laugh about Charlie trying peach jello for the first time. His voice comforted you that he was going to be coming back home in two days to spend time with you both.

The rocking chair squeaks against the floor as you make your way to the crib to place Charles down for the night giving him a small peck on the forehead. The door shuts behind you as you trail down the stairs to make a quick tea before bed.

It was pretty dark on the way down except for on the way to the kitchen you hear voices and notice the light on, wondering who was awake, thinking one of the maids was up. As you get closer to the kitchen you hear a loud crash, followed by a small scream and yelling going on in the kitchen. It was about to be your worst nightmare made true.

“Where is Mrs. Shelby?” You heard the gruff voice shout. You pace lightly across the floor just to where you can have a sneak peek into the kitchen being kept unseen.

“I don’t know.” The voice cries out and you realize it to be Margaret, one of the maids you have hired on since you have lived here. You assess the situation, of three men, all in the kitchen, all with loaded guns. One of the men you recognize to be one of the cooks, you hired recently named Matteo. Margaret has a bloody lip and is silently crying.

“Really? You don’t know.” Matteo lets out a chuckle, before turning to his other two friends, “Lads, you hear this. She says she doesn’t know. Which is funny because she works for them day and night. She knows this woman's whole routine.” He mocks, before he turns around slapping her hard in the face, the force bringing her down to her knees.

They all just laugh as she groans in pain. As she turns her head toward the door she catches a glimpse of you. Her eyes plead with fear and worry; you just put a finger to your mouth to tell her to keep quiet. Finding a way to tell her to trust you silently by looking in her eyes. She slowly lifts her face back up to look at the men and spits at their feet. Gaining back their attention quickly.

“You think that’s funny eh?” He slowly takes out his gun pointing it right in her face, forcing a loud scream to leave her mouth.

“If you don’t tell me where she is right now, we’re going to kidnap the little boy and kill you instead of her.” Matteo grips her chin forcing her to look him in the eyes.

“No, no, please don’t do this. Please don’t kill me.” You hear her pleads but it’s too late. The shot fires as you see your maid bleeding out on your kitchen floor. Your hand comes to your mouth as you swallow the lump in your throat and hold back the tears as you feel sick to your stomach.

That’s when you knew you had to form a plan, quick on the fly. Your mind raced a mile a minute because as much as Tommy prepared you and how prepared you knew you should be for a day like this you never imagined it would take place this late in the evening and with your infant son sleeping upstairs.

You start on foot to your husband’s office where you know he keeps the guns. Locked up on this side of the house only. You wished you would have turned more lights on the way down because halfway there you bump into a table knocking down a glass vase.

You stop dead in your tracks for what felt like a long minute but really a mere few seconds, hearing a shuffle and more loud sounds going on in the kitchen. You began sprinting to the office shutting the door behind you, pretty loudly. You flipped on the switch and as you approached the desk your hands began shaking as you tried to remember where the key was kept to unlock the cabinet you needed to open to save the day.

Throwing papers everywhere and moving a small lamp you finally found the key. You heard footsteps approaching down the hall. You open the big cabinet first taking down one of the submachine guns and put the clip in place. As soon as you shut the cabinet you heard a loud teasing knock on the door, followed by shaking on the knobs.

As you make your way to hide on the long side of the desk, you place the key on the desk. You had to flip the switch of your brain on to survival mode because you knew after this moment; it was going to be life or death. The struggle was going to happen.

You had to stay alive and you kept reminding yourself you were strong. That you needed to be strong for Charlie, you needed to see your little boy again and you weren’t going to let anything happen to him. Your thoughts were cut short at the first rounds of gunshots going through the door. You held your position cramped under the desk, as you heard the footsteps enter the room. Trying to distinguish how many men were in the room.

“Mrs. Shelby, we know you’re in here. We don’t want to hurt you, we just want to talk.” You remained silent deciding to see what the next move would be.

“We have your maid, she’s unharmed. She’s still alive, but if you don’t listen we will have her killed.” You hear the second voice and decide to remain silent, not falling for the lie.

The next round of gunshots flew around in the office flinging above the desk and ricocheting off the glass windows until the first clips were empty. That’s when you knew it was time to strike.

“We have all night darling, we know your husband isn’t home.” You watch as he snaps in his clip making his way closer to the side of the desk you were on. That’s when you take the first shot into his kneecap and then the torso, letting a few clips go off watching as he falls to the ground. As the partner begins shooting rounds and you go back to hide behind the end table, knowing you had to get out of there.

It’s silent for a moment as you decide to get yourself back to the center of the desk trying to avoid the glass as much as possible, knowing your blood was going to be all over this floor, as the small shards were making their way into your soft skin. You slightly peek over the desk and begin to start shooting in his direction, noticing him hiding behind a chair on the right side of the room.

You stop firing to bring yourself closer to the right side of the desk, hearing him coming in your direction as you stand swiftly clicking him in the throat with a bullet. His gun drops to the ground and you stand over as he grasps for his final breath of air.

Two men down, one more to go. You could do this. You are fucking Shelby.

As you exit the office you are still on high alert. You notice the living room light to be on and check the hall before deciding it was clear to go. Before you enter the living room you feel a warm hand wrap around your nose and mouth, a body pulling yours into theirs. The shock causes you to drop your gun as you begin struggling, trying to fight the person off to no avail.

You enter the living room seeing Marco Lucchese, rival gang leader sitting on the couch, legs cross with his hands folded together on his knee. You only knew his name and what he looked like, due to a family meeting you sat in a few months ago.

“Looks like we get to finally meet Mrs. Shelby.” He smirks at you as you find yourself forced to sit down on the couch across from him, by the third man you saw in the kitchen.

“Yes, we do. I wouldn’t say your men were so lucky.”

“Those two were collateral damage. I guess I can say the same about your maid.” His shoulders shrug as you feel the barrel of his partner’s against the side of your head.

“What do you want?” You question as he hadn’t killed you yet and you didn’t understand why.  

“For you to get me a drink and then we can talk.” He points toward the drink set on the lounge table across the room.

“I have nothing to say to you. Drinks are for guests and I didn’t invite you into my home, so get your own fucking drink!” Your voice raises, feeling the heat radiate throughout your body.

“I see your husband likes them feisty. He’s trained you well, but not well enough.” He chuckles as you feel his partner, grab your arm forcibly, signaling you to stand to your feet.

“I am not moving. Get your own drink!” You hiss, remaining still.

“I thought your husband would teach you to have manners. I don’t think your son would appreciate his mother mouthing off.” You remain silent because you knew he was trying to get under your skin.

“So I suggest you get my drink.” His accomplice squeezes your arm as you stand to your feet. The gun staying pointed at you as you get the drink. You can feel his eyes piercing through your body, as you were only in your nightgown. When you hand it to him, he forces you down on your knees in front of him.

“Thank you Mrs. Shelby.” He sips his scotch as his right hand caresses your face.

“How would Thomas Shelby feel about his wife sleeping with another man?” His breath breezes across your face.

“You wouldn’t make it to see daylight if that happened.” You spit, as you feel the harsh sting upon your cheek.

“I think I would.” He gulps the rest of his drink down, placing it on the table behind you before standing to his feet. You watch as he makes eye contact with the guy still holding the gun pointed toward you.

“What about the message?” You shout as he leaves the room chuckling, your heart stuck in your throat.

“You are the message, love.” The third guy whispers in your ear. It’s moments later when the gun goes off. - Thomas Shelby, OBE, the man with a plan. It was a long week in London as he figured out his new strategy and expanded his booming business. He spent the evening crunching numbers and having meetings with men in high places, trying to seal the next deal.

When he threw himself into work, it was a way to put a block in his mind, to distance himself. He knew his family was his weakness but you and his child made him vulnerable, made this business vulnerable.

He missed you and Charlie. He enjoyed the call he spent with you earlier in the evening, of your musings over your son. From eating jello to growing his first couple of teeth. He could hear the happiness in your voice. He could tell you were worried too, but didn’t press it, because you usually were when he was gone this long.  

He returned back to the hotel around 12am and went straight to sleep knowing he was going to have a long day ahead of him. It wasn’t until a quarter after 4am when he got the phone call that knocked all the air out his lungs.

“Thomas, you need to come home right now. There’s been a hit on your home.” Polly speaks rushed.

“By who?” 

“Marco Lucchese.”

“Is (Y/N) and Charlie okay?” He shouts, slamming his fist on the dresser.

“Yes, they’re at my house. She’s been hurt but will be fine. They’re sleeping now. There’s a bullet with your name on it waiting for you.”  

“Alright, I’m on my way. Tell me the rest when I get in.” He hangs up the phone.

“Fuck!” He screams out loud throwing the phone against the floor. He hurriedly grabs his things, gets in his car, and floors his foot on the pedal to get home. - Everything felt like a blur. The night kept playing back in your mind like a fragmented movie. It was on a loop over and over. It wasn’t making sense as to why you were alive when you should have been dead.

The sound of the gun still ringing in your ears. It took you a moment before you realized what had happened. He fired a blank pistol. He was gone before you could even think of getting yourself off the ground due to sobbing uncontrollably and the ache in your temple.

When your eyes open, you see the sunlight streaming through the blinds and the sight of your husband smoking by the window with a grim expression as he stares outside.

“Back so soon? Guess, I know how to get your attention.” You speak watching his trance break, eyes focused on you, as your elbows sink into the mattress to lift your body up against the headboard, trying to ignore the ache in your head.

“Always have my attention, love. How’re you feeling?” He sighs, stubbing out the rest of his smoke, coming toward you. You can notice the bags under his eyes, showing how hard he’s been working himself, but also the slight redness in them.

“Head hurts, legs are achy. Feel like a bloody rag doll.” He passes you the glass of water on the nightstand and some aspirin.

“Should be dead.” He growls, cold blue eyes meeting yours as he towers over you.

“How bad do I look, for someone who should be dead?” You scoot over, making room for him to sit on the bed, which he accepts.

“Not good, not good at all.” His hand holds your chin, turning to look at the bruise on your cheek and his brows furrowing when he sees the wound on your temple.

“Well, you should have seen the other guys. I removed half the problem.” You removed his hand from your chin, taking it to hold into your hand into his to squeeze. His face is unamused at your teasing comment, knowing he’s had enough of your unnecessary banter. You knew him well, knew the guilt was eating him up, but he wouldn’t say it.

“Shouldn’t have had this problem to begin with in the first place. You shouldn’t have gotten hurt.” He removes your hand from yours, as he stands back up, turning his back against you.

“I know and I did get hurt, but will be okay. It was handled well.”

“At the expense of almost dying, killing two people, and watching our maid die!”  His voice raises as his hands shake, balling into white-knuckling fists. You remain silent letting him get it all out as he paces shoulders raising and breath becoming labored.

“What if he killed you? What if that bullet wasn’t a blank? What if something fucking happened to Charlie?” He lashes out fist colliding with the wall making you wince.

“I should’ve been home, should’ve checked those hiring papers more thoroughly. Should’ve had people watching the house.” He tilts his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose, as the tears threaten to leave his eyes.  

“Tom stop! Look at me!” You yell, as he takes a moment to compose himself.

“Come sit please.” You plead as he takes his previous spot on the bed. You take his hands in yours holding them. You sit in silence for a few minutes, staring at your hands in his as your mind feels like it’s on overdrive. When you’re finally ready to speak, you bring your eyes to his red stained ones, taking in his straight face.

“I know you always have our best interest in mind. I know that you will do everything in your power to keep us safe. I trust this everyday and trusted it in my gut last night. He just wanted to get under your skin, used us to do it. If I had to go through this ordeal again, even to take a bullet for you, I would. I love you, we’re in this together.

I know what I signed up for when I agreed to marry you and you taught me how to defend myself. You’re a great husband and father. Don’t you doubt that. We’re both okay, everything is going to be okay.” You thumbs pad softly against his cheeks as his eyes are closed soaking in your gentle touch and words of assurance.  

“Get off your soapbox.” You see the small smile grace his lips as he pulls you in gently to his chest. Your head resting in the crook of his neck, listening to his heartbeat, as his finger card through his hair. Finding comfort in his scent and warmness of his body holding yours, after not being in them for almost a week.

“You shouldn’t be taking bullets for me. I won’t allow it. This won’t be happening again. Going to put a bullet straight through his head and anyone else who comes two feet near either of you. I’m glad you’re both safe, couldn’t stomach the thought of losing either one of you. I’d lose my fucking mind.” His breath is hot on your ear as he speaks in a deep hushed tone. Lips coming to press into the crown of your head.

“I love you so much. Such a good mum to our boy and put up with me. You’re my darling girl, the only one I need by me side.” His finger tilts your chin up as he gazes into your eyes with devotion. His lips come down to connect with yours slow and delicately enjoying this little moment to yourselves. When you both break apart for air, both your lips are swollen, and cheeks tinted.

“Do me a favor?” You whisper, fingers carding through his hair.

“Anything, what is it that you want.”

“For you to get our Charlie, I would like to see him please.” You grin as you untangle yourself from his embrace to lean yourself back against the headboard.

“That I can do. I’ll be back with our Charlie.” He disappears out the door and you’re left in the still quietness. You close your eyes glad you were able to have another day and more time with your husband and son. It was going to take some time for you to heal and get back to normal. For your mind to process the night and death of your maid. For you to not be even more worried than you were before about Tom’s and Charlie’s safety. How much more overprotective and stubborn your husband was going to be and on edge.

“Charlie, look who I found.” Your eyes open, pushing your thoughts to the back of your mind. Tommy grins his signature smile, pointing his finger at you, as he makes his way toward the bed. Your heart swoons at the sight of your son in his father’s arms, with his little stuffed black horse, cooing away to himself.  

“Look at my sweet boy.” You can feel the tears threatening to leave your eyes as you scoop him into your arms, pressing him into the warmth of your chest, lips pressing against the top of his head.

“Missed my sweet boy.” Your voice is thick with emotion as the wet tears roll down your cheeks. You hold him, rocking him gently for a few minutes, as Tom watched you both. Your eyes would dry a few minutes later, your husband’s hand fitting yours in his palm, holding tight. You both would spend the remainder of the morning playing with your son and laughing, just the three of you. In your own little safe haven, safe and sound for now.

Masterlist