#everybody say thank you inky

[luveline]

can I request eddie with golden retriever!reader, maybe where she gets upset because she overheard people calling her stupid and he sees her cry for the first time and it breaks his heart bc even though she’s upset, she’s trying to be happy? a big hurt/comfort moment?

thank you so much for your request! i love him so much i just wanna squeeze him <3 fem!reader, 1k

Eddie stands in the doorway, and you're lucky he's around. He looks pretty today in his softest manner, plaid shirt tied around his waist, a shirt with cut off sleeves showcasing the lengths of his arms and all their subtle muscle, inky dark tattoos climbing his skin in whorls. His hand moves forward toward you, pale fingers bright even in the dark room. 

"It's a party," he says, "what are you doing here all by yourself?" 

You wipe your running nose with your sleeve for lack of a tissue. Sniffling, you say, "I just didn't want to cry in front of everyone. I'll be right there." 

Eddie closes the door with an easy swiftness. He flicks on the lamp, and he looks at you like you've pulled the rug from under his sneakers. 

"It's fine," you say quickly. You add a laugh you're not quite feeling, not wanting him to worry about you. "Don't stress." 

"Why are you acting like this isn't a big deal?" he says immediately, no punches held. 

"It's not, everybody cries." 

Eddie sits on the end of the bed. The bedspread is a washed out grey, the room someone else's and unfamiliar. You hadn't wanted to have anyone come upon you messy crying in the bathroom, slipping into the master bedroom without a word. It's weird to be among other people's things. It has the feeling of isolation creeping in all over again.

Eddie puts his hand on your thigh. "What's wrong?" he asks, squeezing gently. 

"It's really not a big deal." 

"Humour me then. What's bad enough to make you cry?" 

You swipe under your eyes, his questioning prompting another wave of useless tears. They well big and drop fast down your cheeks like warm summer rain on your cool skin. "It's really stupid," you say with a wet laugh. You can't wipe your face fast enough.

"This is agony for me, you realise?" he says, in a tone that's not as teasing as his usual dramatics. "Seeing you upset? Tell me who said something mean and I'll kick their ass." 

"No, Eddie, you can't." 

"So someone did say something mean?" he asks. 

You trace the curve of a silver ring on his fingers as his hand rubs a slow back and forth over your jeans. The ache in your spine from slouching forward into your hands twinges as you begin to relax, your upset softened by his comforting touch. You don't answer him, only look at his hand, tear after tear curving along the slope of your cheek to meet under your chin. You bring your shoulder up and wipe your chin into your t-shirt. 

"Hey," Eddie murmurs, patting your leg, "you can tell me. I won't do anything you don't want me to do, but I gotta know what's making you cry." 

You loll your head to the side and give him a sad smile. "D'you ever get the feeling that… that everyone's just pretending to like you?" 

"No, but… that's because people don't bother pretending, with me," he says. 

You nod appreciatively. "Well…" 

"It doesn't matter, I can guess. I can guess how it would feel. You think people are just pretending to like you?" 

"I know so," you say. 

Eddie takes his hand from your thigh. You don't have time to mourn the loss —his arm comes up behind you, fingers curling gently at your hip. "C'mere," he whispers, closing the gap between your sides. 

"People saying shit about you?" he asks. 

"You know Gareth's friend? The shorter one? He was laughing with his girlfriend about how stupid I sounded when I was telling you about that octopus thing and I… I know I sounded stupid, it was basically a joke, you know?" You rest your head on his shoulder. "It's dumb." 

"That wasn't stupid, that was interesting."

"In what world?"

"Hey, I can deal with idiots talking down on you, that's what idiots do, but I won't hear it from you. Okay? Don't piss me off," he warns jokingly, giving your waist a small shake against him. "You're not stupid. Do you know how fucking smart, how unshakeable you have to be to see the good in the world? It's easy to give into cynicism, that's why I do it."

"Eddie," you laugh. 

"So you got excited about something a bit weird," he says, "so what? Why should they get to say that's stupid?" 

"Is it really weird?" you ask. 

"Super fucking weird, babe." 

He sounds pleased to have said it, his smile audible, his breath a warm fanning against your cheek. You know you're moments away from a chaste kiss pressed sneakily to the skin just shy of your ear. 

You're shameful. "Is that bad?" you ask. 

Eddie kisses you as you'd expected, right on the mark. "No," he says resolutely, grinning at you though you can hardly see him, he's so close. "No way. We're weirdos together."

You let him make you feel better with another hug, this one double-armed, the short stubble of his chin scratching your cheek. Hands full of his hair, you squeeze him tight enough to bruise, pleased when he groans and yanks out of your arms. 

"That how it is?" he asks. 

"Isn't it always?" 

Eddie takes your face into rough hands. You're under no illusion —delusion, even— that he might close the inches between you. This is a Munson style telling off, eyes locked to yours, forcing you to listen. 

"You scared the shit out of me, but don't think you have to come and sit in a dark room crying by yourself. That's not okay. That's a bit sick, actually." 

"Are you serious?" 

"As a heart attack." 

He rubs your cheeks childishly, pushing them up so they apple. Then, with much more tenderness, he wipes the tacky triangles of your eyelashes with the tip of his thumb. "No crying in empty rooms. You have to do it when I'm around, so I can make fun of you." 

"You're very charming," you say sweetly. 

Something funny stutters over his face, like a slice of sincerity through his bravado. "Only with you, sweetheart."  

[fickleminder]

be good

AU inspired by this prompt: Humans are born with demon counterparts to protect them. The more innocent and pure a person is, the more mean, fierce, and terrifying their demon becomes.

Halloween 2023 fic 😈

It’s one of the things your parents often told you when you were growing up.

"Behave yourself."

"They won’t hurt you if you’re good."

"Say please and thank you."

"It’s okay, they’re your best friend."

"Mind your manners."

"You can always rely on them to protect you."

"Be good, now."

You’ve had multiple shadows for as long as you could remember. No one else could see them; a person’s demon was their own after all, but you quickly realized that everybody around you only had the one. Any attempts to convince your family otherwise only led them to believe yours was a shapeshifter.

But one demon or seven, they never laid a finger on you. Sometimes they kept their distance, watching over you from afar; other times they stayed within arm’s reach, readily accepting your touch should your curiosity win out. You soon became accustomed to the chilly air around them, their cool skin a familiar comfort on days when you just needed a hug.

They were brothers too, despite not looking anything alike. You talked to them of course, wanting to know more about your protectors friends, where they came from, what they did to pass the time when they weren’t watching you. The oldest one told you that they weren't like the other demons; they were more important, had other roles to fulfill and duties to tend to, which was why they had to take turns looking after you.

"I'm sorry for being a bother," five-year-old you said. You'd been left alone more often than not, your father having passed away recently while your mother worked extra jobs to keep the both of you fed. She never neglected you when she was home, but you still felt like a burden to her.

"You're not a bother," the oldest one — Lucifer — chided you gently. "Your mother loves you, and so do we. Never forget that, understand?"

You gripped his pant leg and nodded into his thigh, only relaxing when a gloved hand reached down to stroke your hair.

.

.

.

The wind howled outside your window and rattled the panes. Cloudy skies covered the moon, casting your room into inky blackness as you huddled under the blankets and shivered, eyes wide open and unable to sleep.

Everything seemed louder in the dark: the shrieking gusts, the creaky old floorboards, the scuttles in the walls, the scratching and rustling behind your closet door—

"It's way past your bedtime, you know."

The voice came out of nowhere, but all you felt was a sharp sense of relief knowing that you weren't alone tonight. "I'm scared," you whispered to it, clutching the sheets tighter against your body. "Can you check the closet for monsters, please?"

One of the shadows in the room seemed to grow and stretch, moving lazily towards the closet in question. You didn't dare to peek over the blankets, but you heard the door open and close as the faint noises from within fell blessedly silent.

"Better?" The voice drawled, returning to its place under your bed. "Go to sleep now. There's nothing scarier here than me."

"Thanks Belphie. Goodnight."

You let one arm dangle off the side of your bed as you finally closed your eyes. After a while, you felt a cold hand grasping yours, keeping you safe in its grip.

.

.

.

"I said I was sorry!"

"You think a simple 'sorry' is gonna cut it?!"

Bumping into other students in a crowded hallway was almost inevitable, but apparently this upperclassman took personal offense at it. The older boy hauled you up by your shirt and slammed you against the lockers while everybody else kept their heads low and gave the two of you a wide berth.

"I oughta teach you a lesson for—" He looked over his shoulder at someone you couldn't see, frowning with irritation. "Whaddya mean 'wrong person'? This twerp was the one who—"

Whatever his demon said must have convinced him, because he abruptly let go and stomped away without another word. Your knees buckled and you slid to the floor with a breathy exhale.

Someone squatted down beside you to check the back of your head, running gentle fingers through your hair to soothe you. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I was more startled than anything." You smiled at Satan, who still seemed somewhat troubled. "Can you walk me to my next class?"

"With pleasure."

That night, Satan got Asmo to read to you on his behalf, claiming he had a last minute errand to run. You didn't mind; Asmo had such a melodic voice that he might as well have sung you to sleep.

(You never saw that upperclassman in school again. People still said he transferred out.)

.

.

.

The day your mother passed, you were sitting next to her and holding her hand, doing your best to ignore the beeping of the machines that monitored her vitals.

One minute she was peaceful, halfway dozed off while you spoke to her softly, the next her entire body seized up as she began mumbling incoherently.

The machines went haywire and alerted the nurses to her side. You were forced to step back and let them do their job, your panicked gaze focused on her fearful face as she writhed on the bed, as though struggling to get away from an assailant.

"No, no... I thought... Please..." were the last words you heard before someone wrapped their arms around you and turned you away.

"Don't look," Asmo cooed in your ear, moments before the shrill beeping noises became steady.

The demon guided you to sit in the hallway outside, whispering words of comfort and rubbing your back. He told you to remember how pretty your mother was before her illness, the good times you'd spent with her after all the hardship the two of you had endured, happy memories that made every second worth it.

You knew your demons would help you to work through the grief in time, but for now, you let yourself fall apart in Asmo's arms.

.

.

.

"Take care on your way home."

"Thanks boss, see you tomorrow."

Closing shifts sucked, but the late hours paid well. Luckily, you had company on your walk back too, a hulking figure no one else could see but everybody still instinctively steered clear of. It made taking shortcuts through shady alleys a little safer.

Even on nights you stopped for supper at a sleazy diner, the only place still open at this godforsaken hour, nobody invited themselves into your booth or tried to strike up conversation with you. Which worked just fine, all you wanted to do was eat your food, go home, and collapse into bed.

Strangely enough, you noticed that the cook also tended to be extra generous with the portions he served you. The man was loud and gruff towards the waitstaff, but on nights you were seated at the counter, he was quiet as a mouse when setting your dish in front of you.

You could never finish it all, but you always made sure to leave a good tip anyway.

.

.

.

You stared at the numbers on the screen for the longest time, feeling conflicted. A part of you wished you had never approached your coworker to ask about the discrepancies you'd found in the accounts, not when he opened your eyes to some of the dealings that went under your boss's radar. He offered you a cut of the profits to keep your mouth shut of course, but you never imagined...

He was a good guy. Hardworking, funny, always willing to pitch in and offering to pick up a bite for you whenever he went on snack runs. You knew he went to church regularly too, so why?

A bat-like wing blocked your view of the screen, and you looked up to see Mammon smirking. "You're overthinking this," he said. "The answer's right in front of ya."

"I thought..." You bit your lip. "He isn't doing too well himself, and the company isn't a megacorp or anything but it's not like they'll notice. Shouldn't I just look the other way?"

"Ha! What he's offering ya is peanuts compared to the promotion you'll get by exposing his operation."

"I'm not in it for the money—"

"Maybe so, but it's the right thing to do, ain't it?"

"Still..."

"You won't have to worry about any retaliation." Mammon assured you with a ruffle of your hair. "I'll make sure of it."

.

.

.

"—lie! It's all a lie! Listen to me, you can't trust the devils!"

"What nonsense are you watching now?" Levi leaned over your shoulder as you tilted your phone to give him a better view.

"A video that went viral recently. Some crazy dude ranting about conspiracies and whatnot."

Levi's nose scrunched up in distaste. "Sounds like he's jealous about having a wimpy lesser demon chained to him, if you ask me. These guys are just bitter they got leftovers since they aren't good people."

"I don't know, Levi. Some folks just need a bit of help, I think. And don't get me started on the whole nature vs. nurture debate."

"Well, doesn't change the fact that you can't save everybody."

"They're cultivating us, like livestock! You have to sin, SIN I say!"

"Ugh, I've had enough of this dude. Can you change the channel? We haven’t watched the latest episode about that time-traveling god yet.”

"Ooh, you’re right! Give me a sec to log into my account…"

.

.

.

Lucifer hummed in amusement. "Excuse me?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend." You scrambled to clarify your earlier statement. "It's just— I've known you and your brothers for so long that you don't look scary to me, not anymore. I'm not saying you guys should be monsters or anything, but... Does this mean I'm a bad person?"

"Demons have many forms not meant for mortal eyes," he explained patiently. "And you should know that humans are neither fully good nor bad, but often somewhere in-between. In any case, why would we ever wish to frighten you, hm?"

"Told you it was a silly question..." You grumbled under your breath.

Lucifer squeezed your shoulder. "You’re a good person. You always try your best to do the right thing, even without our guidance to keep you from going astray. I don't say this lightly: I’m proud of you."

You hid your warm cheeks in the demon's chest as you hugged him for all you were worth. "...Thanks Luci."

"Anytime. Now, off you go. Don't keep Beel waiting."

Lucifer watched as his younger brother filled the empty space next to you, holding your hand while walking you home. The hour was late and the streets were dark; it wouldn't do to have anything unsavory happen to you before you made it home safely.

Yes, they needed to keep you safe at all costs. A pure and innocent being like you was hard to come by, perhaps only once every millennia or so. He and his brothers had fought for the right to you, to nurture and polish your soul for when the time was right. And when it was, you would be—

"Delicious," Lucifer whispered, baring his fangs as he licked his lips.

[captainjacklyn]

Yk about the azul with shark!s/o (I really love it).

May i request a headcanon and a small scenario if you can squeeze it in with young azul and young shark reader on how they met. and became friends and then lovers?

Like shark!reader met young azul when he got bullied, and the bullies saw shark!reader come over and before they came, the bullies already ran away. While azul was sobbing the reader poked his chubby cute check (let's say is their first time seeing a octopus alive,and was thinking of dinner), when azul eyes met readers..let's say he sobbed even harder because they were literally grinning (really really wide),showing their sharp teeth.

They meant to harm and tried to wipe azul's tears (still grinning),then the bells ring and reader had to go to class and they didnt see azul for the rest of the day again.

When they saw azul the next day, they went up to him by shouting inky (in a friendly way) and hung out with him the rest day (is up to you what they do now). Inky is what the reader calls him ,forever .

also you can make reader beat up his bullies <3

i would like to think that reader has a habit of poking azul and a small habit of light biting him as a joke hihihihi

Ahh, besides azul, reader isn't so friendly with others

I hope is understandable

OH MY GOD YES ! thank you so much for requesting it honestly when I saw you're request I fell in love immediately. LET'S DO IT !

Pairing(s) : azul ashengrotto x great white shark!reader

Author's note : this ended up being a scenario which I am planning on turning into a two part fic or even three. Do not worry I am working on it. And also this is an au where instead of the leech brothers, reader is his first friend. They come after but you were first in line.

The love story of a shark and an octopus :

You never had many friends, nor did you want any for that matter. Anyone who would try to approach you swam away in fear of getting eaten and luckily you knew how to use it as your advantage. No one dared to bother the 'great white' making you have peace and quiet whenever you wished for it.

One day, as you were swimming around by yourself per usual, you noticed a group of mermaids who were laughing and snickering. Curious to know what they were looking at, you quickly swam you way up to them.

However, the group quickly noticed you and one of them yelled out, "It's [name] ! SWIM AWAY !" All had gone into different directions hopelessly trying to find somewhere to hide from you.

Once you were close enough, it wasn't long for you to roll your eyes when you realized they had swam away from you just like everybody.

You turned around planning on leaving until a strange sound caught your attention. A small octopus was sobbing and spitting drops of ink everywhere, it had silver hair and it's skin seemed grayish while his tentacle were black and had purple suckers.

You looked at the small merfolk and nervously took glances around you not knowing how to comfort anyone. You pitied him looking so miserable and you felt obligated to do something about it so you put on your best smile as you swam towards him, you then realized how...edible squishy he looked.

By instinct you poked his cheek wondering if he would react in any way. You didn't know if he just didn't notice your presence or if he wasn't scared of you, although you doubt the answer was the second option.

You're thoughts were soon interrupted by the octopus merfolk who cried even harder when he noticed you, spitting out more ink. You had made others cry before but they were only babies and making someone feel better wasn't your best skills. You kept on smiling out of sheer awkwardness and then wiped his tears away with your hands trying to calm him down.

The school bell suddenly chimed forcing you to head out to your own classes not seeing the young octopus for the rest of your day.

______________________________________________________________

The next Morning, you spotted him swimming down the hallway. Determined to get to meet him you shouted out to get his attention with the first thought that came to mind, "INKYYYYYYYYY !!!" he spanned around himself to see who was yelling out this way only to see the shark mermaid/man/folk he encountered yesterday.

He looked around searching for someone else you possibly looking for until he pointed at himself, you nodded eagerly as a sign of affirmation happy to find out he got the message and swam towards him. "I-I'm inky ?" the silver haired boy questioned as he slightly backed away from you in which you responded with, "Yeah ! We met yesterday but not in the best way though- What's your name ?" you took a small interest with him as he was the first octopus merman you ever encountered.

He seemed to hesitate before answering but was able to murmur a few words out, "..M-my name is Azul Ashengrotto..", well this certainly felt weird how do you interact with someone again ? He isn't running away so should you just say who you are ? yeah just do that, "I'm [name] [last name] ! Do you wanna be friends with me ?"

Azul was shocked at your proposal, there was no denying the fact that it rendered him completely speechless. "W-why are so nice to me ?" his question left you puzzled as you looked down and back at him, he noticed that the small grin you had a minute ago faded as fast as it came, "am I not supposed to ?" Azul truly didn't expect to see someone so confused and disappointed just to be friends with him.

The reason why he was so suspicious of you're actions was because he thought you were trying to make fun of him and then bully him like everyone else. "N-no it's just I didn't think you wanted to be friends with me.."

"Is it because you're scared of me ?" You realized that just because you interacted with him once wouldn't mean he wasn't going to fear you. "N-not at all ! I mean you are a bit scary but....Don't you find me disgusting ?" you looked at him and giggled slightly. He was about to leave thinking it was just a way to mess with him after all but then your answer made him think otherwise : "You ? Disgusting ? What a joke ! The last thing I would consider you is delicious but alright !"

Great. now he looked threatened and horrified. "Well...I just thought that maybe we could- hang out ? I don't know how friendships work since I don't have any. Friends." your face slowly lost its enthusiasm remembering this particular fact about yourself. Azul then thought to himself, he looked at you fear visible in his eyes yet a small determination sparkled, "o-ok then...We can be friends i-if you want to."

He certainly didn't expect for you to jump at him in joy, "REALLY ?! Why am I so happy ?! Is this really why people want friends all the time ?! I can't stop smiling !" Although he was stunned from noticing your sharp canines the boy felt somehow amused by your happiness and complete innocent confusion.

Maybe this day wasn't so bad after all...

Find part 2 here

[callsigndragon]

A Rebel In My Soul | Chapter 3: Dog Fight

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Mitchell!Reader

Word count: 3,3k (they keep getting longer omg)

Warnings: swearing, brief mentions of death, Hangman being a decent human being for once (needs a warning), mentions of alcohol, bit of angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, slow burn. HANGMAN'S POV (this needs a big warning)

Summary: Y/N "Rebel" Mitchell is one of the best aviators of her generation. She grew up hearing the adventures and stories of Maverick, her father, that he used as bedtime stories. She became an aviator with her best friend Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw and now both of them have to come back to the Top Gun Academy for an important mission. Only the best of the best is called for this mission, including the southern idiot called Jake "Hangman" Seresin. Both of you had hated each other since day one. Now, having to work together once more, you count the days for this mission to be over, not only to never see Hangman again, but to also cut all connections again with your father.  

Taglist: @theprettytragic @thatoneweirdhorsegirl913 @shrimping-for-all @inky-sun @popcrone818 @blue-aconite

(If you want to be added to the taglist comment or send me a message!)

A/N: Okay this is crazy. Thank you so much to all of you who are reading this series. To all the new followers, the ones that like and comment, and the ones that just read. Thank you. You don't now how important this is for me. My mental health issues ended my willing to write, and I began to write this series mostly to myself, but I see a lot of you enjoying it, and y'all.... it's a wonderful feeling. Just thank you. This chapter has Hangman's pov at the end, revealing a little of his feelings and thoughts. It was really special for me so... i hope you like it!

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Rooster ends up being one of the firsts to do the exercise. You stay with Phoenix, Bob, Hangman and the rest, listening to the radio, hearing how things are going up there.  

“Good morning, aviators. This is your captain speaking. Welcome to basic fighting maneuvers. As briefed, today’s exercise is dog fighting. Guns only, no missiles. We do not go below the hard deck of 5000 feet”  

You take a sit next to Hangman, cause it’s the only available sit left in the sofa. “Yeah, sure, like he’s not down there already”  

“Howdy, Rebel. How do you know so much about him?” says Hangman turning around an f-18 model that he found in the table.  

“He’s a legend. Everybody knows about him”  

“You think I’ll be as famous as him someday?”  

“Keep dreaming, Hangman”  

“If I shoot either one of you down,” Maverick keeps explaining the rules of the exercise “you both lose” 

“This guy needs an ego check”  

“You’re one to talk, Hangman. But actually, and I can’t believe I'm gonna say this, you’re right” 

“One of us will get him. We’re the best” 

One thing about Hangman is that if you’re a good pilot, he’s not gonna mess with that. He respects it. He messes with Rooster because he’s cautious, and in a way, you think he’s trying to puss his buttons to make him react. Rooster has always been too careful when flying. Maverick once said that he wasn’t ready to leave the book behind and start doing things his own way. You hate to admit it, but he was right. Rooster is an excellent pilot, but he follows every single rule in the book. You’ve grown to believe that this is a result of Goose’s accident. It has turned into a trauma for Rooster. He’s always trying to keep control of the aircraft. He’s too cautious and you’re too reckless. If you were paired together, probably you would be the best team.  

He is too slow and Payback and Fanboy are almost smoked, but Rooster gets in the middle to save them. Rooster always makes sure to bring the whole team back home.  

One after one, all your team goes up there, none of them are able to get Maverick. Not even you, he tried to make conversation with you several times and you weren’t having it. Phoenix and Bob were surprised to hear how Maverick was talking to you. As if the two of you were close. He kept talking and ended up frustrating you so much that it was impossible for him to get him. You had to do the 200 push-ups.  

The second time you’re up there, you have Hangman as your wingman. Great, he’s going to leave you alone in a matter of seconds.  

“So, Rebel, mind if I ask you a personal question?”  

“You’re gonna ask it anyway” you say while looking around, trying to find Maverick. He’s not on the radar, he has to be close.  

“What’s the story with you, Rooster and Maverick? It seems like it has you both a little rattled” 

“That’s none of your business, Hangman. Where the hell is he?” 

“Been here the whole time” says Maverick, appearing from below your aircraft, and moving to be above you, face down.  

“Holy shit” exclaims Hangman. You’re not actually surprised. He’s that type of person.  

“You see me know, kid? Come on, let’s get it over with” he tells you, looking directly into your eyes.  

He thinks that he can just pull out of nowhere, after what he did to you and Rooster, and solve everything with a dog fight? Just old Maverick behavior. If he wants fight, you’ll give him war.  

“Fight’s on, old man!” you howl, turning your aircraft.  

“What is with these two?” Hangman questions. But you’re too busy to answer.  

You both go down, spiraling around each other, sky and earth spinning around you. You keep falling. None of you is going to pull up soon. This is dangerous, to say the least, and once you set foot on the ground, Rooster is going to scold you because of your actions. You said that you wouldn’t let Maverick get to you. But he has a talent to make people angry.  

“All right, you put us here. How you’re gonna get yourself out?” he asks you. Always the teacher tone. Maverick should know by now that there are only a few things left that he can teach you. He raised you.  

You are just like him when it comes to flying. 

“Already wanting to leave, old man? You can bail out anytime”  

“How long you want to go, Rebel?”  

“I can go as low as you sir! And that’s saying something”  

“What’s past is past. For the three of us”  

“Wouldn’t you like to believe that” you sneer. He really is something else. He's trying to make you and Rooster forget everything that happened. He really believes he was doing the right thing. And he’s not even going to explain himself to try to gain your forgiveness.  

“Hard deck is 5000 feet, fellas. You are running out of room” says Hangman through the radio.  

Altitude. Altitude. Altitude.  

The automated voice is warning you. You’ve broken the hard deck. You’re still going down, approaching the ground faster by the second, but you cannot look away from Maverick. The first one that pulls up, loses. He knows it. You know it.  

And a Mitchell never loses.  

“Your strategy is about to run us into the ground. What’s your move, Rebel?” 

Altitude. Altitude. Altitude.  

You look at the numbers on your screen. They're going down really fast. You want to pull up. You need to pull up. But you can’t lose. You can’t let Maverick win. Not again.  

Not this time.  

Pull up. Pull up. Pull up.  

“Rebel, pull up!” shouts Hangman.  

Maverick pulls up before you. You smirk and pull up, knowing that you have him. He’s going down. He’s flying low, as if that could scare you.  

“Come on, Rebel. You got him!” says Hangman. Why is he being nice?  

You drop down flying right behind Maverick and try to mark him.  

“Come on, come on, come on”  

Tone. You get tone. You got him.  

“Whooo! Attagirl, get your ass up here before you crush” Hangman is being too nice. Is he trying to be in your good side to end up in the dagger team? 

You move your aircraft to be next to Maverick’s. 

“Remember, old man. 200 push-ups” you turn to leave, Hangman following you.  

When you get off your aircraft, Hangman is waiting for you.  

“Breaking the hard deck, insubordination… You really live up to your call sign” jokes Hangman. Seriously, what’s wrong with him?  

“Want something, Bag man?”  

“C’mon, Reb. What’s going on?” he sounds sincere. Like he really wants to know.  

“Why do you care so much?”  

“Cause I’ve seen you fly before. You’ve always been reckless. But this? This is something else”  

You stop walking and turn to look at him. He’s usual cocky smile is gone. He’s looking at you, eyes full of concern. He really is worried about you. You look away, not being able to keep watching those beautiful green eyes that take your breath away.  

Wait what? 

“I’ll see you on the Hard Deck. Buy me a drink and maybe I’ll tell you”  

Hangman smiles a little. A different smile from the ones that you have seen before. Did he hit his head with something?  

“I’ll see you there, then” he says softly before leaving. You remain there, speechless, trying to understand what’s going on in Hangman’s head. 

You enter the Hard Deck, seeing Hangman waiting for you at the bar top, beer in hand. He looks good out of his uniform, wearing some old jeans, a white t-shirt and his aviator jacket. His hair is loose, giving him a more juvenile aspect. You wouldn’t mind seeing more of this Hangman.  

He takes a sip of his beer, eyes scanning the door to see the incomers. When he sees you, he raises his beer as a greeting. You smile a little, walking towards him.  

“Hangman” 

“Rebel” he welcomes you, looking at Penny “Can you get me two more? Thanks, dear”  

“So, you’re really gonna get me a drink”  

“I keep my promises. You get your beer; I get to know what is happening here”  

“I never thought Hangman was an old gossiping lady”  

Penny puts down the beers in front of you, smiling before leaving to get more drinks to other clients. The place is relatively quiet, but it won’t be like this for too long.  

“Honey, I was born and raised in the south. Of course, I gossip” he admits, raising his beer. “Cheers”  

You do the same, drinking the cool liquid. If someone told you three days ago that you’ll end up drinking beers with Hangman, you would have laughed.  

“He tried to pull my papers at the Naval Academy” you admit after swallowing the drink.  

Hangman chokes on his beer. You grab a napkin to clean the drops of golden liquid that have fallen on his jacket. He looks at you, eyes completely widened in shock.  

“Maverick?”  

“Yeah. The man, the legend”  

“But why would he do something like that?”  

“I used to think that he was trying to protect me” you admit, your eyes focusing in the beer in your hands. You twirl it around slowly, not being really interested in drinking it. Hangman takes off his jacket and moves his stool to be closer to you. His hand brushes yours innocently, but it makes your skin burn and your heart to beat faster.  

What are you, some kind of teenager? Having a crush because someone touched your hand?  

A crush? 

“So, you two knew each other from before”  

“I thought I did” you admit, taking a big sip of your beer.  

Hangman looks at you. There’s a shadow, a feeling in his eyes that you cannot identify. At first, you think it’s pity. But you’ve seen the pity in the eyes of the rest of the world every time they knew who your father was. That’s not pity. He blinks a few times and that shadow disappears.  

“Are you late because Rooster reprimanded you?” mocks Hangman, a small devilish smile adorning his features.  

You let your head fall to the bar top with a groan, making Hangman laugh. Of course, he did. He lectured you during thirty minutes, trying to remind you that it was your life what you were risking when doing “bullshit like that”. His words, not yours.  

“You know, I always say that he’s like my big brother but he took that personally” you mutter, your voice muffled by the wood.  

“Oh, he did. When we met at the academy, everyone thought you two were dating. And then one day, we were here playing pool and you went to the bathroom and he said and I quote” he clears his throat before speaking in the most ridiculous sound-alike Rooster voice you’ve ever heard. “If one of you idiots tries to get in my little sister’s pants, I will kill you with my own bare hands”  

“Please tell me it’s a lie” you beg him, not wanting to believe his words. 

He leans closer. You can feel his warm breath against your cheekbone. His cologne filling your nostrils and making your heart skip a beat by the sudden proximity.  

“He even said that to Phoenix” he declares, a laugh following soon after he sees the mortification in your eyes.  

“Oh my God. I’ll kill him” you put your hands on your face to shield you from Hangman’s stare.  

“Honestly, it was for the better. There were a few guys interested in proving if you were as good in bed as you were in the sky. Assholes” he finishes his beer and turns in his stool. “Pool?” 

“Sure” you say, getting up and taking your beer with you.  

You play for a while, opting for small talk rather than important conversations as before. There’s something inside your brain, a tiny little voice screaming that you should leave. It’s true that you don’t understand why he is being nice to you all of a sudden… but you know that he means no harm. He’s egotistical, arrogant, and a complete idiot when he wants to. But you’ve seen him be a good teammate when the occasion required to. What is behind this change of behavior, you don’t know. But there’s nothing wrong in hanging around long enough to find out.  

You have to admit that every time he leans over to aim, you look at his hands. There’s something about them that drives you mad. Strong, calloused hands that make your imagination go wild. You need to stop those thoughts before they go too far.  

“Hangman” 

“Yes?”  

“Why did you call me up there?” 

“Did I?” he tilts his head, feigning ignorance. As if you couldn’t see past him.  

“Yes, you told me to pull up”  

“Oh yeah. If you burn in, the mission will be over. And I really want to know what this is all about” he says, his cocky smile present again. Yeah, that’s the Hangman you know.  

“And here I thought you were being friendly”  

Hangman’s smile drops instantly, as if he has just realized that he’s done something wrong. He is about to say something when you feel an arm on your shoulders. 

“Rebel? You didn’t tell me you were gonna be here” Rooster says appearing behind you and almost giving you a heart attack.  

“Jesus, Rooster. Don’t scare me like that”  

“C’mon I want you to meet some people”  

You give the stick to Hangman. “Thanks for the beer”  

He nods and remains silent while you leave. You don’t notice but he watches you leave with a glimpse of sadness in his eyes. Hangman pays for the drinks and leaves the Hard Deck without a goodbye. 

Jake leaves the Hard Deck, trying to identify the feelings that cloud his mind. Why is he feeling bitter? Is it because Rebel chose Rooster? Of course, she will always choose him. He and Rebel are not friends. How is he even going to be an option? He gets on his car, but doesn’t turn the engine. He remains there, looking inside the bar. She is smiling to something that Rooster is saying, her big, shiny eyes full of adoration for the taller man.  

Jake has never been jealous of anyone. He got the looks, he got the skills, he is better than the majority of the pilots in the base. But yet, he’s not enough for her. And he feels jealous of Rooster because it doesn’t matter how much he fucks it up, Rebel will always be there for him. 

Why are these feelings and thoughts materializing right now?  

Maybe it is because she almost killed herself.  

That dog fight with Maverick was dangerous. When he saw Rebel breaking the hard deck without caring about her own security, he felt the need to go after her. But he didn’t. How could he? It was impossible to stop her when she was flying. He knew, though, that if someone could beat the old timer, it was Rebel. That girl was made to be an aviator. But she needed someone to stop her from pulling out these stunts.  

Recently, everybody had been talking about the “Mitchell’s”. Not around Rebel or Rooster, of course. But they’ve been talking. The way they talk to each other is really suspicious. Fanboy said that maybe Rebel was his wife, hence the name. Phoenix smacked him in the back of the head. Obviously, Rebel wasn’t married. Maverick was her father. Everybody knew, but no one said anything out of respect for the pilot.  

He was ready to say something at the exercise. Being just the two of them up there, maybe he could ask. But then he saw the turn of the events and he knew that if she wanted to talk about it, it wouldn’t be with him. 

He had been a dick with her since the first day. How could he expect that Rebel told him something so personal? He was out of his mind.  

But what he really wanted to know was why the heck was he caring about a nepotism baby. Her father is one of the most famous legends at Top Gun and she’s here. Did Daddy’s name open the doors of the academy for her?  

No. Jake knew that was bullshit. If there was someone in the team who really deserved to be here, was Rebel. She’s a hell of a pilot. Jake remembers the first day that he saw her at Top Gun. He couldn’t understand how someone like Rebel made it into this world. Shy, quiet, always hidden behind Rooster. Maybe that was one of the reasons why he was always a dick with her. He wanted to get her out of her shell. He wanted to break her walls, to see the real Rebel. If she was there, she was good. She was part of the 1%. Then she proved to be better than everyone at the academy and nobody could believe that the shy girl was a menace in the air. She became confident, brave and a force to reckon. She found her voice and she stopped being the quiet girl in the back of the room. That's when the trouble maker appeared. And she gained her call sign.  

Jake gave it to her.  

He remembers the exact words that gave the inspiration to the team. “You’re a rebel in disguise, Mitchell. And someday your actions will have consequences”  

That was the day Rebel was born.  

Jake has to admit that she is one of a kind. Good pilot, better friend, she had been team leader in some exercises back in the academy days and she seemed to be born for it. Always caring about the rest, willing to sacrifice herself to secure the rest of the team. She didn’t break rules to be cool, to be the best or to gain recognition. Rebel broke rules to save people. Sometimes a good leader needs to break some rules to save the rest. That’s why Jake knows that he will never be team leader. He wasn’t as good as her.  

Lately, every time he closes his eyes, he can see her. He’s been watching her too much these last two days. Jake doesn’t know why. There’s something in her… in her eyes looking at the sky to see Rooster flying away, in the way she moves when dancing at the Hard Deck, in how she smiles whenever Phoenix makes a joke. Everyone gets a special part of Rebel. Eyes, smiles… he wants something too. But why?  

Does Jake Seresin want Rebel to be his friend? Yeah, that’s probably it. He knows now that he’s always been envious of Rooster and Rebel’s friendship. It was… pure. Pure and unadulterated love. Not that type of love. But a type of love that Jake had never felt before.  

He wants someone who will be waiting for him whenever he comes back from an exercise, ready to tell him how good he did, or if he has to do something differently to be better. He wants someone to play pool with at the Hard Deck. Someone that stays with him when everybody leaves. Someone he can share secrets, stories, memories with. Or just talk about everything and anything until the night turns into morning. Someone that is not afraid of his stupid jokes because deep down she knows that he is a good guy, but he probably doesn’t know how to talk to people. He wants to open up to someone and maybe, that someone is Rebel. Someone who is as good as him in the sky, but better than him in every single aspect on the ground. Someone he can learn from, and someone he can teach to. 

Jake turns the engine of his car, ready to leave.  

Yeah. He just wants a friend. 

[stormkobra-5]

Boxing Badass

Poe Dameron x fem!Reader (Modern AU)

Summary: Poe Dameron, an Air Force Reserves fighter pilot, owns and operates a boxing ring on the side. You’re Y/N “Starfire”, his very best fighter in the ring. Although, there seems to be something between you two that neither of you will admit-- until you make a bad decision against his wishes that will cost him money and some of his ego. Now he’s gonna show you your place-- and he’s gonna do it right on the floor of the ring.

A/N: Ok, so, I came across the picture in the far left moodboard, and I just. Dude. I fucking lost any worries I had about writing smut because hot damn that is my favorite picture now. Good lord. And I admit to shamelessly stealing lines from his Beirut reading because good fucking lords and ladies the living fanfiction-- you won’t believe it till you hear the words come outta his mouth. (I’d also like to mention that I know nothing about boxing...) This is my very first smutty fic, so...

Anyone who was tagged doesn't have to read this, and I'm sorry if you didn't want to be! :P

Notes: I’d like to thank both @foxilayde for some much-needed advice on writing smut, and my bro, @poeticsorcery, for helping me when I got stuck, giving me scenarios and phrases-- thanks, Gadget! And also? Because this is Modern!Poe? He’s bilingual (he speaks Spanish duh), for plot purposes.

Warnings: Oh boy. *heaves dictionary of smut onto table* This story is 18+ ONLY!!! MINORS DO NOT READ, DO NOT INTERACT. Violence, language, light angst, fluff. Shameless smut, reader has a praise kink, breeding kink, use of the word “sir,” fingering, oral (f receiving), light bondage, glove-play, thigh riding, bratty sub!reader, unprotected PiV, edging, orgasm denial, foul language, spanking, overstimulation, plot what plot, porn without plot, okay maybe a little bit of a plot

______________________________________________________________

Ok, so you like him.

You like him a lot.

Captain Poe Dameron of the United States Air Force Reserves is a fucking badass. He flies an F-16 jet he absolutely adores, his formal uniform is covered in medals, and he’s like a Guatemalan/Cuban Maverick-- oh he’s a total Top Gun fan, but he’ll also point out what is and isn’t regulation and boast about what he has and hasn’t done if you were to watch it with him.

Not to mention he’s fucking gorgeous. His golden-tan skin is somehow nearly unblemished. On his right cheek, under his eye, is a small scar, and on his left are two little pockmarks, giving him a rough edge. His strong nose and stubbled jawline, his toned, lean-muscled chest, his inky black curls that sometimes spring free over his forehead, his deep brown eyes-- everything about this man is just ugh. So fine.

He has everybody he knows swooning over him. Women, men, and it doesn’t help that he has a reputation as a sex god. The rumors that fly about Poe Damneron are obscene, filthy, and unbelievable. A supposed-ex-boyfriend even complimented him by saying he could last all night, and then some. A couple one-night stand girls talked about how he doesn’t even have to actually touch you to make you come. With how cocky he is and how he carries himself with that-- I dunno big dick energy-- you believe every word of it.

But it’s kinda hard to hear all that about somebody you consider to be your best friend.

He’s in the reserves, so a second job is a good thing to have, for the mind as well as the pocket. Poe-- along with his friend Finn, also in the reserves as part of the maintenance crew-- owns and operates a boxing gym. Fight nights win him a lot of money if his fighters can best another’s, not to mention he bets. Heavily. And he always fucking wins.

That’s how you met him.

You’re an up-and-coming female boxer that had went by the name of “Foxtrot.” You had a few gigs, here and there, but nobody really wanted to keep working with you-- either a female in their ring undermined their authority or they were simply tired of hearing the snide comments. Until you got to Yavin 4 Boxing Club, where you met Poe Dameron, your new boss. He immediately took you to the ring, where he showed you some trick moves, and then to test you, pitted you up against a boxer that very night.

You won. For the first time.

Poe Dameron set up your career. He gave you a new name, “Starfire,” and in three years of working with him you’d become his best fighter in the ring. Anybody who questioned the presence of a female fighter was quickly shut down. Unbeatable, unquestioned, you guys were a power-duo. You made thousands of dollars a week from just the Friday Fight Nights, and even though you maybe wanted to add Saturdays, too, Poe absolutely forbade it. “I don’t want my best fighter getting hurt, babygirl,” He’d always tell you, giving you that damn pursed-lips-clenched-jaw kinda look and shaking his head. “One day a week. That’s it. We’re doing good, we don’t need any more money.”

But you were more than just his best fighter. Somehow he started integrating you into his friends, introducing you to Finn, Rey, Rose, Ben, and even his Labrador, Beebs. You started hanging out. Soon... soon you became friends. Maybe even best friends. And you hated it, because you’d fallen for him far harder than you’d ever thought possible.

It was his fucking smile.

You didn’t notice it at first. You just thought you were growing to love him as a friend, but then you realized that at the mere thought of seeing him, your heart started pounding. Your face would flush. Butterflies would erupt in your stomach. But then one day you’d been getting ready to practice for an upcoming fight. Poe had been standing nearby and watching, ready to give tips like he always did, and you made a joke about wrapping your knuckles. Hell, you don’t even remember what you said. Whatever it was, it had made Poe laugh-- and at the sight of that beaming grin that makes the corners of his warm dark eyes crinkle up, you were a goner.

You were in love with him.

And despite the fact that you can take direct hits without batting an eye, the thought of rejection and ruining your friendship if you asked him out on a date he isn’t interested in has you terrified. But you keep up flirty banter with him. You try to test the waters, see if he is interested; he can’t take his eyes off you when you practice, so that has to be a good sign, right?

But he’s also ridiculously bossy, which has you always acting the part of the rebel. You don’t know why-- maybe you like the way that muscle in his cheek twitches when you refuse to do something he tells you to, especially in front of other people. Maybe you like the sparks that ignite in his eyes as he turns to give you a glare from under his thick brows. Maybe you just enjoy getting such a strong reaction from him. All you know is you really like pushing his buttons.

Today is a prime example of that.

“What do you mean, no?” You scoff, in utter disbelief at the man across the desk from you. Poe lounges in his leather chair with a brow raised and his lips pursed a little as he regards you. He’s wearing those stupid navy-blue dress pants that show off his thighs and, yes, you’ve checked him out on numerous occasions, his great ass. He’s wearing that stupid matching blazer that squeezes his arms in all the right places, and he’s wearing that stupid white shirt, not to mention his signature chain necklace where his mother’s ring hangs. His curls are messy from where he’s run his hand through them, and despite the fact that you know he probably shaved this morning, he’s got fine stubble accentuating his damn right-angle jawline, framing his full lips. Damn you want to kiss him. You wonder what those lips would feel like on yours...

Miraculously, it only makes you want to defy him more.

Tonight’s Friday Fight Night. Coming all the way from Samoa to this little Californian city is a hulking 7-foot goliath of a man called “Chewbacca.” All week posters had been put up around town: Starfire vs Chewbacca, One Night Only. This was your night. If you could bring down Chewbacca, all the boxers in a 500-mile radius would come to test your mettle, and you’re more than positive that you could bring any one of them down. The money you’d get from this night alone would set you up even better than you already are.

And Poe’s suddenly telling you no.

“You heard me, sweetheart,” He says, leaning back to swing his ankles up onto the table-- those fucking. Untied. Combat boots. How the fuck does somebody wear combat boots with something that’s almost a damn suit?! Your eyes reluctantly trail up his picturesque body to meet his eyes, which are fixated on you like a predator: you know that look. It’s the look that tells you that you’d better damn well listen to what he’s telling you to do. “Finn’s going into the ring tonight.”

“Finn?!” You exclaim, because, well. Finn might be muscular enough to lift missiles and other payloads onto the underbelly of an F-16, and sure he’s been trained, but he’s not a boxer. He’s the co-owner. He doesn’t even have a boxing name.

“Yeah. Finn. Why’re you repeating everything I say? Something wrong with your ears, princesa?” He reaches forward and casually plucks one of his F-16 models off of his desk, turning in over and over in his hands. Usually his little nicknames are endearing to you. Always he’s calling you something other than your name, whether in Spanish or English. In fact, aside from repeating it when you first introduced yourself, you’re pretty positive he’s never said it otherwise. But right now, it’s just fucking annoying. You know he doesn’t mean it that way, but they sound mocking, almost, and you wanna throw yourself across the table and beat the shit out of him.

Or fuck the shit out of him.

You can’t tell. You’re gonna go with the former.

Although from the way your eyes are trained on his hands, admiring how fluid his movements are as he flips the airplane, you’re seriously fucking thinking about it. He’s just sitting there, sitting like that, all stretched out and leaning back playing with that jet with his deep brown eyes on you and a smolder on his face?! Good god.

You drag your gaze off his hands and cast a glare around the room, at his decorations and awards that clearly show off that he’s a fighter pilot. At the very reason for his cocky, arrogant self. Though you’re pretty sure he’s always been arrogant. He was born arrogant and cocky. He probably winked at his goddamn wet-nurse when he was born.

Sweet lord do you want him.

But you want so much more than... him.

You maybe want to wake up next to him. Maybe want to give him a kiss before he goes off to work. Maybe want to stay up late joking about corny old horror movies. Maybe you want to be his. But if Poe wanted you, he’d ask for you, wouldn’t he? Because he’s Poe Dameron, and he’s not afraid of anything, not even the prospect of rejection.

And it’s so fucking painful to be so close, yet so far. You’ve fallen hard for a man you’ll never have, and your heart is this close to breaking every goddamn day. Which is why you’ve bagged another job, in another town, far away from this place, far away from Poe, so that maybe you can recuperate from unrequited love. You told Poe just earlier today-- that you’d gotten a job, have a new apartment waiting for you, that it’s too far away, really, for rational visits, and that you’re already completely packed to move out of your roommate Jess’s place. You’ve known Poe for three years now, and you’ve never seen him go so... cold. At first you saw something like disappointment, but then his expression shifted. Guarded, cool, calm, he’d nodded and said, “Best of luck then, Y/L/N.” The use of your last name hurt-- it was so formal. Like you were strangers, when you aren’t. Really, you should be glad that he’s using nicknames for you now.

But it only makes it more painful. Once you move away... a writhing ball of grief has been clawing at your heart for weeks now. Leaving his presence will only make you feel worse for awhile, you know this, but eventually, you’ll recover. You’ll learn to deal with the fact that you fell in love with Poe Dameron, but he never loved you, not the way you wanted him to.

Honestly, you wonder if him being pissed has anything to do with him denying you to fight tonight. “You can’t tell me no. This is a golden opportunity for me.”

“A golden opportunity to get your head knocked off,” Poe quips, eyes flicking to you briefly. He sets the plane down, shifting his position so that he’s leaning on the desk and facing you. “I’ve met Chewbacca before. This guy...” He searches for the right word for a second, licking his lips. “This guy is massive.” He decides that’s the appropriate term, nodding to emphasize his point. “I’ve seen him fuck up guys that give you a hard time in thirty seconds flat. There are rumors going around that he ripped somebody’s arm off in New Zealand, I dunno if that’s...true, or not, but...” His hand comes up to scratch the back of his head for a second before slamming back into the table, his intense gaze meeting yours as he tries to get across the gravity of what he’s telling you. “I don’t want you getting hurt, princesa. I... You’re...”

I need you. You’re my best fighter. It’s what he always says. Sometimes it’s all you wonder if you’re good for to him. Nothing but a paycheck that does the dirty work for him. You stand from your chair abruptly. “Fuck you, Poe.” You’ve said it to him before, but on much lighter, not-serious terms, in a joking fashion. But this time you’re truly pissed. You let him know it; you storm out of there and slam the door behind you even though it’s never closed.

Last I checked, I’m still on the roster, Poe.

You should know by now that you can’t tell me what to do.

~~~

When you arrive at the Yavin 4 Boxing Club that night, ten minutes before the fight’s about to start, the street is packed with so many people anticipating the match that you have to park a block away and hightail it to the club before you miss your window. Fighting through the thick crowds isn’t so difficult. They recognize you at once and start chanting “Starfire,” which you can only hope Poe doesn’t hear, because that would give away your presence here.

It must not, because you make it to the locker room without any trouble, just in time to see a shirtless Finn wrapping his knuckles. “Yo, buddy,” You say, to which he turns and smiles when he sees you.

“Hey, Y/N! What’re you doing here?”

“What are you doing here, princesa?” Poe’s voice comes from behind you, and you heave a sigh. You’d really been hoping not to run into him tonight-- at least, not until you beat the living daylights out of Chewbacca.

You turn to find him glowering at you with his hands on his hips. He’s got the muscle tick and the sparks in his eyes, so you know this is probably the worst you’ve done so far. “The people came here to see Starfire fight Chewbacca,” You say with mock-cheerfulness, only making him clench his jaw. His anger only fuels your frustration. “So they’re gonna see Starfire fight Chewbacca.”

“I’ve got two grand on my fighter,” Poe points out, voice low and dangerous. His implication makes you so furious your fists tighten enough for your nails to cut into your skin. He thinks you can’t beat Chewbacca. It’s all about the dollar signs. This has nothing to do with you.

The words flow out of your mouth before you can stop them, and now you and Poe are nearly chest-to-chest and fuming like bulls seeing a red cape. “That all you care about? Money? That all you ever care about?”

“Guys--” Finn tries, but Poe talks over him in order to say firmly to you, “Finn is bigger, broader, he can take the hits.”

“You think I can’t?”

His blunt honesty surprises you. “No, I don’t. I think you’re gonna get your ass creamed in that fucking ring, and I’m trying to protect you!”

“I don’t need protection, Poe!”

You two are kind of circling each other now, and your shouts have escalated into a yelling match. “I’ve got money, reputation, and your safety riding on this--”

“Oh, my safety’s last on your fucking list, isn’t it?” The built-up frustration of the last several months of being near him but not with him is flowing more fury behind your words, and you’re ready to get Poe on the floor and--.... well, you’re not sure what, but he’s not gonna like whatever it is you’re gonna do. “I’m gonna fuck you up, Poe Dameron!”

He’s undeterred, of course, and shouts right back at you. “You wanna fuck me, huh?! Go right ahead! I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t be able to fucking walk!”

“Guys!” Finn puts himself between you two.

Which is good, because you have no fucking idea how Poe got “I’m gonna fuck you” out of an angry “I’m gonna fuck you up” and why for some reason, he thought you’d said that in anger, as a threat. Not to mention he’d “threatened” to fuck you back, to the point of not walking? The images he just put in your head... Despite the fact that you’re both frustrated with each other, you both pause, brows furrowed, for a distinct what the fuck moment.

Finn shares in your what the fuck moment, looking between you two with disbelief. “Wait, what? That what this is about? You guys have some deep sexual tension you need to work out? I need to step outta the room? You wanna head somewhere else maybe?”

“Shut up, Finn,” Poe snaps, and pushes past him so that you and him are face-to-face again. Behind him, Finn throws his hands up in exasperation before addressing the ceiling.

“I tried, God. Really, I did.”

Poe’s hands are on his hips again as he glares at you. “...Don’t go out there.”

You turn on your heel without a word and plop your bag down, stripping yourself of your jacket and shoes so that you’re only in sweats and a tank top-- it’s how you usually fight. You wrap your knuckles, blatantly ignoring Poe’s presence. Even as he comes up behind you, so close he’s nearly flush against your back. He doesn’t touch you, but he doesn’t have to. His voice is all but a husky growl in your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine: “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, babygirl.”

A shudder wracks your body, a shudder which he most definitely notices. When you turn to look over your shoulder at him, he has a look in his eyes that outdoes his usual spark. It’s more of a fire, one that makes your stomach flip in all the right ways. His face is inches from yours, and you half consider pulling him in for a kiss--

--but if he wanted it, he’d have done it himself. You frown as the giddiness is replaced by frustration. Anger. Toward yourself, of course, for not being good enough for Poe to want to be yours just as badly as you wish you were his. You turn your back on him and leave the locker room, going straight for the ring.

As soon as you exit, you’re greeted by a swarm of cheering audience, half-drunk already. Bets are being passed around, and you angrily remember Poe pointedly telling you that he has two grand on this fight. Oh, that pisses you off. You’re gonna beat Chewbacca solely based on your anger toward Poe.

People part before you like reeds under the prow of a boat, so you’re easily able to reach the ring. You grab hold of the ropes and haul yourself up into the arena, your ears ringing with the reverberations of the cheering crowd, bouncing off the walls and pounding into your skull.

You’re eager to get into the arena. You want to beat the shit out of this Chewbacca.

Almost immediately upon entering that ring, you regret your decision.

You feel the blood drain from your face at the sight of your massive, massive opponent. He really is over seven feet tall, isn’t he? This guy is ridiculously enormous. Even Finn, at 6′ 2″, would have been absolutely dwarfed against him. Rippling with corded muscle underneath of dark caramel-brown skin, he must be nearly eight feet tall. Thick, long hair, brown-and-black, falls from his head, tumbling far down his back. He’s a literal giant. Yes, you’re strong, but you’re still much smaller and much more frail than this guy. Finn lifts missiles onto jets for a living. He might have been able to get a few hits in, might have been able to wrestle this guy to the ground and keep him there. You... you’ll be lucky if you get a single hit in. You’re beginning to understand why Poe didn’t want you in this fight.

“Oh fuck...” You breathe, but there’s no backing out now.

“Ready?” The announcer calls out, and you barely have time to raise your fists before Chewbacca rushes you. He swings high, aiming for your head with a guttural roar that sounds more animal than human. You dodge, intending to go low, but this guy clearly knows more about boxing than you do. Maybe his entire life has been about boxing.

His knee comes up and cracks you hard in the face. Your nose isn’t broken, but blood pours freely from it and you see stars from the impact. You’ve bitten your tongue (not badly enough to bite it off, but it only adds to your injury), and with the sudden silence of the crowd you can hear your ears ringing from the blow. In a daze, you stand there for a second, unsure of what exactly is happening, even when Chewbacca picks you up and throws you across the ring.

You roll up against the rope barriers and come to a stop, unable to move enough to even make a show of struggling. You’ve been K-O’d in 10 seconds flat, when Finn might’ve maybe lasted 30. You’re suddenly fully aware of Poe’s position: it wasn’t if anybody could win, he probably had a bet on how long his fighter could last against Chewbacca. Why risk his best fighter that brings in all his money? If you’re not out for a couple weeks, you’ll be surprised— wait, what are you talking about? Weren’t you planning on moving on Monday? Fuck, you can’t even think straight. You don’t know that you’ve been named the loser until you’re being carried toward an ambulance against a familiar chest that smells of jet fuel and iron. Poe is carrying you.

You’re placed on a stretcher, and you wonder if the crowds are disappointed that they came from who-knows-where to witness Chewbacca floor you in 10 seconds.

~~~

So, you’ve suffered a concussion.

Not a bad one, but a concussion.

Moving will have to be put off till next week, so you’ve made plans to wait until next Monday. For three days, you’re in the hospital under watch for any signs of anything worse than your concussion, or complications due to— you get a visit from Chewbacca, who humbly apologizes for knocking you so hard. In fact, he’s a pretty nice guy. Besides him, Jess comes to see you, make sure you’re alright; Finn, Rey, and even grumpy old Ben visits you.

But not Poe.

“He was here with you while you were out of it,” Rey tells you when you dare to ask, “He was out of his mind with worry— still is. But because you’re out...” she sighs, regrettably, “He had to go back to the club. Sort things out before he risks losing the fame he’s built up.”

Ah. Because of you, in a sense. If you’d just listened to him, he wouldn’t be in this position. No wonder Poe doesn’t want to be with you. You’re nothing but trouble.

So you text him with a simple, I’m sorry, Poe.

But he doesn’t respond. The idiot still has his read receipts on, so you know he got it. Fine, he can be that way for all you care. Which you do, very much, but you have to try not to.

You hear nothing from Poe while in the hospital, not your first couple days home. It’s almost been a week until you hear from him again. You’re sitting on your shared couch, while Jess sits in the nearby chair eating popcorn— you’re not sure what you guys are watching, you’re too concerned with Poe. Which you shouldn’t be. But you are.

Bloop. Your phone goes off. Somebody texted you. You’d be lying if you said your heart wasn’t pounding with the hope that it’s Poe, and then if you said it didn’t soar with a combination of relief and anxiety when you see his name on the bar of the text.

Get to the club. Now.

A vague and mildly-exciting order. But despite your earlier disobedience costing him two grand, reputation, and quite nearly his club, you feel the need to text back— albeit immediately— with:

You don’t text me for a week and now you want me at the club? Why?

There’s brief hesitation. Then you see bubbles, and with a zoom sound effect, Poe responds with a firm, simple answer.

I said NOW.

Fine. Be an asshole then, don’t tell me, you think as you slam your phone down. You briefly, briefly, consider not going. But his adamancy has you concerned. He doesn’t text you for a week and then is telling you to get to the club ASAP? The why is so powerful you barely question the when.

So you tell Jess you’re going out, and toss on a pair of sweats and a hoodie. When you get to the club, you’re surprised to only see Poe’s pitch black corvette sitting out front. Nobody else is here, and the club is, to outsiders, closed.

“What the fuck, Poe?” You mutter to yourself in your car, extremely confused. You force yourself not to run to the building. You need to act nonchalant about this. Like maybe you’re not as worried as you really are.

You have to knock, because for some reason, the doors are locked. When he doesn’t answer the first time, you try to knock a little more carefully, trying not to seem like you’re ready to kick the door down yourself and call 911.

But he answers. He’s wearing that spotless, gunmetal gray blazer with the sleeves rolled up, the white shirt that has a cover over the buttons, and a pair of black jeans with those stupid untied combat boots. That fire you seen in his eyes last you set eyes on him is blazing in his coffee irises. His curls are disheveled, and his jaw clenches at the sight of you. Suddenly you’re aware that the last thing he said to you before he texted was that he’d fuck you so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk.

“You came,” He comments dryly.

“You told me to,” You state the obvious.

Poe scoffs, eyes casting around the parking lot in disbelief. “Since when have you decided to do what I say?”

“Look--” You sigh, heavily, because despite you leaving in a few days, you don’t want to part from him on bad terms. You want to see him smile one more time before you go, keep it emblazoned in your memory. “Can we talk inside? Or you wanna do this out in the cold, rainy night for aesthetic?”

With a snort of amusement, Poe backs up, allowing you to slide past him into the small foyer. Behind you, he all but slams the door before he locks it-- the action makes you shudder, because now you’re thinking thoughts you shouldn’t be thinking. It doesn’t help that he’s fucking smirking, like the asshole somehow knows about the twist he just caused in your stomach.

You try to push away the flood of unwanted emotions that will just complicate things. You never understood the whole yearning thing, until you met Poe, and now, you get it. You wish he’d ask you out, and even now you’d probably scream yes as if he just asked you to marry him, putting off moving indefinitely. You’re sure-- more than positive-- that he knows what he’s doing to you. A combination of wanting to be able to call yourself his girl, and, right now, a whole lot of sexual frustration. Slamming and locking a door shouldn’t turn you on, but it did, and now you have to get rid of that little emotion, too.

You’re by the ring before either of you say anything. “What do you want, Poe?” You turn to face him with your arms crossed, but your whole nonchalant persona crumbles to bit when you see his face.

Poe’s irises are blown black, and he’s watching you like a wolf ready to devour its prey. His jaw is clenched and his hands are on his hips, and he looks like its taking every ounce of his being to hold back from doing whatever it is he wants to do to you. His neck is visibly straining with effort, although aside from being flushed, his face shows no other emotion but irritation.

At this point, you’d gladly let him do whatever he wants.

You think him locking the door turned you on? That’s nothing compared to what you’re feeling now. There’s a rush of warmth between your legs, and you shift slightly, trying to fight the ache in your core-- and you really really hope he can’t tell.

“What do I want?” Poe echoes softly. He doesn’t move his hands from his hips as he steps toward you, and he doesn’t have to. For every step he takes, you back up, until you’re up against the ring’s raised floor. You act as if he has an arm on either side of you, but you’re not threatened. He gets up so that he’s inches from you, just inches, and dear god if he doesn’t close the distance--

“I want you to get on your knees. Crawl. And beg me to fuck you.”

Oh god.

He’s entirely unfazed by the effect his words have on you-- you can’t control it. You let out a sound that’s somewhere close to a moan, but more of a gasp. Physically, you pinch your arm to make sure you’re not dreaming. Nope, it’s fucking real alright. Poe just said that to you, and he’s entirely serious. You want to be angry that that’s all he seems to want from you... but now there’s a wetness between your legs you can’t ignore, and you desperately want him to take care of it.

Hungrily, you think, his eyes flick up-and-down your body, but he doesn’t move. “But we can’t all have what we want.”

Damn him to hell, he’s doing it on purpose. He knows what he does to you, what he’s doing to you. What, is it some kind of punishment? “You can,” You blurt out before you can stop yourself. “You could get anything you wanted.”

“Can I?” He arches a brow, his tone mocking. “Even you?”

All rhyme or reason has left your head. All you can think about is him touching you, and you know if you walk out now and leave you’ll never forget the time you could have been railed by Poe Dameron. Even if he never loves you, you can at least know that for one night... he was all yours.

But your voice fails you. You try to speak but you can’t form the words, so you nod. There’s a flash of emotion across Poe’s face, but it’s gone so quickly you can’t read it. He takes another step closer, nodding for emphasis. “Oh yeah? You gonna be a good girl and do what I say?”

“Y-yes.” You have your back against the wall now, and Poe only comes closer, shaking his head.

“I don’t know about that, sweetheart. Last time I told you to do something, you ignored me. I think, before I do anything, I’m gonna have to teach you how to behave.”

“That’s how we’re gonna play this?” You breathe, trying to speak around your dry mouth.

“Turn around,” He orders, jerking a vague nod to your question while also indicating the rope fence above you. “Grab the ropes.” You do what he says, immediately, desperate for his hands on you--

--but nothing happens. You expect a laugh and a joke about how horny you are for him, and you’re ready to whip around and punch him squarely in the face. But... then you hear something... unexpected. “...Y/N,” Poe says softly, almost a whisper. There’s no trace of his bravado, only warmth. And it’s the first time he’s said your name since he met you. He comes to stand beside you-- the fire is gone. He looks almost anxious, maybe a little hopeful, and definitely softer than he’s been with you. “Color system. Green is we’re good, yellow we need to slow down, red’s a full stop. If you don’t want to do this... tell me now.”

Maybe you’re overthinking things, but you swear he’s just as desperate as you are right now. But not for sex. Maybe for something else. Something more. You let go of the rope so that you can face him, tentatively putting your hands on his chest. He inhales abruptly, closing his eyes for a second. His hands shoot to your waist as if to steady himself and convince himself that you’re really there at once. “Poe...” You want to ask him if he feels the same way you do, but before you can say a word, his lips are on yours.

You’ve hardly started moving your lips against his in response when his tongue swipes across your bottom lip, begging for entrance. Eagerly, you open your mouth to him, and he tilts his head to get a better angle; briefly his tongue fights yours, and he pulls your body flush against him almost possessively as he takes control, licking deep into your mouth. Poe hungrily kisses you, thoroughly exploring you in the most passionate kiss you’ve ever experienced in your life that seems to last only a few moments-- you break away for air far too soon, breathing heavily.

Poe gives a breathless chuckle, lips red and swollen. “I take it you are okay with this, then.” A hand leaves your hip to retrieve something from his pocket, and he lifts a pair of handcuffs and gloves between you. You have no idea what he plans on using them for, but you trust him, especially since the first thing he asks is, “Color?”

“Green,” You pant, and turn to grab the ropes again. Poe reaches up alongside you and carefully cuffs you to the rope, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he moves to stand behind you.

You hear the exaggerated snap of him pulling on the gloves seconds before he pulls your hips back a little, kicking your ankles apart. Internally, you curse yourself for not wearing lacy panties or anything impressive: just a sports bra and a pair of boxer briefs. Not that it matters anyway, because Poe doesn’t even care what you’re wearing: in one swift move, he yanks your pants and briefs down to the floor. You hear him let out an appreciative exhale at the sight of you, and his hands find your hips again. “Eres hermosa, princesa,” He breathes.

“That better have been a compli--” You’re cut short, words trailing to a moan, as he grinds into your soaking core, interrupting any hope for a complete sentence you may have had.

“I’m gonna show you what happens when you don’t listen to me, sweet thing,” He whispers as he rocks into you, not that you can even comprehend what he’s telling you when he’s humping you. “You want me to fuck you? Show me you’re paying attention. Count for me.”

Poe’s hips stop moving as he backs up, but you don’t have time to ask count what? His gloved hand comes down hard on your ass, and the sound echoes in the emptiness of the ring, obscenely loud and mingled with your yelp of alarm. Did he just--

It feels like a hundred bees have decided inexplicably to sting your ass at once. It burns, and your cheeks throb; he does it again at the height of the pain, and you can’t deny that despite the fact that tears are jumping to your eyes and it hurts, his actions are only adding to the wetness between your legs. “I gave you an order,” Poe snaps, punctuating his sentence with another smack. “What did I say?”

Your foggy mind struggles to understand his words, and when you do, it takes you an agonizingly long time to remember what he did tell you. “T... To count,” You choke out.

“Good. Now I’m gonna have to start over.” Oh lord. “You gonna count this time?”

“Y-yes...”

“Yes what?”

At first you’re not sure what he means, but then you realize he wants you to call him something-- he’s an officer, what else are you going to call him? “Sir. Yes sir.”

“Good girl,” He tells you, and you can’t help it; you moan at the praise. He picks up on it immediately, his tone almost teasing as he leans over you from behind. “You like that, huh? Like it when I call you a good girl?” You can only whimper in response; he has a forearm around your waist to steady you, and his touch is like hot fire even when you can’t feel his skin. You want to tear his clothes off and wrestle him to the ground-- maybe it wasn’t a good idea for you to let him cuff you, because if you don’t go insane from his lack of touch, you’ll be missing your guess. “You gonna count for me?”

“Yes sir,” You manage, and Poe chuckles-- at your agony, at how badly you want him, you can’t tell, and you decide you don’t care when he slaps your ass so hard you’re surprised you don’t see stars. Barely, you manage to choke out one. Then two. The hard smack of his hand sheathed in a thin but painful layer of rubber stings twiceover with every slap he delivers, and your knees start to shake with the strain of keeping you standing. You get to six before you falter, missing one.

“Naughty, naughty, babygirl,” Poe says, running his hand down your cheeks to try and soothe them, “I told you to count. Use your words, sweet thing, or I’m gonna have to start over again.”

“F-five,” You wheeze, not intending to go through twice what he’s intending for you.

“...It’s six,” Poe corrects softly. “You learn your lesson yet, or you think you need more? You gonna listen to what I say?”

Finally. The respite has your ass so sore and stinging that you can’t imagine sitting for awhile-- he’s making good on his promise to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a week. He massages your cheeks, leaning over you from behind. “...You okay?”

The cuffs are all that’s keeping you standing at this point, your legs are shaking so badly. Tears streak down your cheeks. Poe shifts from leaving his hands on you to helping hold you up. “Too far?” You manage to shake your head, because even though it stings, you liked it. And you want more from him. Whatever else he had in mind for you.

“Color?”

“Yellow,” You breathe, because you do need a minute to recover. Immediately Poe reaches up, uncuffing you from the ropes; you fall, limp as a ragdoll, but he catches you effortlessly. With one swift movement, he sweeps you up against his chest bridal style and carries you up into the ring. By the time you’re up there, the initial shock has left you-- and you want more. You pat his chest as he goes to set you down. “Poe. Green.”

He smiles, kissing your forehead. “Cuffs still good for you?”

“Yeah.”

Poe steadies you as he sets you on your feet, waiting to see if you can stand on your own. Once he’s sure you can, he hooks his fingers under the hem of your hoodie, pulling it up over your head along with your bra. Carelessly, he tosses them to the side without taking his eyes off your naked form. “...You’re beautiful, cariño.” He backs you up against the ropes, which hold your weight just as well as the wall for now. “Why did we wait...?” He breathes, and at first you barely catch what he said because you’re too focused on him cuffing your arms over a rope and behind your back, supporting your form even if your legs were to give out. He doesn’t give you time to answer, though, because his mouth is on yours, kissing you breathless. His hands trail up your body, coming to squeeze your breasts-- he hasn’t taken the gloves off.

He smiles into the kiss as you arch against him with a groan. Pulling away from your lips, he leaves a hot trail of wet kisses down your neck, biting and sucking and licking until your knees give. A hand leaves your breast to hold you up, wrapping around your back until you’re prone like one of those ridiculous movie posters from the sixties in a vampire’s arms. As if sensing your thoughts, he bites down on your collarbone hard, actually growling when you cry out. He soothes the mark with gentle licks, trailing lower, and lower.

Seemingly of its own accord, your head throws back when he takes your nipple into his hot mouth, sucking hard enough to hurt, until you’re sure he must have a hold of your whole breast and is going to rip it clean off your body. The other he squeezes hard, pinching and twisting and you’re sure he’s going to make you orgasm just from this alone. The pressure builds in your lower abdomen, and builds, and you’re on the cusp of cumming right there--

--and then he stops. He pulls back with a pop, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve and licking his lips. “I don’t think so, baby. Not yet, not until I tell you. Understand?” Your hips buck and you whimper, desperate for that release, but he only holds your hips still as he catches his breath against your chest. It’s gone too soon, and only when you’ll need to be built up again does Poe do anything: he licks a thick stripe up your abused breast, pausing only to lap at the sore nipple before continuing up to your neck. “Good girl,” He whispers in your ear, low and husky.

Poe takes a step back, putting a hand on his hip and bringing the other up to your mouth. “Open up.” He slips his fingers in and you do what he wants: you start sucking, gauging his reaction as you swirl your tongue around his digits. You must be doing something right, because his lust-blown eyes are trained on you as he nods in confirmation, biting his lip. “That’s it. Get ‘em real wet, babygirl.” He has you suck until you’re drooling down your chin, and then he starts to pull his fingers out; you catch the glove with your teeth, trying to pull it off. Poe freezes, pursing his lips. “You really wanna try that, cosa dulce? I need to punish you again?” Reluctantly, you release the glove. “That’s what I thought.”

His fingers trail down your neck, down between your breasts and abdomen. Your hips buck as he gets closer to where you want him, and he shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “I don’t think so, chica bonita. You want me to take care of you? Let’s see if you can stop moving.”

You grin, growing bold. “Let’s see you get off as well as you will with me if I shout red.” Pointedly, you glance down to the obvious tent in his pants, and he frowns. “Stop teasing me, Poe. Take the gloves off.”

He starts nodding, eyebrows arching cockily. His eyes gleam with an idea, one you’re certain both takes care of the problem but also avoids it for as long as possible. “You want me to take the gloves off?” He gives you a smug smirk. “Alright then; I’ll take the gloves off.” Poe steadies you by your hips and slots his thigh between your legs, pressing it up toward your core. You can’t help yourself: you whine, rocking your hips against his leg desperately. His hands now free, he starts taking off his gloves, painfully slowly, gently tugging at the fingertips. “You wanna cum before I can touch you, sweetheart? You’re gonna do it right here.”

Oh hell.

He knows you’d much rather have his fingers buried deep inside you rather than humping his thigh, knows you’re gonna have to try and resist the urge to rock your hips even though every fiber of your body is telling you to move, to get that friction at any cost. But you don’t. You grind once, twice, then groan in frustration through your teeth and force yourself to sit still. The bastard knows you’re not gonna call red, not when you need him so badly. Not when you so desperately want him to fuck you into oblivion. It takes every ounce of willpower you have, and then some, as he watches you struggle with a smug-ass grin. He starts pushing his thigh up into you, moving back-and-forth and flexing his quads as he tries to prompt you to move, creating just enough friction to be agonizingly out of reach. You wonder what kind of sex-school he went to in order to learn this, vaguely in your puddle of a brain.

You’re a whining, panting mess by the time he gets the first glove off, and now you’re regretting making him take them off. Poe removes his thigh from between your legs, and you whimper at the loss of pressure. “You want me to touch you? I told you earlier to beg. Maybe if you be good and do what I told you, I’ll go a little faster.”

You have, in this moment, zero willpower to resist anymore. You need him. “P-please Poe, please--”

“Please what?” It’s the taunting I can’t hear you, and you growl in frustration. The bastard actually chuckles.

“Sir, please sir--”

He tears the glove off and slips his hand between your legs-- you let out the most obscene moan possibly ever uttered on the face of the planet when he swipes his fingers up through your folds, teasing your clit with his thumb. “Soaking already, babygirl? How long you wanted this from me, huh?” You can’t speak, unleashing some kind of whimpering squeal that makes him smirk. “Speak up, sweetheart.”

“L...Long... T-time...” Your stuttering sentence trails off as he slides two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that perfect sweet spot-- how he found it so quickly is beyond you, literally, because you don’t care. All you care about at the moment is reaching that ecstasy just out of reach, rocking against his hand as he fingers you to the brink of shattering oblivion before pulling back, easing his ministrations so that you can’t reach your release. He gets you so close and then takes it away, repeatedly, so many times you’re beginning to wonder if you’ll even be able to reach an orgasm after this.

Poe pulls back, and you’re breathing and whining like you just ran a three-day marathon without breaks. The ache in your core is almost painful, throbbing and pulling at you from deep inside, needing to release itself, and you’re sure if he doesn’t let you cum, you’ll actually explode from the pressure. You buck your hips toward him as you let out a whimper, seeing him lick his fingers clean of your juices. When he’s done torturing you with that image, his hands find your hips. “Color?”

“Poe-- the color is green, if you ask me one more fucking time and don’t actually do something, I swear--”

Poe smirks to himself, and in one swift move has shrugged his blazer off. He rolls up his sleeves, and your heart stutters as he jerks his chin at you. “Greedy girl. My fingers not good enough for you?” Before you can so much as blink, he’s on his knees, hooking your right leg over his shoulder and shooting you a cocky grin. “Good thing you taste so good, hermosa.”

That’s all the warning you get before he’s diving into your heat, dragging his tongue up your sex. You yelp, trying to rock against him, but even though you’re half-standing, he somehow has you pinned. You can’t move more than an inch in any direction, left only to be a moaning mess as he laps at you relentlessly, messily, his stubble chafing your inner thighs and scratching at your folds in a sinfully blissful way. His nose brushes against your clit, giving you that extra bit of friction as he dips his tongue inside you, licking at your walls.

Never in your life have you yowled like a cat in heat, crying out probably loudly enough for the people on the street to hear you as he pleasures you. “Come on, baby,” He groans into you, “Let go, I’ve got you.” You actually scream when you cum, and it trails off into a moan as he eagerly eats you out like he’s a man with his last meal, savoring the sweet taste of you on his tongue, circling your entrance and lapping at your heat, easing you through the shuddering waves of your powerful high.

“You good?” He whispers as he pulled away, licking his lips. You wish you could feel embarrassed about the way your release glistens all over his face, but... it’s kinda hot...

You nod breathlessly, and he immediately stands up, reaching behind you to undo the handcuffs. “You’re such a good girl for me, sweetheart.” He eases you to the floor, getting you on your hands and knees. You know what’s coming next, so you obey, biting your lip when you hear him undoing his belt. “Beg me to stuff your pussy, pretty baby.”

“Please, please--”

Apparently that’s all he needed. He gets down on his knees behind you and spreads your legs apart, and you hear a smile in his voice when he says, “Mírate, cosita bonita. ¿Todo para mí?”

“Huh?” You choke out.

“You’re gorgeous, you sweet girl,” Poe replies, but you’re not entirely sure he answered your question. You don’t have time to think, though, because Poe is sliding his length into you, taking it slow so you can grow used to his sheer size-- he didn’t give you warning, didn’t give you a chance to see him so that you’re prepared-- even only his tip seems too much for you. You don’t have to tell him yellow, he knows to slow down for you, taking a moment of pause for you. He reaches up to tuck strands of your sweaty hair behind your ear, silently asking if you’re alright; he only continues when you nod, giving him unspoken permission. You cry out as he keeps going, stretching you well past your limit, doubling over you, grinding his forehead into your spine and eliciting a feral growl. “Oh, baby,” He moans into your back. His hands are gripping your hips tightly enough to leave bruises. “You’re so fucking tight...”

Your whole body feels hyper-aware of every minute touch to your skin. His calloused fingers sliding up and down your sides as he freezes once he’s up to the hilt, giving you another pause. His ragged heavy breath on your spine, and his necklace hanging low enough to rest on your back. The cool metal makes you shiver against him, especially as he wraps an arm around your middle, his other steadying himself on the floor of the ring. Most of your focus, though, is between your legs, where he’s stretched you farther than anyone ever has before, reaching much deeper than you thought was possible. “You good, babygirl?” He breathes, “Should I stop?”

“Um, no,” You whisper in a strained hiss, making him chuckle against your skin. “Did you just plan on staying like this, or are you gonna move?” He kisses your shoulder and pulls back a few inches before thrusting back in, slowly at first, until you urge him to go faster, harder, giving him permission to let himself go into that wild frenzy you see in his eyes. He’s pounding into you fast enough and hard enough to take your breath away. When you reach your climax your vision goes white, your ears ringing with both your screams and his. But he’s still hard and you’re still wanting, so neither of you can stop there; he pulls you up so that you’re flush against his chest, holding you by your neck and jaw with one hand, his arm a barrier across your chest as he holds your shoulder.

You keep going. He whispers sweet praises alongside dirty promises of filling you up again, and again, and again, until you’re so full of him that you’ll never be able to move again without feeling him inside you. His passionate, gentle kisses are stark contrasts to how violently he ruts into you, and if you didn’t know any better, desperately.

There comes a point where you can’t take it anymore. Where no matter how much you love this, how he’s fucking you so intensely you’re seeing stars and can’t breathe, you feel like if he keeps going you’re going to crack in half. He makes a fist in your hair and pulls your head back to deliver sloppy, passionate kisses to your mouth, still thrusting into you, albeit more gently. “Poe...”

“I know, baby, I know,” He breathes, and he’s flipping you over to lay you down on your back. “One more, sweet thing. Can you give me one more?”

You nod, breathless. Because you have to. You don’t want this to end, because you’re terrified of what will come after. Will he regret it? Will he do what you fear most, and only view you as a one-time fling? You can only hope not. But it seems you might not have to worry after all.

Poe guides your legs to wrap around his wide hips. His hands find yours and he entwines your fingers together. As he thrusts slow enough to keep from hurting you (but still plenty firm enough), his lips are on yours, tongues battling for dominance in a mess of heated breaths and moans. “Y/N, Y/N...” Poe’s breathing your name like a mantra with each rock of his hips into yours. His kisses trail to your neck as his thrusts increase their pace, losing their rhythm. “Cum with me, you perfect girl,” He whispers in your ear, and that does it for you-- with a soft, strained cry, your walls clench around him as he spills himself inside you, leaving you both breathless and boneless when the waves of your shared ecstasy fade.

You both collapse right where you are, dazed and covered in a sheen of sweat that’s chilling you to your core in the cool air of the ring. You’re shivering like a withered leaf, and Poe immediately takes action. He pulls out of you, pressing a kiss to your cheek when you whine from the sudden emptiness-- and, if you’re honest, your pitiful sound was partly inspired by how absentminded he is all of a sudden. He leaves the ring completely, and you’re left laying naked in the ring, unable to move and freezing; Poe doesn’t leave you wondering. He returns-- having clearly washed up-- with your clothes and a couple of rags. Gentle as ever, he cleans you up, careful of your sensitive flesh, and even helps you dress. He drapes he blazer over your shoulder and does one button so that it stays on you. He carries you out of the ring and into his much warmer office, where he keeps you in his lap when he sits in his leather chair. You curl up against him, nestling your head up under his chin.

“...Don’t go,” He whispers softly. Confused, you lift your head to be able to look at him. He closes his eyes, pressing a series of gentle kisses to your temple. “I’ll give you fight nights on Saturday, too. The whole damn week if you want. Just... don’t move away. Please.”

You drop your forehead onto his collarbone, sighing through your nose. “That... wasn’t why I was moving, Poe.”

“Ok, was is the keyword here,” He mumbles, and you can hear faint amusement in his voice. “I’m taking note of that. Just letting you know.” When you start stifling laughter, Poe chuckles and shifts so that he’s hugging you against him, resting his chin on your head. “Go on.”

“I was moving because of you.”

“Ouch.”

“Not like that.” Absentmindedly, you trace the wrinkles of his shirt. The words still don’t come very easily, but considering what’s just happened between the two of you, it’s fairly easier. “I... Really, really like you, Poe. I have for awhile. But you’ve never seemed interested, and you’re you, so if you were I knew you’d ask, and it was painful to be so near to you, so I figured moving away would be better, but it was painful and I didn’t want to and now with what happened with Chewbacca I was sure you hated me—“

Your jumbled slew of chopped sentences and slurred words that don’t even begin to scratch the surface of your emotions is put to a stop when Poe slowly reaches up to playfully cover your mouth. His deep chuckles reverberate through your head as he says, “Ok, I’m gonna respond to you in the order of which you said it.” His hand moves from your mouth to cradle your head. “First of all: if you weren’t able to tell, I like you too, but... it’s a bit stronger than that.” Your heart jumps. “I’ve never been able to say anything because you’re different— I didn’t want a fling or a casual hook-up. That’s easy. What’s really difficult is letting someone you really care for know it. I know we’ve known each other for years now, but I wanted to ask you out, to date you— though now I guess we’ve skipped most of those bases.”

You snort with amusement, making him smile as he buries his face in your hair. “...Then you said you were moving away. I figured if you were going that far without a problem, you didn’t want anything to do with me. Figured I’d blown all my chances. So I... I decided I better make a move. This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but... I’m hoping it worked.”

“...What about what I did? I—“

“We’re good, sweetheart. Chewbacca’s signed on with us, so now we’ve got two of the best fighters in our ring.” He kisses your temple. “...I didn’t want you going in there because I didn’t want you getting hurt.”

“I know that now,” You say, tilting your head so that you’re eye-to-eye. “I’m sorry I made you worry.”

“Worry? I was fucking terrified,” He corrects, though it’s lighthearted. He nudges your nose with his. “So... you’re not moving anymore, right?”

How could you? You had no reason to anymore. Poe wanted to be with you, and that’s all you’d wanted. Just a chance. “Nope,” You reply with a smile. “Though now I’ve gotta unpack all my stuff, cancel that new lease, tell the club I’d signed up to... It might be easier just to move anyway.” You’re teasing, of course, and he knows it. He shakes his head with amusement.

“I’ll take care of it. I’ll even help you unpack, but I’ve got a suggestion. It might be stupid, but I’ve gotta ask.” When you nod, he pulls a little back from you so that he can give you his serious talking-business face. “What if— again, this might be stupid— now we’ve known each other for three years, right? We practically live together anyway. How many times have we stayed over at each other’s places for a day or two just for the hell of it? I’m just saying: I mean, we’d be pretty good roommates.” Slowly, a smile creeps across your face as he continues. “The food’s good. Can’t complain about room service. There’s a one-animal petting zoo. The sex is amazing— you’ll be bunking with the greatest fighter pilot in the galaxy, after all. At-home dates. Plenty of room, too.”

You wrap your arms around his neck. “Poe?”

“Hm?”

“You don’t need to advertise. You could just ask.”

He swallows hard, almost nervous. “...Ok then. How about you move in with me?”

You pretend to think about it, then give him a peck on the cheek. “Sounds great.”

Poe’s face lights up in a beaming grin. “Really?”

“Yeah.” You embrace him tightly, which he eagerly returns. “...How about we start tonight? Wanna go cuddle on your ridiculously soft bed?”

“Ah-ah,” He laughs, standing with you in his arms. “Our ridiculously soft bed.”

“Ours,” You agree. It wasn’t exactly how you’d pictured it— not a heart-wrenching declaration of love that involved flowers, maybe some rain... but it was probably better, honestly. It was finally happening between the two of you, and you couldn’t fathom anything else having lead to it now.

It was completely, fully, a very Poe way of doing things; and you couldn’t be happier.

Even if he had made good on his promise to make sure you couldn’t walk.

______________________________________________________________

Thanks for reading!

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[greypetrel]

Because I'm GREEDY! (nah lol feel free to take one that sounds fun and disregard the rest :D)

Sera Solas, 8 and/or 10

Dorian Bull, 17 and/or 27 and/or 30

Cullen Leliana Josephine, 24 and/or 30

Cullen Inky, 3  XD

Krem Bull, 13 and/or 27 (probs the first time it happens for either)

Solas Inky, 4 and/or 9

Varric Cassandra, 1 and/or 16

Alistair Zevran, 12 and/or 22

Hello, absolutely anonymous noony!

These are a lot!

But thank you, they’re all look fun and came into a moment that’s… nasty, you kept me company!

Trying for real to keep them short, and uniting prompts, let’s see how I go. I'll post them two in a row not to overcrowd it, but they're all such nice prompts!

Here featuring, under the cut:

Tangents: Solas and Sera begrudgingly finding some common ground

When: Dorian and Iron Bull on the verge of talking things through but not quite yet.

Tis the prompt list! (It's open still, I'll just won't reply right away)

Second Batch

Tangents Sera&Solas

[8.  Adopting a phrase the other uses (subconsciously mimicking words or speech patterns) | 10.  Adopting a mannerism the other has (gesturing, performing a task in a certain way) ]

Time has passed for everyone, and willing or not, all the members of the Inner Circle of the Inquisitor had to learn to get along. Or at least, cooperate at the best of their abilities. Because said Inquisitor was a mediator in the worst possible sense.

Meaning that she chose her parties according to the mission, as she should, and expected from her parties to act like a Dalish clan, surely had that imprinting to lead. Not ordering around, but giving task and expecting everybody to complete their tasks and cooperate together. Which proved difficult, at least when it concerned Solas and Sera in the same environment.

Solas tho, wasn’t one to complain. Or at least, he couldn’t complain in this particular situation, couldn’t let on how Sera was even a bigger puzzle to him that he let on. Not that the archer ever liked his attention or his questions: on the contrary, she was particularly difficult with him. Making pranks that he honestly didn’t know if it were good-humoured or no, and was afraid to ask. His bed roll full of lizard was enough as it was, without eliciting more by reacting in any way. He just sighed and went with her, trying to communicate and feeling like he was just hitting a wall made of jelly.

And then they were: in the middle of the Emerald Graves, with a flock (herd? Pack? He’d have said earthquake) of Giants that someone thought were a good idea to try and cage. Which, of course wasn’t. At least they stomped and tried to hit Red Templars as well, making them and the Inquisitor’s party very unlikely allies. But Aisling Lavellan, after all, was a magnet for unlikely alliances and friendship, and by now Solas wasn’t surprised anymore.

More like he had no time to get surprised, as Sera yelled “Druffalo!” from the branch she was perched on, and he felt the earth trembling more, and a distinct verse of very angry animal from behind him.

It was instinct more than not that brought that word on his lips. He had spent way more time in their company, that won’t do. Not if he wanted to go on with the plan. And he wanted. Still, as he finished to launch an ice mine quickly and jumped on the side to duck, clumsily, the charge of the druffalo, instead of any other Elven curse, what left from his lips was-

“Piss!”

He rolled on the grass in a stupor, realising exactly what he had said and whom that interjection originally belonged to.

A certain someone that had stopped launching arrows and was too dumbstruck in looking at him with big eyes and mouth open.

They exchanged a look, without saying nothing, both of them trying to come to term with what had happened. Sera, for once in her life, was blissfully at a loss for words.

“SERA!” Came the Iron Bull, distracting the archer from her stasis, and cursing heavily as he tried to engage both the giant and the druffalo, retreating.

“Piss- Oh shit. COMING!” She said, getting back to work and launching arrows with renewed energy.

They didn’t speak to it anymore.

---

Sera liked to draw. Or like, doodle. It wasn’t a mistery. And as much as she couldn’t like Solas, for his too many question, his prodding questions and too many questions and fixation with the elves and empires and whatever dragging on her nerves like few other people in the Inquisition could. Aisling could be annoying when she put her mind to it and started talking Tevene with Dorian as they discussed Andraste knew what, probably how to make the pavement under her feet melt. But she always apologised and said she was sorry, and she did her best to listen to her. Which Solas never did. What Aisling found so interesting and agreeable in him, Sera didn’t know. And she liked Quizzy.

What she could appreciate about Solas was the way he painted and drew. She relied on pencils and lines, and to see him just… Paint over his lines, draw figures with just colours and light and patterns, stylized but still recogniseable, was something she had to say she admired, going to the rotunda when there was no one to see her to just look at the frescoes. After all even a broken clock is right twice a day.

Not that she would ever admit it it to anyone, she knew how quick rumours were in Skyhold -when Quizzy and Cullen finally kissed on the battlements, the news spread in maybe a couple of hours. If she told someone, Solas would have known, and Sera would have never seen the end of it. It wasn’t a risk she was going to take, no thank you.

So, now that she was alone around the fire with a pencil and a blank notebook, she decided to take advantage of being on her own. Not that she was thinking about Solas, but he had yelled “Piss!” like she does today, and it was weird in a way she wouldn’t have known how to categorise. Maybe Quizzy was right. Partially. Maybe not.

Sure it made her think that maybe, just maybe, he listened to her, once in a while. Enough to say the same things she did. And if that was it, maybe…

She started drawing, huffing noisily through her nose and bending over the paper, putting maybe too much pressure on her trait. But, she tried her best to do something different, for once. She could remember them pretty well, it just would have taken a pencil with a thicker, softer graphite than the one she had. But, she made do, filling a very basic, light shape, with scratchy lines, filling the whole silhouette with colour and leaving a space for the eye. She shaded the background a little with the side of the point, trying to be smudgy as she could. No harsh lines, no harsh lines… And then what? Ah, yes. A lighter triangular shape, so she darkened the exterior. And… there was some pattern, but she didn’t remember well. So, she mimicked the one of her trousers, thick crossing lines and thinner ones in between, mimicking plaid. She had to pass some more on the central figure then, grumbling because she smudge it and the contrast was a little off.

But, she did it. She bent out, munching on the back of the pencil and staring at the paper, pondering. The wolf in the centre had a similar shape, but there were still too many lines.

“You are using the wrong tool”

Came a voice from behind her, making her yeep and jump, instantly closing her notebook. She turned, glaring at whomever it was and… And of course, it was Solas. Sera glared more.

“I use the whatever tool, it ain’t your business.”

“I am sorry if I pried. I just meant to say that you need to use thicker, covering paints. And start from the background, going up.”

“I ain’t using colours, what’s wrong with pencils? Too poor for you?”

He rose an eyebrow, Sera could see him getting irritated. But, maybe he saw something in the way she glared right back, maybe it was how she was clutching her notebook to her chest, protectively, or her shoulders slouching. He considered and just sighed, showing her both of his palms in a placating gesture.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. But if you want to try something different, you can ask. Or come and look, if you don’t throw me pies.” He conceded, always with that same, irritating tone full of knowledge and supposition. But, the words were milder, he seemed to be looking for them and weighing them down. “You have a good hand.”

He conceded. She grunted in affirmation, mumbling a thank you. He nodded, and they parted ways, both entering their tends.

None of them spoke of it again, in the next days, of those couple of contacts they did, unwillingly or not. Back to Skyhold, one day and totally at random, Sera opened her door just to find a set of glass jars full of already made colours -red, yellow, blue, white and black-, a couple of brushes -one big and one small, the points square- and a small paper with instructions. Drawn and pictures, not a word or explanation, which Sera appreciated. None other word was made about any of it.

Sera’s notebook gained some colour.

When. Dorian/Bull

[ 17, Soft kisses to forehead/cheek/nose | 27. Calling them by a different/special name (an endearment, first name when they go by last, name when they go by a title, etc.) | 30. Working around the other’s quirks (checking that there are multiple exits in a room because they will ask, watching their left because they always look right, etc.) ]

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

A booming voice called from behind him, waking Dorian from a quite pleasant dream. Not that he remembered much of it, but it has been pleasant. An eye quirked open, noticing that it was still dark outside. He didn’t want to wake, it was still too early for it, and he was still sleepy. So, he groaned and curled up more, drowning his face in the pillow and hugging it tight. The same voice chuckled, shaking his shoulder.

“I know, I know, you hate waking up so early. But it was you wanting to keep this private, wasn’t it?”

Oh he hated when he was reasonable. Absolutely, utterly hate it. He groaned louder, voice muffled by the pillow, in all reply. If he had to raise up at that Maker forsaken hour and get back to his room -too far away, too many stairs, bed cold- he had at least the right to complain about it.

“Come on, Kadan.”

Dorian sighed, defeated. It was true that it was him to insist on keeping… Whatever this was as private as they could muster in that rumour machine that’s Skyhold. He was not ready to have his private life out in the open for everyone to chew on again. Not after they had done the same about his friendship with Aisling, he had enough rumours and people whispering about his sex life for still another year. And yet, it was becoming more and more difficult, as he… Begrudgingly eased up in whatever this was. It wasn't the ropes and toys, or being ordered around and knowing he had still full control, but one word away from stopping everything. Or well, that was very pleasant too, since he never had such level of control on… Many things, excluding magic and maths. It was that he was really bone-tired of pretending and keeping his guard up. Whatever-this-was had been going on for a while. Much more than he had ever lasted with anyone, even casually. And there was apparently still a part of him that hoped and longed for this to mean something, fed by the overly-sappy Qunari and how he apparently now went to pet names.

But, again, he wasn't ready for rumours. Not yet. Not before at least telling Aisling, he didn’t want her to know via anyone else. So, he sighed deeply, swallowed everything deep, deep down and rolled on his side, rubbing his eyes.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Bull greeted him, patting his shoulder.

“All right. Thank you for waking me up.”

“Of course. You know you could stay, right?”

Oh, that was it. It wasn’t the first time Bull asked him the same question, reminded that it was him making the calls and which calls there were to make. It made his heart flutter with stupid hopes he shouldn’t be cultivating. And filled him with dread and the precise wish to just run away before getting hurt again.

“I know.” He replied, clearing his throat as he pushed up, combing his hair back with his finger. “All right, let me get my-”

“-Clothes. Here you go.”

And just like that, Bull provided him with a neat pile of his clothes. Neatly folded on themselves. He didn’t fold them himself, and he remember he had complained, another early morning like that, that they had gotten all wrinkled because someone didn’t give him time enough to fold them properly when he had taken them off. And there they were, folded tidily, handed to him without a snarky remark or a complaint. He swallowed, looking at them and hesitating. But, Bull quirked an eyebrow up, smirking at him with a knowing look that got him back on the defensive. Oh no, no no no. He wasn’t having that conversation or telling him he appreciated. Who would have heard the end of it, then? He thanked him, grabbed his clothes and walked to the screen to change back, ignoring the Qunari chuckling.

This was casual. This was casual. Very casual. It meant nothing at all, and his heart could stop beating so loud, thank you very much.

Presentable as it could be with yesterday’s clothes on and hair in disarray, he walked out, stopping at the door to say goodbye. Bull was already waiting for him at the door, leaning over the wall beside it casually, arms crossed and an ankle too over the other.

“Well. See you later on, I guess.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you, it’s been… Well, it’s been.” He grumbled, shaking his head and furrowing. No, he wouldn’t admit anything sappy. He just turned the key and opened the door.

“Yes, it’s been. See you later, Kadan.” Bull chuckled, letting him go.

Except.

Except, Dorian stopped on the threshold, his hand still on the knob. It was almost dawning, and if he was lucky, he would have been able to sleep another couple of hours. But… But, it had been easy. Too easy, between them, every answer coming with a yes and an of course, both of them falling surprisingly easier in the routine of late night meetings. It had been weeks by now, and he…

And it was the second time he called him by that name. Something special, he hadn’t heard him call anyone like that. And he had to admit, even just with himself, that he had paid too much attention to the Iron Bull, lately. Not even Krem was called “Kadan”. He wished he studied Qunlat and not Orlesian. Maybe he could ask. Yes, that wasn’t anything too personal, was it? Just a small, quick translation. He swallowed, stepping minutely back and bringing the door back for some. Not enough to close it.

“What does it mean?”

“Mh?”

“That word. Kadan.”

Bull didn’t answer. Not right away. Dorian wasn’t looking, and with the silence, he turned his head towards the other, curious. Just to find him looking at him, furrowing. He furrowed back, a silent question on his face, not understanding.

“Is it a slur for “Stupid Vint”?” He asked.

“No. Not at all.”

“So? Is it untranslatable?”

“Tell you what.” Bull chuckled, a hand running to Dorian’s neck to bring him in and placing a kiss on his forehead.

Dorian wasn’t blushing, he refused to blush. He felt hot on his face just because a cold gush of wind flew in from the still opened door.

“I’ll tell you when you’ll spend the night.”

And with that, without allowing him to ask the next series of necessary question, the Qunari opened the door and pushed him out gently.

“Now go, wouldn’t want to have to explain things that can’t be solved by a math formula.”

It really wasn’t the time to explain much of anything, indeed. But, at least, all that exchange said that there would be a next time. It wasn’t an if, it was a “When”. It made Dorian feel things he didn’t want to feel. Because in his experience, feeling things was just like casting a fire spell too powerful and in the wrong direction: the results is that you get burnt.

Except, it was a “when”. Not an “if”.

Being trusted was not something he was used to. Not like that.

It felt nice, and maybe it really was a “When”.

Maybe soon.

[honeybleed]

content & warnings: fem!reader, set in medieval europe but the dialogue might be modern (sorry), bandit!toji, nobles!sukuna&geto, (sukuna is your father/geto is your husband) dark themes (emotional and familial abuse, extreme violence, blood, gore, mental ableism, classism, misogyny, kidnapping, suicide, major character deaths) smut, angst and tragic ending

author’s note: my entry to @kentopedia’s love through the ages event! the artwork for this cover is a painting called ‘Annunciation’ by Jan van Eyck // mdni banner credit to @/cafekitsune. this is a toji fic but the reader and him don’t really have a romance in this which is kinda funny but hey!

word count: 4.5k

You were surrounded by rotten people. You knew that all too well.

Gaining some self-awareness around the tender age of six when you watched your father — the esteemed noble Ryomen Sukuna send a teenage mother to her death for stealing crops for her two starving children.

His estate was a den of vipers, to say the least.

Father was merely a term. Yes, he was the one who bred your mother to give birth to you but your mother was trial and error in his quest to birth a male heir.

He was barely around which was for the better. He couldn’t even remember your name out of the countless children he had scattered across the land.

Yet — even with his absence, everybody within that cesspool of deceit and malice worshipped the ground he walked on. He hated you. So they despised you.

Despite his general dislike towards you, he viewed you as leverage. As a beautiful young woman from high nobility, you did have some sort of use.

He had been eyeing land from the Geto family for a long time and had butt heads with the head of the clan.

So you were shifted off by your father to marry their eldest son — Geto Suguru. It was a bit of a leap to go from not even having a taste of romantic relationships to suddenly having a lavish wedding ceremony.

You hadn’t even spoken to the man until you left in the carriage away from the church that was meant to bring you to your new home.

Some of the elder women in your family in the days upcoming to your wedding reminded you that husbands expected consummation of marriage on the first night.

Nervous was an understatement. Suguru was a handsome man.

Inky black tresses that fell past his back, smile though mischievous like a cunning fox still radiated warmth in the otherwise arctic banquet hall, full of hateful glares.

You were thankful as shallow as it sounded to be betrothed to somebody in your age group, he was soft-spoken with a voice reminiscent of honey with how sweet and soothing it was, and for the most part, he was considerate.

“…So, here we are,” Suguru said with a half smile as you sat on the edge of the four-posted emperor bed. “Married life.”

The bed was draped in sumptuous silks and velvets of crimson and scarlet hues. Soft pillows and cushions, plump as it was stuffed with the finest feathers.

You gave him a nod instead. His eyes flickered to your hands anxiously wringing.

“Is something wrong?” He questioned, voice laced with concern.

You cleared your throat. Women were meant to be seen and not heard, that was the general mindset of your family.

“…Are you going to make love to me?” You asked rather meekly, struggling to meet his eyes.

Suguru’s eyes immediately widened, a bewildered look on his face. You barely spoke, and the first thing you talked about was sex?

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to you. But there was a sense of distance between the two of you. He didn’t blame you whatsoever.

But it was disheartening all the same.

He crouched down and took your hands in his. The action made you instantly gasp.

“Would you want that?” He asked tenderly, his hazel eyes boring into your own.

It was never about what you wanted within the Ryomen dynasty. It was always to follow what he wanted.

Yet, here you were given the choice by a man you had just met. Albeit your husband, but the simple question made some of your apprehension melt away.

To make love to your husband in the eyes of the women in your family was a part of your duty as a wife.

“I…don’t exactly know what to do.” You whispered as your eyes fixed on the floor of the bedroom chambers.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You are my wife, and I intend to follow the vows I made to you thoroughly.” Suguru said, firmly.

“To love and to cherish.”

“But what if I want to?”

“So tell me that you want me to touch you. I need to hear it. From your lips.”

Your body was an inferno.

All senses were alight as you felt Suguru’s rigid and taut muscles press against you, panting as the room swirled around with the sinful noises of skin slapping, almost animalistic, low and guttural grunts from Suguru and salacious moans you didn’t even know were within you.

His breath ghosted along your skin which was slick with sweat.

His golden eyes reminiscent of the gold that adorned your neck earlier fixated on your own, piercing them as the pad of his thumb dragged along your soaked slit.

You drew a sharp intake of breath as you felt him part your wet heat, a pang of arousal shooting through you as he began to massage your sensitive nub that was aching from the way his cock dragged against your gummy walls.

Eyes rolling back, it ached at first but with the way his fingers interlaced with yours and his lips pressed against your temple with sweet whispers, it slowly but surely ebbed away, and morphed into pure ecstasy.

“I've got you.”

“I can't get enough of you.”

“Gods above, I love you.” He murmured as his hand was firmly planted on the nape of your neck, groaning and gasping as he lost himself in the sensations that rushed through his body.

From then on, Geto Suguru was your everything.

The façade of the man you were sure was your soulmate shattered before your very eyes.

You'd settled into the Geto estate smoothly. The maids sang your praises despite you assuring them there was no need to.

Suguru did everything in his power to make sure you were comfortable. The man was enraptured with you and it was a completely foreign feeling.

It was hard to adjust from being a black sheep to suddenly being the apple of somebody's eye. At first, you were reserved despite him making love to you like you were estranged lovers reunited after centuries on your wedding day.

But gradually, you came out of your shell. It was no longer a one-sided display of affection. You could kiss him in front of others without feeling shame.

Arms always linked. Hands always held. You were glued to his hip and he relished every moment of it. It was all he wanted.

Suguru was often preoccupied with his family affairs as he was now head of the clan after marrying you.

He made it known that he was deeply remorseful and the last thing he would ever want was to keep you alone. You were his beloved wife.

Nonetheless, you weren't perturbed. You weren't a person who craved companionship 24/7.

He promised to make it up to you. And that he did.

The two of you strolled through as you leant into him. He was so tall and broad, that the sunlight reflected on his features made him all the more handsome.

"Thank you for bringing me here, darling." You said gently as you squeezed him, earning a chuckle.

"No need to thank me, it is the least I could do, my love." He responded as he gazed at you with fondness in his eyes. "I've been meaning to show you around the place properly. I know it is rather large but there's still so much more."

Wordlessly, you rested your head against his shoulder. Suddenly, you felt him tense up as he stared at the labourers toiling in the fields.

Your eyebrows furrowed.

You'd never actually seen Suguru in any state of distress. In the months you'd been married, he was always in a state of bliss and content.

He released you and stormed over towards the grassy lands.

"What on Earth are you doing...?!" He barked out.

At first, you simply pursed your lips into a thin line. Yes, it was unfortunate to see Suguru yelling at the workers but that was the norm.

The rare times you'd saw your father, he did the same to those who tended to the fields.

But it was as if something had taken over Suguru. The workers' faces were drawn with exhaustion and despair but now they were cowering and pleading for mercy.

His words were venomous and cruel.

Your stomach began to churn, your beloved husband was morphing into the poisonous vipers you had once been suffocated within the Sukuna estate.

Instantly, your hands flew to cover your mouth as the blow echoed through the orchard.

Suguru had struck the little boy, no older than ten years old and sprung on him.

Everything was crashing down on you at once as the child's wail of pain pierced through the air.

You were blinded by love to the true nature of the man you had wed. Geto Suguru was no better than the rotten nobles you had been trapped with.

Without a second thought, you threw yourself between Suguru and the boy. Adrenaline pumping through your body, crouched as your hand gripped onto his wrist.

"That's ENOUGH!" You shrieked.

The little boy used you as a shield, clinging onto the skirts of your gown.

"You must understand. This is the way things are done here-"

"NO!" You yelled as you outstretched your arms in a protective stance. "I cannot and WILL NOT condone such cruelty. Not to anyone, especially not to innocent children, do you hear me?!"

Suguru's eyes were stormy as he yanked you up to face him.

"They are beneath us. What does it concern you how I speak to such peasants?" He said coldly. "Better yet, the same peasants I feed and shelter. They should be kissing the ground I walk on."

He was livid. The fact you had openly challenged him, undermining his authority.

"Let us leave." He said through gritted teeth, his jaw clenching.

The sudden spike of adrenaline had faded away, and you were back to being a fragile doll.

He dragged you away from the fields so harshly you thought your joint would pop out.

Suguru liked to spoil you when it was time to retire to your bedchambers.

He'd untie your hair, combing through it with an ornate golden comb.

Your haughtiness was more than evident. You'd given him the cold shoulder ever since you returned to the estate.

Praying he wouldn't lash out at the labourers for what you did. He returned for dinner and tried to pretend as if nothing had happened.

As you sat in the satin powder white nightdress, he'd uncork the ornate glass bottle of the homemade neroli scented lotion that was crafted towards your preference.

The gentle aroma should've soothed your senses however as Suguru did his ritual, gliding his fingers over your skin in circular motions, you shook your head and pushed his hand away.

The once-adored essence of bitter orange blossoms had now soured. Sullied by the image of Suguru's cruelty.

"I am trying to pamper my dear wife. May I?" He said with a teasing tone, but it was hard to miss the edge of his voice as he looked up at you.

"Is this a joke to you...?" You said harshly.

"Whatever do you mean?" He replied, feigning ignorance.

"You...hurt that child in front of me!" You cried out.

"Are you still harping over this? Christ woman, you're acting as if you lived in squalor like them." Suguru said, beyond irritated.

He wanted nothing more than for you to drop this.

"Your father flung a mutt onto my family. Do you know that?" Suguru said harshly.

Your blood ran ice cold as the words seeped into your brain.

"...Excuse me?" You said, shakily.

"I was gracious enough to take you in. To marry you. He told us that your mother was one of his whores. Not even a wife."

It felt as if the four walls were closing in on you. As if you were shrinking before Suguru as he sneered at you.

Fangs sunk into your veins, and your blood was being filled with venom as he went on.

"...So why?" You could only muster out, voice cracking as your vision blurred from the hot tears pricking your waterline.

"I like a challenge." He retorted smugly. Almost pleased with himself that he had broken you.

Retribution for the way you had humiliated him back in the orchard.

"And you're not too bad on the eyes. You're beautiful but I expected after all my coddling you'd be an obedient housewife. I see I was wrong. Mutts always show their true nature in the end, no matter how much you pamper them. They bite."

Maybe it was dramatic to say.

As you stared up at the ceiling as Suguru was fast asleep, you were sure if it was possible...that last sentence caused your heart to blacken and wilt.

He had destroyed you, the same way your father had.

Nails chipped away. Hangnails, that’s what they were called? Against the pristine white snow, Toji’s red fingers contrasted.

Funny. He had many, many brushes with death.

He was sure even with one brush of death, he would stand right at the iron gates of Hell and feel flames lick at him.

Ironic how a man who was famed for slaughtering enemies on the battlefield loathed the metallic stench of blood.

His clothes had seeped and dried and his skin was slashed.

Looking back on his pitiful life, there wasn’t much to account for. He had no achievements.

He liked a good poem recitation if he ever came across a band of mercenaries around a campfire and strong alcohol.

Suddenly, he stirred at movement in his peripherals.

He had a sixth sense, it was a gift from his clan. The only useful thing they had given him.

“Old broad…are you gonna eat those?” He rasped out as the mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked buns wafted to his nose.

The elderly lady snickered to herself as she shook her head.

“I don’t think I can offer them to a boy whose guts are spilling out, can I?” She muttered as she crouched down to get a better look at him. “Bleeding all over my son’s grave.”

“I’m sorry…but it counts as a decoration?” Toji croaked out with a smug smile as he knocked his head back.

That was the last thing he remembered before he was submerged in complete darkness.

The woman sighed. It wasn’t unusual to come across corpses and half-dying people in this lawless land, stricken with war.

But there was a strange pang of sympathy that shot through her spine as her eyes raked over the man.

Jet black spikes reminiscent of thorns, body well defined with muscle and a scar on his lip. This was somebody’s son.

So, she headed back into the town and asked the blacksmith to fling onto the cart and drop the man into her cottage that was on the outskirts of the village.

Soon enough, the local doctor cleaned and stitched up his grave wounds.

“You realize this is a wanted man.” He spoke and peered at the woman, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose after he finished bandaging his abdominal area.

“Is that so?”

The doctor fumbled around his haversack and pulled out a bounty poster, handing it over to the woman.

“All the knights have been searching high and low for him. They say he alone has the strength of an army.”

“Wanted for what?” She questioned.

“Typical rogue. Was loyal to the King then went berserk, and slaughtered other men. Been on the run ever since.”

His head throbbed.

The bed creaked as he pushed himself up on his elbows but immediately winced as he felt a stinging sensation across his abdomen.

He was pretty sure hell did not have porcelain animal figures and doilies on the mahogany chest of draws.

The big man upstairs must’ve thrown him another chance. Most people would’ve jumped for joy at the prospect of living, but Toji thumped his head back onto the pillows.

He was ready for this wretched existence to end and it just wasn’t letting go any time soon.

“Ah, you’re awake.” A familiar voice called out as the door swung open.

It was the same elderly lady from the cemetery. Toji was bewildered.

He knew he was heavy. It was impossible that this woman carried him with his hulking figure.

“How did I get here?”

She shrugged.

“A friend of a friend.”

Toji tore off the patchwork quilt and attempted to clamber out of the bed.

Attempt since the second he moved, his abdominals were on fire.

“You’ll tear open your stitches. Lay back down and rest for goodness’s sake.” She scolded as she tucked him back in.

“Look lady, thanks for patching me up but I don’t need your damn help.” Toji scowled.

“That’s rich. From the man who was strung up like prized mutton at the damn butchers.” She frowned, a hand on her hip. “I could care less what you do when you recover but for now you’re in my care.”

There was no use in arguing back. She was right and besides, he was bedbound. His body had seemed to give up on him.

So like a toddler, he turned to face the wall and pulled the covers over his head. Signalling for her to take her leave.

He perked up when he heard the plate set on the bedside table. The same baked delicacies that had somehow resurrected him.

Listening wasn’t something Toji was known for. Stealth, yes. Ruthless, check.

But not listening.

Regardless, Toji followed the woman’s instructions on telling him to rest and recover. And soon enough, he slowly was back on his feet.

Not completely back to his full strength and abilities, but he could walk without collapsing in pain which was a perk.

One morning, he decided to make his way out of the small cottage. The lady was hunched over, tending to a growing vegetable garden.

“You’ll hurt yourself like that, y’know.” He spoke, leaning against the wall of the house as he crossed his arms.

“Funny coming from you.” She responded wryly as she straightened her posture as she turned to face him.

“I’m bein’ serious, lady.” He chuckled as he strode over towards her, taking the small gardening spade from her hands. “Here, lemme show you.”

She watched in awe as he began to extract the weeds with precision.

“Hunching over will do you damage in the long run, but it also is a bad position when it comes to dealing with these little fuckers.” He said in a matter-of-fact tone.

From then on there, every morning Toji nurtured the garden bed with his savior that had come in the shape of a petite elderly woman he never bothered to learn the name of until he returned to his full strength.

He only learned her name as he stood in front of the headstone, next to the one he had bled out on almost six months ago.

Leaving her home, he never expected to drop by and hear from nosy villagers she was found alone and rotting in bed due to the cruel working conditions a certain nobleman hailing from the Sukuna clan had imposed upon her.

Listening, is not a strong suit but revenge? It came as natural as breathing for Toji Fushiguro.

Rumors swirled.

Nobody had seen you leave the bedchambers for weeks apart from Suguru, who wouldn’t even let the maids enter.

You lay in the bed that once was some sort of paradise, now a prison.

“I worry for you, my darling,” Suguru said plainly as you refused to face him, back turned. “You’re pushing my hand. I fear I may have to do what is done to disobedient mutts.”

Clutching onto the cushion tighter, you ignored him. Words could not capture how much you truly loathed this man.

Hearing his voice made you want to scrape your ears off.

In an attempt to humor him, you responded to his sick taunts.

“And what may that be?”

“I have more than enough witnesses to attest to your peculiar behavior over the past few weeks. You’ve lost your mind, darling. I think you are much better suited to a bedlam.”

That got your attention.

Slowly but surely you turned around to face him with a perplexed expression. The smile you had once loved dearly now made bile scratch at your throat.

“…What?”

“I have written to your father about it. He replied and said something about how your mother was just like you. Runs in the family it seems.” He chuckled.

Toji’s mind was foggy with the rancor of war. That often happened when he was caught up in bloodlust and the haze of battle.

He saw you sat cross-legged. Eyes widening at the fact you were unperturbed.

Did you not hear the commotion of him barging into the estate? The screams of horror? Vases and furniture being demolished?

“You that bastard Sukuna’s daughter?” Toji questioned.

You nodded.

“I murdered your husband,” Toji said bluntly. “Now I’m gonna hold you ransom.”

“…Okay.”

“The hell do you mean ‘okay’?” Toji frowned at your compliance. “You ain’t gonna put up a fight?”

You shrugged.

“You did me a favor. I detest both my father and husband.”

He pulled a face as you fluttered your eyes closed.

“What are you doin’?” He questioned.

“Aren’t you going to kill me next?” You responded nonchalantly.

“Put your damn clothes on and get out. I’m not killing my gambit.”

“…Gambit?”

“Yes lady. Don’t make me repeat myself, you got five minutes cos I’m torching this place soon.” Toji said firmly as he turned back around and headed out of the bedroom.

“Did you kill Suguru…honestly?” You asked as you followed after him.

“You think I’m bluffin’?” Toji snickered as the two of you descended the grand stairwell.

Despite not leaving your chambers after Suguru had branded you as a madwoman, the estate was nothing like the one you were once accustomed to.

Your nose wrinkled at the acrid scent of blood and decay. Once always bustling with staff, the silence was suffocating.

The tapestries Suguru always bragged about were now reduced to charred and shredded remnants, hanging in tatters.

Almost losing your balance as the bannisters were shattered. The man despite being responsible for the destruction in front of you grabbed your wrist to steady you as if by instinct.

The silverware and crystal shattered into a thousand pieces and scattered across the room, mixing with the sanguine and sticky fluid.

“Look, I’ll show you.” Toji said gruffly, you could’ve sworn there was a smirk on his lips.

It was easy to say that you wanted Suguru dead. He had caused you immense pain and suffering over the past few months.

But as Toji crouched down beside the pallid corpse, bunching a fistful of familiar charcoal flowing locks, terror struck your system.

It hadn’t been too long but the sight of his lifeless face caused tremors to wrack through your entire body. You lost balance and scrambled away.

“He was a pretty boy, mhm? Most spoilt heiresses I know get shipped off to some balding gramps.“ Toji chuckled darkly.

“…What’s the game plan here?” You questioned.

Thankful to be walking and amongst nature. Nobody would’ve thought almost an hour ago you were being taunted with the face of your dead husband by your kidnapper.

But you took it in stride.

“Eh? What’s it to you?”

“You might as well tell me.”

“You talk too much,” Toji muttered under his breath.

Night soon fell. He had let it slip this was at the fault of your father. You simply agreed.

Your father’s ruthless and callous actions had angered people over the years, and it was never out of the ordinary for the women and children to take the brunt for it.

“I’m not spoilt.” You said suddenly as Toji attempted to alight the firewood.

“Eh?” He responded. “That castle you were shacked up in begs to differ, princess.”

“You think just cos I was in that fancy place I was having a whale of a time? It was hell.”

“My heart weeps for you, it really does. But you have no idea how entitled you sound, rabbiting on to somebody like me.” He said harshly as he stood up from the log.

“We got a hell of a journey, tomorrow. So get some rest.” He settled on as he shed his armor off, slumping at the base of the oak tree to sleep.

The sickening sound of metal impaling flesh. It took you a moment to register that Toji had been caught off guard, and stabbed.

You froze as he sank to his knees and blood gushed from his stomach and splattered your emerald green dress.

“…Toji?!” You mustered out.

“Get the hell out of here!” He bellowed.

Shaking your head vigorously, you stepped closer to him. It was stupid, yes. You had no sword in his fight (quite literally) but you saw no reason to abandon him.

“What are you doing?!” He cried out before he succumbed to coughing out blood.

“I’m staying with you!”

“Are you crazy, woman?”

Tears streamed down your cheeks.

“Yes. I am.”

“There’s no arguing with you.” He grumbled, shaking his head.

You felt the same hand that had stabbed Toji attempt to drag you away.

“Lord Sukuna’s been looking for you all over the place.” The man guffawed as he wrenched your jaw. “Such a pretty little thing. Maybe I should keep you for myself-”

The man immediately released his grip on you and howled in pain as he instantly collapsed.

Ogling the scene, it seemed as if Toji had summoned the little that was left of his strength and chopped through the man’s ankle.

He released the most blood-curdling shriek you ever had heard from a grown man as you gaped at it all.

Yet more men came. It was endless.

You were going to be sentenced to your father’s wrath and fury. You knew he would blame you for this entire debacle.

He’d probably laugh at the fact you were considered a pawn when you truly meant nothing to him.

Crawling next to where Toji was bleeding out on the grassy land, you stroked his cheek.

“I thought I told you to get lost.” Toji muttered, losing blood rapidly.

“Thank you for everything…” You murmured as you snatched the dagger from his pouch.

“Y/N…what the hell are you doing..?” Toji gasped out, visibly frightened as you brought the blade to your throat.

“You’ve made me the happiest I’ve been…in a very long time.”

His eyes widened as the abhorrent sound of flesh being sliced filled his ears, blood gushing all over him as your body slumped over his chest.

It took him a moment.

You took your own life just to avoid going back there. The body temperature dwindling away.

Gone.

All Toji could do was bawl as your blood seeped through his clothes and mixed with his own. His fingers digging into your dress.

author’s note: hope you enjoyed this (sorry), reblogs and comments are very much appreciated 🩷

[harmcityherald]

wake up make the strongest coffee and a full corn cob. todays opus operandi' which may not be a word but its what Im saying this morning. so old sun, what fucking grand betrayals await me today? and who on the face of this green god forsaken world even cares? I hope no one. I am a monster among men. no one cares for your company except the inky black syrup you calling loosely coffee. black gold. texas T. oil.

maybe our heart will explode and they find me in my garden path. hope I don't have too long to think about it. ah sweet Saturday you whore of a fabricated rest day. if only I could set you on fire too. drive my car off the key bridge. sun beaming in my window please stop. there's no sunbeam carrying the magic you need. that bolt goes to chuck in montana. hope it burns you to crusty black cinders, chuck. at least its silent. can't wait for the 13 ghosts to wake up and begin to wail about their wants. smoke another and add expresso. your heart will thank you. fuck this being alive shit. everybody's purse. everybody's ride, everybody's rescue. everybody's savior, everybody's advice column. everybody's problem solver, everybody's fix it man.

and me? Im alone with my coffee and my wake and bake enjoying the tiny silence before they wake up. the time I get to hate my existence. after the first ones up I put on my other mother smile. good morning darling its a beautiful day.

blood blood blood blood blood blood

heys your coffee. enjoy.

hate me still? why again, I forgot.

either way happiest morning to you.

even after I am alone.

[hotdamnhunnam]

Kutte to Black

A/N: So here’s an angsty fluffy smutty fic about you being the love of Jax Teller’s life (reimagined in the place of Tara) – you two were high school sweethearts and reunite years later. This fic is a sequel to Kutte and Gown but can also be read as a standalone! ✨

Pairing: Jax Teller x F!Reader Warnings: smut, swearing, angsty angst

Word Count: ~2.3k

The Sons of Anarchy just froze.

They look as though they’ve seen a ghost. You haven’t set foot in this room, or in this godforsaken town you once called home, since you ran off eleven years ago. Haven’t returned since that door closed. By now you thought they all forgot—but clearly not—you’re still that summer rose that claimed the young heart of the crown prince of SAMCRO. No love since yours ever came close. And everybody knows.

You don’t, though.

You don’t know shit. How much damage the lost hope of your love went off and did. The way the light in him had died when you left town.

“H-hey, is Jax around?”

You can just barely bring yourself to ask the club. They’re all shook up. Their badass biker hearts have stopped. So you of course assume the worst; reckon your presence here is unwelcome and cursed. One of them gestures toward the rooftop.

God. The roof. Where you had first fallen in love lost in the rosy throes of youth. Of course that’s where he is right now. Some part of you had known somehow.

Some part of you knows everything. Some part of you had tasted every tear he shed and felt the rhythm of his breathing. The deepest part of you had always known no matter how far you had flown from Charming. Living only for the memory of what you left behind when you had run away from here that haunted morning.

Thank the Sons with a stunted smile. Climb the stairs and every rise feels like a mile. Coming home is fucking hard. Your home has always been his heart, even more so in all the years you spent apart. Tried to deny it for a while. Truth cuts deeper in denial.

You remember him the way he was back then. Remember every inch of Jackson. Spun of sun-gold, from his hair down to his soul. The smell of worn leather and smoke, that made you feel at home and whole. The truth in every word he spoke. The inky black of his tattoos. The break of heaven in those baby blues, each time he looked at you.

You wonder how much he has changed in all this time. How deep he’s fallen in this life of sin and crime. Can’t help but feel that on some level you’re to blame.

Wonder until you reach the roof and meet his gaze. Read the truth all across his face. Changed in a thousand ways... but this is just the same.

He doesn’t ask you why you came.

He doesn’t even say your name.

He doesn’t need to; in the hollow of his heart your name is carved into the walls. Into the dark the only thing he ever calls. He falls apart now as he sees you. Lives and breathes you. Can’t believe you’re here to catch him as he falls.

Words in this moment would be lost—would carry too much of a cost—the time for words will come. They’ll ruin as they always do. For now you’re home. For now he’ll come back home again inside of you.

Eleven years since love was made upon this roof, first whispered in the bloom of youth. The silence still carries the same unchanging truth.  I love you.

Here today. Nothing to say. His ring-clad fingers on your cheek. The love he doesn’t need to speak. The love so strong it makes you weak. Sooner see all the fire burn out of the Redwood sun above you, than see this love run its course. He kisses you with fragile force. 

I’m yours. I love you. Fucking love you. Always yours.

He tastes of everything he did before.

He tastes of so much fucking more.

Of lust and leather, as when you’d last been together. Now that heady scent is slurred, with long hard years buried in cigarettes and cheap liquor and whores. Hundreds of meaningless mistakes—the only loveless kind of love that he could make, left in your wake. Closer to hate the way he tore through without caring who they were. Hundreds of faces all forgotten in the blur.

He kisses you like you exist upon this earth for him to worship and adore.

He kisses like an animal, a criminal, the savage beat of blood in his veins raging to a roar. Now as he satisfies the need that has for so long been ignored.

His fragile force turns fucking feral as his frantic hands explore. As if the sacred shape of you is now uncharted, after you’ve been so long parted. Swearing love again to every curve and contour. Sure, you’ve grown. But always you’ve been his to own. Down to your deepest core.

Only Jax Fucking Teller ever made the dirty whore in you feel pure.

Both of your clothes come off so quickly in the torrid summer air. You need each other bare, for all the years that you weren’t there. Tangle your fingers in that head of sun-gold hair. Your back against the patched up leather of his kutte, once it gets flung down to the surface underfoot, the perfect bed for him to take you as his slut. 

The love is as it always was—it’s soft—it’s rough. It heals you of eleven years of not enough. Your senses set to a euphoric buzz, as Jax deliciously destroys you in the way he always does.

The golden boy of Redwood High was always big—but holy fuck. Eleven years have built upon that cock. Heavy and thick. Feels even harder than a rock.

You made his life so fucking hard when you were gone for all these years.

You make it harder now you’re finally fucking here.

Jax doesn’t break the kiss, not once through all of this. Feeds on your tongue. The breath he needs is always from your lungs. He kisses deep and strong, swallowing every moan of bliss. He lives off of your lips. Reclaims from them your wordless vow of love as he now settles into place with a firm grip around your hips, his other hand guiding his shaft into position as you feel your swollen clit grazed with his sinfully slick tip.

He takes his time although it’s fast, afraid this time will be the last.

And then in one split second makes amends for all eleven years that passed.

In to the fucking hilt. You’re fucking filled. Wet cunt convulsing as it counts the seconds till his seed is spilled. You groan and gasp; his calloused hand around your hip tightens its grasp. The growl he sends into your mouth as the kiss deepens, all of you his for the taking and the keeping, for the reaping, is a raw ravenous rasp.

Pumps forward—back—again until it hurts—Jesus Christ Jax—balls fucking slap—and everything inside you snaps.

The golden boy became a golden god who wants the gods above to know he fucking owns your ass.

Times your release and his in perfect sync. The pure perfection of it sings. As in all things, with you and Jax. Not just the climax. The entire ride, the crest of pleasure he creates inside, his massive shaft the perfect size, as he slides in between your thighs, each fuck perfectly full and tight. Fucks till it feels like you’ve both died. Two souls see one and the same light.

Fluttering eyes, as you both come down from your highs. The light has never been so bright. In these eleven years till now nothing had ever felt so right.

He doesn’t ask you why you came.

The only thing that matters now is that you’re home, and that he made you come, living and breathing in his name.

This—this is always just the same.

***************

Heat of the sun, heat off your skin as you’ve both come fucking undone, threaten to send you up in flames.

You’d burn in hell beside this man and have no shame.

But you’re on fucking earth till then. No longer love-drunk children. Forced to face the thrust of facts, no longer free to fuck off running with the wind and leave all reason at your back.

Pressed up against the sculpted planes of his broad chest you see the black of a tattoo. It’s inked in pride of place. It’s new. Something you have to face. And so you do.

Abel. There’s only one thing that could mean or so you reckon, in this second, and you need all of his cards out on the table. Seems you’re no longer the only thing in Jax’s life that’s pure and good and true.

“Your son?” you ask, voice low and cracked. In all this time these are the first words that you’ve said to Jax. First ones. Nothing else needed to be said out loud till now but some things do. “So you…”

He softly nods. Swiftly shifts gear and shakes his head upon reading your thoughts. There were two questions and the answers are quite different to the two. “Marrying someone ‘cause you’re lonely is a shitty thing to do. Wrong from the start. Knew we’d be better off apart.”

You feel a little bit ashamed that you’re relieved to read his cards. It’s not that you’d have wished divorce—just that the fear of guilt for what you’ve done releases with those words. Heals as it hurts. You feel for her, this nameless woman who had just become a mother; to be sure, Jax must have left her in a million broken shards. “In other words you broke her heart.”

His muscles bunch, tense with self-hatred even as you soothe his scars with your soft touch. The touch that he had been without for so damn long. “And broken everything I’ve touched since you’ve been gone.”

“Don’t say that,” you protest, placing your palm warmly against the precious letters on his chest. “Jax, I’m sure he’s beautiful and strong and loved just like his dad.”

Mind floods with thoughts of all the beauty, strength and love that he and his son could’ve had. Good things his life has never known. All hope of that lost when you’d flown. And nothing ever hurt so bad. Abel himself is pure and good, but he was born into the world lost and alone; Jax had abandoned him in ways no father ever should. Ways that he never would, if only he’d been good.

He tries. And will until he dies. Every damn day. Just wishes that the good in him didn’t depend on someone who had run away.

You read his mind. Grieve for the golden boy you left behind. Already love him and this little man he’d brought into this world so fucking much and would give anything to spend the rest of your life making everything okay. “I’d love to meet him someday.”

“Yeah, I’d love that too.” He looks at you. Like, really looks at you, the way no other man before or since could ever do. The one that got away. The answer to the prayers he’d never dared to pray. “I love you.”

Fuck. Shit runs you over like a truck. Remind yourself of why you really came and die of shame. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say...” you murmur though you know he can’t be blamed. Both know you feel the same. Your heart resists that fact, now as it comes under attack. “We had one summer, Jax.”

He knows. Every year since then he’s been living in the shadow of a ghost. “Every night I go back. Everything after that just cut to black.”

You don’t confess that you’ve been living in the same darkness for all these years. Although your silence lies, he reads it in your eyes. The sheen of tears.

Still can’t believe you’re fucking here.

Neither can you. You shouldn’t be, quite honestly, but so you came and now there’s nothing you can do.

“I thought you’d have forgotten about me,” you half-lie—you had dared to hope that it was true, because picturing Jax all this time all torn up over you... was a picture you’d rather deny. Almost every damn night just the thought made you cry. Rather picture the prince of Charming riding high, living life free and fully and proudly. “Better off without me.”

Jax curls his hand around your own. Smiling sorrowfully at you like you should have known. If you hadn’t you wouldn’t have come. “For someone so smart—Christ, you’re so fucking dumb. From the start you were my fucking home.”

Eleven years so deep in love and still falling. Crow always flies back to its calling, no matter how far it may roam.

But shit has happened in the time that passed. Your two hearts can’t speed past it just by racing hard and fast. “You haven’t asked...”

“I know.” He cuts you off, but in a way that’s sweet and soft. Typical Jax. Same in so many ways as all those years ago. He’s well aware he hasn’t asked what brought you back. Clasps your hand tighter where it rests, upon his chest. “I just—I just want this to last.”

Drown in his baby blues. The love they found and never lost in you. “I want that, too.”

And God, you do. For the rest of your life just one day spent beside him could carry you through.

That’s what he suggests, reading your mind the way he does best.

No words needed for what both your hearts long to say.

One day?

Okay.

One day together to hold your whole future at bay. Hop on the back of his ride and let love drive away.

***************

... Continued in Part 2! 

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[luveline]

can i request peter like doing something super sweet but small and loving for you and then hé he leaves cause he has class it smthg and all ur friends being like « god he’s so in love with you » ily!

thank you for your request! i hope this is okay <3

"I'm sorry to pull you away from your friends," Peter starts as you approach. 

The breeze is warm, drifting his hyacinth and honey smell towards you in a comforting wave. He doesn't realise there's nowhere else you'd rather be. 

"That's okay," you say, smiling. "What did you need to talk about?" 

He grins and shakes his head, swinging his backpack off of his shoulder and fiddling with the zipper. "I might have lied. A little. A white lie?" 

He digs through the bag and you feel your worries slip away. "Jeez, Pete. Couldn't have told me that? I've been stressing all morning." 

"Bout what?" he asks cluelessly, pulling a small grey bundle from his jansport. 

"Well, it's not usually a good thing to receive a 'we need to talk' text, you- is this Ellie?" 

He laughs. "I fixed her up a bit." 

You turn the elephant plush over in your hands to her back, where a small tear had slowly widened over time and had managed to become a gaping hole. Ellie was mostly empty of stuffing when Peter had first seen her. "I'm an awful tailor," you'd explained, blushing, "I probably would've made her worse." 

The rip is almost invisible, a silver grey seam perfectly matched to the fur. 

"Sorry, I stole her a day ago. I hope you weren't worried about it." 

You had been. You look at your childhood stuffed animal in awe. Her rip is fixed and she's plump with new stuffing, two colours brighter than she had been before. Her eyes are shiny, glossy black and her soft tusks have been lightly reshaped. 

"Peter… Why did you do this?" you murmur, brushing your thumb over an inky glass eye. 

"I'm sorry. Was this not okay?" 

"It must've taken you hours." 

He scratches the back of his neck. "I mean, yeah. It did. And she probably likes me more now, so maybe I should just take her home with me," he pretends to reach for the plush. You pull her away. 

"She told me all your dirty secrets," he says mischievously. "And all the love poems you've scribed in my honour." 

You step up on your tiptoes and wrap your arms around him, Ellie pushed steadfast into his back. 

"Thank you, Peter. This is really nice." 

"It was only a small thing, angel." 

You shake your head and step back down out of his arms. 

"I have chemistry. See you later?" he asks. 

You nod, feeling a little hazy, and he dots three quick kisses over the small wrinkles on your forehead. He waves as he walks away. 

You walk back to your friends and sit down heavy, putting your pushie on the glass table next to everybody's dirty latte glasses. They all lean in like they're waiting for you to say something, and then they all break at once, scrambling to hold your newly refurbished teddy.

"You never said your hot boyfriend was a professional seamstress!" One girl says in awe, holding your plush aloft. 

"Where did you get him?" 

"Oh my god!" someone squeals. 

You feel the same way. 

[random1amfics]

Demon Tyrant of France (1)

Cackles echoed through the halls of Francoise Dupont, sending chills up every students' spine. The eerie variations of 'I'm back' that accompanied the cackles, sent all of the longer attending students of Francoise Dupont to stiffened in fear as if Medusa herself had turned them into statue. A figure clad in red and black stalked the halls, inciting surprise and terror at the sight of them for cackles and eerie voice belonged to someone much, much worse than the monsters from old stories.

The Demon Tyrant had returned.

In the classroom of students that had gained the nickname of 'Akuma Class' due to the large number of akumas from it, was one Chloe Bourgeois repeatedly hitting her head on the desk, groaning like there was no tomorrow. The other students, at least the ones who was in the school long enough, relayed horror stories of their (middle school/elementary) life and the reason behind Chloe's behaviour. They hope they can inform most of the others as much as they can before someone accidentally insults the Demon Tyrant and incite their wrath. The destruction they made in their anger left lasting impressions and nightmares for years to come. After an explanation, Kim had rushed out, saying something about offerings and sacrifices with a few following his example. Adrien sat in his seat, listening to Nino as he listed reasons why he should not anger this Demon Tyrant. He can't believe one of his classmates used to be like that.

"But why is the Demon Tyrant back to being you know? How do we know for sure that they didn't learned that being nice and kind is better?"

"Dude, listen, this is the absolute worst time for it to be over. We haven't been treating her nicely for the past few weeks. Yes, the Demon being all sweet and nice was weird at first but we have been taking it for granted and may have over done it. So Adrien, dude, I know you want everybody to be happy but the Demon can't be reason with, we can only try to appease her and hope for the best. As for why she stopped being nice and kind, Chloe?"

She had been the one to deliever the message about the Demon's Return to the class group chat.

She stopped her self-torture for a while.

"Fucking Granola De Vanilla couldn't hold out for a little while longer. I thought for sure, Lila Rossi would have made her crack but apparently, the rumours are true about the Demon having a skin of diamond. The bet they both had was about who could go the longest being great human beings. Now that FeFe lost, the bet is over, she has no reason to keep it up. At least, I will be spared."

"Oh please, you treated her like dirt for that first year. Don't you remember?"

"Yes but she expected him to get me to do something so he would win. She loves the challenge. She also basically did the same thing to him. I never actually went as far as to destroy one of her books. I really thought that would've been her breaking point."

"Oh fuck, I gotta find Alya and tell her about this." Nino exclaimed and rushed out.

Adrien seemed to have figured something out.

"Hey, Chlo, was my cousin Felix the one who made the bet with the Demon?"

"Yes, in fact they are best friends. Maybe even something more."

"Felix has a best friend? Why didn't he ever tell me about them?"

"Because Felix doesn't owe you anything, Agreste." A familiar voice came from the door. Adrien smiled, happy to see one of his best friends and turned to see Marinette who surprisingly was early to school. Except she wasn't Marinette Dupain-Cheng he knew. Her usual pink and grey colour scheme was gone replaced by red and black. A red blouse, black leather jacket and dark skinny jeans. Her hair was no longer in her signature pigtails and instead was loose and flow down her shoulders like an inky waterfall. She wore blood-red lipsticks and eyeliner wings so sharp it will cut anything. Her 5-inch heels made her taller but her confident aura made her seems even taller. She walked into the room, not even with a trace of clumsiness and all the grace and elegance of a ballerina. Adrein was stunned....and afraid. Marinette's eyes always held warmth in them but they were now icy and cold. Her smile didn't bring the usual bundle of joy and happiness to him instead, there was a pit of terror and despair in his stomach.

"Chloe," words rolled off her tongue like silk, "I hoped you enjoyed your time on the throne. But i would like you off it now."

"I really did. Thank you, your Highness, for choosing me to rule in your stead. It is a great honour to return the crown to its rightful owner." Chloe pulled a black velvet box out of her bag, and bowed her head, presenting it to Marinette. Inside the box was actually a gold diadem, decorated with rubies and sapphires. Anyone could tell that it was the real deal. Marinette put it on and seemed to relaxed as if the weight of the crown was something she missed holding.

"So, your Highness, what do you have planned?"

"Bold of you to assume that I am not just here to have fun until I can finally leave this god forsaken place, Bourgeois."

"You and I both know that now that there is nothing stopping you from retaliating, you are going to get back at who have wronged you. And you are going to have fun doing that anyways."

"True. Spoken like a true queen as always, Chloe."

"I am going to sit back and enjoy the show," Marinette went to her seat in the back where the class 'banished' her to,"for now."

Everyone quickly scrambled out of her way. Adrien looked at the normally pig-tailed girl, now sitting tall and proud like an Empress surveying her Domain. He wondered if this Marinette will keep the promise she made to him about Lila. They need to talk about it later.

[someonestolemyshoes]

Yo, saw your post about levihan prompts:

How about Hange discovering Levi’s secret hobby (of your choice)

Feel free to do whatever you feel like

And I love your work! 💕 have a good day

Hello! So sorry for the delay in this one, but thank you so much for your patience 🙏 I got stuck for such a long time in the middle of this ksksks but it is finally done! I also played around a little bit with the whole...discovering a secret aspect, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway! And I hope you're ready for some sweet sweet childhood friends levihan~

**

Levi likes photography.

This, in itself, is no great secret. Hange can barely remember a time he wasn't following after her with a camera strapped around his neck, or packed into his bag—always within reach, should something striking catch his eye. A little neon plastic toy, at first; each click of the shutter cycled through preloaded images, expert shots of famous landscapes, places they could only dream of seeing. And then, a polaroid—still a toy, in essence, still plastic, still gaudy, but this one took real pictures in real time, and spit them out into their eager, shaking fingers within seconds.

Hange remembers them ruthlessly wafting the little laminate squares and watching with bated breath as black mottled into foggy grey, as the blurred silhouette of the park bench faded slowly into being. It was a fascinating thing, at the time. Magic at their fingertips. The picture turned out fuzzy and overexposed in places, where the sun had glared in over the corner of the park bench, but Levi had settled the little square on his little palms and looked at it like he held the whole world in his hands.

There were innumerable disposable cameras, too. Light little things with reels of film, never enough for Levi's insatiable desire to snap pictures of every single thing he saw. They spent half their childhood in the chemist, sitting in the hard plastic chairs, wriggling anxiously as they waited for the film to develop. Kuchel always handed them the envelope, fat with prints, with a small smile curling the corner of her mouth and a fond twinkle in her eye, and Levi always took it politely, while Hange gave a boisterous thanks, and the pair of them delved greedily into their spoils.

He was older, in his early teens, when he was gifted his first real camera. It was heavy, compared to all the others, a case made of metal with buttons and gadgets and a fancy screen on the back, to preview each picture he took. Levi was wholly enamoured with it. He spent hours adjusting it, figuring out what each button and knob did, how they affected each picture; took countless shots of the same rock in the park until he'd tested every combination of settings he could think of.

He had cycled through more cameras since then. Grown a small collection, each one a little different, a little more suited to particular shots. Hange understood the concept in theory, but the particulars were lost on her, and Levi never took the time to explain. Not that she minded—Levi's pictures were beautiful, breathtaking in the way he could capture even the most mundane details and make them something wondrous. Perhaps for the first and only time in her life, Hange had no desire for the magician to reveal his tricks.

He has an eye for things that Hange simply cannot see. She is observant—to a fault, at times, intensely analytical and endlessly curious. Everything is a question, an opportunity to research, to learn, but she doesn't see the way Levi does.

Wild daffodil. Narcissus pseudonarcissus. Hange sees a perennial flowering plant, native to Western Europe, classified by its pale yellow petals and elongated central trumpet. She sees phylogeny with a rich taxonomic history; subspecies originating all over the globe, some larger, some smaller, some more vibrant and some more muted. She sees anatomy, science.

Levi sees the way the evening sun rusts the buttery petals until they blush; sees the way dew drops hang like pearls from the tips of the leaves in the early morning, when the light is still smoky and thin. He sees a moment to be captured.

It should be impossible for a picture to hold so much detail. Hange can look at Levi's daffodil and feel the way the spring wind blows gently on her skin, the sun warm but the breeze a little biting, a remnant of the fading winter. She can smell the pollen heavy in the air, feel the tickle of short grass on her ankles, hear the trill of songbirds in the branches of distant trees.

His proclivity for photography grows with them. Hange's interests spear out in a thousand different directions, from physics and chemistry to botany, to engineering, to literature and mathematics, to history, languages and landscapes—life is a limitless source of information and Hange chases it every which way, insatiable.

And wherever she goes, Levi dutifully follows, with his camera in hand.

Until now.

Now, they are eighteen. The summer is lazily drawing to a close, and tomorrow, at 8:45am, Hange will be boarding a plane that will take her to the other side of the world to attend the university of her dreams.

And Levi will be staying here.

Despite Levi's perpetual scowling and indiscriminate grunting, their last evening together had overall been a pleasant one. Levi and Kuchel had worked hard on their meal, and it had been nice in a warm, filling kind of way, to spend her last night at home with the two of them.

Now, she and Levi are holed up in his bedroom, while Kuchel had insisted on doing the clean up herself. Hange's mind has been churning non-stop for weeks now, ramping up with each passing day, and tonight, her thoughts are unstoppable, and they spill from her with giddy, jittery excitement.

"The university is huge, but my course is pretty small—only like, 30 places. It'll be easy to get to know everybody."

"Nn."

"And did I tell you? There's a museum right on campus? They've got a huge collection, and I heard students can access it after the first semester."

"Hm."

"And there's a flower garden, too—they've got species from all over the world, Levi. They'll have plants I've never even heard of."

"You said."

"Oh! And—my accommodation isn't all that far from the coast. The water looks beautiful in all the pictures I've seen—look, see?"

"I know. You showed me already."

Hange looks up from her phone, where the screen is lit with a bright, sunny beach, tan sand and a stark blue ocean. Levi flicks his gaze over it and offers a noncommittal shrug of his shoulder. Hange frowns at him.

"You could at least pretend to be excited, you know."

Levi gives her a deadpan stare.

"It looks...warm."

Hange sits back with a thump, and kicks weakly at Levi's shin. She pouts over at him. "Better than nothing, I guess."

They sit at opposite ends of the window bench in Levi's bedroom, legs tangled haphazardly together in the space between them. The window was thrown open in some vain hope of tempting in a breeze, but the air is thick, and the soft wind that does blow is still stiflingly warm. It sways Levi's fringe against his brow, but does little to stave off the oppressive heat.

The sky outside is dark, but it is alive with stars. They cast bright sparks on an inky black canvas, and there is no moon in sight. Already, Levi has snapped pictures of it, twisted dials and pushed buttons and switched lenses until he was satisfied.

It is a beautiful sight. Infinite.

Hange lets one leg dangle out the open window. Levi gives her a sour look and wordlessly closes one hand around her other ankle. She has a long history of behaving carelessly—Levi has borne witness to one too many slips and stumbles to trust her entirely. It would be just like Hange, to miss her flight in favour of a trip to the emergency room.

His thumb strokes back and forth absently. There is a callus there, rough and catching, that scratches against her sensitive skin.

Her predominant feeling is one of excitement. Studying abroad had been a dream of hers for almost as long as Levi had owned a camera—to travel beyond the bounds of their small rural town, to see more, learn more, fuel the relentless hunger in her. But there is an undercurrent of something else, some squirming discomfort that refuses to settle. It intensifies with every sweep of Levi's thumb against her skin until it sits heavy in her gut.

She looks over at him. His gaze is trained out the window, a small frown furrowing the skin between his brows, but his eyes are glassy, with none of their usual sharp, unwavering focus. Whatever he is looking at, he is not really seeing it.

It would be a lie to say that his silence had not troubled her. He had been quiet throughout dinner, opting instead to listen to Hange and Kuchel's companionable chatter as he pushed his food around his plate, and he had barely said a word since they had cleared the table and retreated to his room. He had hardly even looked her way.

Irritation bubbles within her. Levi is always more subdued than she is, content to sit quietly while Hange babbles endlessly, about anything and everything. But he usually has something to say. His silence, today of all days, makes her angry. They have one night left like this—one more night to talk, face to face, before they will be separated for who knows how long, and Levi is offering her nothing.

"Levi," she says, before she can think. Something in her tone must startle him, for he blinks rapidly, as though pulled out of a daydream, and rolls his eyes to look in her direction. His gaze settles somewhere near her shoulder. She bristles. "Can you at least—"

"Levi?" Kuchel's voice is distant, floating up from the bottom of the stairs. Levi looks at the door instead. "Can you come give me a hand for a minute?"

Hange clamps her jaw shut. Levi casts her another sidelong glance, and ticks his tongue against the back of his teeth. He squeezes her ankle once, then pushes himself to his feet. "Don't fall, idiot. I won't be long."

Hange feels distinctly like a child on the verge of throwing a tantrum. It's immature, and perhaps it's unfair of her, but she had assumed that Levi's invitation for dinner might, at the very least, come with a little conversation.

She takes a deep, steadying breath. They never fight, not really—they bicker endlessly, poke each other's cheeks and pull each other's hair, childish rough housing that they never grew out of. But they don't fight and as grumpy as Hange feels about Levi's near silence, she doesn't want to start now. She runs a hand back through her hair and sweeps her eyes about the room, counting long, even breaths as she does.

Levi's room is immaculately neat and tidy. Everything has its place, on clean, dusted shelves, or stacked in straight, neat piles atop his desk. It is a level of organisation Hange has little energy for; she herself is a hurricane, picking up and dropping off detritus everywhere she goes.

But Levi's borderline obsessive cleanliness makes it easy to spot something that is out of place.

Hange's gaze falls on a drawer in the desk.  The drawer itself is as immaculate as everything else, gleaming wood and a reflectively polished brass handle. What catches her eye is the corner of a glossy piece of paper, caught when the drawer had been closed.

Hange is a curious creature. Rarely can she hold herself back from exploring an unknown, and now is no different. She unfolds herself from the bench and stretches to stand, then crosses the room on light, tip-toed feet.

Levi is, by and large, a rather private person. He does not share much of himself openly, hides behind an impassive mask, guards what is dear to him close to his chest. Hange is an exception to this rule, whether Levi wanted her to be or not.

As such, she has no real issue prying the drawer open, and is unsurprised by the predictable contents within.

Photographs.

Of course it was photographs.

Her lips tug up in a fond smile and her eyes roll, but it is as she is reaching in to flatten out the rumpled picture that had been poking out of the drawer, that she notices what they are photographs of.

Her.

Hange picks out a stack and sits cross-legged in the desk chair. She flips through them, eyes growing wider with each new picture she uncovers. Every single one is of her. Some recent, some not so recent—some must be from the very first real camera, for she is still in her braces, all thin, gangly limbs and scruffy hair and taped up glasses.

There are pictures of her in the winter, mitten-clad hands wrapped around a paper cup of hot chocolate, blowing steam into the chill air. She can see in stark clarity, the red tip of her nose and the chill bitten over her cheeks; she can almost feel the cold, taste the cocoa on her tongue.

She finds a picture of her from an autumn years gone by. She remembers it as though it were yesterday—they had spent the whole afternoon raking fallen leaves in the courtyard behind Kuchel's cafe, scooping them into a terribly tempting mound beneath the shedding tree. Hange had been unable to resist. Levi had captured her moments after her dive into the pile, sitting up with her weight propped back on her hands, dry leaves clinging to her messy hair and sticking to the fibres of her cardigan. The sun was low, and it cast her in a golden glow, highlighting the vibrant red and orange of the fall foliage around her, drawing out the auburn undertone in her hair and the amber of her eyes. Her smile is almost blinding.

Another shows her in the spring, laying on her belly in the long grass beside a row of blooming daffodils. There is a book spread open before her and she is, as expected, engrossed in it; Levi has snapped the shutter as she was turning the page, the thin edge of the paper caught between the delicate tips of her fingers.

Hange has never considered herself to be particularly pretty. She is just...Hange, a little bit of wild, a little bit of manic, a lot of clumsy and dirty. Being attractive has never been of much concern.

But there is something in the way Levi has photographed her, time and time again, in the way the light catches her, the candid ease of each new picture, that looks....beautiful, in its own way. Somehow, he has made her mess into a masterpiece.

Levi likes taking pictures of things. Plants, rocks, rivers, landscapes and skylines—he likes capturing the mundanity of everyday life and turning it into something spectacular, but he has never done the same thing with people. As far as Hange was aware, Levi had taken very few pictures of anybody at all.

And yet, she holds this pile in her hands, and there are plenty more pictures littering the drawer before her.

There is a strange feeling brewing on her as she stares at them. She had been so excited about moving away to study, so eager to explore the world beyond their quiet countryside home, that the reality of leaving had never truly sunk in. She feels it now though, acutely; a hollow ache in her chest that grows with each picture she flicks through.

Levi has been her shadow for as long as she can remember. There are few memories that he is not a part of, few moments that she can recall in which Levi was not by her side—he has been a constant for her. Something certain and dependable.

And from tomorrow, he will no longer be there.

Hange had known this. She had known it from the moment she had accepted her offer, and she had known it as they looked through her options for accommodation together, as they explored the local area through pictures and videos and maps online. She had known it as they had prepared her visa, organised her finances. Booked her flights. Every step of the way she had understood, logically, rationally, that studying abroad meant leaving Levi behind.

But the weight of it is only hitting her now. The reality of it is like a slap in the face, a punch in the gut—it leaves her shaken and breathless in the worst way.

From tomorrow, Levi won't be with her at all.

Her grip tightens on the photographs hard enough to wrinkle the glossy paper.

She had done a pretty good job of not getting too emotional about the whole thing. For the most part, Hange had been overwhelmed by her own excitement—there had been no time for sadness between all the loose ends she’d had to tie up in order to make the move a possibility. Now though, all that is left is to head to the airport and board her plane. No more distractions.

Hange doesn’t realise she is crying until the bedroom door opens again, and Levi steps into the room, coming to a sudden halt halfway over the threshold.

Hange can't tell if Levi's look of shock is because of the open drawer and the pictures still clutched in her hands, or the tear tracks on her cheeks. He stops dead in the open doorway, fingers still curled around the handle, and for a moment he stares at her with eyes wider than Hange has ever seen them, but then his brow dips low and his lip curls, and his grip tightens around the door handle. Hange holds the pile of photographs close to her chest.

She is expecting anger. She doesn't suppose she could blame him if he lost his temper with her, then. She has a terrible habit of bulldozing into everything, after all, and perhaps this was the one thing Levi had longed to keep secret from her. Her snooping, on top of his already sullen mood—perhaps this is the final straw.

But instead, he turns his face away, staring resolutely into the corner of the room. Starlight spills through the open window. Even in the thin, muted light, Hange can see a vibrant flush colouring the skin high on Levi's cheeks.

Hange sniffles, and wipes clumsily at her cheeks.

"I didn't have you pegged as a closet pervert, Levi," she says, waving the handful of pictures at him. Her voice comes cracked, and weaker than she'd hoped. Levi's knuckles turn white.

It's a funny thing, seeing Levi embarrassed. His emotional expression is usually limited to small twitches, here and there—a slight furrow of his brow, a wrinkle of his nose, a soft twitch of his lip. Hange can count on one hand the number of times she has seen his feelings show so completely. It's almost painful to witness.

"I don't mind," she says. Levi doesn't look at her. Hange looks down at the pile again. "They're nice."

Levi finally releases his death grip on the handle and pushes the door closed. His eyes are still downcast and his cheek is still cherry red, but he hasn't run away and he hasn't snapped at her (yet). Hange takes these things as good signs.

"I didn't know you took pictures of people," Hange says.

"I don't."

"Are you saying I'm not people, Levi?"

Levi lets out a disgruntled sigh. He crosses the room, and plucks the pile of pictures from Hange's hands. His cheeks are still pink, and his brows are still furrowed, but he has composed himself some.

“No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re a creature. You’ve got snot all over your face.”

Hange laughs wetly, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and rubbing the mess on her pants. Levi gives her a look of pure disgust, parking his hip against the edge of the desk beside her and skimming through a few of the pictures. There’s a curious expression on his face, a softness in his eyes that Hange isn’t used to seeing.

“Stalker,” she says. Levi kicks at the desk chair without looking up. “If you wanted a photoshoot, you could have asked.”

Levi scowls. He straightens the edges of the pictures with care, and sets them carefully on the desk. “If I wanted to take pictures of you posing, I would have asked.”

“Wanted to capture me in all my natural glory, huh?” Hange braces her elbows on the desk and rests her chin in both hands, grinning cheekily up at Levi. It must look ridiculous, with her watery eyes and the red point of her nose, but Levi isn't even looking at her to notice.

Levi says nothing. His gaze lingers on the pictures for a little longer, and the colour in his cheeks deepens. Hange nudges him with her elbow, smiling. The pictures are...sweet, in a way. There's something flattering about it. She slumps back in the chair, her smile wavering where a fresh wave of melancholy tugs at the edges of her lips.

“I’ll miss you, you know.” Hange’s voice cracks humiliatingly as she speaks. Levi looks over at her. Hange curses the wobble of her bottom lip and wipes at her eyes beneath her glasses. She isn’t expecting much; Levi is terrible at expressing feelings at the best of times, and so it’s more than surprising when, after a moment of consideration, he nods at her.

“Same.”

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. Hange presses her fingers into her eyes, trying to stem the flow, ease the sting there. She doesn’t want to spend their last evening together crying, but now that the tears have begun, Hange can’t seem to stop them. A lump builds in her throat, aching beneath her tongue and she can feel her chin wobbling, lips pulling down at the corners. She sniffles pitifully, draws a shuddering breath.

“Oi…” Levi says, though he doesn’t sound angry, or even uncomfortable like she had expected. His tone is gentle. It rips a sob from her.

Hange feels him move closer. He jostles the front of the chair, and when she opens her eyes to look at him she finds him standing right in front of her, between chair and desk, looking at her with a furrowed brow. It’s different to his usual scowl—his brows are a little upturned in the middle, exposing some kinder emotion; something like worry, or concern.

Hange tilts forward until her forehead presses into his chest. Levi’s hand comes up quickly to the back of her head. His touch is familiar, comforting, and Hange cries a little harder when his fingers tunnel into her messy hair, cradling her against him.

She cries until she feels spent, sniffling and gulping empty air. Her fingers twist into the hem of Levi’s shirt as she composes herself, mumbling, “you’ll keep in touch, right? You won’t forget about me?”

Levi clicks his tongue at her. “Stupid,” he says. “As if you’d let me.”

“I’m serious.” She sits back and looks up at her. Her eyes are burning, raw and wet, and the skin of her cheeks stings from crying, but she looks at him with as much determination as ever and says, “call me. Every day.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not! Just once, every day. Even if it’s only five minutes.”

Levi flicks her between her brows. “You won’t have the time, dumbass.”

“I’ll make time.”

Levi scrutinizes her for a moment, then says, “I’ll text.”

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

Levi curls his lip and pulls at a lock of her fringe, muttering, “brat. Why don’t you call me?”

“I will,” Hange says plainly. Levi’s eyes widen a fraction. “I’ll call as much as I can. But you need to call me too, okay? I wanna hear from you a lot.”

There is a long pause, and then Levi turns his eyes away. The light in the room is pale and muted, but it is just enough to highlight the pale flush gathering anew on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. It’s almost cute.

“Fine. I’ll call. Happy?”

Hange grins at him. “Very. And I’ll send you photos of everything, all the time.”

Levi leans down towards her, pinching her nose between his thumb and forefinger and giving her head a little shake. “On your shitty phone camera?”

Hange nods. She bats his hand away and cranes herself up into his space, smiling something wicked. “You’ll hate it. They’ll be all blurry and I’ll have my thumb in the corner of every picture.”

“Pest.”

“Lots of selfies, too. So you won’t forget what I look like.” Hange blindly swipes up a picture from the desk, holding it up between them in front of her mouth and nose. Between Levi dipping down into her space and Hange stretching up into his, they are so close that Levi has to cross his eyes to get a look at it. “Not that I think it’ll be a problem.”

He rolls his gaze up to look at her over the top of the photograph. Up close, Hange can see just how bright the blue of his eyes is, how dark his lashes are; she can see the shadows they cast on his cheeks, the deepening flush bruising the skin red. Levi has always been a pale thing, but now, Hange can see the smattering of light freckles across his nose, barely visible in the low light. He looks pretty. Her heart stutters in her chest at the sight.

Hange has never fully understood Levi’s drive to photograph everything. To preserve any given moment, bottle up every minute detail. She sort of understands it, then—it’d be nice, she thinks absently, to save this particular view for forever. The thought makes her face grow warm.

“I won’t forget.” Levi’s voice is quiet, caught somewhere between embarrassment and uncertainty. He sways closer, rocks back, hesitates. And then he leans down and lets his forehead drop against hers. Hange can feel the press of his nose against her own, separated only by the picture between them.

Hange is used to being close to him. She’s a clingy person by nature, always grabbing him and hugging him, smooshing her cheek against his or shoving her face into his hair, but she is always the one to initiate such contact. Levi is tactile, in his own way—small, non-invasive touches, his fingers on her wrist or his palm at her back, always delicate, understated.

To have Levi enter so wholly into her space like this is new. It’s nice. Hange finds herself feeling very, very thankful for the paper between them, for the urge to lean forward and kiss him comes unbidden, so suddenly she isn’t sure she’d be able to resist the impulse if there hadn’t been a barrier in her way.

“Is it my dazzling good looks?” she says, acutely embarrassed by how breathless she sounds. Levi makes a small, noncommittal noise. His fingers find hers where she’s holding the picture, gripping it and pulling it until it slips out from between them. For the smallest moment, Hange feels the skin of Levi’s nose against hers, and the warm puff of breath on her lips, and then Levi straightens up, flipping the picture for her to see it.

“I’ve looked at your ugly mug every day for long enough. Don’t think I’d forget it so easily.”

It’s a truly unflattering photograph. Hange has her head tipped back, laughing boisterously at some thing or another, with her eyes pinched closed and chocolate sauce smeared over her lips, a drop of cream stuck to the end of her nose. Hange is sure she has looked better, but the thing is—despite her state, the picture still isn’t bad. Hange can hear the lilt of her own laughter and feel the tacky syrup, savour the sweetness of the cream on her tongue. There’s something so...animated about it, about the way the light dances over her skin and in her hair, and the way the background blurs around her, drawing her into sharp focus.

It’s nice, in a strange, unreserved kind of way.

But she’s still a mess. Hange snatches it and slams it down on the desk, glowering up at Levi.

“Why would you take that,” she whines, petulant. “You’re supposed to take pictures of nice things!”

“Because it’s very...you,” He says, neatly slotting the pictures back into the drawer, and moving back to sit on the window. Hange follows, drops herself onto the ledge opposite him with a pout.

“What, disgusting?”

Levi shrugs. “Messy. But...not bad.”

“I’m supposed to take that as a compliment, I guess? That’s almost sweet coming from you, Levi.”

Levi scowls over at her. She dangles one leg back out the open window, dropping the other heavily into Levi’s lap. He adjusts it until he is more comfortable, his hand wrapping again around her ankle, but does not let go once he has settled. He keeps a hold of her, his fingers tracing thoughtless patterns on her skin. The space between them is warm, comfortable. Hange leans her head back and breathes it in—the peace, the quiet, the simple pleasure of spending a tender evening with her favourite person in the whole world.

It’s nice. A small, frightened part of her doesn’t want it to ever end.

**

Hange has been set up in her student apartment for three weeks when the package arrives.

Moving had been harder than she had anticipated. She’d accounted for common issues—problems with her visa, her plane tickets, and had checked multiple transport options from the airport to her accommodation in case problems arose—but she hadn’t put all that much thought into what would happen once she settled at her apartment.

Unpacking had been boring. Her roommates were nice enough, the studious, bookworm-y type, but unlike Hange they weren’t overly sociable. They kept mostly to themselves in their rooms, perfectly content with brief conversations in the kitchen before retiring again, and with classes still two weeks away, Hange was finding the lack of social interaction difficult. She had explored some, but the city was vast in a cluttered, claustrophobic way. Hange had always enjoyed travelling, and had talked relentlessly of every adventure she could take herself on in a whole new country and all the new places she could explore, so much so that it was almost embarrassing, the way she had found herself so unwilling to stray too far from her accommodation without a companion by her side.

She’d felt a little homesick in the first couple of days, lonely and isolated. She missed the small comforts of the country, things she hadn’t even realised she had taken for granted. Quiet nights. Star studded skies. Long grass and trees and the fresh, earthy smell on the breeze. The city was unbearably loud at times, and even when the wail of sirens or the beep of car horns quieted, there was an unidentifiable hum beneath it all that never ceased even for a moment.

She felt Levi’s absence most acutely. Hange had known she would, but she hadn’t been prepared for how much it would hurt to be apart. She felt silly for it—it was ridiculous, to miss her friend more than she missed her own family, even. But Levi’s presence had been more constant than anything else, back home, and without him, she felt like a small part of herself was missing.

He called, as promised. Once a day, though oftentimes it was very late in the night for him, and he sounded tired. If Hange were less selfish, she might tell him to get some sleep instead—but she missed him. Hearing from him was the best part of her day.

It was about an hour before their designated call time when the post came. Hange answers the bell with a frown, which only deepens when the delivery driver hands her the package.

She takes it into her room, settling cross legged on the bed and inspecting the mystery item. It's a decent size, like a large shoe box, wrapped neatly in brown paper with her address lettered in tidy, familiar handwriting in one corner. Hange’s stomach lurches—she’d have recognised the writing anywhere, but her suspicions are confirmed by the return address. Levi’s.

She rips into the paper quickly, snatching up her keys to tear through the tape on the top of the box. It is stuffed full with packing paper, an envelope with her name on it sitting on the top. Hange picks it up and with trembling fingers, she opens it and unfolds the short note inside.

Hange,

Sorry things have been kind of shitty. This stuff might help or it might make things worse, but I figure you can just throw it out if it’s no good. Or give it away. Whatever. I don’t even know if all of this shit will make it through customs, so if you get an empty box it’s not my fault.

I don’t get how you eat half this junk, but I hope it makes you feel better, anyway.

Look after yourself. Eat real food.

Levi

Hange presses the note to her chest, grinning. Her heart aches, but having Levi go to this much trouble for her...it feels nice. Knowing he is still thinking of her. She’d never have admitted it out loud, but Hange had been concerned that perhaps Levi would forget about her after all, without her there to pester him all the time.

She pulls out some of the packing paper, and smiles widely at the rest of the contents.

Levi had put together what Hange can only call a care package. There are packs of her favourite snacks and sweets, things she’d complained she hadn’t been able to find in stores here; crisps, chocolate, hard candy, little mini boxes of sickeningly sugary cereal. There are tea bags with blends Levi knows she likes, each neatly labelled with instructions on what temperature to brew at and how long for. Levi had also packed some of the soaps Hange likes, the ones he uses but she refuses to buy for herself. The lavender scent drifts up out of the box and Hange’s heart squeezes tight in her chest. There’s a shirt in there, too—Hange recognises it at once, as one of Levi’s old, worn tees, thin grey cotton that feels impossibly soft in her hands. It’s far too big for either of them, and had always been the go-to item Levi would chuck at her when she decided she was staying over for the night and had nothing to wear to bed. Hange pulls it on quickly, savouring the soft feel and the smell of it.

In the bottom of the box, there is another envelope. This one is thicker than the first, and Hange knows what it contains before she even opens it.

Photographs. A small pile of them, depicting places she and Levi had frequented from when they were children right up until this last year—her favourite part of the forest, where the trees thin out and the river pools at the foot of a small waterfall. The great, open fields, sometimes full of long grass, sometimes clipped short and striped with windrows. Kuchel’s cafe, with umbrellas raised to block the sun on the tables outside, or else warm and low-lit and cosy in the cold winter. Hange settles back on her pillows as she flicks through each picture, a soft smile on her face. Looking at the images of home hurts, but it isn’t a terrible pain—she longs for these old times and these familiar places, but each recovered memory makes her happy.

In Levi’s pictures she can vividly recall moments in each and every location. He works some kind of magic with a camera, to trigger so many sensory memories—the scent of freshly cut grass, the feel of hay, dry and sharp, poking into her back through her clothing, and the gentle trickle of the river water, the splash of it as it runs over the falls, the feel of it cool on her skin. The tangy zest of fresh-pressed orange juice in the cafe, peach fuzz on her lips and the soft flesh of ripe fruit bursting between her teeth, sticky nectar coating her fingers.

Hange looks at each picture in turn, until she reaches the bottom of the pile, and there she stops abruptly, eyes widening at the last photograph Levi has packed for her.

It is one of Hange, taken in the window of Levi’s bedroom. She was looking out at the night sky, her elbow braced on her bent  knee, chin in her palm, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth. The starlight haloed her, shining from her hair and illuminating the jut of her chin, the curve of her nose and the slope of her brow. Behind her, Levi had captured the bright glow of the stars like jewels on a deep velvet canvas. She looked peaceful. Happy. For lack of a better word, beautiful.

Hange grins widely. Her eyes sting and her throat aches, but the picture—the whole box, really—makes her happier than she's felt in weeks. She brews her favourite cup of tea from the blends Levi had sent her and settles into the corner of her bed, lifting her phone to snap a quick selfie. She sends it to Levi, complete with a caption: thank you for my presents 😊 all ready for your call!

Levi responds almost immediately, first with a simple you're welcome. And then, after a minute, you look good. Speak to you soon.

Hange sinks deeper into the cushions, cradling her tea close to her face, masking the pleased flush on her cheeks with the heat from the steam.

**

Hange keeps him longer than usual, today.

There is a simmering warmth in her stomach as she listens to Levi's voice over the line. It comes tinny through the speakers, low and rough in the late hour, and his dark, grainy image looks tired, lamp light casting him half in shadow. They talk of everything and nothing, same as always—Levi tells her about his day, about the cafe and Kuchel, and Hange pouts as she tells him how little progress she is making in befriending her new housemates. Levi never voices any concern for her aloud, but Hange can sense it in the dip of his brows as she talks. She gives him a genuine smile when she reassures him that classes will start soon, and she's confident she will settle better after that.

Levi seems reluctant to leave, but after a little over an hour of aimless, comfortable chatter, he is yawning and blinking heavily, the lower half of his face nuzzled into his pillow. In the end, Hange makes up some watery excuse about visiting the coast while the sun is still high, if only to let him get some sleep.

"Sure. Have fun."

"I will! Sleep well, Levi."

Levi hums. The view shifts, blurry and indistinct, the mic muffled by the rustle of sheets, and when everything settles he is laying on his side, fringe mussed and falling over his eyes. He covers another long yawn with his fist. "I will."

"You'll call tomorrow?"

Levi rolls his tired eyes, but the corner of his mouth pulls up in a fraction of a smile. "Sure."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Hange grins. Levi watches her for a long moment, eyes scanning over her face. Then he holds up a hand in a tired wave. "Night, Hange."

"Night."

Hange stares at the screen for too long when the call ends. That terribly selfish part of her would have loved to keep his company for the rest of the day. Maybe, with a little travel sized Levi in the palm of her hand, she'd have been brave enough to explore some more, enthused about all the new things to see with somebody to share them with.

Sighing, Hange drops her phone to the desk and stands from the bed, stretching. There are still things she can do—she has plenty of recommended reading to get through, a small mountain of books at her disposal, and she has mapped the route to her campus often enough that she isn't feeling too overwhelmed by the prospect of the journey.

As she heads for the door, Hange notices something on the floor beside the bed. A neat, rectangular piece of paper; one of the photographs Levi had sent her, laying face down on the ground.

She picks it up again and brings the paper close to her face. Levi had written something on the back of it in small, quick letters, less tidy than his usual practiced script, as though he’d scribbled it as an afterthought, or else that he wasn’t sure he really wanted her to read it.

There is a date, the same night she had found Levi’s secret photo stash, followed by Hange’s name, and the location of the shot. And beneath that Levi had scrawled a few words. Hange squints to read them, and then her eyes grow wide, blinking owlishly down at the note. Her heart swells almost painfully and something solid balloons within her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. Her lips tremble into a smile as she props the picture carefully on the bedside table.

The day is still young. Hange brews herself another cup of Levi’s tea and settles on the bed with one of her books, content to spend the next few hours reading—though she finds it strangely difficult to focus, with the words Levi had written on the back of the photograph swirling round and round in her head. Hange doubts they will leave her any time soon. They left her feeling more homesick than ever, but there is a soft, giddy kind of comfort in them all the same. It's a feeling that Hange will savour for as long as she possibly can.

It's weird here without you. Come home again soon x

[ichorai]

ghostly moon, soulless sun ; c.s

pairing ; san x ghost!reader

words ; 1k

warnings / includes ; heavy angst, implications of death, sun/moon metaphors !!, another one of my half-assed attempts at poetic writing </3

prompts ; 12. "don't leave me here." + 24. "i'm sorry. i never meant to hurt you like that."

a/n ; a short lil tidbit for @ficscafe's dialogue prompt event !! this one's real sad yall omg thank you to @fullsunfluff and @subways-stuff for reading through <33

San was dancing with but a mere shadow. He could see you, hold you, feel your gentle warmth molding beneath his tender grazes… and yet, you were never really there. He was alone, swaying to the echo of a dead song that only he could hear.

Eventually, San crumpled to the ground, slowly bringing his knees up to his chest. He felt like a hollow husk of a man, fruitlessly grasping at straws for someone who was gone. You were never coming back.

“Don’t leave me here.” His voice, raw with pure agony, rang out into the empty room.

He was met with no reply.

Tears, scaldingly cold, meandered silently over his cheeks. They dribbled onto the polished wooden floors, like wax melting off the candle’s wick. San wondered how long it’d take before his flame would dwindle to a wisp of smoke.

Each tear told a different story, and he was not yet ready to navigate the ocean.

If he closed his eyes, he could envision your smile, the way you threw your head back when you laughed with glee. It was almost as if he could smell your vanilla hazel perfume that you often spritzed at the junction of your neck, right where San enjoyed peppering faint kisses. Your heartbeat had also always been his favorite sound. It was what used to put him to sleep, accompanied with your steady breathing. San didn’t sleep much anymore. He couldn’t; especially not without you by his side.

And all of it… now gone.

When one looks up at the night sky expecting to see the sun, they’d come away disappointed, only seeing the moon. And though it was practically nothing in comparison, the moon was somehow all the more breath-taking. That was how San felt about you. Whilst everybody else was far too busy gawking at the large blinding star, you were there, waiting patiently in the shadows. Because what was the moon in the presence of the sun?

It was only a week after the tragedy when you came back into his life. At first, he had shrugged it off as his grief-stricken mind playing tricks with his eyes. He was tired, barely conscious, and mentally anaesthetized.

But he knew it had to be real when you reached out with your gentle ghostly touch, whispering, “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you like that, San. We didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye, did we?”

“Why come back if you’re just going to leave again?” San croaked out, turning his head so he wasn’t facing you anymore. He had exhausted himself of tears.

There was a beat of silence. Your ghostly form rounded the unmade bed, sitting by the edge to where he was curled. His eyelids fluttered shut, lashes brushing against his gaunt cheeks. The feeling of his warm skin beneath your cold, lifeless touch only served to wedge a larger gap between the moon and the sun.

“Death gave me a chance to tie up any loose ends. You’re my loose end, San.” You laid down beside him. The pillows and mattress didn’t sink under your weight, for you were only a soul without a body; juxtaposing greatly against your past lover. Where had his soul gone? “I can’t stay for long. I just wanted to tell you that I love you. And if you really loved me back, you’d pick yourself back up. The days don’t exist without the sun.”

An anger, like one he had never felt before, blossomed its inky black contents across his ribcage and seeped into his heart. “The moon abandoned the night, so why should the sun stay? You’re not coming back to me. Let the world stay dark.”

“San.”

A shiver danced along his spine at the sound of his name escaping your ghostly lips.

“The moon might be gone, but there will always be the stars. Bits of me sprinkled across the horizon for you. I’m still in here.” Your translucent fingers reached out to brush over his chest, just above where his duly-thumping heart laid. “Don’t lose yourself. Because a part of me is in there with you. Just as the sun shares the sky with the moon.”

San didn’t have the heart to tell you to leave. He missed everything about you… your melodic words, your elegant features (though barely discernible because you were translucent and the room was quite dark), and the way that, even as a ghost, you managed to make everything seem better. For the first time in a long while, San didn’t feel the crushing boulder-like weight resting upon his shoulders. And so he stayed silent, blinking away the onslaught of saltified emotions lacing the corners of his eyes.

A ghost and their lover laying on the same bed. A broken man and the golden glue that kept the shards together. A waning moon and a setting sun. They weren’t touching, no, but so very close to. San’s hands suddenly ached to hold you in his arms. One last time.

Eventually, after hours and hours, San succumbed to the painful chasm of sleep, horrendous nightmares stringing him along like a limp puppet. When the morning sun rose, greeting him in the face with intruding rays filtering past his blinds, he blinked away the exhaust and ran his hand over his worn face groggily, glancing to the side.

You were no longer there. Of course you weren’t. The moon thrived in the shadows, and the sun brought nothing but radiance. San tried his best to ignore the twinge of nostalgic pain clawing away at his heart.

Slowly, he slid off the bed and stretched, groaning at the stiff muscles in his shoulders.

For you, San would do anything. You told him to pick himself back up, and he vowed to do so, shard after shard, no matter how many cuts he’d accumulate. He’d keep dancing with the shadows, swaying to the dead song’s cavernous echo. And perhaps one day, it’d reignite the flame within his soul.

[zintranslations]

Kaleidoscope of Death, Extra 5

Kaleidoscope of Death by Xi Zixu Link to Chinese / Novel Updates

Extra: Twin Lives, Twin Deaths (2)

And so, Cheng Yixie returned to Cheng Qianli's side.

After leaving his first door, Cheng Qianli came down with a fever. He was sent to the ICU that night. Their parents both thought Cheng Qianli wouldn't make it, but only Cheng Yixie knew that Cheng Qianli was welcoming his rebirth.

A few days later, Cheng Qianli left the ICU, his body slowly healing. The first sight that greeted him upon his waking was his brother Cheng Yixie.

Cheng Yixie was sitting on a chair beside his bed, leaning back with his eyes lightly closed, apparently asleep. Cheng Qianli saw the sunlight spill over Cheng Yixie's black hair, making the inky strands seem slightly translucent. Speckled light dripped through tree branches and upon his back, and for a moment, it looked like he had wings. In Cheng Qianli's eyes, Cheng Yixie seemed as holy as an angel fallen from the heavens.

The angel's lashes trembled, and his eyes opened. Sleepiness clouded his dark pupils, and it was only in moments like this when a childlike tenderness could still be seen in his gaze.

"Ge," Cheng Qianli called to him.

The instant he heard this, the child in Cheng Yixie's eyes faded. His gaze returned to their deep, lake-like calmness as he looked at Cheng Yixie.

"Awake? Does it hurt anywhere?"

Cheng Qianli shook his head. "I think I'm pretty okay."

Maybe he was imagining things, but he thought that the bout of sickness this time actually made his body more healthy; the places that were always quietly hurting didn't feel like anything right now.

"Mh," Cheng Yixie said. "Leave with me tomorrow then."

Cheng Qianli was stunned. "Leave? For where?"

Cheng Yixie, "a place that can save your life."

Cheng Qianli stared at Cheng Yixie in a daze. Cheng Yixie thought he'd at least ask some questions, but the fool nodded right then and there, concerned just enough to ask, "have you told mom and dad? They won't stop us, right?"

"No," Cheng Yixie said. "I've already talked to them."

Upon his return this time, he'd gotten a check-up at the hospital. The doctors had been shocked to find his body completely recovered from terminal disease. By all reason, this kind of congenital cardiovascular malformation had no treatment at all given the state of modern medicine, but there hadn't been a single symptom to be found on Cheng Yixie's body.

"Let him come with me. If he stays here he'll die," Cheng Yixie had told his parents. "Only I can save him. I'm the best example."

Faced with Cheng Yixie's somewhat absurd request, their parents had at first been a little hesitant. But after Cheng Yixie used his own healthy body as proof, they'd agreed to it in the end. Because even if they got to keep Cheng Qianli, the doctors didn't have any solutions. Since that was the case, why not let Cheng Yixie have a gamble?

After that, Cheng Yixie successfully took Cheng Qianli with him out of the hospital, and the two returned to Obsidian.

Obsidian was a warm place. Cheng Yixie rejoiced that he had been able to meet such a group of people. But Cheng Qianli was only a kid who practically grew up in the hospital—he was scared of the dark and a wimp. Though his body was growing gradually healthier after entering the doors, he still couldn't manage to extricate himself from that terrifying world.

He couldn't sleep because of the nightmares; every night he came to Cheng Yixie crying, barefoot, hugging a pillow and saying, "Ge, I had a nightmare again…"

Cheng Yixie was at his computer looking up information. He turned his head back and shot Cheng Qianli a look, before gesturing with his chin for Cheng Qianli to get on the bed.

Cheng Qianli obediently crawled into the large bed behind him, staring up at the ceiling in a daze.

"Ge, aren't you scared?"

Cheng Yixie, "scared of what?"

"Of ghosts," Cheng Qianli answered.

"What's so scary about ghosts," Cheng Yixie said. "I'm not scared of ghosts."

"Then what are you scared of?" Cheng Qianli's voice asked from behind him.

This question, Cheng Yixie did not answer for Cheng Qianli. Cool light spilled from the computer screen onto his impassive face. He didn't want to say what he feared out loud, because it felt like if he said it it would come true.

Cheng Qianli didn't pursue the question, either. His even breathing came from behind—he was just a kid, after all. Once he wasn't scared anymore, he fell quickly asleep.

A few days later, Cheng Qianli saw Cheng Yixie come into the house with a furry lump in his arms. Before Cheng Qianli could react, Cheng Yixie was tossing that lump into his arms. The lump perked up its furry little butt and lapped like crazy at Cheng Qianli's cheek with its tongue. It licked Cheng Qianli into giggles, and Cheng Qianli registered then that the lump was an adorable little corgi—he exclaimed in a moment of pure delight, "it's a corgi! Ge!! I love you!!"

Cheng Yixie nodded at Cheng Qianli, turned around, and left.

What kid didn't like animals? It was just that their physical conditions before hadn't allowed them such hobbies. Now that Cheng Qianli was getting healthy, he'd given Cheng Qianli a long-coveted present.

Of course Cheng Qianli was happy beyond words, gobbling up extra bites of dinner that night. He even went around excitedly collecting everybody's opinion on what to name the dog, before finally making a decision—Toast.

Toast was the little corgi's name.

With Toast around, Cheng Qianli's mental state got a lot better. He no longer sought Cheng Yixie out at night because he couldn't sleep.

Cheng Yixie would sometimes go to his room and check on him in the middle of the night. He'd see the kid sprawled out with limbs akimbo, bent in all sorts of strange ways on the bed. And Toast would be lying right next to him, sleeping with its belly up—the two of them, one large and one small, made a particularly harmonious scene.

And Cheng Yixie would look away. When he closed the door behind him that night, he saw Ruan Nanzhu standing and smoking in the hallway.

"You're up so late?" Ruan Nanzhu asked him.

"Mh," Cheng Yixie said. "Couldn't sleep."

"It's his second door in two days. Nervous?" Ruan Nanzhu said.

Cheng Yixie was silent for a while, before nodding and admitting to the anxiety deep in his heart.

"It's never easy." Ruan Nanzhu stubbed out his cigarette. "And you're still so young…I'll go in with you."

Cheng Yixie thanked Ruan Nanzhu in response.

Ruan Nanzhu said nothing, just started back to his room. But when he pushed his door open, his footsteps halted, and he looked back at Cheng Yixie.

"But he'll have to grow up sooner or later."

Cheng Yixie met Ruan Nanzhu's eyes. He knew what Ruan Nanzhu meant.

"You can't protect him forever," Ruan Nanzhu said.

"Do you think he can do it?" Cheng Yixie asked. "Do you think, he can come as far as I have?"

Ruan Nanzhu sighed, and said nothing more.

Some things could be achieved with hard work, but other things could only be gotten through talent. Though it wasn't fair, this was the case for the world of the doors.

Some people were naturally suited to enter the doors. They were calm and clever; even in the most dangerous moments, they could think of ways to escape.

But some people couldn't.

Cheng Yixie was a person suited to the doors, but his brother Cheng Qianli was just a regular dumb kid.

Cheng Yixie didn't know how many times he'd fantasized about this—what a fortunate thing it would be if they had healthy bodies.

Cheng Qianli would grow up normally. Perhaps he'd be a bit stupid, and his grades would mean headaches for their parents, but that was fine. He would have a clever older brother. His brother could watch over him.

But all these fantasies were simply wishful thinking.

Cheng Yixie returned to his room. Nobody knew better than he did that Cheng Qianli was not suited to the doors. If things progressed down their regular tracks, Cheng Qianli would most likely very quickly die in the following doors.

But how could Cheng Yixie let all that happen? He'd already decided the path that he would walk.

Three days later, Ruan Nanzhu and the Cheng twins entered Cheng Qianli's second door together.

This door was not particularly difficult, but to Cheng Qianli, it was still horribly thrilling; he was screaming of fright the whole time.

Cheng Yixie asked him, "how the hell did you even survive your first door?"

"I don't know," Cheng Qianli said. "I just went quietly to bed every night, and then one day I saw an open door. It was all bright inside, and after I walked in, I was out…"

Both Cheng Yixie and Ruan Nanzhu sank into a peculiar silence at this. It looked like fortune favors fools really was a wise saying.

After exiting his second door, Cheng Qianli got sick again for over a week. The doctor said it was caused by an excess amount of right.

Cheng Yixie watched over him as he got his IV drip, and Cheng Qianli was all wilted and sticky with sickness. He asked Cheng Yixie, "gege, how do I get better at this?"

Cheng Yixie patted his forehead, saying nothing.

"Will I get better if I stop being scared of ghosts," Cheng Qianli said. "I've decided, I'm going to watch a scary movie every day once we're back…"

Cheng Yixie wanted to sigh, but in the end, couldn't do it. He only spoke lightly, "focus on getting better first. Everything else, there's no rush. Ge's here."

Cheng Qianli nodded obediently.

Cheng Yixie thought Cheng Qianli had only been saying so, but after he got better, he actually did start watching scary movies. And one per day. Every single day he would be curled up in the living room with a blanket wrapped around his entire body, still scaring as badly as a quail each time.

Cheng Yixie was exasperated, but didn't try to talk him out of it. It pretty much looked like Cheng Qianli's courage wasn't something that could be built up.

Though Cheng Qianli wasn't particularly strong, he injected a different kind of life into Obsidian.

When the group grew numb from the torment of the terrifying doors, the upbeat Cheng Qianli was just like an oil pastel, swiping rich colors back onto Obsidian and filling the place with the breath of life.

If only the days could continue on like this, how nice would that be? Cheng Yixie wouldn't think this just the once. Some things, however, couldn't be avoided just by hiding.

Everything changed in Cheng Yixie's seventh door.

That door was vicious beyond measure, and Cheng Yixie was the only survivor. Just as he was stumbling out the door, he got his hands on a hint slip different from all others.

A detailed hint for the next door was written on the slip of paper.

In that moment, Cheng Yixie didn't comprehend just how this hint slip would change the tracks out under his life. He was still rejoicing, rejoicing that he'd once again escaped disaster, rejoicing that he'd gotten a hint to the eighth door, rejoicing that he'd be able to see Cheng Qianli again.

But a long, long time later, when he remembered this moment, he would realize that the Cheng Yixie back then had been standing at the crossroads of fate.

On one side of fate was hell. And on the other, was also hell.

[Extra: Twin Lives, Twin Deaths(1)] | [Extra: Twin Lives, Twin Deaths(3)]

[akillysheel]

CARE PACKAGE. ❜

Summary:  Jack is more isolated than Annalise would like. Warnings:  Discussions of fictional racism.

His late-night channel-surfing is interrupted by a knock at the door.  Suddenly, his modest apartment feels even smaller, its walls boxing him in as he listens intently for a follow-up.  He lives in a shady part of town–  not quite The Slums, but close–  and he knows better than to open up so late.

Jack grabs his phone and checks the time.

11.53.  

Definitely too late for a cold call.

Opting for silence seems like the smartest option here.  With any luck, whoever is out there will get the message…  but of course he doesn’t have any.  They knock again, this time more insistently, and he feels his hand graze over the pistol still attached to his hip out of habit.  After a moment of consideration, he rises slowly from the couch and moves to the front door, his hand resting cautiously on the handle.

“Jack.  Open the door.”

The familiar voice makes him blink, and all too readily does he do as he’s been told.

“Annie,”   he says, clearly surprised.  She’s standing before him in a cloak, the kind he’d only seen in movies up until his integration with huros.  In Huron, capes and boots were staple pieces in a lot of people’s outfits.  If he cares to think about it, he supposes he can see why;  they match the muggy climate and work ethic practically to the letter.

He points at her lazily.   “Little cold for that, eh?”

“A little,”   she concedes, Vide’s chill biting through the apparel she’s normally so suited to.   “With that in mind, are you goin’ to make me stand out here all night?”

Reality sinks in like teeth do flesh, and before he can refute it, he finds himself opening his door wide and gesturing inside with his head.  Her visit is impromptu, and that much concerns him.  She’s never been to his place before.  He never makes a habit of blurring the lines between business and…  well.  Whatever the nature of her visit is.

“How do you know where I live?”   he asks, leaning against the doorframe as he watches her adjust herself on his couch.  It’s an old, sunken thing, but it’s warm and smells like home.  That’s enough for him.

“The benefits of bein’ a cop,”   Annalise replies, looking around curiously before her eyes settle on him.  With her features lit only by the mood lamp on his cabinet, she looks vaguely like an angel of death;  tinted red, her inky limbs making it difficult to tell where she ends and the darkness around her begins.  “You have a file, just like everybody else.”

“Snooping,”   Jack says, his tone equal parts dismayed and impressed.   “Why?”

“You’re not even goin’ to offer me a beer?”   She points to a thin glass bottle that’s only a quarter full.  It sits proudly on his table beside the remote, the rim glinting crimson.  A wordless beckon, temptation incarnate.

He folds his arms, arches an eyebrow at her.   “Tell me something I like and I might.”

She holds his gaze stubbornly, brown eyes all but black in the dim light, before she sighs and gives in.   “So suspicious,”   she scolds as she dips a hand beneath her cloak, retrieving a small parcel from its inner pocket.  She sets it purposefully atop the tv remote, changing the channel in a passive display of dominance.   “Here.  For you.”

The man levels the parcel with a look of skepticism, lip unwittingly curling upwards, as if she’d posted droppings through his letterbox.  “Great.  You’ve brought some sort of explosive into my apartment.  Am I supposed to thank you?”

“Oh, you sound just like Cthugha.  You’ve been spendin’ too much time with him.”   Her eyes roll, arms folding tightly over her chest.   “Just open it.”

After a few moments of quiet contemplation, Jack bridges the distance between them.  He perches on the edge of the couch, no longer content to sink into it now that he has some company.  He can’t remember the last time he had someone over.   It was probably the last time he was topsy-turvy drunk and hooked up with a random woman to pass the time.  He doubts she recalls much about his place aside from the pale blue of his sheets, and if he’s being honest, he vastly prefers it that way.

His fingers tug at the twine surrounding the package, undoing it with grace that doesn't suit his blunt nature.  What greets him as the paper falls away has his eyebrows raising high.

A tupperware box sits face-up, a plastic lid shielding the contents from the chilly night air.  It's then that he realises there is warmth to the exterior.  It soothes his cold hands in ways he didn't know he needed them soothed.

"What is this?"   he asks dumbly, his tongue suddenly feeling three times too big for his mouth.  It's difficult to talk–  difficult to navigate the confusion that's taken root in his chest, that's spread its perilous spor through his soul.

"You skipped out on the potluck.  Again."   Annalise picks nonexistent lint from her cloak, eyes now anywhere but on him.  She isn't a shy woman, but sometimes she feels grievously unsuited to the kindness she wants to display.  It's as if she isn't built for it, much like Jack doesn't seem built to accept it.  "It was really good.  I thought I'd bring some over."

"You went through my file and found my address to…  bring me soup?"

Annalise winces slightly.  When it's said out loud in such a reductive fashion, it makes her sound crazy.  She doesn't appreciate his critical approach to her act of generosity- but she understands it.  She knows that she wouldn't be too happy if a coworker she didn’t really know personally showed up at her door unannounced for something other than work.  Still, surely she and the other members of the HTF have proven their trustworthiness by now?

"You've been working with us for a while now."   It's a gradual start, one that makes it clear she's picking her words carefully.  She doesn't give in to the pressures of sociability all too often–  she's a stubborn woman with an even more stubborn sense of pride–  but she feels strangely exposed beneath Jack's frigid stare.   "... you never stay for food.  I never really see you eat.  I–  I worry about you."

He blinks slowly, the admission settling like dust in his brain.  His icy eyes shift from the woman beside him to the soup in his lap, its warmth seeping through the bottom of the tub and leaving his lap pleasantly cosy.  Annalise is a strange person in his books.  He's never met a woman quite like her.  He's met driven ladies several times over–  those cold calculating sharks doused from head to toe in brute professionalism–  but they don't impress him much.  Too uptight.  Too petty.  Too up their own arse.  Besides, none spit fire quite like his Annie does.  To see her bare her more gentle side to him like this…  it has something hard in him softening in tandem.  

A small laugh leaves him. She looks up sharply, her eyes somehow looking simultaneously wide and narrow;  embarrassed and irritated.

"Y'know, I never took you for a sweetheart, Annie."

Her cheeks fuel scarlet so suddenly that it makes Jack feel as if he's dreaming.  It's such an honest reaction to his teasing that he suddenly feels removed from reality, staring at her as if she's suddenly sprouted a second head.

"Shut up and eat your damn soup,"   she retorts snippily, and suddenly things feel real again.

"Alright, fine.  I'll grab a spoon,"   he says, standing up and making his way towards the kitchen.  After a moment of consideration, he turns back to her and points, as if he's remembered something important very suddenly.   "And I'll grab you a beer."

He leaves before he can see her soft smile, venturing into the kitchen with all the confidence of a foolhardy explorer.  As soon as he pops the lid off of the container, the rich smell greets him.  Among the multitude of things he's come to appreciate about his neighbour's people sits their borderline uncanny ability to season food.  It isn't even that viders can't do it as well;  it's just that, a lot of the time, corporations prioritise quantity over quality.

With his spoon acquired and Annie's beer tucked snugly beneath his arm, Jack meanders back to the living room, only to find her standing near the door.

"What're you doing?"

"I think I'll go.  I don't want to trouble you."

Jack's brow furrows before he shimmies the beer into his hand, offering it to her.   "Don't be stupid.  Besides, I'm not letting you go back out there now."

"Lettin' me…?"   Her tone is soaked in disapproval, a cute kink in her brow.  Jack tries not to focus on it;  instead looks insistently at the beer in his hand, relieved when she takes pity on him and accepts it.

“You know how Vide is.  I’m surprised you made it here with your stupid fucking soup still in tow.  You…  what?  What’s that look for?”

Annalise’s eyes have shifted away from him guiltily, her arm scratched.  After a moment of deliberation:   “Someone did try to take it.”

“Christ, Annie–”

“I kicked her so hard in the shin that she fell over.”

“I don’t know whether to be impressed by your fortitude or disturbed by how intent you were on getting that goddamn container to my apartment,”   he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.  He won’t lie though, he likes the idea of Annie kicking anyone hard enough to make them fall over.  If only he’d been there to see it.   “Look, just stay here for the night.  You can take the couch.  The last train just left anyway.”

“You’re probably right.”   Conceding is tough for her in any regard, and she’s never been able to put her finger on quite why.  She suspects that it has something to do with her overbearing father.  He always meant well, but sometimes the pressure he put on her to “be something more than a yarn-spinner” did more harm than good.

Question everythin’, Annie.  Even from those you trust.  That’s what makes a good officer. How would you know what makes a good officer, dad? Hah!  Y’know how many crime novels I’ve read in my time, silly!

Her eyes flit back to the man standing opposite her, looking more than a little confused at the way she’d suddenly spaced out.  Jack.  Unassuming, funny-guy Jack.  Did he have the propensity to plot anything at her expense?  Would he?

His hand rests on her shoulder, breaks through what remains of her brain fog with alarmingly little effort.  It’s warm and heavy, and she doesn’t hate it half as much as she thought she would.   “You’re alright,”   he says, and something about his calm tone draws her back to herself.   “It’s not a big deal, mate.  Honest.”

He still thinks that this is about the couch, and Annalise doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s wrong.  Instead, she pops the cap off of her beer, then nods at his makeshift bowl.   “Don’t let that go cold.”

His eyes playfully greet the ceiling before he makes his way back to the couch, sitting down with his impromptu meal snug in his lap.  She notes the lack of a dining table with some amount of chagrin, though quickly comes to the conclusion that it’s unnecessary for somebody living alone to own one.  On that note, she’s never heard Jack talk about his family–  not even a girlfriend ( which she absolutely assumed he would have ).  She isn’t the most open person in the world either, but even casual associates know she has a brother who’s a bookmaker and a father that teaches Hural to pre-schoolers.  It’s rather strange that her associate is seemingly isolated from the rest of the world.

She settles beside him–  a cushion apart, but near enough to feel friendly–  and watches the screen in front of her with little interest, sipping at her drink in polite silence.  Only when Jack has drained three quarters of his tupperware bowl does she think to speak again.

“Why do you never stay?”   she asks, fingers picking at a loose thread at the edge of her shirt.  She’s had this one for close to a decade, handmade by her grandmother.  After she was diagnosed with joint-destroying arthritis, reducing her elderly life to a passionless pit of despair, Annalise doesn’t have the heart to part with it.  She’s certain that even when all that remains are tattered edges and frayed cotton, she’ll keep what’s left of it tucked in the back of her wardrobe.

“Well, now you’re sounding like a hook-up.  Is this going to make working with you awkward?”   Jack remarks with a crude scoff, and the divide between their districts shows itself once more.  Her nose wrinkles;  her cheeks fuel pink;  her hand finds his arm, fingers drawing tight in the form of a harsh pinch.  She relishes in the sharp hiss he releases, drinks more in favour of listening to his disgruntled muttering.  In a more sober tone:   “For the potluck?”

“For anythin’,”   she replies, neck craned in his direction.  The TV was of little consequence to begin with, but now she’s ignoring it completely.   “You’re part of the team, y’know.  You ought to stick around every once in a while.”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t be stupid.”   Her echoing his words from earlier rings like a bell in her head.   “Kuro told me you begged for the position at the HTF–”

“That little fucking grass.”

She spares him a dry chuckle, her eyebrows arched.   “So you don’t deny that you begged.  Interesting.”   She notes the curl of his mouth, his spoon put down with slightly more force than necessary.   “He wasn’t making fun of you.  He was actually telling us so that we’d make even more of an effort to make you feel welcome.  But it’s hard to make you feel like part of things when you disappear before we can even invite you.”

His face is slack.  When he next looks at her, it’s with eyes that are as frigid as they are defeated.  He sends her strange signals, fills her up with conflicting emotions, and she never quite knows where she stands with him.

“Yeah.  I begged alright,”   he says flatly.   “Wouldn’t you?  The VTF is shit.  Everyone knows this.”   They actually don’t, and this he knows, but he makes no effort to correct himself.   “... I know I’m part of the HTF now.  And I am thankful for that.  It’s just…  hard when you’re one of the only viders on the force.  Get-togethers kinda just get me down.”

The racism he experiences is minute in comparison to how it used to be, but some of his coworkers still make tongue-in-cheek remarks that leave him feeling lukewarm inside.

Get some sun, y’vamp. Yer probably the first hard-workin’ vider I’ve crossed paths with. It’s so impressive of y’to join the good guys. Go to a doctor here.  They’ll prescribe ya some goddamn colour.

The problem isn’t with viders themselves.  The problem lies in the disparity between the rich and the poor, and the toxicity that is bred in such an unfair environment.  People get desperate - and with desperation comes the cunning and the deceit.  Sometimes, it doesn’t pay to be a good person.  Jack knows what it’s like to only have dirt lining his pockets–  knows the fear that comes with wondering how you’re going to put food on the table.  It has nothing to do with his pale complexion, even in juxtaposition to his darker neighbours.  It’s all to do with wealth.

Not that he expects huros, people who haven’t grown up in the same borderline-dystopian hellhole that he has, to understand that.  They see his colour–  his ghostly white that makes him look as if he’s allergic to the sun–  and that’s that. 

The only thing my skin is to me is thick.  Doesn’t that piss you off, eh partner.

“You don’t need to think like that,”   Annalise says coolly, her legs drawing up to her chest.  She rests her cheek in her palm, looks at him with eyes that remind him of a [panther].   “I know some of the guys make jokes, but that’s never been a problem for you, has it?”

“No.  Jokes are jokes, they’re not real life.  Not enough people understand that shit,”   Jack replies.  Comedy, as someone who made ends meet with stand-up from time to time, means a great deal to him.  He’s made jokes at everyone’s expense, including his own.  His problem doesn’t lie in the banter between him and his coworkers, it lies in their blatant misunderstanding of where the issues lie in his culture;  blaming it on his skin colour as opposed to his greed-infused society.  That’s what irks him.   “It doesn’t matter to me.  I’m not really talking about that.  I don’t care what people say to me most of the time.  It’s just this…  feeling, of being on the outside because of where I come from.  It feels like people don’t trust me fully  -  and they never will.”

She gives him a sympathetic smile.   “It must be hard for you.  I wouldn’t know.  I’ve never worked in Vide.”

“Yeah, don’t start,”   he comments wryly.  Even the idea of her attempting to navigate the VTF fills him with vitriol.  He doesn’t need it to be made real.   “... but yeah.  It’s lonely work, lemme tell you that.  It’s like being the chubby kid that nobody picks during games.”   He watches her mouth quirk upwards–  a begrudging smile in the wake of what is absolutely an uncouth comparison.   “But really.  I appreciate the lengths that people like you, Wren and Kuro have gone to to make it easier for me to work there.  There’re a lot of good motherfuckers over on your side.  I just think we still have a ways to go before I’m really considered a part of it.”

The television blares with oncoming advertisements, and Jack scowls, reaching for the remote and muting it.  The air feels still now, disconcertingly so.

“Well, I trust you fully.”

The statement causes his head to whip in her direction.  He’s stupefied by her upfront delivery, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.

“And I know Kuro ‘n’ Wren do too.  You’ve proven yourself.  You’re a good guy.  You work hard.  That’s all Kuro can ask for.  We’re all a team.  More than that, I’d say we’re all friends.”

“Do you see Rigs out of work?”   he asks.   “Kuro?”

“Sure,”   she answers with a chuckle.   “Just last weekend, Wren dragged me to the market just because a new book stall was set up.  Three days ago, Kuro invited me to his house to eat pasta.”

“He cooks?”

“Oh, he cooks,”   Annalise says, her chest expanding with vicarious pride.  Kuro is a solitary man by nature, but he’s never been too much of a stranger.  In spite of his private approach to life, Annalise would say that she knows her boss both quite well and quite personally   “It was kinda strange to sit at a table with him ‘n’ Cthugha of all people, but I suppose you don’t pick your coworkers.”

“What’s your problem with Cthugha?”   It’s out before he can really think about it, and only when she looks away does he consider whether they’re close enough to discuss other people like this.  Sure, he likes Annie, but it isn’t as if she’s ever eaten pasta at his house.

Should I invite her some time?

I don’t know how this shit works unless I have twelve pints in me.

“... I wouldn’t say I have a problem with him,”   she hesitantly confesses, scratching at the underside of her jaw as if she has a beard to fiddle with.  Jack deems the motion funny.   “I used to, when he first came.  I thought he was full of… it.”

“You can say shit,”   Jack says with a snicker.   “I won’t send you to your room.”

“Shut up,”   she groans, much to his amusement.   “I just…  he makes me feel small.”

“He’s a nice enough bloke.  A little prickly, but nice.  He’s trying hard.  Loves this world, wants to protect it  -   ‘n’ I live in this world, so it’s kind of a win-win.”

“That’s the problem,”   Annalise insists.   “You come face to face with someone who’s responsible for the Universe and suddenly everythin’ you’ve ever done means nothin’ in comparison.  It hurts to know that all the choices I’ve made, even the big ones that took me months to make peace with, mean nothing to the world.  It’s like I struggled for nothin’.  I can’t look at him without feelin’ insignificant.”

He turns over her feedback in his mind, really thinks about it, and he supposes he can see where she’s coming from.  Still, he doesn’t make a habit out of finding himself important–  either in general, or in the grand scheme of things.  He’s just a guy, and guys die and are forgotten.  That’s as essential to life as being born is.

“It’s not that you’re not important.  Think of it like this:  he’s at the centre of the Universe as a whole, and you’re at the centre of your own slice of it.  You don’t need to make a difference to the world to be able to lead a good life.”   He shifts what’s left of his now room temperature soup aside and stands up.   “I dunno.  I’m not one for preaching, it’s not my business to be influential to people.  I just think it’s some food for thought.  If you go through life thinking you’re meaningless, you’re going to be miserable.”

She nods her head gently, though still looks worried.  He isn’t quite sure what else he can say to make her feel better, and comes to the conclusion that she’ll have to do it in her own time.

“... thanks for the soup.  I appreciate you going out of your way like that.”   he says, hands sliding into his pockets as he stands over her.   “I’ll bring you a blanket.  Don’t get any funny ideas about leaving when I go to bed.  You’ll likely wind up on the front page tomorrow if you do.”   And about that, he isn’t joking.  Even if he doesn’t live in the Slums, he doesn’t trust viders not to try and take advantage of a lone huro walking late at night.  Hell, someone already did on her way here.  Leaps and bounds they may have made, but he’s too wise to say that some viddish people don’t still consider their neighbours “exotic goods”.   “Okay?  I mean it, Annie.”

“I tell you what,”   she starts, eyes turned up towards him.  In the scarlet glow of his lamp, they look like honey.  Never liked the stuff, but I could start to.   “You promise me you’ll turn up to the next precinct meet-up–  not alcohol related–”   She pauses to wag her finger at him, having witnessed him open his mouth.  It promptly closes again when she calls his bluff perfectly.   “And I’ll stay put.”

He squints at her.   “I’m doing this for your own good, you know.”   

“I know.  I’m doing this for yours, too.”

They stare at each other for what feels like ages, silently assessing whether to discredit the other’s poker face or not.  Jack ultimately decides against it.  Even if there isn’t a train again until morning, he has no doubt that she’ll make her way to the subway station and wait there instead, just to make her point.  Annie is just like that.  She’d sooner put herself in a precarious situation before she yielded to the desires of another.  A deep groan leaves him, one hand carding through his messy hair.

“Fuck me dead.  Fine.  Fine!  But I’m not responsible for the fuckery that might happen.  You’ve not seen me in a social setting without booze, there’s a reason for that!”

She’s laughing now, tickled by his crass agreement, and while he wants to be irked, he realises that the supposed “fall out” just isn’t that bad.      

“You’ll survive,”   she says drily.

He huffs, torn between scowling and smirking.   “You’re getting the scratchiest blanket I’ve got.  Fuck your care package.”