#rip off my compassion with your teeth ( ic. )

[midnightfiireworks]

"So you're the knight I've heard a buncha other Hunters talkin' 'bout? Ain't as big as I thought you'd be." Is taunting the Hive Knight he has so brazenly approached a bad idea? Yeah. Probably. But when has Scout ever backed down from something that'll probably end up getting him killed? | @explosivehead

he does not know from where all these risen appear.

outside the throne world, of course; they come here to find glory, glimmer, and guns. guardians are so predictable in that manner. his mother had said as such, and he is quickly realizing, once again, she was right. they are such curious little creatures. bold.

"i am impressed hunters have the capability to think at all," rumbles the knight. the sound echoes in its chest. it takes one massive step forward, hand encircling the exo's waist. "perhaps we can correct that."

[atlasreign]

headcanon dump time ; god bless my server stash.

The reason rhys has odd socks is out of a weird sense of control. Growing up, he didn't get to have his say in a lot of things.. So he'd purposely mismatch his socks, because it was his own conscious choice then. Kinda stuck with him.

His moral compass is very much skewered. It wasn't before but, things changed. Things happened. His past caught up with him emotionally and he's made some pretty damning choices since taking up his new job title. He yoyos between doing the right thing and the very fun thing. One could argue that its simply from living on Pandora for a time, and the current worldly climates - especially with the Calypso Twins.

The reality?

Having a psychopathic AI in your head can scramble your chemistry. His new eye is synced up to Atlas network, but sometimes it rips. It tears. His vision flickering between two different worldscapes before him. It glitches out. He'd argue that his personality hasn't become an amalgamation. But even his closest friends noticed something wasn't right. He's more willing to sacrifice everyone to save himself. To send people out to do his dirty work for him. Keep his hands clean.

He'll deny any inquiry or investigation into this. Claims he's just learning to survive. His hand was on the fritz, that's why it was around someone's throat. That wasn't him. He'll deny causing harm. Refuse it.

He's fine.

He's not celebrated his birthday for six years now. 🙂 He kinda gave up because uh. It's a lot for him. And well, throw yourself into your work enough - you just forget your normal, day-to-day things. He lost himself so much in his work that he's just a big shrug emoji at this point. Forgot his own birthday. Forgot important events. Forgot his named day. Rhys gave himself a nominated day to celebrate when he chose the name Rhys. He's forgotten that too. It's like... He's faded away.

Rhys actually had the potential to be a Siren in his early childhood. It's noted that Sirens can sense when another woman/girl can become one, and it was something brought up to his parents. One of the known Sirens from way back, a woman who had the unique ability to control animals — seemingly as phasecontrol. Rhys would've become an apprentice to the Siren, however his parents stood firm against her, wanting their child to have a normal life. Turns out when the woman died, her powers sought out someone near and available — and that thankfully wasn't Rhys. He barely remembers the conversations, or the way his parents spoke to him about it, or even how they chased her off with threats of handing her in, whatever that meant. He just knows that he can't accept those powers now. Can't accept any Siren ones... Troy might be a prime example of probability, but he was a twin, so it made sense. Rhys doesn't want them. He'd do anything to avoid it. He doesn't want to experience what it means to be worshipped, feared and hunted.

You look at Rhys and think, oh this man is vanilla. He's soft serve ice cream with no bark or bite. Fucking marshmallow. Wrong. He has his kinks.

What kinks? He likes when things get rough and physical. Likes being pressed up against a wall and being unable to wriggle out of it. Wants hands around his throat, teeth breaking his skin. He wants bites, he wants to be marked by whoever is dominating. He wants there to be pretty reminders of who he belongs to.

He's a lot submissive with a desire to learn to be a dom, he just needs some encouragement there. For now, he's content being the one under the thumb, the whimpering mess calling out their name.

Rhys just likes to be handled — there's something deeply enamouring about it, having someone's hands all over him, gripping every inch of his body, makes him feel wanted. Desired. Needed. Everyone likes to feel physical touch, skin on skin.

God, talking about wall pinning. This man is weak for that shit. It's not just having someone's body weighing in against his, but the act of vulnerability that comes with it. They have him by the throat, or his arms held above his head. He can't do shit, all he can do is whimper and kiss them until they say stop. He's at someone's mercy then. And he fucking likes it.

And for a non - nsfw one, Rhys likes to be a small spoon. Either a small spoon being held by a big spoon, or the small spoon curled into the back of the big spoon. Doesn't matter. He just likes it. He says he's 5'10" but bare in mind, he hasn't checked in a while. He's actually more like 5'9" or 5'8" — maybe he's shrinking with age. Or he's just never been clear and has stood on steps to make himself appear taller.

This is gonna be ... Hard, for Rhys to talk about to Jack if it comes up but. He actually kept the Jack AI, albeit imprisoned. But in the end, he couldn't do it. Even when they talked, and he tried to kill him... Rhys kept the eye. Wanted to maybe see if he could rehabilitate it—him—and keep him around. And if the discussion gets heated enough, he might even confess that deep down... He wanted to take Hyperion. He wanted to rule it so badly. Seems he's not that different to him after all.

[ibelongtowrath]

Repent - Simeon x Reader (Obey Me!)

A/N: I got an idea for a dominant Simeon and decided to combine it with a request I had. I will see all of you in hell. Prompt: “You have no idea how badly I want you.” Pair: Simeon x Fem!Reader Tags/warnings: NSFW/18+, dominance, cursing, degradation, oral sex, face fucking, spitting, finger fucking, squirting, choking, rough sex, and a whole lot of sin. NSFW below the cut!

My...why don’t you come to my room tonight, beautiful girl? I’m sure that you will look even more delectable, standing before me. - Simeon

Your hand reaches out, almost hesitantly, placing three quick, light raps on the door. Turning your hand around, nails briefly dig into your palms before fanning your fingers back out, nervously studying the lines etched into the skin. Were you really about to lay with Simeon, one of the holiest of beings? 

A few moments later, the lock unhinges with a click. Your heart begins to race, the accelerator stuck to the floor, pedal to the metal as the door opens; painstakingly slow, creaking in the effort. Rendered speechless, your eyes meet Simeon’s, the gentle, tender look in his allowing your shoulders to relax, not realizing you had been carrying so much tension.

“My, my, little lamb,” Simeon chuckles, a soft smile dusting his handsome face. “You certainly are prompt. Please, do come in.”

The Angel gestures for you to step in, closing the door behind you, the familiar click! of the lock almost jarring in the serene quiet of his bedroom. Shadows flicker across the room, painted in the light of the candle as the flames dance, casting a hazy glow in the low light, almost sensual. The ever-eternal darkness of the Devildom looms just outside the window, concealed by heavy curtains. You turn to study him, his features even more handsome in the candlelight, excitement gripping your heart once more.

Simeon pauses briefly, eyes drinking you in before striding slowly over to his nightstand where his D.D.D. rests. Picking up the phone, he crosses back over to you, pulling up a familiarly provocative photo: you, posed, back arching in snow-white lingerie, teeth biting your lip suggestively. Your eyes scan the screen, heart racing as though it might burst, that very same lingerie hidden beneath your clothes.

“Sinner,” Simeon hisses, circling you. “You dare tempt me, a Man of God…an Angel? One of the highest beings in all of the realms?”

The angel’s words drip with venom seemingly laced within every syllable. Goosebumps dart across your skin as your blood turns to ice, a shudder radiating throughout your body. Nervous eyes slowly flit from a set of soft, full lips to the Angel’s intoxicating jade gaze, beautiful enough to get lost in; tonight, though, what appears to be a searing annoyance is etched into his jewel-toned irises.

“Um....,” you stammer, words sticking behind your teeth.

You swallow. The Angel watches you, fighting a battle to conceal the smirk that so badly wants to paint his handsome face. How could you think to tempt him, an Angel? He won’t tell you yet, though, that he wanted nothing more than to tear the clothes off your body, kneel between your legs and taste your sweet nectar upon the receipt of your gift.

Simeon revels in the control he has; though, he is more than aware that he is to be a representative of all celestial beings, destined to uphold standards of purity while in the heart of all that is not pure, in Hell. But, oh, oh...how badly he wants to sheath himself in the constricting warmth of your walls, to taint you with the colors of his sin.

Simeon steps toward you. Your gaze rakes over his body, unable to control the wanton desire flowing deep within your veins. He can feel the yearning, sees it written in the delicate features of your beautiful face.

“I thought you would enjoy it,” you respond, holding steady. “We were just talking the other day, you joked about me tempting you...and you’ve invited me here.”

“And did you think my resolve was so weak that I would give in so easily to such temptation? To bring me to sin?” Simeon bites back. “I am nothing like these demons, these beings with no remorse about committing such acts, acting upon their sins without a shred of inhibition.”

He won’t tell just yet that he, too, aches to indulge you, to give you exactly what you want, for it is exactly what he wants as well. No. Not yet. First, he must make sure you understand: to lay with an Angel, to corrupt him, comes with a price. 

It is not as though Simeon had never sinned before. Even the highest of the celestial beings relinquished control to their temptations, and quite often. He certainly was no stranger to it. He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone. The entire Celestial Realm would be at a standstill. No, he would simply ask for forgiveness, as they all did.

In the meantime, he will certainly enjoy playing with his food before he sinks his teeth into your flesh, leaving his mark on you. Demons are not the only beings with sharp fangs.

“What am I going to do with you, my dear?” Simeon muses, his eyes drinking in the sight of you before him.

Simeon circles to your back slowly, almost achingly so, like a lion ready to pounce on its prey. He reaches out with a hand, weaving the fabric of your shirt between his fingers and tears it off your body, smirking as you gasp in surprise. 

“Are you surprised at my strength, little lamb?” he asks, injecting his smug demeanor into each word. “Thinking of us Angels as weaker beings compared to your precious Demon Lords, hm?”

He moves to stand before you, fingers dancing up your torso before reaching between your breasts to the band connecting the cups of your bra. He tugs, ripping the carefully-coordinated lingerie in two; your breasts spill out, and you shiver from the exposure, the room unexpectedly cold as your nipples harden. 

Simeon threads his hands into your hair, tugging you forward to his bed. You lower yourself to sit as he pulls your hair again, urging you to lay supine, on your back. You swallow, heart beating rhythmically; the wetness between your legs an obvious indicator of your abundant arousal. As if sensing this, he makes quick work of removing your jeans, sliding a few fingers across your panties, and smirking at the way your excitement seeps into the flimsy fabric.

“Naughty thing...have you no remorse either, just like these demons? Making yourself so wet, so lustful for me?” he purrs, rubbing his fingers harder against your panties and relishing your mewl of pleasure and aching desperation before tearing them off of your body, exposing your glistening heat. “Tsk, tsk.”

Briefly teasing his thumb over your sensitive bundle of nerves, Simeon steps back, smirking as he walks back to the nightstand. Turning your head to the side, you observe him, admiring the expanse of his back, the cutouts of his top that give a delicious peek at the defined muscles of his v-line. Watching as he pulls out rosary beads, metal glinting in the hazy low light of the room, adorned with a cross.

“Such an insatiable little slut,” he continues. “What exactly have you imagined me doing to you, little lamb? Perhaps you have lain in your bed at night, a hand between your legs, touching yourself to the thought of me doing something like…” 

Simeon pauses, lowering himself between your legs, placing featherlight kisses along the delicate flesh of your inner thigh; his teeth sink into the soft skin, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from your sinful lips as he makes his way to your sex. His tongue darts out to place a few slow, sensual licks into your sweet arousal, curling his tongue to fully taste your essence as his nails find purchase on your thighs.

“...this?”

He smirks again, your moans like the sweetest melody to his ears.

“You have no idea how badly I want you, pet,” Simeon moans, softly. 

His lips linger between your legs for a few blissful seconds before he pulls away, straightening himself and feeling his cock twitch at the sight of you spread open like a forbidden tome. He begins to drag the beads between your wet folds, soaking them in the nectar of your lewd excitement. You keen at the sensation, moaning as the beads massage the swollen bundle of nerves at your core. He leans over you and holds the rosary, slick and shining in the flickering candlelight, against your lips.

“Open your mouth and taste your sin on this sacred relic, sinner,” Simeon commands.

Your lips part, tongue reaching out; taking the beads in, tasting yourself off of them with a moan. Simeon’s cock strains harder against the constricting fabric of his white pants, desperate to give in to his carnal desire and bury himself between your walls. He swallows, urging himself to keep control, to not give in just yet. 

He needs to see you struggle just a bit more.

Easily sliding two fingers inside of your dripping heat, Simeon smirks at your lewd gasp, curling them upward to elicit another loud moan. He adds another finger, skillfully pumping and curling in a come-hither motion; your wetness dripping down his hand, spilling onto the top of your thighs.

“Oh, my...someone is certainly excited for me, hm?” he teases, pressing harder against your walls, smirking at your lewd, pleasure-filled gasp.

“First...I will recite a prayer of forgiveness for you, dirty sinner, as I have sincere doubts you know of it,” he spits. “You are not to cum until I am finished. If you do, you will face consequences.”

Simeon increases the pace of his fingers, continually pressing into that sweet spot, letting the sensation overcome you. His cock hardens, straining harder against his pants as he listens to your sweet, sweet moans; thoughts rendering nearly incoherent watching you arch your back in pleasure. His breath hitches as he inhales, closing his eyes and beginning to recite:

“Have mercy on me, O God,

according to Your unfailing love;

according to Your great compassion

blot out my transgressions.

Wash away all my iniquity

and cleanse me from my sin.

For I know my transgressions,

and my sin is always before me.

Against You, You only, have I sinned

and done what is evil in Your sight,

so that You are proved right when You speak

and justified when You judge...”

The Angel feels you tighten around his fingers, your impending release imminent. He continues his ministrations, reciting the prayer for both your repentance and his. 

“S-Simeon, I’m going to cum…,” you whine, gasping as your thoughts cloud over with pleasure.

He grins, relishing the way you cry out and arch your back as your release begins to grip you. You shudder, the blazing fire of your pleasure washing over your body as your back arches and body jerks forward. 

Simeon smiles, dark and wicked. You moan his name loudly as your fluid arousal gushes from between your legs, dripping down your thighs, making dark wet marks in his sheets; undeniable evidence of your sins displayed before him.

“Oh, little lamb,” he purrs, pulling his slick fingers from you. “I couldn’t even finish my prayer before you came all over my hand like the dirty little slut you are. I did say you would face the consequences if you could not control yourself. Now...”

Fingers threaded through your hair, Simeon tugs you up to a standing position. Legs shaking, you stumble, whimpering in surprise. He turns you around, gently, tracing a finger down your spine painstakingly slow, watching as the goosebumps prick your skin, shuddering in the feel of it. 

Your heart pounds, chest rising and falling rapidly, labored with the effort of your panting breath. Hands reach forward, tucking your own behind your back, wrist atop wrist. Cool metal kisses your skin as the Angel wraps the rosary beads around them, binding them together. He leans forward, gently pushing your hair aside before pressing a soft kiss into the back of your neck.

“Face me, beautiful girl,” he whispers into your ear, breath tickling against your skin.

You obey, turning slowly, head down. Simeon tucks a finger under your chin, lifting your face to meet his gaze with yours before moving his hand down, fingers lightly wrapping around your throat. 

“Kneel,” he orders. “You filthy fucking sinner. Get on your knees before me.”

He squeezes lightly, not enough to hurt but to emphasize before releasing his hand and tightening his grip on your hair as the Angel yanks you down to your knees. Your eyes widen, watching as he begins rolling down his white pants, exposing his swollen length. A nearly feral desire fills you, teeming with need; wanting nothing more than to get close to him, to nibble his hip bones and eyeing his hardness with frantic hunger. He looks down at you, a wicked grin turning up at the corner of his lips.

“You’re just like these demons,” he hisses, “no hesitation before giving in to your desires.”

Gripping his hand tighter in your hair, Simeon pulls your head forward and begins to thrust into your mouth, slowly at first, allowing you to adjust to him. His hips move back and forth, achingly slow, groaning in the feeling of his cock ensconced in the wet warmth of your mouth.

“I’m going to fuck your mouth, little lamb, and if you’re a good girl...perhaps I will indulge you, and fuck that tight little pussy. I will fill you with the seed of an angel, and you will be mine.”

Simeon increases the pace of his hips, rocking faster, caring little for your comfort. Desperately trying to relax your throat, a few gags escape your lips. His head drops back briefly in pleasure, groaning as he feels his cock slamming into the back of your throat. Tears form in the corners of your eyes, raining down your cheeks.

“Keep your eyes on me, my pretty little slut,” Simeon commands, bringing his head forward once more. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Your eyes flit to look up at him, face stained with tears as he fucks your mouth, focusing on his beautiful jewel-toned gaze. After a few more thrusts, he groans, tugging your hair and pulling you off of his cock, spit coating your chin as you inhale sharply and deep, relieved at the break.

“Get on all fours on my bed, lamb,” Simeon orders, “in a prayer position. Or is that unfamiliar to you?”

You nod, hands still bound behind your back by the sacred rosary. You rise to your feet slowly, legs shaking slightly, knees reddened, lines etched across them from the wooden floor biting into the skin. You turn around, making your way to Simeon’s bed, immaculately made. Simeon places a hand on the small of your back, guiding you onto the mattress, lowering your head to the pillow. Spreading your legs, you arch your back, backside pointed to the Celestial Realm.

“I suppose you can’t have your hands clasped in prayer before you when they’re bound behind your back,” he laughs. “Let’s fix that, shall we?”

Simeon removes the beads restraining your wrists, lacing his fingers through yours and squeezing briefly before moving your hands above your head. Removing his own, he intertwines your fingers, wrapping the rosary around your wrists painstakingly slowly before pulling them just barely tight enough to restrict their movements. 

Leaning forward, he presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck before lowering your head against the pillow. He teases a few fingers between your legs, thumb dancing over your clit. You mewl, pushing back against him, aching to feel him buried to the hilt inside of you.

“S-Simeon,” you whimper.

“You want to know what it’s like to be fucked by an angel, my pretty little sinner?” Simeon asks. “Beg me.”

Keening, you turn your head to look at the Angel behind you. Raw need flowing fiercely, your excitement coating your wet folds and dripping onto the backs of your thighs, shining in the hazy candlelit room as your lips part to beg.

“Please, Simeon, please fuck me,” you whine, voice laced with feverish desire. “I need to be fucked. Please.”

“Good girl.”

Satisfied with your mewling begs, Simeon decides to indulge you; though he also is indulging himself, hardly able to hold back anymore. He thrusts into you roughly, relishing your pleasurable cry of surprise as a smug smirk paints his face, contrasting his otherwise serene beauty.

 “You’re so tight and so wet for me, my beautiful sinner,” he breathes, groaning at the sensation.

He moves his hips back and forth achingly slow, allowing you to adjust to the stretch of his cock between your walls. Your own body pushes back against him, desperate for him to go faster, harder, burying himself to the hilt and he grins at your evident eagerness.

“Fuck me harder, Simeon, harder,” you keen, turning your head to the side and moaning. 

The Angel chuckles, bending forward, lips next to your ear; his warm breath kissing your skin as he speaks.

“You have been such a good little slut, I will indulge you...though you should be careful what you wish for, pet. We can be equally as relentless as demons,” he murmurs, nails digging into your hips.

His own hips snap into yours at an unforgiving pace, fingers tightening their grip, pulling you back in perfect time with his thrusts. The carnal sound of two bodies coming together pierces the otherwise still quiet of the room, lit by flickering candlelight; casting a sinful shadow across the room.

“Did you imagine this as well, when you touched yourself to thoughts of me at night? My cock buried inside of you, dripping all over me as I bring you immense pleasure?”

You cry out in ecstasy, each slam of his body against yours eliciting a mewling gasp from your lips. Simeon snakes a hand around you, thumb circling your clit. He spits on your back, continuing your song and dance to an animalistic rhythm only the two of you can hear.

“Is this exactly what you wanted, my little lamb? To lay with a Holy Being, so you can say that you’ve laid with the Highest and Lowest of beings in all the realms?” Simeon growls.

Another feral growl of pleasure rumbles from his chest, feeling your tight heat clenching down around him. He rubs your clit faster, thrusting harder, eager to coax out your release; desperate to feel his own.

“That’s right, my beautiful, filthy sinner. Cum for me. Scream my name and fill this Hell with the sounds of your repentance,” Simeon rasps, edging closer and closer to his climax. “Sing it to the highest of the heavens, the holy Celestial Realm. I want to hear that sweet melody of the sinful pleasure I am giving you. Cum for me.”

As if on cue, you shudder, feeling the sweet pleasure of your release ignite, pulsing waves of electricity across your body. 

“F-fuck, Simeon!” you moan, pulling against the rosary beads wrapped around your wrists, desperate to curl your fingers into his skin, the floor, anything as your orgasm grips you.

His own release chases yours, the sound of his name from spilling your lips as you are in the throes of ecstasy pushing him over the edge. He groans, filling you with the seed of his sin. Panting, Simeon presses his chest flush to your back, peppering soft kisses across your shoulders and the back of your neck as he unties the beads from your wrists. He pulls you into his arms, both of you breathing heavily; his head drops down to crash his lips against yours, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“My little lamb,” he coos, kissing your cheek, “you are something else.”

Simeon grins at you, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. You can’t help but grin back at him, face shining in the afterglow of orgasm. His breath hitches, reaching another hand up to brush his thumb across your lips.

“God help me. I believe I am going to be reciting many prayers of forgiveness in the near future. I hope He doesn’t tire of hearing them.”

[cinnaminsvga]

🤬 | seokjin

the sleep deprived series (n.): drabbles that i write when i’m sad and tired

→ frenemy!seokjin ft. e2l and the magnificent get-along sweater | 2K words → a/n: this is dedicated to my homie @jincherie​ who has been, as they say, wiping her ass everyday only to shit again. i can’t really do much to actually alleviate your circumstances except maybe making you smile, so i hope this can be your tiny ray of sunshine amidst the crap. this fic literally makes no sense because i wrote this within one hour so i’m sorry but pls know that ilysm!!

“Where’d you even fucking get this abomination?” you growl, struggling fruitlessly against the coarse fabric. In your fidgeting, your elbow knocks into Seokjin’s broad chest, causing more damage to your weak joints than anything. Even so, Seokjin grunts overdramatically, stepping on your toes in retaliation.

“Yoongi-chi, you know that I love you very much—” Seokjin seethes, his teeth clenched almost painfully as he fights to restrain himself from ripping the sweater in half, a la Hulk style. “—but I will not hesitate to stab you once I get out of here.”

“Not my fault that you both are acting like a bunch of toddlers,” Yoongi snorts, hip jutted out in contempt like the homosexual that he is. “And to answer your other question, I bought that sweater online after your last fight, when you two were literally wrestling on the kitchen counter. I didn’t know whether I walked into some intense BDSM play or a WWE ring.”

“You bought a fucking get-along sweater for us? What are you, some sort of Christian camp counselor?” you growl, kicking your legs out in an attempt to hit him. The slimy twink bastard jumps away gracefully, landing onto the loveseat opposite the couch that you were sitting on. He crosses his legs, opening his arms wide when your traitorous cat jumps onto his lap, looking to all the world like a terrible Bond villain from the 80s.

“If I was Christian, I would not put the two of you into a sweater together,” Yoongi says. He strokes your cat, who purrs loudly before pointing a contemptuous glare back at you, as if she was enjoying your torture too. Dumb cat. You never liked Miko anyway.

Yoongi continues, “Anyone would two eyes knows that you both are just one brawl away from fucking each other into the next dimension. Lord knows that your sexual tension could power the entire city.”

It’s Seokjin’s turn to snort, who has been relatively quiet in comparison to you. He’s also less fidgety, but that might be because he at least has the advantage and comfort of occupying 90% of the sweater space due to his oceanic shoulders. You once described him as “horizontally imbalanced,” which he did not find slightly amusing.

“I would rather place my balls into a panini press and feed them to Miko than to ever fuck Y/N,” Seokjin fake-gags, squirming uncomfortably in his seat. “It would be less hot for me to actually grill my penis than for me to sink into her hell-ish cunt. I swear, you could bake bread in there with how much yeast has accumulated from—“

You headbutt his chin before he can finish, squawking indignantly. The satisfying sound of his teeth clacking together in pain is momentary but worthwhile. “Excuse you, but it’d be an honor to fuck me! I’ve got that S-tier pussy! If my pussy was in a gacha game, people would spend thousands of dollars just to roll for my mystical coochie!”

Yoongi smirks. “So you admit that you do want Seokjin to fuck you!”

“What the fuck! No! That is—what the—I don’t!” You stammer, face flushing as you struggle to regain your footing in the conversation. Yoongi’s eyebrow raises, intrigued by your slip-up. “That is totally not what I meant, and you know it!”

Yoongi picks at his nails, pointedly avoiding eye contact. “Sorry, I don’t speak hetero. Prithee, explain thy peculiar mating rituals to one who does not walk the straight and narrow path.”

You slump back against the couch, forcing Seokjin to follow and fall backward with you. His shoulder hits you square in the boob, causing you to groan in pain. “Yoongi, just let us out of this thing before I lose a limb to this walking inflatable tubeman,” you plead, ignoring Seokjin’s glare.

“I resent that,” Seokjin inputs, but no one pays him any mind. Your attention is focused solely on the smirking kitty man in front of you, who grows smugger as time ticks on.

Everyone in your friend group is aware of the weird relationship you have with Seokjin. Ever since you met him in your freshman year of university, things were never peaceful between the two of you. It was always constant bickering, squabbling, competing… everything. Even Jungkook, Seokjin’s other sworn enemy, doesn’t argue with the elder as much as you did.

For three years, everyone just assumed it was your weird kindergarten schoolyard way of showing affection for each other, and at the beginning, it might have been. You and Seokjin, both of whom have never dated in their lifetimes despite being moderately popular while growing up, are unsurprisingly emotionally stunted and never learned how to just be nice to people you like. Affection who? Compassion where? To the both of you, physical connection can only be achieved through hair tugging and nipple pinching, and not even in the sexy way.

But at a certain point, things were starting to get tiring. Your arguments only grew larger in scale, to the point where it was getting hard to differentiate whether the bruises on your neck were from pinches or something else.

“I just… Ugh… When are they gonna fuck, hyung? I’m actually getting tired of their constant fighting,” Namjoon had lamented one afternoon, just a day after your last altercation with Seokjin. It had been a big one, where Seokjin nearly lost a tooth when you had landed a neat uppercut squarely on his jaw after he called your toes ‘a foot fetishist’s worst nightmare.’

Yoongi’s boyfriend had been staring listlessly into his bowl of soup for the past hour, and he was honestly starting to get worried when it looked like Namjoon had started muttering to himself in a foreign language. Yoongi almost thought he might have been scrying for a prophecy, begging for an answer to their most pressing question.

“What do you want me to do about it? Lock them in a room and let them out only after they’ve done the deed? Mixed bodily fluids? Performed the monkey dance to its climax?! No thanks, I don’t wanna be near them when that can of worms finally explodes,” Yoongi grimaced, shivering at the thought.

Namjoon shook his head quickly, face paling with him. “Heaven forbid. Maybe you can keep it PG? How about getting one of those get-along sweaters or something. I think they used those in kindergarten.”

Yoongi sighed. “Yeah, but the question would be how I’d get them into it.” He flaps his noodle arms around in demonstration. “I’m not exactly in the running for world’s strongest twink. Plus, years of fighting each other means they’re both stronger than I am.”

Namjoon shrugged. “Easy, just dare them to wear it. Make it into a competition. Nothing gets them more riled up than when they’re trying to outcompete each other.”

And so, that’s how the two of you had gotten stuck in a 3XXL Hello Kitty sweater that Yoongi had bought from Ebay. It has yet to be decided whether spending $40 on expedited shipping was worth it.

“Look, Yoongi-chi. We both promise that we will stop fighting once you let us out of this,” Seokjin says, smiling sweetly at him. Had Yoongi been younger and much more prone to the alluring temptation of the Straight Man™️, he might have caved. But Yoongi is older now, plus he knows when Seokjin is lying better than any polygraph test.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, waving him off. “Fat chance. You’d probably stop fighting for approximately three hours before getting mad about mint chocolate ice cream or something.”

“Hey! Give us some credit. We both agree that flavor is abhorrent, so we would never argue about that,” you retort, with Seokjin nodding furiously in agreement. You glance at him. “And I feel like we’d last at least six hours without fighting. What was our record again?”

“Five hours and twenty-two minutes,” Seokjin says.

You hum thoughtfully. “Okay, I can promise at least five hours and thirty minutes. Maybe.”

Yoongi groans, rubbing his temples in frustration. His souring mood even makes Miko jump away in fright, and the two idiots trapped in a sweater can immediately feel the dip in temperature. Uh oh, here we go!

“I am absolutely sick and tired of the two of you dumbasses fighting all the time! It’s embarrassing as hell trying to bring either of you anywhere in public because everyone mistakes your little catfights for strange foreplay or whatever,” Yoongi glowers. The two of you shrink into your seats, ashamed.

“We’ve only gotten kicked out of one Costco—” Seokjin defends. 

“But we did get fined for public indecency at the beach when I pulled your trunks down, which was totally unfair, by the way,” you mutter. 

“You literally threatened to, and I quote, ‘Suck the soul out of Seokjin’s dick until he dies.’ How the hell is that unfair?!” Yoongi exclaims. 

“It was a death threat! I would’ve accepted a charge for attempted murder, but that was not going to be a sexy blowjob, I assure you—”

Yoongi holds up a hand to silence you. “Face it, you both like each other. Whatever! Sure, you guys are the token straight people in our friend group, but that doesn’t make you bland as hell! Well, actually, it does but…” Yoongi pauses, wondering if it was worth lying. It takes a second for him to refocus. “Where was I? Oh right—“

Yoongi clears his throat, starting again. He heaves a deep breath, shoulders sagging tiredly as he puts on the sincerest face he can muster. “Listen, I just want to say that I care a lot about you, okay? And it sucks seeing the both of you hurting every time the other person says something really mean that neither of you even mean! If anything, will you please stop for me? If you really cared about our friendship, will you do it for me?”

There is a heavy pause as Yoongi strives to get his breathing back in check, his impassioned speech causing his fragile grandpa heart to race. He can feel his cheeks darkening in embarrassment, unused to using his “hyung voice” on Seokjin or you. Separately, the two of you are very reliable, never really needing him to scold either of you. Together, however… that’s a different story, but as the next eldest hyung, it really only fell to Yoongi to fix his friends’ mess of a relationship.

Screw age hierarchy. Yoongi would love to see Jungkook try to get Seokjin and you to fuck. Would absolutely pay to see the twerp squirm as he tries to even say the word “penis.”

After a while, Seokjin and you share a look. Yoongi watches with bated breath as he waits for either of you to speak, but he can sense some unspoken conversation happening between you. Perhaps, after years of exchanging blows, you had somehow knocked brain cells into each other and now share a weird psychic connection. Or, more likely, the two of you actually like each other and understand each other on a deeply personal level, so personal in fact that you could probably finish each other’s sentences, like—!

“We refuse,” you both reply in tandem, your joined voices echoing throughout the apartment. You both had said it so in sync that Yoongi might have imagined the other person speaking, but no—you both really did just say that to his face. In front of Miko. In front of his goddamn imaginary salad.

“Excuse me?” Yoongi squeaks. He cleans his ears with his fingers but finds no cotton there. These bitches! How dare they just throw his speech to the gutter! That shit took brain cells to think of, and he is not in the business of wasting his precious minutes by using them for productivity.

You shrug, leaning against Seokjin’s shoulder. He can see the ghost of a smirk tugging at your lips, thoroughly enjoying Yoongi’s confusion. “You heard us. We’ve made the executive decision to double our efforts, actually.”

Seokjin nods, not even shoving you off his shoulder like he normally would whenever you made contact with him. What? “Exactly. Honestly, we’ve been fighting for so long that we’ve kinda been just doing it for the bit at this point, and the fact that it annoys you so much is just the icing on the cake.”

Yoongi stares at them. His brain doesn’t feel like it’s connecting to his body at all; he feels like he’s floating. “So. What you’re saying is—“

“We know we like each other. Whatever. But we also like fighting, so who gives a shit if we’re having fun at the end of the day?” you shrug, pinching Seokjin’s cheek for good measure. As per usual, the elder retaliates by grabbing your finger with robot-like accuracy, before biting you there like a ravaging beast.

“And before you ask, no, we aren’t really dating. Yet. We kinda just wanted to piss as many people off before actually becoming official. We honestly didn’t think that you’d be the first one to crack.” Seokjin says, your finger falling from his mouth. The imprint of his teeth marks on your skin are plain as day, but you don’t look remotely bothered by it. In fact, you’re practically cooing at his ‘baby teefies’ like a psychopath.

“I—“ Yoongi stutters, at a loss for words for once in his life. He stands from the chair, but his knees give out from under him, causing him to tumble to the carpeted floor. He holds his head in his hands, shell-shocked. “So… That means…”

“Yeah, we’re kinda just freaky, I guess.” You muse before laughing hysterically when Yoongi begins to sob. “Hey, you’re right! We did make Yoongi cry! Do you think we could make Namjoon piss himself in rage when he finally confronts us too?”

Seokjin cackles, shaking your hand underneath the sweater. “If anyone can do it, I know that we can.”

And so, the two of you stand up clumsily to your feet, not bothering to escape the ridiculous sweater as you both waddled out of Yoongi’s apartment. From outside his door, Yoongi hears the sound of a new fight commencing, your shrieks resonating down the hall and for all the world to hear.

[subverbaldreams]

Asylum in Winter

Chapter 9:  Sir

(smut)

Pairing:  Bucky x Steve in this chapter. (storyline also contains Bucky x Venom and Bucky x Rumlow)

Overall Synopsis: Venom and Rumlow help Bucky escape Hydra to go find the man from the bridge. Mayhem ensues. And sex…lots of sex.

This chapter: loving, dominant Steve, Bucky’s memory loss, Bucky waking up after having his trigger words spoken, jealous Steve & Rumlow, 1.7k words

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

Steve’s stomach is in knots. Every time Bucky’s breathing changes he leans forward in his chair, hopeful yet terrified to see those eyes open. It’s not fear of another attack, but fear of the emptiness. Fear that nothing remains inside the body of the man he’d loved except Hydra’s killing machine. No compassion, no conscience, no heart.

Calm down, he tells himself for the hundredth time. He escaped from Hydra for a reason.

Unless, his mind whispers, that reason was Rumlow.

Bucky is laid out on a plush leather couch, towels underneath him to keep blood and dirt off the furniture. The scratches on his throat have all vanished, but there’s a suspicious row of bruises still tattooed into his skin that look like—they can’t be—hickeys. 

Outside, birds wheel joyously around fir trees and sunlight reflects up from the water below. He’d had to call in a favor to get access to this lake house, but he trusts Tony Stark at least enough to stay out of this one. He may have told a slightly skewed version of the truth to get here, but for Bucky’s sake he’d do a lot worse.

Bucky’s been out cold for the last four hours, after being put down twice more by whatever that black stuff is; Rumlow refuses to tell him. The scumbag finally, finally got out of Steve’s hair to go shower a few minutes ago; he’d been hovering over Bucky like a vulture protecting its meal.

A sharp intake of breath. Steve leans in. Bucky’s eyelashes flutter, then his eyes slit open.

“Bucky,” Steve breathes.

Bucky’s face contorts as if in pain. Steve reaches out to touch his shoulder, but Bucky jerks back from him, eyes flying wide open.

 ***

 Blue eyes. Blond hair. A voice. A name.

“Bucky,” the man murmurs, and the sound itself means nothing but the voice—that voice. A flood of longing roars through the soldier’s chest, so barbed with the edges of forgotten dreams that he’s lost in it for a second.

Only a second. Then he realizes where he’d been only a moment before, on the field of battle, and there had been a voice in his head, changing him, owning him. Everything after that is a blur like spilled paint. All he knows for certain is that Hydra had taken him back, at least for a time.

He jumps up, rolls off the furniture while reaching for his knife (it’s gone) and then his gun (also gone) while doing a quick sweep of the room. They’re alone. 

His agent should be here. The soldier can think of only one reason why he isn’t.

“Did I kill him?” he blurts out, his voice cracking over the word “kill.” 

“Who? Rumlow?” The man’s voice goes hard as he says the name. The soldier tries to remember if that name fits the right person.

Yes, Venom interjects. Brock Rumlow is the name of our agent. The soldier nods and the man answers, “No. He’s fine,” in a voice cold as ice.

Have to find him, the soldier thinks, but Venom responds: He is here. He and the Cap have been antagonizing each other for hours and he went to a different room. Finally, it adds in a grumble.

The cap? the soldier repeats, confused all over again. But the blond man has stood up and is walking toward him, one hand slightly lifted as if to touch him. The soldier backs up warily. His mission is complete, it seems; he’s found the man from the bridge, but nothing is any clearer. The pictures in his head are just as elusive and disjointed as ever.

“Hey, easy, Buck. D’you remember me at all?”

The soldier shakes his head. One backward step after another. “I don’t know you.”

But I knew him.

He draws in a hiss of breath. 

He is here, inside of your mind, Venom affirms. You know him.

“No,” the soldier says out loud. His heel hits the edge of the wall, forcing him to stop his retreat. He should raise his arms. Protect himself. But he’s utterly still as the man’s hand closes the gap between them and lightly brushes against his jaw. The man’s face shows no aggression. His eyes are soft—and, the soldier realizes with a strange, giddy swirl, full of tears.

“You know me. You do,” he insists when the soldier shakes his head. “That’s why you left Hydra, isn’t it?”

That, the soldier can’t answer. Because it’s true, he had left Hydra to find this man, but now that he’s got him, the soldier doesn’t know what to do about it. He hadn’t planned beyond the search. There is no plan beyond any search, except to eliminate the target.

Everything has changed.

“My name’s Steve. Remember? You used to call me Stevie.”

He shakes his head again. The man’s fingers have traced behind his ear now and it makes the skin tingle all the way down his neck on that side.

“And your name is Bucky Barnes, and you know me.”

“No, I don’t!” The soldier shoves the other man with both hands, sending him skidding back six feet. Venom whirls through him, forcing calm into limbs which feel electrified with adrenaline. He’s shaking all over. “That’s not my name. I don’t know you.”

He is our mission. We came to find him.

“Shut up,” the soldier hisses between his teeth. He feels weightless, like he’s stepped out onto a tightrope and it’s fallen suddenly out from underneath him. Like he’s falling and falling and he doesn’t know what’s down below. He takes no defensive measures as the man closes back in on him. Line of heat across the front of his body, heavy weight pushing him back against the wall. The man is breathing as heavily as he is, though there’s no reason for it. He isn’t afraid, isn’t angry—not exactly—nothing about his behavior makes sense. 

His knee wedges between the soldier’s legs. The soldier knows he should move, should block that leg and make space between them, but there’s this scent, along with the weight and the position. It smells like crawling under barbed wire and drinking arm in arm at night. It smells like being held, and being held down, but not in the ways he’s known with Hydra. 

Something deep and old inside his chest rips open and comes out of his mouth in a strange, whimpering moan.

“Tell me you don’t remember this,” the man growls in his ear, then his thick thigh rises between the soldier’s legs, a kick against his instep lifts one of his feet off the ground and a hand on his ass guides his hips so he’s riding that thigh, cock grinding against the junction of the man’s thigh and hip. Another hand on his throat; the grip is firm, bordering on cruel. The man takes nearly all of the soldier's weight onto his thigh and moves the hand from his ass to fist in his hair and jerk his head back. Another whimper wrenches out of him as the man’s mouth crashes down onto his, not to kiss but to bite, painful and wet, pulling his lip away from his teeth. He grabs wildly at the man’s shoulders, starts to twist away but he can’t make himself do it; that grinding leg has him pushing right back like a dog humping its master and something about that…about all of this…

The man’s tongue dives into his mouth and any coherent ideas fly from his mind. There is nothing but sensation. Head forced into a sideways bend to open him for the man’s ravaging mouth. Fingertips and thumb clamped around his throat, making his head light. Fist pulling his hair back, controlling him. Five o’clock shadow scraping his lips raw, the man’s heavy, insistent weight, that scent which is everything he never knew, never thought he needed to know and it’s all so much, it’s cresting, it’s crashing over him—

“Aaah!! Aaaaaahhh!!!”

The man eats the screams out of his mouth as the orgasm takes his whole body in a hurricane blast. He ruts helplessly into the man’s thigh, grinding out every last shudder.

“There’s my boy,” the man grunts, face rooting into the hair behind his ear and thick body pushing him even harder into the wall, panting like he’s just run for miles. The soldier feels the man’s huge, hard cock pressed up against him through their pants. He’s locked into that eternal moment between one breath and another when the man’s voice, rough with hunger, growls against his neck:

“Sir is very happy with you.”

The soldier’s next breath doesn’t come. His eyes fly wide open. Venom, swimming drunkenly inside him on the waves of their orgasm, freezes as well and it’s as though they’ve become no more animated than a photograph. A snapshot in time. Something like warm sleet, if there were such a thing, rains through the soldier’s body from head to toes and turns his legs to water. He can’t hold himself up and the man doesn’t try to help him do it, either; the man controls his fall, putting him on his knees, and this is RIGHT. He BELONGS here. It’s better than a memory; his entire being knows this. He looks up into a face that’s flushed and panting. The man’s eyes have turned wild and dark: an endless ocean filled with starving predators. His rigid, clothed cock is just inches from the soldier’s mouth. The man cradles his face in both hands to gaze down at him, one angled to cup his throat in a gentle reminder of a crueler grip, and the soldier reaches up to hold the backs of the man’s hands with a reverence that shivers down to his very core. The smell of him, his touch, his voice, what he’d said—

Sir. The title dances just behind his tongue. 

He doesn’t know what will happen if he says it out loud, only that it will be different than any other time he’s said it; to this man, to the two of them, it means something different.

And I KNOW him.

The soldier’s mouth opens.

Click-clack of metal against metal. The soldier reacts instinctively, twisting into a crouch, ready to spring in any direction as he and the man both swivel toward the sound.

His agent stands there, gun pointed at the man (at Steve) in a two handed grip. He’s shirtless, belt off and his hair dripping wet.

“Back the fuck up, Cap. NOW.”

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

The rest of the story here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31950409/chapters/79128799

[sw124]

BonelyHearts Inferno! Reader insert1

{Goddess!ReaderXSkeleton Reaper household}

[Disclaimer: I’m trying something completely different here, I’ve gotten back into the story of Hades/Persephone and not just that but I downloaded a radio play rendition of ‘The Divine Comedy’ and got hit with the inspiration stick. I had some help with some parts of the story so thank you to @mmhinman for your input and suggestions, super helpful. Now the reader is a goddess of kindness/compassion/hospitality and flowers. Each skeleton has their role in Hell, they’re not being punished they got together to make sure this giant place is well managed. Also this is based on the @bonelyheartsclub game but with a little twist I hope you all enjoy it]

Part 1: Hell in high water

Well..you’ve done it, you royally screwed up. Not even a goddess for a day an already you were being banished…all for eating a single apple! You didn’t know it was stolen! But…it was…you ate it and now you were being put into a tiny boat and being sent off to hell. All around you were the very people who ‘gave’ you the stupid apple, you wanted to curse them but..so wrapped up in your grief you didn’t have the strength to.

Instead..you resigned yourself to your fate, you watched as your tormentors push the small vessel into the the river, sending you on your way. Maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you but…you could’ve sworn you saw some form of regret in their faces but that quickly faded when they swiftly left…laughing as they did.

Now…here you were, alone, scared, drifting aimlessly in a deep fog towards hell. All you could do was cry and lament on life’s cruel fate, but after you drifted for sometime your weeping ceased and you sat there…cold and numb. From time to time you dipped your hand into the water…it was cold, carried a stagnant smell an yet…your powers flowed clearing a patch of the water, allowing water lilies to form. You smiled and sent them out.

“…Like me you shall wander this river only to arrive in a place of darkness my poor flowers…” you sighed.

[BWUMP!]

The suddenly yet soft collision jostled you, turning up…you found yourself in the shadow of a large craft. Its sheer size dwarfed any and all warship you’ve ever known. Despite its imposing stature it flowed seamlessly through the water like a sword carving a line in the sand. Its body was made of the darkest ebony wood, each plank engraved with terrifyingly beautiful illustrations of mortal man’s bloodiest and cruelest actions.

Ice began to solidify in your veins and quake your body, not from the vessel but what lay at is bow. The head of a massive creature made of bone, its eyes dance with a cerulean flame that bathed the river in its demonic glow. Along the top you could make out figures, shadows mostly.

You saw a few clambering over the side, some ready to jump. You broke from your fear to call out to them not to jump, but you were shocked back into silent fear when the demonic head ripped off from the bow with such impossible speed and snapped up each individual who jumped from the ship. Much like a dog playing with a rope it tossed them and violently shook them in its maw. Then as if board or disgusted by the taste of them, proceeded to spit them back into the boat.

Wrapping your arms around yourself for comforted you prayed the beast would not see you, just as your luck would have it…it turns its monstrous gaze on you. With the same speed it gave before it was now before you, its piercing eyes burning into yours. With what strength you could you tore your face away from the terrifying creature and curled up in your boat..fresh tears returning.

“Please show what little mercy you have on to me….please have forgiveness in you…” you weeped.

You waited, waited for the dagger teeth of the beast to rip into you as it did to its last victims.

You waited…

An waited….

And…..waited…but nothing…happened. You did feel a slight nudge to your little boat though, braving a glance you saw the beast was…now behind you. An with the gentleness of a mothers touch it pushed your little boat to shore. Its gaze…had dimmed, once before its gaze burned with the intensity of a thousand wildfires of rage but now morphed into a candles glow.

Its sudden gentleness didn’t stop with its eyes, using its own person to give you a ledge to hold as you staggered from your boat. Turning to your small boat…it slowly began to be swallowed by the accursed river. You watched the beast turn and fly back to its place on the bow…despite your gratitude to the creature you still held the fear of what it might do next. Not wanting to find out you ran far from the shore.

This became one of your more regrettable actions as you now found yourself in darkness, yet you pushed onward. Coming to a dense patch of brush you pushed with all your might to get through, your once ivory toga, stained with the dirt and filth of hells ground was held tight by throned branches that pulled at you. Yet you did not quit, you were determined to escape the darkness an so pushed against the brush…as if it was commanded the brush parted however you found yourself now falling down a hill.

You landed with great force at the bottom, your poor arms and legs now covered in cuts, spilling your blood….perhaps this was your punishment, to wander aimlessly through darkness and to forever spill your blood for no just cause…

You felt the darkness surround you as you allowed your mind to sink into it….

It was also then you felt a boney hand gently stroke your cheek.

End part 1

[cesabutterflywrites]

Maybe-Nevers

@jasperwhitcock made a post that put me into a trance-like state where I needed to write this little oneshot or I’d explode 

though i chose a different song than what you put in the tags Cassandra it just came on as i wrote the first bit and felt too perfect

Summary: As Jacob struggles with the frustrations of make up homework, Bella does what she can to be there for him. What was an attempt to meet Jacob halfway turns into a moment that adds to the list of ways Jacob has helped her heal from loss. Ao3 link

Songs: Through Fire and Flames by Dragonforce , It’s the Only One You’ve Got by 3 Doors Down

Word Count: 1823

Maybe-Nevers 

It was a homework day for us, so that meant it was quiet time in the garage. 

I liked doing homework in the garage with Jacob. He had a desk in the far back that he used for making lists for parts, plans for engines, and pieces of tiny machine parts that I assumed were spark plugs. On homework days we'd push that to the side against the wall. I was content keeping my reading on my lap and my writing on the desk, since he had a habit of sprawling his work out. 

The only sounds between us were our pencils scribbling on our assignments. I was so engrossed with my history assignment about the 1960s Civil Rights movement that I didn't notice that Jacob was struggling until I heard the sharp snap! of his pencil breaking. 

I jumped at the sound. I looked him up and down. Jacob's fists were shaking. 

I tried to keep my voice calm for him. "What's wrong?" 

His mouth was shut tight, and I could tell he was grinding his teeth. I tentatively put my hand on his arm. It was hotter than his usual heat. I could feel his muscles straining, but his arms stopped shaking as he registered my touch. 

"I just-" Jacob took in a deep breath when I started rubbing my thumb back and forth. His words became slow and deliberate. "I just find it frustrating. Not only do I have a ton of make up work to do, every time I feel too stupid to get it I- I want-" 

He ripped his arm away from me. He ran his hands through his short hair. My heart ached for him. Not in the way it ached for…others…but in the way it did for him. Seeing my personal sun struggling with his new self hurt. 

"What can I do to help? I can help." I knew I was begging for my own selfish reasons. I didn’t want to see my friend so stressed. I tried to take a deep breath quietly. I don't need to be scared. Jacob would never hurt me. 

His back was turned to me. He had his arms crossed, and his breathing was ragged. "Bella, I need you to leave me alone for a sec. I need a break from thinking about math and shit." 

"Okay…" I trailed off. I grabbed my bag and supplies as quick as possible, which meant that I kept dropping pencils as I walked towards the door. 

"No, Bella, I don't want you to leave for good." Jacob rolled his eyes for emphasis. "I just need a few minutes to take a break, okay. Go wait in the house and have a snack or something." 

I was confused, but I set the stuff that was still in my arms by the door. I threw a confused look over my shoulder to see Jacob walking over to the radio. 

Oh. He was going to listen to some music, and he remembered that I don't like listening to music. 

I hurried out the door before I could hear whatever song he put on. I made it halfway down the path towards the house before I stopped. Jacob didn't listen to love songs, right? Maybe…maybe I could go be there with him. I could try. 

I made my way towards the garage with intention. If he needed a break to listen to some music, I'd be there. He already had to try adjusting on his own so much. I wasn’t there for him when he changed. The least I could do was put myself through some…discomfort...for him. 

I didn't recognize the blasting beat as I opened the door. What I did recognize was Jacob smiling as he moved things around the garage. He was nodding his head along to the bass as an electric guitar solo played. 

I didn't move from the doorway yet. I was too busy admiring the way he looked like his old self. I was too caught up in seeing my smile. The grin that reminded me of the sun. 

He noticed me as the lyrics started up. His face went from shock, to confusion, to closed off. "Sorry." He went towards the radio but I blocked him before he could. 

"No, no. It's okay." I tried to smile at him. "I'm okay."  

The song was still permeating through the garage with its loud shrieks of electric guitar strings being strained. It was tough, angry, and I really did like it. 

I tilted my head towards the radio. "What song is this?" I asked loudly. 

Jacob eyed me for a second. Probably to gauge my reaction or wait to see me fall apart. I didn't blame him, a part of me was waiting for it too. Yet I knew I would be okay. I was with Jacob. He would keep me together. 

" Through Fire and Flames by Dragonforce." 

A good, tough, angry title. I could dig that. I nodded along off-beat as the solo kept building up. I giggled, sure I was making a fool out of myself. 

Jacob seemed to loosen up just watching me. "I didn’t take you for a metalhead, Bella.” 

I laughed. “Me neither” 

As Jacob started to close the space between us, the song ended on a final guitar shriek. Soon I heard the beat of drums that were much tamer than the first song. Soon a man’s voice started singing. 

I froze. The words were draping me and skirting around the edges of the hole in my chest. I think Jacob noticed the change. He reached behind me to turn it off, but I grabbed his hand. I looked up at him. My eyes were welling up with tears, and I knew I probably looked terrified. 

Each lyric felt purposeful. Like this song was from Jacob to me. I wanted to try it out. I...needed to stay with him. Without letting myself chicken out, I put my hands on his shoulders and started to sway. He didn’t stop me. Instead he put his hands at the small of my back and swayed with me. 

We went in circles around the space in the front of the garage. The words were draping over us like waves of healing water. The singer’s voice was rough and warm but tender. So soft, just like Jacob was as he held me. I leaned my head on his chest to hide my tears. 

This wasn’t a love song. Well, not a romantic one. 

Jacob started humming along. 

“You know this one too?” I whispered. 

“Of course. It reminds me of you.” 

I blushed, and brought my face away from his chest to look at him. His face was free of anger and frustration. He was soft. His brown eyes were seeing me. It was as if he was reading my mind, something even...it was something no one had ever been able to do. 

“Memories have left you broken.

And the scars have never healed.

The emptiness in you is growing.

With so little left to feel.

You're scared to look back on the days before.

You're too tired to move on.” 

We kept sway-dancing. I recalled the time when he showed up to my school dance. We had a bit more rhythm now. Maybe because changing into a wolf had given him more than a cure from clumsiness. It seemed to have given him a sense of rhythm that I still lacked. He was strong enough to lead this dance now.

“Jacob…” I started. He put his finger on my lips. 

“Just listen, Bella.” he commanded quietly. 

I obeyed, but only because I knew that the hole threatening to burst open was only closed because he was holding me. 

The music swelled, and suddenly he started moving us with purpose. Simple steps to still keep me upright, but we were becoming one with the song as it spoke to both of us. 

“You hide behind your walls of 'maybe nevers'

Forgetting that there's something more,

Than just knowing better.

Your mistakes do not define you now

They tell you who you're not.

You've got to live this life you're given,

Like it's the only one you've got.”

I smiled, which turned into a giggle, which turned to gleeful laughter as he spun us around. He lifted me into the air. 

“Oh, what will it take?

Oh, to get you to say that I'll try.

And what would you say if this

Was the last day of your life?” 

Jacob’s voice wasn’t smooth like ice. It didn’t hit a perfect pitch. It was gruff as the man on the radio. He was hitting a deeper timbre, which seemed to harmonize perfectly. His singing voice was pleasant. I’d heard him hum to himself before, even when he tried not to let me hear. Still, I heard what he was saying clearly this time. I knew what he was asking me.

I couldn’t tell if we were still dancing in rhythm, but I knew he was holding us as we went. The garage blurred around us from my tears. He was still clear. He was radiating warmth and compassion and kindness. 

We rode out the final chorus by going back to the sway-dance we started. I was full on sobbing now. He just held me. In his unique, quiet understanding, he didn’t try to speak to me. He let me cry into his chest. Eventually he picked me up to move us to the rolling chair by the desk. He just held me as I sobbed. The radio hadn’t been turned off, but the music was just a pleasant buzzing in the background. 

He pet my hair gently. I eventually brought myself back to the present through the sound of his heartbeat. It was like a steady drum. The sweetest song I would ever hear if I could help it. 

I pulled back. I smiled sheepishly while I wiped my eyes. “Sorry ‘bout that.” 

His lips upturned in a sad grin as he helped me wipe the tears. “Don’t be. Thank you for that. I needed that.” 

I nodded. “I think I did, too.” 

He looked at the desk next to us, then the clock on the wall. It was past our usual end time. He started chuckling. “Well, I guess we’ll have to save the rest of our work for next homework day.” 

I giggled. I pushed myself up off of his lap. “Let’s eat dinner, then.” 

He helped me gather my things. Then we left towards the house where Charlie was probably waiting with Billy. I noticed that the radio hadn’t been turned off as we walked down the path to the small house. Jacob kept watching me, trying not to make me notice. I think he was waiting for me to curl up in pain. 

I didn’t, and I held it together through the night as I slept. 

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Let me know if you want to be put on the taglist for any of my writing! 

[midnightfiireworks]

Khalom approaching to see if she can touch that Kronak Butt-- | @fireteam-silent-after-dark

the hunter is quick, but the lucent brood does not survive off weak links and unobservant thralls. 

kronak turns with a speed unimaginable in someone so large, hand extended, eyes ablaze. large fingers wrap around the fragile joint. all it would take is one quick twitch, a powerful snatch, and the bone will snap like kindling. that is not what he wants, though. 

he tugs her closer. it can feel her heartbeat beneath chitinous fingertips. it can smell the light wafting off her; vanilla and lilac. the void, echoing his own. different, but far too similar to be ignored. a snarl vibrates down his chest, rumbling from his core all the way to his extremities, down through his fingertips. it wonders if she can feel it, too.

“well, well, well— what has the broodmother sent me now?” the words, spoken in terran, are low, barely audible with the depth of his baritone. his thumb brushes over her fluttering pulse. “a little terran, stumbling far from her path.”

[bellafarallones2]

A/N: so I wrote some nsfw indruck for mermay? angst with a happy ending

Duck usually stayed in his quarters when the rest of the crew raised the drag-net every morning. He didn’t enjoy watching the fish flipping across the deck, watching men scoop them up and snap their necks and cut cleanly down their spines. But this morning, the sheer volume of shouting brought him forth from his quarters and into the ice-cold air.

A silvery tail lay across the deck, flopping weakly, larger than any fish Duck had ever seen. The mesh of the net cut into the fine scales. One of the sailors raised his arm and drove a harpoon through the tail. An unearthly scream made him stumble back, and Duck realized that this was not a fish at all, because the tail was attached to a human torso, with skinny arms and damp silver hair.

The mer mewled pathetically, shivering, and tried to drag itself away from the sailor standing over it, smearing bloody scales onto the deck. For a moment Duck met its frantic red eyes.

“Hey!” said Duck. The other sailors turned around. He wasn’t quite one of them, but his broad shoulders talked. “What are you, an animal?” he said to the man who’d speared it. “That’s not a fish.”

“Yeah, a fish wouldn’t fetch us each a fortune on the London market!” another sailor called.

Duck ripped the harpoon out of the mer’s tail and immediately realized his mistake when it screamed again. “Shit!” Duck said. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He was kneeling, now, trying to staunch the flow of blood with his hands. The mer seemed to be in shock, its sharp teeth chattering. Lord only knew how long it’d been trapped in the net before being pulled up. He couldn’t put it back in the water in this state.

Not knowing what else to do, Duck scooped the mer up in his arms and carried it back below deck. His cabin was dark, lit by only a single porthole window to the outside. Even in that dim light he could see the ice crystals in the mer’s pale hair. Duck put it down on his bunk, curling up its tail to fit.

“I’m going to fix you up,” Duck said, more for his own benefit than the mer’s. When a wet cloth touched the mer’s wound, it hissed and clamped its spindly fingers around Duck’s shoulder. “Shh,” Duck said, and continued gently wiping the blood away. “Joe, help me.” The ship’s doctor, who had been sitting transfixed, leapt into action, preparing a clean bandage and taping it down over the wound.

The mer had stopped shaking, now, and seemed to relax a little into the pillows, shifting to get comfortable. “Please don’t tell me it’s about to die on us,” Duck said.

Joseph shook his head. “Probably just needs rest.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Hey, if your bed is still… occupied… tonight, you can share mine.”

“I can sleep in my desk chair, but I appreciate the offer.” A shout from somewhere else on the ship, calling everyone aboard to breakfast, made Duck turn back to the mer in his bed. “We’ve got to go, but we’ll be back later, okay?”

--

When Duck and Joseph returned to the room that evening, the mer was awake and alert. Duck distracted himself from the urge to stare - it had a fascinating face, smooth and angular - by laying out what food there was available. Hardtack and salt cod. The mer reached hesitantly for the fish and took a bite.

“Yeah,” said Duck. “The food ain’t great, but at least even the captain doesn’t have anything better.”

The mer took Duck’s hand, and with surprising strength pulled Duck down on top of him. For a moment Duck panicked, thinking he was being strangled, but the mer was only… hugging him?

Face burning slightly, Duck got fully onto the bed. The mer’s lips were only an inch away from his ear, and his voice was barely louder than a breath. “Thank you.”

Duck pulled back. “You can talk?”

The mer gestured at his throat.

“Maybe it’s difficult out of water?” Joseph suggested.

The mer nodded. Even just the few hours in the air had turned his skin dry and cracked.

“Do you feel okay to go back?” said Duck.

The mer nodded.

“Alright, up you get.” This time the mer leaned against his chest as he picked it up and carried him up onto the deck, and the narrow end of his tail curled around Duck’s waist. As soon as he’d lifted him over the rail he slithered down the side of the ship into the water and disappeared.

--

The HMS Kepler followed the red hand of its captain’s compass northward, slipping between the shifting ice floes, until one day there was no way forward. And then no way back. The arctic was a nightmare of a lover, squeezing the ship in a deadly embrace.

While the shores of ice closed in, Duck and Joseph spent the day in their cabin, playing cards. They could hear the muffled noises of the rest of the crew elsewhere in the ship, and then a horrible creaking from all around them.

“Uh, did you hear that?” said Duck, looking around.

“It’s the ice,” said Joseph calmly, putting down a card. “It’s reached the ship.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No,” Joseph agreed. He stood up and went to the bookcase, where he reached behind his books and pulled out a bottle. It was rum, two-thirds full, significantly more expensive stuff than the swill they got with meals.

“Holy shit, have you had that this whole time?”

“I certainly didn’t pick it up out here. Look, do you want any or not?”

“Hell yeah I do!”

Joseph uncapped the bottle and took a sip before handing it over to Duck. “To our icy doom.” He sat down again, leaning gingerly against Duck’s side. Duck put his arm around Joseph’s shoulder, and they sat there for a while, side-by-side, passing the bottle back and forth.

The captain decided the next morning that they would take their chances out on the ice. They threw a rope over the side of the ship and climbed down, carrying whatever supplies they could on their backs, and started walking. East, towards Greenland.

The sun never set, this far north, so they slept only when they could walk no longer, and walked again when the freezing wind ripped sleep away.

It didn’t take long for their supplies to run out. Duck didn’t know how long. Joseph was counting the sleeps in a notebook he insisted on carrying (“it’ll be helpful to know, if anyone ever finds our bodies”), but Duck didn’t pay much attention.

One of those mornings, while the others packed up their tents, Duck stood exhausted at the edge of a hole in the ice, hoping something edible would surface that he could spear. The regular harpooner had already succumbed, and the harpoon felt strange and heavy in Duck’s hands.

What did surface was a pale head of hair. Duck blinked. A pair of cold hands gripped his ankles and yanked him down into the freezing water. The harpoon clattered onto the ice.

“I’m sorry,” the mer said. It had been long enough since they’d last met that the wound on his tail was only pink scar. “If you stay with your crew you’re going to die.” And then he pressed his chilly lips to Duck’s.

Screaming pain, then, as his legs broke and were re-made, but the water no longer felt so cold. And Duck realized all at once that he could breathe.

He looked down. He had a tail like a seal, thick and gray.

“Oh,” breathed the mer. “You make an even handsomer mer than I’d imagined.”

Duck grabbed him and kissed him again. The mer’s sinewy tail wrapped around his. “Uh,” Duck said finally. “What’s your name?”

“Indrid.”

“I’m Duck.”

“I know.”

Duck mustered a smile and a teasing tone. “Does this mean I get to sleep in your bed now?”

“Yes, but I won’t be as much of a gentleman about it as you were.”

The mer had always been cold to the touch above the water, but now he was warm, and Duck allowed himself to rest his head on the other’s shoulder. He was exhausted. Months of hard work on a ship and, even worse, weeks of struggling on foot across the ice to an uncertain destination would do that to you. But the water washed the sweat and grime easily from his skin.

Indrid lived in a cave at the center of an iceberg, where the layers of ice above them softened the light of the sun. When Duck flinched awake in the middle of the night, dreaming of starvation, Indrid petted him and let him drift off again in the faint glow of his red eyes. When Duck was strong enough to swim Indrid taught him how to hunt, driving schools of fish upwards and trapping them against the surface.

And still they slept with their tails intertwined.

“Indrid,” Duck said late one night as he traced patterns on Indrid’s narrow back.

“Yes?” Indrid raised his head from where it was resting on Duck’s shoulder.

“Do I have a dick?” He’d figured out how to go to the bathroom, but the rest of the smooth front of his tail was a mystery to him.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Indrid’s smile showed in his voice. “Would you like me to show you?”

“Please.”

Indrid wrapped his fingers around Duck’s wrist and guided his hand down. “Under here. But it only comes out when you’re aroused.

“Can we… do that?”

Indrid’s tail wrapped more firmly around Duck’s, both restraining and holding him close. “I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

“You sure did,” Duck gasped as Indrid’s hand pressed his against the tender flesh. He relaxed into Indrid’s hold, letting him take the reins.

“Oooh, you’re sensitive. We should have done this ages ago.”

“Yes, we should have, Indrid please-”

Indrid kissed Duck’s neck. “Can I bite you? Just a little, I won’t -”

“Fuck yes, mark me up, want everyone to know I’m yours.”

Indrid’s sharp teeth sank into Duck’s neck, and Duck squirmed in his hold. A slit he hadn’t even known was there was opening near the top of his tail, the unmistakable head of a cock emerging.

“Good boy,” murmured Indrid, and they both saw how his cock jumped. “Go on, touch yourself.” Duck plunged a finger into his slit, forcing his cock out into the water. “I told you you had a cock, didn’t I? And what do you say to me for showing it to you?”

“Thank you,” Duck gasped. Indrid had let go of his hands and was now feeling up his chest. “Please, Indrid, please -” Indrid’s tail had him so tight he could just barely twist his head around enough to kiss him.

“Do you want me to touch you some more?” said Indrid, muffled by Duck’s lips on his.

“Yes.”

Indrid’s clever fingers closed around Duck’s cock, and he didn’t let up with the kisses for a moment as he stroked him, and then with a twist of his wrist Duck was coming, milky fluid dissipating quickly in the water between them.

“Well,” Duck said when he’d finally caught his breath. Indrid had released him, so Duck could look into his eyes again. “Now I know I have a dick. But I have a second question.”

“Oh?” Indrid squirmed as Duck pressed his palm down on the upper part of his tail.

“Do you?”

--

Joseph had been watching, when Duck disappeared beneath the ice. He’d gone to pick up the harpoon and looked down into the water and saw nothing but gray-blue.

It was a shame. Duck’s presence was what had kept the rest of the crew from bullying him. He didn’t allow himself to think about the rest of it.

Not that he had long to ruminate. One day he was looking into another circle in the ice when a face appeared, a face very much like Duck’s. Joseph immediately thought back to determine what might be making him hallucinate: the lead from the cans of food? Plain starvation? And then a pair of strong hands pulled him into the world below.

[horrorslashergirl]

Hunter meeting Hunter

A Xaviera Lah-Mo and Andrei Kulokova Story Chapter 2

Authors Note: Here is part 2 of this exciting, thrilling story with Xaviera and Andrei! It’s so much fun writing these two. This is more from Xaviera’s perspective. God, I love these two.

Chapter 1 HERE

Xaviera Lah-Mo belongs to me

Andrei Kulokova belongs to @the-slasher-files​

Warnings: Some tension and a glimpse of Xaviera’s past

Words: 2.1k

The snow was starting to fall from the clouded sky harder, wind getting more aggressive; typical Himalayan winter, something that didn't surprise Xaviera as she gazed out the window of the cottage at the scenario outside, waiting for the stew in the two bowls she prepared to cool down a little, the smell of food relaxing her.

She huffed, wondering what she should do with the mysterious man upstairs. She was so used to traveling alone that the presence of someone made her anxious and stay on her toes for anything to happen, especially seeing how this man wasn't a usual one, her icy blue eyes drifting from the window to his weapons.

After five minutes, she got up from the chair, taking the tray of food, and marching upstairs to the bedroom, opening the door to see the brown-haired man smoke, gazing out the window at the snow falling down.

Without saying anything, she set the tray of food on the nightstand, taking her own portion and sitting into the old armchair next to the bed. He eyed curiously and suspiciously, taking the bowl and setting it in his lap.

"It's not poisonous if that's what you're wondering. If I wanted you dead I would have left you to the wild animals in the snow." she stated, taking a spoonful of her own stew.

He snorted at her words, taking a generous spoonful of the stew, his eyes closed, savoring in the taste and warmness of the dish.

"I've been through worse, myshka." he told her with a smirk.

Xaviera didn't say anything else, a tranquil silence falling on both of them as they eat. After she finished eating, she set her empty bowl on the nightstand, then gazed at him, many questions filled her head.

"Are you going to tell me now who you are and don't play that stubborn game of telling me a false name, Andrei Kulokova. It's not that hard to read your dog tags." she broke the silence, his own ice blue eyes widened a little at her words; that she knew who he was.

His surprised expression quickly changed into a hard glare, the hard cold walls surrounding him like some sort of protection.

"If you know my name is only fair to know yours." he told her, voice rough and with a certain predatory curiosity, like a wild animal wanting to acknowledge the other predator's identity.

"Xaviera Lah-Mo." she simply answered, making herself comfortable on the armchair, her eyes moving to his bandaged ankle, only for him to finish the food and starting to try to get up from the bed.

She gently pushed her hand on his chest to stop him from trying to get up, his eyes like a dangerous wolf ready to strike, but she kept her braveness, not breaking eye contact, macing his glare with her strict one.

"Your ankle is twisted, you need to rest." she firmly told him, who raised a scarred eyebrow at her words.

"What is it your business if I twist my neck?" the Russian man asked her, placing a big, rough hand on her arm gently, a silent warning for her not to pull a stupid stunt.

"I know you care too much for me, but try not fall in love." he whispered, a smug smirk tugging at his lips, K9's on display, but she only scowled at his arrogance, rolling her blue eyes at his attempt at flirting.

"Don't get all high and mighty. I don't want to drag your stubborn self upstair....again." she explained, his hand on her arm, burning her skin through the sweater she was wearing.

"And don't make me kick your ass out. There's a blizzard outside and there are worse killers that I'm sure will love an injured prey." she hissed, tugging at her arm from his hold, without a good result.

The Russian laughs; sadistic and twisted amusement in his wolfish eyes, his face inching towards her own; the two looking like two deadly wild animals ready to clash in a ball of claws and sharp teeth, the fight for dominance evident between the small woman and behemoth of a man.

"So much fire in such a little frame, darling..." he mused, lightening up his cigarette, blowing smoke in her face, making her venomous eyes intensify.

"I like that."

His grip on her arms tightens, it was loose enough that Xaviera could escape but also tight enough that she had to put on a little fight to escape the grips of the big bad wolf.

He was asserting the dominance here, reminding her of a male wolf in the prime of life, hot-blooded against a smaller one. It was a silent assertion.

'I am the big bad one, little one.' That's what it screamed.

Xaviera dismissed his comment, feeling her cheeks heat up involuntarily, something that happened to her in years.

"You know...Some of the deadliest animals are very small." she whispers, face pulled into a frown, just like a feline is ready to hiss in a warning.

Yes, size was important in the animal kingdom. Xaviera remembers during one trip in India when she was studying the King Cobra; a small animal in comparison with a tiger, but the snake packed enough neurotoxin to kill an elephant with a single bite.

"Don't make me scratch your eyes out." the white-haired woman warns him, tugging on her arm from his hold, without success.

The cigarette from between his lips hangs lazily, while he smirks her way.

"Come and try it, little kitten." he challenges her, only for Xaviera to blush at the use of the pet name on her, gulping down nervously, a weird feeling settling in her chest like something was crawling from the deepness of her ribcage. Despite that feeling, she kept a defensive demeanor.

"I'm not little." she hisses.

Andrei raises an eyebrow at her attempt to be threatening.\

"Have you looked in mirror?" he asks, pulling her closer, his body language telling her that he was deep in thought.

"Your neck will be so small under my hand as I squeeze...your trashing will be like nothing to me, little kitten." he spoke lowly with an animalistic growl that made Xaviera shiver, despite her facade at putting a feral face that made the Russian smirk.

Xaviera was the most sensitive at her neck, next to her ears and the prospect of him touching her there, made alarm bells ring in her head like a nuclear reactor ready to blow.

"If you touch my neck I am gonna castrate you, doggie." she hissed under her breath, brows pulled into a frown and her eyes looking directly into his.

She knew that if she broke the eye-contact that would be a sign of weakness on her part.

The man snarls only mere inches away from her face, one of his larger and rough hands moves to run along her thigh and she had to use all her power to control her breathing, trying not to show weakness or hesitation.

"Oh, you would love to get that close to me, wouldn't you....that intimate." he spoke, the air in the room turning from dangerous to sexual, the hand on her arm moving up to run the back of it along her cheek.

"You don't have to ask, baby girl, you know where to find me." with that said from his part, he removes his hands with a little shove and grabs the tea from the tray on the nightstand, taking a long sip while he held eye-contact with her.

Xaviera was taken back by his obscenity, never had she meet a man who spoke so directly at her in such lewd ways; probably because all the men she encountered were either too scared to addresses her, because of her ice-cold demeanor.

She snorts, pulling on a face of disgust.

"Keep dreaming, asshole. One more of that and I am gonna kick your butt in the snow." she warned him with her trademark icy glare.

Andrei holds the cup of tea in his lap and scoffs at her threat.

"Baby, I'm from Russia, the snow and cold is no bother to me." he tells her with a cocky smirk.

"You're infuriating." she tells him, stalking out of the bedroom and walking downstairs, leaving him alone.

After that, she went back on her research; she couldn't wait to kill the group of poachers that she had stalked for so long, mostly because their target was the rare snow leopard and just the idea of them killing the beautiful and gracious animal for the majestic fur made her see red and almost break a compass in her hand.

She needed to focus and that unnerving Russian was driving her nuts. Gazing out the window, the time passed so fast that it was starting to get dark outside, the night slowly falling in. Might as well rest herself during this blizzard, because she will need all the power for the upcoming hunt.

Her eyes looked to the stairs and she scoffed; no way was she going to sleep next to that male that she wanted to scratch his eyes out. She moved towards the fireplace, laying down on the fluffy blanket in front, the flames warming her up and making her eyelids feel as heavy as her sniper rifle.

Before she knew it she was fast asleep.

===========================

She was running, that's all she could do, hearing the loud hitting of numerous paws hitting the dry ground. Her ears perked up as the sounds of laughing growling meet her, basically feeling how the sharp canines will tear her flesh to the bone.

No weapons, no defense. Xaviera was scared and she felt like death was chasing her in the form of a pack of hyenas; the only animal she was anxious to be around, mostly because it reminded her so much of her parents dead.

No, not the animal killed their parents, the poachers did and the feliform carnivoran mammals just clean up the mess. A 14-year-old being forced to watch how her mother was devoured by the feral animals. How the hyenas tore the flesh of her mother's face-off, ripping her limbs apart.

She couldn't run and before she knew it she was on the ground, mouths of sharp teeth surrounding her, snarling and mocking her.

She wanted to wake up!

==============================

She jolted up with a scream, moving to get away from anything until her back meets a corner; she was hyperventilating, scanning her surroundings.

She was back in the cottage, in the bedroom, but she remembers that she fell asleep in front of the fireplace. Her gaze moved from the bed to the other side of the bedroom, seeing the Russian in a defensive position, one hunting knife in hand, the blade shining from the moonlight that peeks from the window.

Seeing that there was no danger, just the two of them in the silence of the night. He lowered his knives down, bending down and just looking at her.

She took as much air in her lungs as she could, controlling her breathing and uneasiness, reminding herself that it was only a nightmare and there is no danger, nothing to harm her in....that way.

Still, the gruesome images of her mother made her muscles tense, like a feline ready to pounce if she was threatened.

Xaviera was pulled from her dark thoughts by the slight shushing and cooing voice of Andrei, as he took careful steps towards her, her hands ready to strike if she had to, but he just stopped in front of her, not showing any sign that he will hurt or kill her.

Without realizing it, she leaned her forehead against his chest; she was so small compared to him and he could easily twist her neck if he so desired, especially in her vulnerable state.

That thought made her pull away from him slowly, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

"It was nothing." she told him in a quiet voice, exiting the bedroom and going downstairs, not having it in her to be around anyone at this moment.

The vulnerability was dangerous; she saw many times how that could cost someone's life. Animals showed no mercy when they got their prey in their claws or jaws....and so were humans, but humans were greedier, their avarice destroying everything.

Xaviera sometimes wondered if she was human because she felt more in connection with the wildness and animals.

Life thought her that is either you're the predator or the prey and she sure as hell wasn't going to be the second option. Still, she wondered why she saved the predator upstairs.

Maybe, because like her, he was more animal than human, and her soft spot for feral creatures kicked in?

She sighed as she gazed out the window outside, still night and snowing and she could feel as she gazed at the Himalayan mountains the spirit of the snow leopard, remembering that she was strong and deadly, killing so many people, just like a predator.

[wolfofwinchester]

♛. THE WOLF OF WINCHESTER

The birth of a title.

WARNING: Contains heavy descriptions of gore.

They’d half a mind to speed for the hills when they found the girl waving her blood-smattered arm along the side of the dirt road, their horses startled by the enormous wolf meeting her hip in height. The entire sight gave the humble folk and their steeds a terrible chill.

“Wait!”‌ The driver’s son grabbed his father’s shoulder, giving him a shake before he could slap the reins. “Pa, wait! That’s The Earl’s daughter, innit? It’s Lady Claudia!”‌

The much older man adjusted his dusty spectacles, then gaped and dropped from the wagon. “My Lady, what are you doin’ out here lookin’ in such a state?‌You poor thing, you–”‌ He stopped, cautiously, nervously, eyeing the beast at her side who seemed strangely docile, but highly aware of the man’s moves. The nerves rattling the farmer’s skin wanted to send him scattering from the beast alone, from its maw to its coat wet with crimson - but, there was white, dirty cloth wrapped around one of its legs. That, too, was red. The wolf was injured.

“I‌ had an unfortunate event occur to my poor self, good sir.”‌‌ Claudia spoke with a hand resting on her chest, teeth red and face a mess with what looked like dirt and mottled bruising, dressed with smears of blood. Someone struck the girl hard, her cheek was swollen. That was the sight that put the old man to ease, drawing out the compassion and the concern. “I‌ need to get home somethin’ terrible. Would ya help a Lady out?” Her hand rested behind Gelert’s head, giving him a good scratch. “He ain’t going to harm ya, I promise.”

The farmer called for the boy on the wagon and he leapt off, scuttling to the back to let the panel down for the weary girl who hitched a burlap sack over her shoulder, the older man’s caging her shoulders to provide some semblance of comfort.

“Let me take that for you, miss,” Spoke the son. “I‌ can-”

“No.”‌ Claudia cut him off short. “I‌ appreciate that, but I‌’ll be carrying this.”

The skies of April 5th, 1947 rumbled, earning the farmer and his son urgency. No Lady of Phantomhive was to be left in the rain.

Her exposure to rain was the least of Hawthorn Phantomhive’s, the father and the man who was almost burning tracks into the carpet he paced in his office, arms crossed behind his back. The man had a face of stone for the most part, never giving way to any emotion and always donning a frown. Only drastic measures made his brow ever so slightly twitch. Right now, there was a terrible twitch that was beyond his control.

“Foolish.” He cursed.

“Now now, M’Lord,”‌ Spoke a voice that made even the stoic Earl’s spine tremble. It creaked like an old door on rusted hinges, cracking with age — you could practically feel the dust tumble off the tongue it belonged to. “the last thing you want to do is let out such grievances while the dear girl has yet to be found. Men have been in your place and came to regret letting their mouth speak without the mind’s leash.”

A look like ice flew in the funeral director’s direction, who merely canted his head, hands that’d been crept close to his chest clicking their talons. That grin of his was absolutely unchanged by the look that made many crumble. Made the few others in the room feel grateful such intensity was not rested on them.

“Keep your penny dreadfuls behind your lips.”‌ The Earl stalked past the giggling man, pouring over his desk and peeling through the files. Photos laid scattered, files laid opened. He swatted aside the uncharacteristically bright green bag, wrapped by silver string and a tag with “do m'iníon milis*” attached. “Woolwich.”

“Not a peep, Lord Phantomhive.”‌ Piped a man with black hair, puffing on his pipe. “The only trading is in tobacco and weaponry from America.”

“Twyford.”

“Nobility’s not been in their stock for some time,”‌ Piped another with blond hair, rested languidly on the deep rich blue couch. “Druitt’s kept me sharply informed.”

“Norwood.”

Again, the funeral director spoke, traipsing to one of the long windows that peered over the front. “M’Lord, have I given you reason to doubt my information?”‌ He could see it, even if the others didn’t. He’d long since grown to recognize the subtle signs in the great Earl — the man was frantic.

“If I‌ find nothing in West Ham, I‌ want to know where to look next. Alternatives.”‌ Lord Hawthorn answered sharp. “Trafficking highborn is fast-paced. If my men can’t find her in the auctions tonight, I‌ will have others stationed elsewhere. Norwood.”

‌Tension laid thick, exchanges of glances between the two quiet nobles. The reports went on as the Earl listed off location after location, shouldering his coat and drawing ‘x’s on some parchment. The funeral director, on the other hand, had grown silent; his attention was quite preoccupied, watching a humble wagon roll up to the Estate.

“Well now,”‌ The Undertaker lilted, pricking every ear in the room. The tapping of a black nail on the glass drew Hawthorn’s eye. “the long lost pup has returned of her own volition.”‌

The mortician was all but shoved by the Earl’s rush to his side, which earned something of a frown that would’ve translated to “rude”. “Are you sure?‌ Are you certain?”‌ Hawthorn eyed, watching as his heir hopped to her feet, joined by that infernal wolf of hers. There was no mistaking it, it was Claudia.

“Good God,”‌ Uttered one of the two stray nobles, joining at the window. “The girl looks like she was dragged through the shambles. What did they do to her?”

“Oh, ‘to her’ you think?”‌

“Look at her, Undertaker.”

“I am. Are you?”

A strange look, but all interjected with the Earl’s quick turn on the heel as he strode from the office, the other three in curious tow. It didn’t take long to come across the girl, who walked clear through a gaggle of maids and footmen keeping their distance due to the growling Gelert.

“Claudia –”‌ Hawthorn barely got to speak, the bloodied progeny bore into him with a fiery leer the second their eyes had met. His heart pierced, looking at the mottled discoloration on her cheek of purple, and the crimson drench on her jaw stained to her neck and soaked deep into her collar. There were remnants of pearls in her curls, but the strings had obviously been busted, leaving wild raven blue flowing free in disarrayed waves. Her emerald dress was soiled in long-dried gore, the leading stench of iron that permeated and baked into her clothing from the Spring sun.

He didn’t see a wound on her, strike aside.

His arms rose, and Claudia silenced him immediately; she flung that burlap sack with enough force to make him grunt when it struck him in the gut, embracing that instead in confusion. He pressed it, and smelled the same whiff of iron; strong. Strong enough to make the two noblemen at his side gag.

It was also Claudia that spoke full and first, and also last. “Stiúradh glan uaim, fear Béarla*.” The Lady snarled, smeared mulberry-painted lips tucking into a snarl to show her teeth, the sharp canines with their white only seen in streaks through the ichor. Gelert in turn gave the same warning with a guttural growl. The two sounded too in-tandem to be comfortable. Made gooseflesh rise.

Locks flew with the storm that was the Bastard of Phantomhive, turned on her heel and surging down the opposite hall. The wolf lingered only a moment, adding to the edge Hawthorn felt cementing his feet to the ground, seeing to the father not following before padding after his mistress.

“— Lord in Heaven.” Came gagging when the burlap was peeled open, heads veering while the mortician peered closer with a coo.

“Might I, M’Lord?”‌ Lilted Undertaker, whom received no verbal permission, but the slow glance from those icy sapphires was all he needed to pry into the sack and draw back the bloodied noggin to cradle delicately in his palms. He rolled it, he examined it, grinning ear-to-ear with fascination of the wounds upon the facial features. Skin ripped from the nasal bone to show off shattered cartilage and strings of torn, and to his sharp eye, missing muscle. Half an eyelid hung over a lifeless grey orb, while the other was clearly ruptured beyond recognition; practically blood yolk.

The gap of freshly missing front teeth, bloodying the pencil mustache of the upper lip. Then the matter of the decapitation itself; how delightfully visceral! Only a bit of spinal cord hung, violently broken.

The Lords grimaced at the sight, and one even uttered a noise of disgust when the Undertaker clenched the bone with two nails and tilted it for closer inspection.

“Alexander Moore.”‌‌ Hawthorn noted, taking a cool moment to study the gored features before putting a name to it. “The Trader from West Ham.”‌ Notorious in the Underworld for his.. requested “stock”, of highborn and those of wealth. His trade knew no restrictions other than those who paid him in advance; he was feared because his men never left a trace when they took someone, and because he himself took part in the act.

He was not a man known for his mistakes, and he wasn’t one to be reckoned with, either. No matter the guard and no matter how high you were in the eyes of society, people died in pursuit of him. He was better off paid than trifled with. Hawthorn Phantomhive, however, did not bend to anyone.

As such, Claudia paid the price.

And then, Alexander.

“Wolf did a number on him. I’ve never seen a lopping like that.”‌ One of the men traced the outline of the broken spinal cord. It wasn’t clean cut at all, and the sharp of an edge pricked the noble’s finger with a hiss and a fast withdraw.

The Undertaker giggled, turning the head upside-down so the men had a better look. His fingers splayed around the neck, tapping a black nail to bone. “Take a closer look, m’lords — do these marks look like the dear Lady’s beasty?” Squints all around, and then the draining of color in two faces, joined by a hardness in the Earl’s. “These are human.”

The quick scuff of shoes as the two lesser nobles cleared from around the macabre viewing. “You’re mad if you think we’re going to believe—”

“Are you suddenly undertaker, Carlyle?”‌ Hawthorn cut, side-leering. There was no response to that. “If I remember correctly, you work as my bloodhound — so fetch:‌ find me Moore’s warehouse.”

The sun set, and would find itself easing into the horizon once the stated warehouse was found. In the middle of nowhere as to be expected, and it was thick with the odor of decay. The door to the place was wide open, and flies had set to buzz and whizz about as three men investigated the sight for themselves; Hawthorn, Undertaker, and of course, Carlyle, who must have been the palest of the trio as they stepped over the death scene.

It was a massacre. The bodies all had signs of mauling, there was not one man laid here that hadn’t been torn into by teeth, or sharp implement. Some were pelted with bullet wounds, and one unfortunate fellow hung strangled by chain with the ceiling. The main event was the office in the building, where a headless corpse laid in a heap upon the floor as the most violent death of them all; his stomach was busted into, and that, by the Undertaker’s inspection, was the work of the wolf, down the half-eaten intestines. His arms were broken, and the leather holster for his gun was empty.

“Think it was quick?”‌ Carlyle inquired, giving a kick to the Trader’s very stiff leg.

“No.”‌‌ Hawthorn answered, examining the wreck of the office. A struggle was evident, and the print of blood on the wall meant the man has his head slammed hard into the concrete, because the wounds on Claudia’s bod were lacking outside of a few bruises. There was no dire injury to be found. “I‌ think it was slow.”

“Very slow, at that.”‌ The Undertaker hummed, examining the neck more closely. “and excruciating! She chewed through his neck, see?‌ The muscles are strong, especially in a man like the late Alexander‌ Moooore. He was a man of fine physique. I’d reckon he lived well until she went for the main artery.”‌ A titter. “How terrible.”

“You don’t need to sound so happy about it, you goddamn madman.”‌ Carlyle muttered, exchanging clashing looks with the chipper funeral director. “That’s a corpse you’re hunched over.”

“Aye, and corpses are my work, Mr. Carlyle.”‌ A tilt of the silver-mopped head. “Don’t you ever feel exhilarated by your field of expertise?”

“I’m not entertaining that with a comment..”‌ The more Carlyle was exposed to this man, the less he felt he’d sleep at night. A shake of the head, and he glanced to the Earl. “What’re you thinking, Phantomhive?” 

The Earl had given the neck a good, long look. One could only imagine what boggled through his mind, knowing this was the work of his heir, his daughter, without doubt. Teeth snapped through the bone. A slow, agonizing death. The girl rejected it so strongly, but there was no doubt in his mind that the cruelty of a Phantomhive was deep in her blood. Their family’s cruelty, after all, was something inherited. “I think I have a wolf from Winchester succeeding me.” Whether that was a very rigid and awkward attempt at humor was anyone’s guess. 

A beat, and he rephrased himself. “I think I have the Wolf of Winchester succeeding me.”

‌--

Irish translations;

*‌ for my sweet daughter. *‌ Steer clear of me, Englishman.

[thewiscryptid]

crazy ex girlfriend starters .

pt 4 -- a mixture of season 2,3 & 4

-- some mature language, change pronouns as needed

"A shirt with sleeves? Are you meeting the president?"

"An insecurity? Me likely."

"Let’s dye each other’s hair, yarn bomb a car ... or we can talk about our shared traumas?"

"I really love saying the word ‘skulk’."

"I saw a woman with a bikini top made out of the Bill of Rights!"

"What a beautiful drug trip."

"You don’t like a man until his Sandra Bullocks start dropping!"

"Let’s not knock someone with a fetish. Some people like being choked by red licorice— and I’m not naming names, but we both know it’s me."

"You’re so basic but in a really entertaining way."

"Has anyone ever told you that your voice sounds like a mouse with throat cancer talking into a little, tiny mouse voice box? "

"Thank you for taking my virginity. Do you want to take it again?"

"Trust me, I’m a lawyer. Almost."

"It’s not stalking because all of this information is technically public."

"We’re just two lesbians, don’t mind us! "

"I knew that bitch weighed herself!"

"What ... *MAN* ... did this?"

"I don’t want your dirty man ice!"

"Who needs college when you’ve got this pretty face?"

"Boobs are just sacks of yellow fat so they’re really not worth the whole obsession."

"Oh, my god. I’ve left my body. I’m floating out of my body and looking down."

"I thought she was a nice person. But I was wrong. She’s a poo person!"

"Does she always talk like an all timey detective?"

"He’s having a tough time ; none of his dream catchers work in here."

"I could teach a class on how to cozy up to awful, rich, white men."

"Paging Doctor Freud, Oedipus needs his blanky."

"Blasted legumes."

"I was a strong, feral, little girl."

"I am ready to turn my childhood trauma into a kink."

"There are two things I will always have ; indigestion and all of the answers."

"You just have to wait for him to whip his yuck out."

"You’re right. I bet he has a big yuck ... I don’t even think I could even take his yuck."

"For some reason, you’re on the top of my to-do list."

"Naps are for children, the elderly and the weak."

"Have fun flying coach, dick."

"I’ll never have problems again."

"I said he must be destroyed then I ran away like some scared little boy."

"Get out of here but.... slowly. I wanna watch those pants move."

"Ow! My vagina!"

"I don’t care what happens to me anymore."

"My friends all say I’m judgey but I never listen to them because they’re all a bunch of big dumb idiots.

"He turned the smartest person I know into a wannabe por.n star."

"God’s my EZ-pass."

"$600-$800? That’s like ... a pair of shoes."

"I love myself and I don’t purchase any periodicals that engage in body shaming."

"You are an amoral sociopath with no conscience."

"You have the heart of a weak, dying kitten."

"Help me destroy ____ and I will let you do anything to me."

"Rip off my compassion with your teeth."

"Let me choke on your cocksuredness."

"You just Father, Son and Holy Ghosted your entire life!"

"Hey— BOOBS! Big ol’ boobs! LOOK AT ME!"

"I am obsessed. I am. Totes. Hundo P."

"The choking, the spanking, the cuckolding... ugh."

"Maybe she’s not such a heinous bitch after all."

"Every little girl kinda hates her mom."

"You made me think that you loved me."

"Oh god, these jack holes."

"Bitch, don’t get in my way, bitch."

"I’m a big boy.... what’s the word for that?"

"I know I’m talking to you right now but there’s another version of me in a parallel universe that is tearing your clothes off and climbing you like a sequoia."

"And of all of the pensises I’ve seen, his made the biggest impact."

"He’s coming! Bail on the turntable!"

"Does she have a magic vagina?!"

"Harry Potter dirty talk. Don’t worry about it."

"And now I’m here to claim a prize for a job well done. You!"

"Wheee! I’m your boyfriend again!"

"I got you a pretty dress for when we promenade."

"You know I think menstruation is beautiful."

'I gotta say for a blackmailer, he’s very good about consent."

"I look like the host of a Nickelodeon show!"

"Even his choice of ramen flavor is concerning."

"Our relationship is based 90% on fear and the other 10% is hoping you’ll make that duck ragout again!"

"You’re not special because you’re sad."

"Wait— Whoa, did you have like a billion drinks?"

"Your pet name for me is slut."

"My lady is a badass and really, really, reeeeally stupid."

"It’s so hard. There’s always something touching my breasts."

"STAND DOWN, SIR!"

"I’ve got that high end jizz."

"Please don’t poop in my balloon."

"You’re the love of my life, you know that, right?"

"Hello, nice to meet you. You’ve been inside of me."

"Hello, nice to meet you. You broke my heart."

"Why aren’t you happy?! You’re supposed to be happy!"

[anika-ann]

Heart Too Cold, but Friends of Gold - Ch.1

Know the Enemy

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader     Word count: 1700

Summary: Avenger!reader AU. Part 2 of Melting Hearts series. Part 1 HERE.

Your parents have been taken, parents who didn’t even know you were still alive and playing hero. And now it’s time to negotiate.

Warnings: swearing, mentions of kidnapping, death threat,... crying? Light angst.

Prologue | Story Masterlist

────── ·❆· ──────

Tony barely managed to plug in the phone to his magical tech when the annoying ringtone cut the air again.

You had been sitting on one of the stools in his lab, staring ahead blindly. Instead of a science lair, you saw your parents, family dinners and tiny cute birthday parties in a close circle of the few people who still cared. You saw your dad’s proud smile when you finished high school despite all the odds of your poor health and your mother’s tears on the same occasion, the small diner they took you to after, because you loved it there and you had preferred it to some fancy restaurant.

A squeeze on your hand brought you back to the present and you blinked, looking up to Steve’s face. A shadow of concern was there, but he gave you an encouraging smile. You gulped, eyeing the phone as if it could explode.

“Gonna put in on speaker, sounds good?” Tony hummed, already accepting the call and truly setting it so all of you could hear the caller. Steve’s hand never left yours.

“He-hello?” you spoke up quietly, mentally cursing. Too low. Yet, the person on the other end of the line must have heard you, because he responded.

“Hello, my darling!”

Steve’s grip tightened as the man greeted you cheerfully and Tony quickly started typing sounlessly in order to trace the call. You closed your eyes, the picture of your parents, each tied to a chair and a tape covering their mouths, swimming behind your eyelids.

“What do you want?”

There was a short silence following your question.

“Straight to business, I like that,” the man commented, his voice, immediately burned into your brain like a brand, causing you to sober up. “I wanted you attention.”

“You have it.” You have no idea how much attention you have, you dickbag. Touch them and I swear I’ll rip you open with my teeth.

“Obviously, Snowflake.” You winced, just like Steve, who was trying to keep composed by your side. “I’d like a meeting.”

“Why? Why would you kidnap those people? What-“

“Told ya. Wanted your attention. Gotta admit, your backstory is less interesting then I thought, but the Michaels always had high expectations.”

There was a bitter note behind his words and your lips parted. What the fuck? Was he trying to lead you astray? Or did he really just introduce himself? Both men present with you seemed as surprised as you were – Tony’s eyebrows were up, while Steve’s face darkened. He didn’t like the man revealing himself so easily-- and honestly neither did you.

“Why do you want to meet?”

To kill me?

“Big fan of yours. But with how much fan mail you get, I figured I needed something… bigger.”

You gritted your teeth at the painful pang of anxiety attacking your stomach. Yeah, sure, kidnapping your parents was a bit bigger. How the hell had he figured it out? There was no chance this Michaels didn’t know who you were, no chance of your parents being abducted being a coincidence. Yet, you needed to be sure.

“And you thought kidnapping two innocent people would do?” you strained through your teeth.

Tony gave you a thumbs up and lighted up the big screen – he traced the call. Naturally, it was from Pennsylvania; right at the source.

“Worked, didn’t it? I’m sure your friends already traced the call to the right building, so now nothing stands in the way of our meeting-“ You shot Steve a panicked look – this guy knew very well what he was doing. He must have known how precise the program was, when using the military network combined with Tony’s. How could he know that? “-so why don’t you come tomorrow at 8 a.m.? I would set the meeting earlier, but I tend to be cranky before I have my coffee.”

Steve’s expression was one of furious, veins on his arms ascending as his free hand curled up into a fist. His other forearm was pale; you realized you had been subconsciously tightening your grip on his hand and what was worse, your powers started working on their own, cooling the limb down.

You immediately let go, shocked and horrified. After that, you didn’t think your horror could escalate, but obviously, you were wrong.

“Also, leave your group of merry men and deadly woman home. If you don’t come alone, I’ll know. And if I know, they die.”

Steve shook his head rapidly, his eyes hard and disapproving. Tony was trying to get your attention, waving his hands. ‘Prove of life,’ he mouthed.

You breathed in shakily, closing your eyes. You were out of options. You whole body, every single instinct was screaming at you to tell him to go screw himself, because it was an obvious trap, but you didn’t have a choice.

He had your parents. There was only thing you could do.

“8 a.m. it is. I’ll come. Alone,” you added firmly, ignoring Steve’s hand grabbing your arm and pulling lightly to make you face him.

You opened your eyes slowly, meeting his – they were speaking to you soundlessly, scolding your for even thinking about negotiating with the man and meeting him on your own. You allowed yourself to drown in the sea of outraged blue, surprisingly calming you despite the emotions promising a fight in it. You found yourself strangely relaxed, an insane reaction to this mess.

“But I’m gonna need a non-stop prove of these people being alive.”

Steve’s gaze softened with compassion and you pretended it didn’t do things to you. You fooled no one.

“Obviously. Accept the video feed,” Michaels ordered and Tony clicked on the icon, another big screen lighting up with a face of a man.

JARVIS automatically started the recognition program, while you instinctively started asserting the man. White male in his forties, a bit round face, dark stubble, piercing grey eyes. Two-inch scar above his left eyebrow. It was impossible to guess his built with his body out of the frame.

“And you know, you can cut the game of calling them ‘people’. I know who they are to you,” he exclaimed, one corner of his lips rising.

You swallowed loudly as he disappeared from the frame then, angling the phone and showing you old industrial metallic door. He nudged it with his foot and it opened easily.

You ceased to breathe, your heart stopping as well. Your palm fled to cover your mouth as tears gathered in your eyes.

Here they were; the scene in front of you resembled the photo you had received, so he must have taken it from the very same angle. There wasn’t any change really, but for that you were actually grateful. You parents were still alive and breathing, their scared eyes flashing to the camera for a second before they lowered their gazes to the floor again. Your mother’s shoulders shook, her sobs muffled by the tape over her mouth.

The table you set your fist onto covered in thick layer of ice. You quickly raised it again.

“See, Frostbite? Living and kicking. Let’s keep it this way. You’ll hear from me every half an hour so you know your precious p-“ you held your breath in anticipation. Had he told them? Was he about to tell them now? “-people are still breathing. Can’t wait to meet you, Snowflake.”

And then the line went dead.

You sobbed, folding like a house of cards under a slight breeze. Steve shifted in his position, wrapping his strong arms around you instead of the simple challenging grip on your arm, and you instantly reached for the comfort he was offering. He placed a kiss on the top of your head.

“Hey, we’ll handle this-“

“Alone,” you whimpered, your voice muffled by his t-shirt. You could feel him shaking his head.

“Not an option. We’ll figure something out. Tony? Who’s this guy?”

“Frederick Michaels. Former employee of… well, me. Stark Industries. MIT graduate, summa cum laude. Just your average IT guy here. Fired a year ago,” Tony informed him swiftly. He didn’t need an encouragement to elaborate. “For harassment. That poor woman had to take a half-year of therapy. Jeez, I wouldn’t be surprised if Pepper had been the one to pack his bag herself. She’s allergic to that stuff.”

You allowed yourself breathe in at the mention of Pepper Potts. That woman was a goddess among men, ultimately badass in a bit different way than Natasha. And you needed to be all kind of badass now. You retreated from Steve’s hug, rising from your stool. Yet, you didn’t quite leave Steve’s personal space, comforted by the heat he was radiating. You eyed Tony.

“Why would he target me?” Why would he target my parents?

“Given his history, I would say it’s your outfit, it’s very tight on the right places-“ Tony hummed, cut off by Steve’s murderous glare, “-but this seems much more complicated than that. Why don’t you chill while everyone else gets here? JARVIS?”

“Already sent an alert to Agents Romanov and Barton as well as Doctor Banner, sir.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, the team working like swish watch. He picked the wrong team to mess with. We’ll deal with that bastard in no time, no worries, Frosty.”

Despite yourself and the air so thick in the room you could cut it with a knife, you smiled.

“Also, get that ice from my table, Elsa. Your manners suck.”

You did as he asked, trying to ignore the anxiety at your powers going haywire – you had other things to worry about now. But you could feel Steve’s worried gaze at the back of your head as your hand hovered over the mess you had made.

He was shaken by that as much as you were, but you never got to talk about it, because Clint entered the laboratory with a yawn.

“What’s up, ki-“ The words died in his throat when he saw the frozen frame of two civilians tied to chairs. “Where’s the fight?” he asked instead and Tony sighed, zooming the map out, replacing the ugly picture.

When the red dot appeared in a town called Snow Shoe, you almost send an icicle through the hologram, really not appreciating the irony.

────── ·❆· ──────

Part 2

────── ·❆· ──────

Tags:  @mermaidxatxheart​, @murdermornings​, @elisaa-shelby​ @ask-hellbent-tweek @cxptain, @kallafrench​

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

Too Weak to Fly (chapter 7)

This was supposed to be another short chapter, but it grew a bit out of control,so I had to cut the action somewhat earlier than I had originally planned. 

TW: somewhat graphic descriptions of injuries and violence

Well... godspeed.

Back to chapter 1

Tags:   @cosmic-malarky @swanheart69 @boysinperil @agentlokii 

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

Chapter 7

 Nobody stops him.  Not at the entrance when he steps off the escalator, not in the obscenely white, pristine hallways as he strides purposefully toward the large meeting hall.  

It doesn’t surprise him, really.  Heaven, for the past six thousand odd years, has been a forbidding, inhospitable place. Empty.  And for his purposes right now it suits him just fine.

Yet he can help but think back to when Her presence was still felt around this place; when these walls were filled with warmth and compassion and LOVE, instead of the frigid burn of indifference he feels here now.

 Lord Almighty, how could You allow this to happen?  Do You not see? How can You possibly approve of what Your children have become?  This emptiness, this coldness, this… this cruelty that I have witnessed with my own eyes… This isn’t what You taught us to be back when we basked in Your presence and listened as You told us Your will. Was this Your plan all along? Is this the Heaven of Your legacy?  Is this why You see this and do not wish to intervene?

He wonders briefly if this is what Crowley felt like all those millennia ago when he saw what Aziraphale and the others were too blind to see and he dared to ask Her about it. And if simply asking Her questions then – before the terrifying viciousness of the punishment for the wayward angels, before the inexplicable cruelty of the Flood, before the plagues, before the wars, before the uncaring silence in the end of days…– if that was all it took to Fall, then, should She hear his questions now, he would surely not remain an angel much longer.  Strangely, the thought of Falling doesn’t terrify him anymore.  Not after everything he’s been through, everything he’s seen.  No, he’s not afraid to Fall.  Which is quite fortunate, considering that what he is about to do will more than likely damn him.  And that’s fine.  If Falling is what it will take to make things right, then he is more than willing to pay that price.  But, first, he needs to make sure that Crowley is safe, and he can’t risk having Her hear him and brand him a rebellious angel just yet.  Not until he’s done what he’s come here to do.  So he grits his teeth, clamping them tight against the rebellious thoughts, and he keeps walking.  

 It is only when he nears the massive double doors bound with celestial gold that he stops, his path blocked by two young angels with poleaxes held at an angle.  He recognizes them instantly – the same two nameless, unimportant angels that have, on Gabriel’s order, destroyed Crowley’s beautiful wings with such callous indifference.  He stares at their hands, hands clasped around their holy weapons, hands that held the buckets steady as Holy Water poured down onto the bound, writhing demon….  

 His jaw ticks, fists clenching painfully tight at his sides.  “If you would kindly step out of my way,” he tells them, voice tight with barely controlled anger.

 “You have no business here, traitor,” one of the angels responds with a tone of affected boredom that reminds Aziraphale a little too much of Gabriel.  

 The smile he gives them in response – a sharp, predatory thing that feels awfully, unnaturally tight on his face – makes them falter, a shadow of consternation flickering over their expressions.

 “You know who I am then,” he nods matter-of-factly.  “Good.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, pulling out a long, thin vial.  Holds it out, making sure the vial’s deadly contents are perfectly visible to the now decidedly nervous-looking angels.  “And I assume you know what this is as well.”  He rolls his wrist a bit, grinning unkindly at the way the angels’ eyes track the bright orange tongue of flame that twists gracefully behind the glass wall that traps it.

 “You wouldn’t dare,” the same angel speaks up again, but there’s no trace of the earlier self-assured smugness in his voice, doubt creeping in.

 Aziraphale’s smile falls, blues eyes narrowing ever so slightly.  Cold, ice cold, like his voice when he speaks next.  

“Do you, actually, believe that an angel who dared to walk into Hell to pick up this,” he nods toward the vial of Hellfire that seems to glow brighter in his hand as though fueled by his growing anger, “would then hesitate to use it?”  

He watches them digest his words, their gazes flickering nervously between his face and the vial. “I’ll be honest with you,” he says, drawing their wavering attention back to himself, “I have bigger plans for this particular vial, and I’d rather not waste it on two foolish little angels. But make no mistake…” He steps in closer, teeth bared.  Breathes out – a low whisper of a warning, a promise of retribution yet to come, “…you two hurt someone I care about very much, and if you dare keep me out here another moment longer….”

 He doesn’t finish his threat, he doesn’t have to.  The angels step aside without another word, the shafts of their poleaxes scraping dully across the floor as they move.

 Aziraphale doesn’t spare them another glance as he walks swiftly past them to push open the heavy door and slip inside.  

 Gabriel is the first one he sees, the archangel standing with his back to the door, head tilted down in concentration at whatever it is he’s holding in his hands.  The archangel’s hand jerks suddenly backwards in a sharp pulling motion, and Aziraphale’s ears pick up a strained, muffled groan that follows the movement.

 That pained, hopeless sound is like a cursed blade through Aziraphale’s heart.

 Fingers clenching tighter around the vial, he takes a long, determined step forward.  

“Gabriel!”

The archangel startles, turning toward his voice, revealing the huddled figure that stands kneeling on the ichor-stained floor before him.

 The room blinks out. Or so it appears to Aziraphale, at least, because, for a brief moment, everything around him seems to dim, the edges of his vision swimming out into a churning, nauseating blackness.  

And at the center of it is Crowley.  Him he sees perfectly, in every stark, cruel detail.  His body, naked and shivering in the too-too cold room.  His eyes – a bright, acidic yellow, blown wide with fear and pain.  The black ichor that stains his lips and chin. The horrible, weeping burns everywhere his skin has come in contact with the floor that virtually pulsates with holiness.  The golden manacles around his wrists and the collar around his neck with just enough chain length to allow him to stay on his knees where he is, but prohibiting him from moving any further.  Those knees, bleeding and blistering from being forced to bear his weight on the hallowed ground for Lord knows how long.  His left arm, hanging limply at his side, ichor dripping to the floor in a steady morbid rhythm from the empty, ravaged nail beds.  His right arm, trembling in Gabriel’s vise-like grip….

 “It’s a very annoying habit of yours, Aziraphale, to interrupt me while I’m working,” Gabriel cuts in, casually shaking off the bloodied pliers-like tool he holds in his free hand to discard a recently ripped out nail to the floor.  Turns back to his task with an aggrieved sigh and an eye roll. “I still have four more of these to remove.”  

 The room comes suddenly, sharply back into focus.

 “Release him.” He rocks forward on rigid, wooden legs, words twisting into a growl through the awful, mounting pressure in his chest.  “Now!”

 There must be something in his tone that gives Gabriel pause.  The archangel stills, lets out another long, frustrated exhale.  Glances once again at Aziraphale over his shoulder. And Aziraphale can see the exact moment that Gabriel notices the vial in his clenched hand, for in that instant a look of startled shock flickers across the normally impassive features, and the archangel turns to face him fully, releasing Crowley’s arm as he does so.  

The demon chokes out a broken, sob-like breath, pulling the arm toward him as much as the chains allow him, hunching over the injured limb in a pitiful attempt to shield it from further abuse.  But his eyes, wide and unblinking, continue to stare up at Aziraphale with an inexplicable expression of horrified despair.  He has yet to utter a single word.

 “Oh, is that how it’s gonna be?” Gabriel murmurs, purple eyes flashing as he shifts his gaze from Aziraphale’s face to the golden tongue of flame moving restlessly within its glass cage.  A beat and his expression shifts back into one of disdainful superiority.  “Do you think I’m a fool, Aziraphale?”  He tsks mockingly, nods back toward the kneeling demon. “Do you not think that if we dragged that creature up here to douse him in Holy Water that we already know about the trick you pulled?”  He takes a slow, deliberate step closer to Aziraphale, towering intimidatingly over him even at a distance.  “That we know you’re no more immune to,” he nods at the vial, “that thing than we are?”

 “I have no intention of getting you to believe that I’m immune to Hellfire,” Aziraphale objects, holding the surprised purple gaze.  “I merely wish to inform you that I have come to take my friend away from here, and I want you to believe me when I say that I will use any means necessary to do so.”

 Gabriel regards him silently, grim, assessing.  A moment later his face splits into a shark-wide plastic smile.  “Did you know that it takes a single diluted drop of Holy Water to melt a demon’s tongue?” he asks in a seeming non-sequitur that makes something very, very cold churn unpleasantly in Aziraphale’s gut.  “Just found it out myself yesterday.  Incredible, isn’t it?”  

 Aziraphale’s gaze flickers over to Crowley, to the thin lips pressed together into a twisted line of black-stained pain, to a wide streak of black ichor running down his chin and neck. He feels sick, the burning at the back of his throat added to the now nearly impossible pressure inside his chest that begs to break forth in a spectacular, wall-shattering scream.  How, he wants to shout.  How could an angel, a being of Light, even think to inflict such torment on another creature, let alone speak as though they enjoyed doing so?  How could anyone?

 “I was gonna go for the eyes first, you know.”  Gabriel keeps talking in that perfectly casual, conversational tone that sets Aziraphale’s teeth on edge, “but then I realized that, if I did that, he wouldn’t be able to see what else I’ve got in store for him. And what would be the fun in that? Am I right?” He throws his arms out, his smile – a fixed, frigid mask of exaggerated enthusiasm, as he invites Aziraphale to appreciate his reasoning. “Plus, this way I don’t have to listen to him profane these hallowed walls with his foul tongue.”

 Aziraphale really needs him to stop talking.  

 “Is there a… point you’re trying to make?”  He’s trembling, he realizes.  Vibrating with anguish and fury, his hand gripping the vial so hard, he can feel tiny spider cracks form along the glass surface.  A little more, and the deadly flame will burst free to devour him whole.

 “The point, traitor,” Gabriel responds darkly, all pretense of joviality gone, “is that Hellfire latches on to the closest source of holiness, no matter how…,” he gives Aziraphale a look full of disappointment and disdain, “pathetic and corrupt it may be.  And if it only took one diluted drop of Holy Water to turn that serpent’s tongue into liquid goo, it won’t take but a lick of that flame to burn your worthless self into a pile of equally worthless ash the moment you open that vial,” he concludes with a condescending smile, certain in the knowledge that he’s just called Aziraphale’s bluff.

 Aziraphale’s answering smile is strained around the edges, cold, deadly.  “Crowley and I have played quite a few ball toss games with our godson over the years.  I assure you, my throwing aim has gotten quite good.  I’m fairly sure that I can douse you in Hellfire flames without getting so much as a singe.”  He raises the vial higher, thumb poised over the cap.  Pointedly ignores the desperate, mewling, gurgling moans coming at him from Crowley’s direction.  “I’m willing to risk it.  Are you?”

 Gabriel frowns, seeming unsure for the first time. Watches Aziraphale’s face intently for some kind of tell, his own face souring at whatever it is he sees there.  His mouth twists in a grimace of displeasure and he raises his hand reluctantly, the chains holding Crowley captive disintegrating with a snap of his fingers.  

Released from their hold, Crowley slumps forward with a whimpered sob of relief, trembling fingers of his less mangled hand grasping at his neck to brush the red, painful-looking welt left behind by the golden collar.  

 Aziraphale lurches an aborted half-step toward him, the vial burning in his hand as Hellfire itches to get out, spurred on by the raging emotions that roll off the angel in wave after turbulent wave.  For a moment, for a brief, tantalizing moment he wants to abandon his plan, wants to run to his demon, to pour Hellfire onto the worst of the wounds, to soothe, to shelter, to heal….

The door creaks open behind him; before him, Gabriel’s face splits once again into a supercilious, contemptuous sneer, his eyes flashing triumphantly as he flicks his gaze from the door back to Aziraphale.  

The moment is over.

 “So, what is the plan now, then, Aziraphale?” the archangel inquires with sickly, saccharine sweetness, as he slowly begins to advance on him, hands folded regally behind his back. Behind him, Crowley mewls in distress, scrambling to rise on unsteady, wobbling legs. “Do you hope to fight your way out of here, get past all those angels,” he waves a hand toward the door, “with that pitiful bit of Hellfire at your disposal?”

 Aziraphale doesn’t bother turning around to look. He lets his gaze find Crowley’s instead.  Locks eyes with him for one interminable fraction of a second – an ocean of ice-blue calm against an amber-bright sea of turbulent panic.  Trust me, he mouths.  And then he rips his gaze away and lunges for Gabriel.

 The archangel stumbles backwards at the unexpected attack, tries to twist out of Aziraphale’s grip, but Aziraphale holds fast, arms clamped in a steel-like vise around Gabriel’s form.

 “I don’t need to fight,” he insists, pressing the vial against the archangel’s neck.  “I just need to know where to aim my weapon.”  He presses the vial harder, eliciting an alarmed hiss from the squirming archangel.  “Crowley will walk out of here now, and you will let him. You won’t interfere, and you will make sure that no one else does either.  Or I will uncap that vial right down your throat, and it is, as you said,” he bares his teeth, whispers into Gabriel’s ear a mocking echo of the archangel’s own earlier words, “Hellfire latches on to the closest source of holiness, no matter how pathetic and corrupt it may be.”

 In the periphery of his vision he sees the other angels hesitate by the doorway, throwing nervous glances Gabriel’s way.  He sees Crowley, frozen still where he’d last seen him, staring at Aziraphale with confusion and horror.  Move, he wants to yell to him.  Get out of here, move!

 “You’ll Fall for this,” Gabriel snarls, thrashing uselessly in Aziraphale’s grip.  “I’ll cut your bloody wings off myself!”

 “I have no doubt,” Aziraphale nods, and the simple, calm conviction in his voice momentarily stuns the entire room to stillness.  Aziraphale’s voice, when he speaks next, rings loud and clear in the ensuing quiet, the words – thoughts, rebellious, anguished thoughts he’d carried with him these past few days – pour forth, releasing him from their unbearable burden. “But when you do, you better pray that I don’t survive it.  Because if I do, I swear to you right here, right now, that I will come back here with all the Hellfire at my disposal, and I will burn this place into the Nothing it came from.  Because this here isn’t the Heaven that I remember, and none of you are worthy of being called Beings of Light.  If She were paying any attention, She would have done it Herself long ago.”

 The shocked rumble of voices that erupt in response to his words is overwhelmed instantly and completely by a blinding explosion of brilliant white light that floods the space before him.

[folieacutie]

Weak Point (Percabeth fic)

(A/N) AU where Percy doesn’t remember Annabeth, he still has the Curse of Achilles, and the battle between Greeks and Romans has just broken out.

AO3 link

Among the sharp, sizzling clash of metal against bodies, Romans against Greeks, she sees him: Praetor Perseus Jackson.

For a second her mind conjures Luke. Oh, how easily she had convinced herself he was still the Luke she had considered family…until those golden eyes locked on hers, and she realized Luke had eroded into a person she did not recognize.

Annabeth feels the same hollowed-out pain as she did then, except worse. Percy hadn’t chosen this. They had made all the right choices, had been on the God’s side, and yet…

Praetor Jackson cackles as he tears through rows of Greek demigods. His skin glistens, unharmed.

Part of her crumbles inside. The other part blocks an arrow from ripping through her skull.

It ricochets off her blade. She calls over her shoulder, “Jason! I’m going.”

“Annabeth, you can’t, he’s practically unstoppable-”

“I have to try.”

The world is blurry and hot, motions blending as tears build. She can’t tell if they stream down her face or not while she hacks her way towards him, through the chaos of Roman and Greek demigods fighting.

Part of her wants to avoid him forever, knowing what she does now.

He doesn’t recognize her. He doesn’t remember. He is not her Percy. He is not about to turn to her and give her a big, cheesy smile. He’s going to slice her through with Riptide.

Annabeth’s chest feels like it’s on fire. Her gut twists as if a blade has already gashed her open.

In her peripheral there’s a worried shout, “Annabeth! Don’t!”

She continues forward.

She slams a roman demigod out of the way and-

There is Praetor Perseus Jackson.

His sword arcs. Purple robes flutter around him, his eyes flash with danger.

She’s seen that look before, though never directed towards her, or to that extent, so void of compassion. He is the darkest part of the tumultuous sea.

He tosses a Greek camper to the side with the hilt of his sword and lunges.

The only thing that keeps her alive is over a decade of training. And, the fact that she knows him better than anyone else in the world, Roman brainwashing or not.

He hadn’t killed the other camper. He had merely immobilized them. A glimmer of hope burns inside of her.

She deflects Riptide’s slashes, gaining a mark on her shoulder- not a stab wound.

Annabeth tries to say his name, but it lodges in her throat. It sears her teeth. The name is acidic, devouring. She braces against his attacks though her limbs shake. This is killing her. He has barely touched her.

The glow of celestial bronze glints off his skin. His hair wilts onto his forehead with sweat. There it is, the one gray curl. It’s still the same as hers. Still. Annabeth’s heart latches onto it.

“Percy-” The name spirals out alongside her knife, a desperate motion.

His eyes sharpen, brow furrowed.

Annabeth clings to the fantasy of him stopping, blinking at her, dropping Riptide, kissing-

He blocks her knife and hurtles his sword at her chest.

The flat of his blade crashes into the armor above her ribs. For a moment all air seizes out of her body. She lurches over. In a blink, his sword rushes towards her owl helmet-

She follows her momentum down and rolls out of the way.

All it gains her is a bit of distance. Annabeth hobbles to her feet, sidesteps another body and tries to breathe. Tears sear through her.

But she moves to attack again before he can charge someone else. Their blades meet.

He almost sighs in annoyance. “Should’ve guessed a daughter of Athena wouldn’t give up so easily. Battle strategy and all that, right?”

It’s not the teasing tone Percy would use. There’s malice in it.

Her knife’s grip is slick against her clammy palm. “You have to stop the fighting, stop the camps fighting.” She chokes out. Gods, he used to press kisses to her forehead before they fell asleep together.

Their weapons skid apart with a shink.

“Oh yeah, and why exactly do I have to do that? You invaded us, remember?”

He swings. She jerks back, the metal almost skimming her collarbone. Instead, the skin on her arm slices open. It stings. She sucks in a dry breath.

Us, Remember?

“Percy, please, you know us.” Annabeth looks into his eyes. “You know me-”

He huffs out a cold laugh. Ice water seems to slide down her spine.

“Are you trying to die? Get out of my way.”

She shakes her head frantically, “I took a knife for you, in the war before, please, remember-”

“You should probably stop talking. Usually, people are smart enough not to lie to me.”

Anger jolts through her. It fills up her chest until her jaw tightens.

She spits in Perseus’ face.

He squabbles back.

Annabeth advances. “Tell me,” She yells, “Do you know where your heel is, Praetor?!”

He still thwarts her blow. “My heel?” He asks, incredulous.

“Your Achilles heel, you fucking idiot!” She slashes at him.

Probably no one else would notice it, but she catches the microscopic widening of his eyes, how his shoulders tense. A second later he’s lodging his spear at her again.

She dodges. If this were any other enemy she would’ve been smiling at her advantage. Instead, her lips quiver into a frown. Her chin wobbles.

“That’s pretty dangerous,” She taunts. She clenches her teeth to stop her voice from wavering. “Not knowing your weak point.”

He laughs again. It’s false, she can tell. “Maybe I don’t have one.”

They circle each other.

“Are you sure about that? No one but the Gods are fully invulnerable.”

“Maybe I’m as good as the Gods then.”

Zeus’ thunder shakes overhead.

“Try again.”

Perseus rolls his eyes. The motion is so achingly familiar. “Well, good luck with finding out where it is.”

Annabeth meets his stare. She steadies herself. “I don’t have to find it.”

He freezes, just a little.

“I already know it.”

She surges forward. His sword comes up to her face. It doesn’t matter now. She turns it out of his grip and it clatters amongst the lashing bodies around them.

Annabeth looks at those eyes, full of fear, unfamiliar yet the same stark green, and aims for his legs.

With a yelp, he falls. She’s on him as he scrambles. Her breathing is labored, painful, while she hits the back of his leg and pushes his chest to the floor. She grabs him by the hair and he lets out a strangled noise when she shoves her blade under his chin. Her knee presses right against the small of his back.

To anyone else it would look like she’s got him by the throat. They both know better.

His whole body is shuddering.

How long ago was it that he’d showed her this very spot after she’d saved him? His hand had been so vulnerable in hers, he had been so concerned for her life…

She holds back the pulsating sobs raging against her ribcage.

“How- how do you know?” A cry crackles in his throat. Her knife bobs with his chin.

Annabeth leans down.

Her tears are hot when they fall onto the blood-splattered grass besides his ear. “Because you told me, Seaweed brain.”

[katianegreyson]

Birthday Bash!

[Warning: Contains mild gore and violence. Read at your own risk.]

She had been back in the city for over a week, yet remained homebound. She had watched the fervor of activity from her apartment window. People flowing through the pathways below, growing bolder as the sunset. Nightlife in the Mage Quarter was always questionable. Drunken behaviors that often resulted in walks of shame out of the alleyways. Fights. Loud tirades. Those manicured lawns housed quite the show, one she wasn't always so hesitant to join in some small part.

However, melancholia had taken root, as it often did after her trips to the mountains. Too many memories, not to mention, the painful reminder of someone's absence. It generally took a week or so before the urge to stop staring at the empty pages of a journey book or out a window took hold. A small span of hope and optimism before reality sunk in once more. Not even time spent in her aerial silks sped up the process or eased her state of mind.

She put off rejoining civilization for as long as possible. In the end, it was the barren state of her pantry that drove her to dastardly things like putting on pants and running a brush through her hair. Sadly, society demanded she not be bare-assed and disheveled looking. Well, most of society. She knew a few who wouldn't complain.

It was early morning when she finally left her apartment, the predawn hour promising her the best choices at the city market. What was the saying? The early bird gets the worm.

Well, this bird wanted steak and eggs.

And bacon. Lots of bacon.

As she descended the steps to the small shop beneath her apartment, it was impossible to miss the brightly wrapped package left for her. The bow was enormous and the counter the box rested on was covered in a gods awful amount of glitter.

Kate loosed a long sigh. Of course her birthday wasn't missed by the proprietor. Such information was required in the rental contract. If it were up to her, she would spend the day like any other. Clearly, her landlord had different ideas. It was as if she could hear her voice, telling Kate in a motherly, (nosey) overbearing tone.

"A birthday should be cherished and celebrated."

Knowing she would be faced with far worse repercussions than a mild annoyance if she ignored the box, Kate huffed out a curse and walked over to the damn thing. Lifting the lid, she found the inside stuffed full of tissue paper in the most obnoxious pinks known to man. Shaking her head, she peeled layer after layer, silently cursing the woman until the last piece of paper was pulled free.

A sharp inhale was Kate's only outward sign of the sight within. No fancy bauble or awful outfit she would have to wear. This was far more personal.

The woman she had been cursing moments before stared back at her with milky dead eyes, a look of pure horror frozen onto her face. Jagged shreds of flesh were spread out at the neck, looking as if it was torn rather than cut cleanly off.

The head rested on a pile of roses, a gruesome message she understood all too well.

Why couldn't things just stay dead these days? 

Floorboards creaked softly behind her, a moment later, quietly letting her know she wasn't alone and the 'guest' was an amateur.

She should have just stayed home.

The sound of a single shot echoed through the empty pathways of The Quarter. While sound would have been drowned out later in the day, the early hour drew unwanted attention to the thunderous boom.

Standing outside the shop that prided itself on pyrotechnics, Maddox sucked in the last drag of his cigarette, flicking the spent butt away. The sound reached him the moment the occasional vice fled his fingertips. Poor timing, or perhaps perfect, and the man dove for it. He was after all smoking near a place that was combustible.

The sudden boom led him to assume the worst. Moments later, when he realized he was still in one piece, more or less, he pushed himself up and began cursing someone's mother. Grass stains clashed with his token grease stains, not that he cared. The noise wasn't a concern either until the sounds of a struggle carried his way.

Lads being lads, likely. At least that is what he thought until he heard the telltale shrieks of a woman.

"Fuck…"

His apathy was overshadowed by his protective nature in an instant. Taking off in a sprint, he followed the muffled sounds of conflict through the manicured walkways. Twists and turns didn't help. Fucking city layout.

When the noise died down, Maddox feared he was too late. Lost in a maze of purple rooftops and decorative fescue. It wasn't until he skidded around a corner that he caught sight of the group of men, fighting to load a bound and gagged redhead into a wagon.

She was giving them hell, small little thing, covered in blood and full of fight. Every time they got close to loading her, she wriggled in the most awkward way possible, causing one of the four brutes to lose their grip. It wasn't until one genius used the butt of his gun to deliver a well-placed blow to her head. It didn't knock her out, but she was stunned enough to go limp.

Maddox wasn't confident that he could take on four men, even if a pair looked wounded. So, he improvised.

Pulling out a stick of dynamite from the bag at his hip, he lit the long braided fuse and shouted to bring attention to himself.

"Oi! How about we put the lass down, eh?" He was walking closer, slowly. "Nice and easy. Then you can leave with what pieces she left you with. Or… I can blow all those pieces up."

"Got to tell ya, I personally would prefer to not spend the tail end of the morn being scraped into a glass jar."

Waving the explosive, Maddox eyed the dwindling fuse, sparks flying as time ticked away. "Tick tock, lads. What's it gonna be?"

There was no nice and easy as they dropped their prisoner, the lawn doing little to cushion the fall. A glaring sneer came from who he assumed was the leader as he pointed with his chin to the lass on the grass.

"You bought her a day, tops. C'mon boys. We can come back later." Clearly they didn't want to deal with an audience. Though as they left, a careful eye was kept in case they had a mind to beat his ass.

Maddox waited until the last few seconds, after the quad of men was long gone, before he pulled the fuse free of the explosive cylinder. Tossing the sparking twine into the grass, tucking the rest of the stick in his back pocket, he went to see to the woman he just saved. From what, he wasn't sure.

With his luck, she might be more hazardous to his health than the men who tried carting her off. Fate was a bitch that way.

"Did you have to bite me when I pulled the gag free?"

Kate didn't answer at first, walking sorely to her bathroom, the bruises she earned making her body ache with every step. Pulling the length of silk free from the mirror, she looked at the sorry state she was in. Busted lip, bruised and bleeding temple. The blood had already started to cake and congeal in her hair, matting it to the side of her head.

Ripping off the sleeve to her bloodied shirt, she uncovered the bullet hole she had been gifted with, if it could really be called that. The shot hadn't buried a bullet in her flesh, but it was too deep to really be called a graze.

She was going to need stitches. First, she was going to need coffee. The blow to the head hurt worse than the wound on her arm, the pain making her nauseous. That alone was a sure sign of the damage it wrought. Sleep was now the enemy.

Grabbing a clean towel, she ripped the absorbent cloth into a few thin strips, shouting out to her guest or... savior.

"There is whiskey in the bedside table. Bring it to me."

Muttering as he fetched the bottle, Maddox brought it to her, standing in the bathroom doorway as he passed it over. He was older than Kate, his salt and pepper hair cropped short. He didn't boast a beard in the traditional sense. Just a thick stubble that shaded his face.

His skin was weathered, Kate's guess was from the sun or some manner of heat. He carried it well, the deep lines adding character to his face rather than make him look old. His eyes, however, were his most striking feature. Shadowed by his darker brow, the pale blue stood out like pools of ice, yet they held none of the expected coldness. Just warmth and compassion.

"Probably not the best time to drink, lass." He commented, catching the look she gave him in the mirror.

"You're not my father or my husband. And while I do appreciate the assistance, it doesn't mean you're suddenly entitled to tell me what to do." Her tone wasn't harsh, just a matter of fact.

Nodding to her words, he shrugged. "Fair enough."

Despite her pointed remark, none of the whiskey made it to her lips once the bottle was opened. Instead, it was poured over her wound. Kate pursed her lips, but the groan of pain and displeasure was hardly muffled.

When she finally spoke through clenched teeth, it was to complain about the waste of good whiskey. Seems she would have rather drank it than use it as a disinfectant before she worked to bandage her arm.

It took her a few clumsy attempts, her guest clearly knowing better than to offer assistance at the moment. Finally, though, she tied the thin strips in place, tying them off and tightening the knots with her teeth.

As she turned, she nodded her thanks and sighed, knowing she was about to ask too much of a stranger.

"Don't suppose you would be kind enough to not mention this to the guard. Chances are, they were bribed to patrol elsewhere. I have a feeling my landlord's death would be easily pinned on me. Would rather not get thrown in The Stocks."

Maddox furrowed his brow. "Dead landlord?"

"Yeah. Her head is gift wrapped downstairs. Literally." She admitted honestly.

Scratching his stubble jaw as he grimaced, he shook his head. "Lass, I don't know what you're into. But smells like deep shit. You sure you don't want to involve the authorities?"

Kate nodded but it was clear the movement brought on a wave of discomfort. Gingerly touching her temple, she felt the abused flesh trickling with fresh blood. Head wounds were a bitch.

"Alright. I'll keep out of it. I take it you've got things handled now?"

It was a polite way to excuse himself and get the hell out of dodge. One she thankfully indulged.

"Mhm." She hummed, waving him towards the door. "Thanks again…"

"Maddox." He finished when she gave him a look to let him know she hadn't caught his name.

"Maddox." She repeated, following up with her own simple introduction. "Kate."

"Stay out of trouble then, Kate." Pointing to her bloodied shirt. "Not gonna die when I leave, right?"

Looking down, she saw more blood soaked into the fabric. Luckily, it wasn't anything to worry about.

"No. Not mine. Compliments of one of my abductors."

There was a grunt of acknowledgment as he waved his farewell, vanishing through the door and closing it quietly behind him.

Alone again.

She waited until she couldn't hear him beyond the door, wanting to make sure he was gone. The moment silence fell, Kate sank down to her knees, letting the pain that she had hidden consume her. She was too stubborn to show weakness in front of another.

Alone, however, she could be hurt and broken all she wanted.

Introducing: Maddox E. Zale

Following the story arc of #Fallen Roses.