#there are these brutal scars just EVERYWHERE

[overuseduniverse]

tbh I'm scared of ever being in a relationship again bc I don't think I'd find anyone else who'd actually be okay with the amount of sh scars I have 👍

[dilfl0v3rss]

This but it’s toji🤭🤭 preferably with a bit of plot <3

i never wrote for toji before so i hope you like it😩

“i’m not fuckin wit you no more toji, you gotta go!” you spit. your arms crossed over your chest as you looked down at the large man on the couch. his scarred lips twitched into a smirk, his hands itching to move towards your waist but he kept them laid in their position on the top of the couch. your words didn’t phase the man at all, his eyes low and bored as he just ignored what you said a dug for his phone in his pocket. “don’t start wit me, i told you a million times ion know that girl. she came up t’me askin about a number and i told her no. you only mad cause i was being polite and smiled at her” his smirk only grew as he watched his words crawl under your skin, your jaw tightening as you tried your best not to attack this man.

“since you like t’smile so much go smile at shiu’s house.” his green eyes saddened at the sight of your sad ones, his hands moving instantly to pull you into his lap. toji brought his lips to your neck, lightly kissing and occasionally sucking the sensitive skin before whispering in your ear. “you really mad at me mama?” he said softly, making your eyes instantly go towards the ceiling. you avoided his gaze as you lightly nodded your head. toji couldn’t help but get a little turned on at how possessive you were. never in all his years of living did he think he’d end up with a women that would get so upset just from him smiling at another woman. the whole situation just made him incredibly horny and you felt it under you. “let me fix it”

“this is your dick so stop running from it” toji grunted, his hand snatching you back onto his dick by the back of your neck. you were tore up, your panties ripped and discarded somewhere in the room, your breasts bouncing under you as your bra was pulled down to the middle of your stomach, and your sheets completely soaked from the three other orgasms snatched from you. you had tried to tap out at least five times, but your man wasn’t having it. his dick just bullying it’s way even deeper into you as he tried to atone for his sins.

“toji ba-baby please just one break” you whined, trying once again to drag yourself away from his brutal pounding, but it was no use. toji just sighed, pulling out before flipping you over on your back. “nuh uh, i wasn’t bein a good boy so i gotta fix it before you leave me” he said, a shit eating grin on his face as he lifted your leg over his shoulder. he sucked and licked at the white paint of your toes as he pushed your other leg to your chest. you were completely stretched out, his thick dick making a bulge appear in your stomach as you screamed and cried into the air of the room.

you felt him everywhere all at once. you took in the sight of him. his low, sexy eyes staring down at you as he let his tongue swirl in between your toes. his dick reaching the deepest parts of you as he squeezed at the fatty flesh of your thigh. toji was a very handsome man and it was almost impossible for women and sometimes even men to not want to get at him when he’s seen in public, but no matter who came his way he always made sure to let it be known he was with you. toji noticed that you were deep into your mind right now, his scarred lip twitching into a smirk as he pushed his dick deeper inside of you, reaching so deep your vision began to whiten as you felt another orgasm begin to approach. “you still mad at me mama?” he said, sliding his hand from your thigh up to your neck before giving it a light squeeze.

“still mad at daddy for smiling at that girl?” toji knew you weren’t going to be able to answer, his dick punching your insides in a way that made your toes curl next to his face, but that didn’t stop him from leaving a couple light slaps to your cheek. “y’hear me ma? i know you can’t talk, but can you nod f’me?” you tried your best to follow the sound of his voice, your conscious fighting with your body as you gave him a slow nod. toji chuckled at the far away look in your watery eyes, his hand moving towards your breasts before giving them some attention. “good girl, you gonna make a mess on me?” he asked moving your leg from his shoulder before leaning down closer to your face. you lightly nodded again, back arching off the bed as you felt the tight coil in your stomach begin to snap.

toji just smiled, watching the entire scene unfold as you released all over him and the bed under you. “that’s good princess, doin real good f’me” he groaned, his release right behind yours. he gave you a couple more deep strokes before stopping, shooting his thick ropes deep inside you while leaving sloppy wet kisses all over your neck.

“i only have eyes for you pretty girl, don’t forget that”

[severus-snaps]

can you imagine if severus had lived and went on teaching at hogwarts? everyone would think he was the COOLEST TEACHER EVER.

helped save the wizarding world by defying voldemort. dark and mysterious past so any number of rumours could arise. known tendency to do good deeds and not tell anyone, providing scope for the evillest rumours to have some 'greater/secretly good' twist aspect. supposedly brutal death, survived. got the scars to prove it broody, distant personality and will never discuss anything but the work with students, no matter how much they ask.

this is fertile ground for school rumours, the most fertile you've ever seen. when i was in school there was a physics teacher who (rumour had it) used to be a guard at a diamond mine in south africa, and he supposedly had a bullet wound scar - and ignoring the ethics of that for a moment - the girls adored him and thought he was the hottest teacher ever, the guys thought he was so cool, and not a one of us gave a shit about physics

the snape rumours change every day. there's five variations on each one. there's snape lore in the school that you have to brush up on as a first-year. the kids are DESPERATE to get a scathing snape burn in class. when he's cruel and demeaning, the kids' faces LIGHT UP and he's furious that that doesn't work any more so most of the time he gives the class the silent treatment

harry's shouted out everywhere that Sev did it all for Lily, and so the girls and single mums (and some not single mums) think he's the god of romance. suddenly sev finds himself the new Lockhart, and he LOATHES IT

he receives firewhiskey and care packages from thankful parents for the first few years, so much that he has to start re-gifting them in the staffroom, and he even gains a little bit of weight from all the chocolate cauldrons. he stops attending breakfast for the first few weeks, because all the owls with letters of thanks were disruptive

he asks one time in class if anyone had any questions about the cure for boils and EVERY hand goes up. he pauses, surveying the class. "are there any questions about the potion" he says, and every hand goes down - but one.

"did you ever use this potion defeat Voldemort"

he considers resigning in that moment, but at least hogwarts keeps him away from his #1 enemy - media attention. kids are easier to keep in line than journalists. unfortunately the other teachers think all of this is hilarious, and give him a daily run-down of their favourites in the staffroom

eventually Sev starts putting out his own far-fetched rumours via staged, easily overheard conversations near students with minerva - just to be a little shit about it. [edit to add: @redabeline wrote a fic!!]

[chainelunaire]

hands hands hands

gojo satoru

light easy touches, almost innocent (sometimes not). very touchy, you probably know his hands better than your own. feeling everything with the tips of his fingers. pats on your head and making a mess of your hair, then tying it up nicely. hand around your shoulder, when he says something directly in your ear. playing with a pen while pretending to listen. hands big and warm everywhere but his fingertips. hands of a man who has a lot of love to give but doesn't know how to show it properly.

geto suguru

long slender hands, slightly cold but not much. surprisingly rough skin, but the gentlest touch of all. deadly, deadly hands, capable of ending someone's life bare. playing piano or with a knife with the same ease. the beauty of just touching someone without saying a word. folding hands in prayer, worshipping a cruel god, made by people themselves. tender palm caressing your head, touch as warm as it is motherly. hands so loved by the kids, because they never ever let anyone hurt them again. relatively long nails, always perfectly manicured. hands of a man who knows how to love, but chose otherwise.

nanami kento

very moderate, very predictable, right in the middle. not so warm, not so cold, skin not rough not soft. hands smell like rich black tea, because of how often he made it for you. the feeling you get when someone writes something by hand in front of you for quite some time. knuckle cracking, even though he himself despises to do it, he does it out of habit. hand that always guides you throw the crowd. fingers trembling when he's too tired. hands of a man who always wanted to love, but never had the chance to.

fushiguro toji

confident hands of a dangerous man. you can never recall the feeling of the skin, because of how rarely he touches you. hands closing before his face on autopilot, because of how severely he was beaten in his own household. calloused fingers, clecnhing fists out of sudden bursts of anger. grip firm, it's impossible to get out. careful playing with dangling toys above small bed, laugher of a child filling the room. sound of cracking bones and the smell of blood everywhere. hands of a man who once knew love, but it was so long ago, the feeling long forgotten.

ryomen sukuna

hands covered in blood, brutal hands of a violent, non-human creature. they hold no love, no joy, not anything. touch not warm, but insted hot, painful. skillful hands, which know how to turn anything into a weapon by the touch. a big talent for craftmanship. short but strong squeeze on your shoulder, commanding you to continue the battle. big cruel hands holding a small ancient poetry book with so much care and respect. so many scars, yet only so much still do hurt. hands of a man who knew no love and therefore chose to love no one but himself.

itadori yuji

warm hands, strong hold. always dry and rough, to the point they bleed sometimes. he blushes when you put bandages on them. clean short nails. playing basketball with ease. olive-toned veins, warm toned skin, smells like something sweet and almost sunny. clenching fists when he's angry. hands oh so tender when they hold something or someone dear to him. palms kindly cupping your cheeks when he says you with a smile that everything will be okay. hold so strong, he's able to catch you, no matter how fast you fall. hands of a friend who does not love himself enough, but instead loves you more than you deserve.

fushiguro megumi

long slim fingers, gentle touches. always so cautious, as if he's not allowed to touch anything or anyone. detailed handwork with magic sealing, so precise and smooth. putting a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips cold, but soft. strong yet careful hold on your shoulder, comforting touches to soothe you and bring you some relief. hands that every dog and any other animal loves, because of how gentle and caring they are. hands of someone who was loved, despite everything that happened to him, and who wants to give that love back.

yuta okkotsu

cold cold cold hands of a man with a dead soul behind his back. boney and slim, they look fragile and weak, and you could not be more wrong. pale skin, borderline bluish, lots of bruises. hands more of a musician, not a swordsman. hold so strong, it almost scares you, and he didn't even try. sweet tight hugs, feeling safe with every muscle and bone. fears of his own strength, the hold of a man who earns for love and fears to break it with his own hands.

[victoria-grimesss]

Nightmare

masterlist

->Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader

->Words: 2.2K

->Warning: MDNI!! pre-established relationship, angst, death, smut, PinV , oral fem!receiving.

->Summary: A particularly bad nightmare scars Ghost. He draws you closer as you help piece him back together.

Simon got nightmares a lot. They were frequent and usually contained the same things, nightmarish battlefield conditions that would shake anyone to their core. He would wake up in a cold sweat, the sheets clinging to him uncomfortably. His bed would be empty until he had met you.

You changed his life, the good parts and the bad.

You were like a little ray of sunshine that brightened his life. His walls in his home were blank and barren, he never cared enough to decorate. But you brought paintings of beautiful landscapes and fresh plants dotted the surfaces of the tables.

Each morning the smell of coffee and tea would grace the air and you would draw the curtains, allowing fresh air and light into the home. He would find you and wrap his arms around your waist, two mugs side by side one of each of your preferred drinks. You always made his just right.

He would kiss your neck and his hands would travel from your hips down your thighs and all the way back up to cup your breasts. He loved how soft you felt under his hands, how willing you were for his touch. He would drag you back to bed, or if he's incredibly impatient he would have his way with you on the kitchen counter.

Simon is a gracious and giving lover, he would spend hours between your thighs, he would practically get off on getting you off. He would hold your legs open and get drunk off of your taste.

He was truly home when he was with you, when he is with you.

---

He had a particularly bad nightmare one night, tourtorous.

He was scouring the battlefield, there were bodies and blood everywhere. This was a shit mission and he knew it. Felt it in his gut but no one listened. No one let you sit it out either.

He yelled your name, tripping on rubble that was still hot from the explosion. The sky was orange and dust coated the ground, heatwaves visible in the horizon. It was so hot and muggy, his mask was stuck to him.

You were here somewhere and he would die finding you if he had to, he couldn't leave you. The coms cracked to life calling him back to retreat but he didn't listen. They told him to leave you, you were gone but he didn't listen.

He heard a shifting in the rubble, a moan and the sound of gear moving.

"Y/N?"

"Simon, over here."

Your voice was harsh, dust coating your throat and a nasty knock to your head making it hard to see straight.

He stumbled over a large slab of concreate and collapsed at your feet, a sizable piece of concreate staircase was on your leg and he looked you over frantically, his eyes blown wide with your state.

"Are you hurt?"

He almost laughed if he could right now, you're pinned under a rock, now dry blood coating your arm and neck and you ask if he's ok.

"Yea I'm alright love. Let's get you home ok?"

"I can't feel my leg Simon, I can't walk you have to go."

He's furious, mad that this mission was allowed to happen with how dodgy it was.

"Like fucking hell I'll leave you here, I'll carry you if I have to."

He manages to just lift it enough to scoot your leg out of from under and it was sight. Crushed to all hell, bent in places it shouldn't be and it made him sick to see you like this.

"They're going to have to cut it off huh." You huff a laugh, obviously trying to deflect the severity of the situation.

"Probably. You'll get some hefty chest candy though and you'll get a nice vacation alright. I'll be there right with ya."

He lifts you into his arms, taking care not to move your leg too much, the wince that coats your face hurts him.

The walk is brutal, downed soldiers surround him for miles and the evac chopper just seemed to get further the closer he got like some sick joke.

Then a bang sounded, almost from thin air and he's frantically checking around him, he's stood on top of a large slab of displaced highway, the landscape stretches for miles and the sun is so hot and he's exposed.

"Simon."

He looks down at you and his breathing stops at the sight of fresh blood blooming from your chest, you cough and it comes from your mouth.

No. no. god please no, not you.

He puts his hand on your wound and applies pressure, he drops to his knees, and you grip his arm, the pain making you cry out and tears bloom in his eyes.

"You're alright love, I've got you. Just- just stay awake for me yea?"

The contrast from the sweat in his mask mixing with his tears make his skin burn and he rips his mask off to breath because he can't. breath. You're dying in his arms and he can't breath.

"I love you so much Simon. So, fucking much." You cough and more blood seeps from your mouth as you speak.

"Don't fucking say that you're not dying here alright not like this. You deserve better."

"You're a good man Simon."

He's crying now, the black paint on his face smudging and he kisses your forehead and then your lips, he feels you draw your last breath on his lips and exhale into him, he inhales your last breath and it hits him then.

"Y/N?"

"Love?"

He brushes the sticky hair from your face, your eyes are void of any life. He wants to pluck your soul from wherever it has travelled and put it back into you. Bring you back to him and cease the pain he feels, the pain that will always be there now.

He grips you tightly in his arms, rocking your body, your hand that gripped his arms falls limply to your side and he draws it back to him holding you as close as he can.

"Please don't do this. Don't leave please love I need you; I can't do this without you." He gasps because he still can't breathe.

His name dances in the air, once then twice. Like your spirit is calling to him.

Then he breaths.

He sits up fully in the bed, gasping and heart racing.

Your hand is on his chest, your eyes wide as you try to soothe him.

"It's ok, you're alright. You're safe at home."

His arms are around you; he embraces you in a crushing hug, his hand wraps into your hair as he inhales you shampoo. His other hand grips the small of your back holding you as close as he can.

"It was you. You died. Felt so fucking real."

"Oh Simon. I'm alright, see everything is ok."

You sit there for a while holding one another, until tears are dried and hearts are calmed.

Eventually Simon's hands move to brush the hair away from your neck and his lips place soft kisses and bites into the skin, relishing in your soft sighs.

"I really thought you were gone. Thought I'd never get to hold you like this again, touch you again."

He strips you of the sleep shirt you wear and cups your breast, kneading the soft skin in his palm.

"Never get to have you underneath me again."

Your breathing has picked up and you grip at his shoulder, still slightly sticky from the sweat but the way the light from outside hits him makes him out to be some kind of Greek stature carved from stone.

You're moved underneath him and he continues kissing you from jawline down to your chest where he takes one nipple into his mouth, holding the other one in his hand.

Your hands run through his short hair, lip in-between your teeth as you watch him.

"Simon, please."

"None of that tonight. I'm going to take my time on you, just lay back and let me have you."

Your hips try to buck from under him but his abdomen hold you steady. A hand snakes it's way down to your hips and his hand finds itself under the waistband, gripping the skin and flesh like his life depends on it. Like if he doesn't grip you hard enough you'll die.

As he kisses down your stomach he slides the panties down your legs at an agonizingly slow rate and you yearn to just grab him and bring him back up to you.

He throws the panties over his shoulder and kisses from your ankle back up to your inner thigh. He nips and sucks at each side, he kisses right around where you need him and he smirks are your impatience.

"Look at you, fuck. You're soaked. You want something?"

"Yes, fuck just hurry up."

"What was that? Didn't quite hear you right."

He's just awful when he takes things slow. You groan.

"Simon please."

"One more time, say it again."

"Simon please, god please just use your mouth."

"Atta girl."

He licks a long hot strip from bottom to top and you throw your head back. He moans into you, the vibration aiding in your arousal as you grow wetter and wetter.

"You always taste so good, you know that. Can never get enough of this."

He sucks and licks and your hands are woven into his hair pulling and pushing.

His hands are wrapped about your legs and you can't keep still so he wraps his hands around your hips holding you closer to his face and keeping your hips steady.

"Cmon, I can feel you getting closer, c'mon pretty girl go ahead."

Your breathing is so fast and you moan and thrash in his grip but he's got you locked down. The view you have is ungodly hot. His big arms wrapped around you, his mouth making noises against you that make you clench around nothing. And his back is exposed, the muscles highlighted by the moonlight, they flex and you plead for him to just fuck you already.

"Cum on my face and I'll fuck you, just give me this one and I'll seat myself deep inside you, need you soaked so you can take me all the way."

His words spur you on and you coat and grind on his face, he welcomes it and grips your hips tighter letting you ride your high and use him. He kisses his way back up and you taste yourself on his lips, he holds you face in both hands and holds you until you're both out of breath.

"Can you pretty please fuck me now." You whisper into this mouth, he shivers, his pupils blown wide.

"You ask so nicely how can I say no." His mouth meets yours deeply and he rips himself of his briefs and holds himself against your entrance, your wetness being more than enough to aid his entrance.

You gasp and he groans as he enters you, every inch feeling hot and hard as his mouth leaves blooming purple bruises on your neck.

He sits for a minute just holding himself fully inside you and enjoying how warm you are wrapped around him.

"So tight around me. I'll never get tired of fucking you. You're so beautiful underneath me."

He brushes your hair out of your face and kisses your cheek. Your arms wrap around his neck and his movements are slow. He's methodical with his hips, he moves out slowly almost all the way just leaving the tip in until he thrust back in just as slow.

His arms cage you in and all you can see is him, you smell him, you hear him, and you feel him. With eyes locked he expresses all of his love for you in his movements. A lot of the time your join sessions are loud and fast but this one. This one is different. So full of love and passion. He's replacing that nightmare of you dying with you underneath him filled to the brim with him.

"Do you want to get married?"

You clench around him and he smiles, you're stunned by his question.

"Simon- are you proposing right now?" Your words shake as you slowly approach the peak.

"No. Just asking if it's something you want to do. Would you want to marry me?"

You grip his hair just a bit tighter.

"I do."

"Yeah? Yeah, I'd marry you too. Show everyone you're mine forever. Put a pretty ring on your finger so you can show it off."

You clench around him again and his pace quickens just a bit.

"Keep you safe, call you my wife. My pretty wife. You want that?"

You're reaching your climax and claw at his scalp.

"Yes Simon, please."

"Cum on my cock and I'll marry you. Be a good girl."

You both reach the end at the same time, stars and tension gripping you until you both grow slack and his full weight is on you.

Your hands run through his hair and you scratch softly at his neck and back, soothing him as you did when he woke up.

"Did you mean that?" You voice is just a whisper but it is heard over his ragged breathing.

"I saw you die. It won't happen again, not until we're both old as hell. And when you die you'll die my wife. I don't plan to drag it out any longer."

You smile and kiss his cheek, he holds you and finally he dreams of something better.

[eccentricallygothic]

Can we get more ellie and abby content? If u dont mind of course!! I just love the way u write them hehe luv u💞💞

Yes, you can! And thank you so much, I am just gay asf for them 🥴

Alright then, sluts. Let's do this!

Warning(s): D/S dynamics, Strict Mommy!Abby, Sadistic Miss!Ellie, possessive behavior, dacryphilia, use of strap ons, pet names, power imbalance, humiliation, doggy style, overstimulation, use of ball gag, spanking, brat taming. MDNI.

Your nose itched from how it stung each time a thick drop surfaced over one of your eyeballs before collecting along the length of your waterline and then eventually slipping down the side of your face. The 3D floral pastel green dress that you had been excited to wear ever since Abby had brought it back from a scavenging mission was no more than a pile of heartbreaking tatters in front of you as you defeatedly fingered one of the frills that made up for its arm straps. 

“It's okay, babygirl” Abby cooed from where she was crouching beside the corner of the bedpost upon which you lay on your chest while weeping over the ruined article. “I promise you will have a new one real soon. Mommy will go further out if she has to, yeah?” The young woman kept trying to console you like she had been doing so for the past hour. But it wasn't doing either of you any good. 

The sight before you was too harsh. Too unfair. Too final.

“C'mon, babygirl. I know how you felt about it and I know how rare they are but it was just a dress” Abby's fingers were coiled around your locks while her short nails soothingly scratched at your tense scalp. “But you're gonna cry yourself sick if you don't stop soon” her eyes were sympathetic but at the same time utterly nonchalant towards the ball gag that both stretched your jaw and rendered you mute. 

“Leave the brat be” Ellie's stern voice came from behind you as you felt her scarred fingers tighten against your flesh from where they held your hips while her own snapped at an unforgiving pace to pound the vibrating strap-on in and out of your throbbing cunt. “If she thinks some tears are gonna absolve her disobedience and talking back then she's dead wrong” the cruel rap she gave to your blushing ass made you jump before another tear rolled out of your eye because of how your sensitive spot was punched in with the thick tip of Ellie's cock. 

She let you feel the vibrations for a couple moments before she pulled back just to pound into you again. You tried to babble out an apology around the gag, your cheek continuously rubbing against the relatively soft bedding from how your knees were being forced to rock back and forth with every loud smack of wet flesh against the material of the strap on. Ellie's fingers sought your cunt for the fifth time and you panicked the moment your fucked out brain registered it. 

She wanted another orgasm out of you.

Oh, no.

“Well, yeah,” Abby somberly agreed before she wiped your tears and moved your hair out of your flushed face. “That wasn't very nice of you, baby” the tenderness of her kind mien contrasted that of Ellie in such a way that you felt your insides contract at the realization. The tenderness of the older's featherlight touch was in such stark opposition to the younger's brutal abuse of your poor cunt while her fingers furiously flexed round and round your folds that you felt your loins bubble up yet again. “Mommy and Miss told you not to wear the dress outside the house and you didn't listen, that's no way for a good girl to behave, Princess” your eyes rolled to the back of your skull and your orgasm overcame you. There was heat and vibration everywhere on your body except for the soles of your feet which were ticklish and cold. 

Not only had you worn the short dress but you had argued with both women after some guys and girls had taken notice of you. Paying no mind to their checking you out and complimenting you, which Ellie had insisted was flirting, you had further dug your grave by refusing her demand for you to go change. The whole ordeal had made you grow so irritable that not even Abby's patient explaining had been able to persuade you. And then one thing led to another before a guy leaned a bit too close to you in the food joint and lewdly joked about helping them out with handling you since your brattiness was causing a noticeable ruckus. 

Next thing you knew, Ellie had dragged you home after punching the guy square in the jaw. 

“The brat will learn one way or another” she now spoke from behind you as she spanked you again before hooking an arm around one of your thighs and raising it up in a straight angle.

Forgiveness was not going to come easy.

[cagesofgold]

BOWS - Touya Todoroki / Dabi x Reader

Touya’s never had to buy a gift before. He has vivid memories of linking flower stems together, pinching their petals at the ends with his fingers and placing them on Fuyumi’s head. Or that time he found a stray football discarded against a lamp post and brought it home beneath his shoulder for Natsuo. He had given a gift before, as he knew it.

But is that what you knew it to be?

The whiskey glass in his hand seemed to never end, the bottom tilted to one side with lashings of ice beginning to melt. Brown lurid liquid sloshing with every jolt of his hand, subconsciously anxious and consciously angered.

Touya thought he knew you pretty well. He knew that you hated mornings, and relished hot showers. He knew that your smile lit up every room you’d ever walked into and you hated cutlery against plates. He knew he could find you most often behind the bar, tucked away in the corner observing Kurogiri as he whisked around the shelves lined with liquor - your nose within a book, the pages water damaged and crinkled. He knew you loved to laugh, and hated those who took that from you. He knew you found it hysterical when Twice would perform his All Might impression, and rejoiced when Spinner would bring in fresh pork cutlet for dinner.

He knew that you loved the stars and the moon. And every celestial being within that sky, untouched by the brutalities of humanity, and holding the secrets we would always sought. You loved pointing out funky shaped clouds and insisting they looked like cats, when to Touya they just looked like blobs. You loved when he would bring you in snacks from his avid disappearances from the base, showing you were still at the front of his mind.

He knew your eyebrows would crinkle nervously when his hands would dust over yours, never wincing from their ragged appearance, but wincing from his touch. He knew you loved to dance, arms wrapped around his neck and fingers drumming along his nape to the rhythm - telling him to “Loosen up”, he never did. You never stopped telling him.

He knew that your lips were soft. He knew that they had no right to touch his, wrapped in wholehearted good meshing with the bearer of sin. He knew he shouldn’t come near you, but everyone knew that you had poisoned him from the minute you walked in that day. A shy grin tugged at your lips, intelligent and calculated words silencing dubious conceptions - and a white bow flailing behind you.

He loved those bows. You had one in every color. Some crimped, some satin, some cotton. Some with butterflies and some with strawberries. Some with small blue flames you had painted yourself and excitedly thrust into his face one day, a classical book still shoved under your arm and hair wild from the morning air.

They were apart of you as much as they were him. He was always finding little bows everywhere you went, like a trail, follow the bow, there goes Y/N.

He would never forget when he found you on the ground outside. A puddle of coalescing liquids, some crimson, some grey - seeping into your jeans as you held something crushed in your hands. Your favorite bow, doused in deep red stains - mauve accents polluting the pink stitched hem.

He knew you were upset, soul as crushed as that little piece of fabric. And as the days went by and your hair was absent of their astoundingly large presence for their size, he felt a pit of unease settle in his stomach.

The ice in the whiskey glass had melted, and Touya’s hood was pulled over his head as he transcended the steps to the front door of the bar, tugging it open with force and tearing down the streets. Each step he grew faster, careful to keep his face downcast in order to maintain his identity - to hide his scars you would always kiss. He dug his hands into his pockets, the hands you would always caress and wash, sweet whispers that he didn’t deserve, didn’t deserve for a fucking second, reassuring him that he was loved.

That you…

“Do you want that wrapped?” The cashier smacked her gum uninterestedly, bright blue eyeshadow on her waterline contrasting her dark eyes.

He nodded, keeping his voice wrapped away in the confinements of his true self that only you were allowed to see. He had some nerve, acting as if that was some kind of gift. You really had rewired his deprecating tendencies.

Cash slid across the table and the paper handles were clutched by burnt fingers, black boots sidling across squeaky linoleum floors - and a ten minute walk back to the hideout.

The moon hung low, and the stars peeked out from the blanket of black which hugged the sky. He wondered if you were looking at them, hanging out your window in that way he always hated, your laugh cutting straight through him as you glanced over your shoulder at him, that smile that went all the way up to your eyes. That smile which told him everything he begged to know his entire life. He never valued it before, and selfishly, the only reason he values it now is to make sure that smile never leaves. It stays to bless everyone who has the courtesy to see it.

His fist met your door, three raps and a slap. The order you made up whilst wrapped in a cloud of giggles, he swore to never do it. You thought differently. The door slowly creaked open, and he was met with a flood of emotions all crashing into him at once. Your eyes were deep set, rings of purple hanging below those vibrant colors he loved so much - except they’d flattened into something unrecognizable - and an instantaneous anger rose through him. Not directed at you, god, never at you.

Before his name could escape you he placed the box in your hands. Your palms were flat against the decorative box, a sweet pink fabric adorned with white ribbon. Lace lining each edge. You cocked an eyebrow, confusion clouding your eyes before he just simply tapped it with his pointer finger, shuffling around where he stood - one foot tapping against the floor.

Your gaze dropped downwards, opening the box slowly, careful and mindful of the wrapping. He found this incredibly endearing. And when you saw what was inside, saw it laying there, unspoken words between both of you laced within every stitch - He knew.

Touya thought he knew you pretty well.

He knew you loved him, and by god did he love you.

[thesilmarillionblog]

IMPOSTOR

Summary: Black Noir discovers he has been replaced after he wakes up from his two-month stay at Vought Hospital. He doesn't take it well.

Characters: Black Noir, Fake Black Noir from The Boys (TV) Season 4

Warnings: Violence, language, soft Black Noir, brutal Black Noir

Word Count: 1551

A/N: English is not my first language.

͟͟͞͞➳ This fiction is a gentle fuck you to E. Kripke. New Noir is not my Noir. I love Nathan Mitchell a lot, though. Babygirl. ✨

A deep sense of sorrow and suffering overcame Noir as he used his gloved hands to rub the long scars on his abdomen. Homelander, whom he considered a friend, had nearly killed him just because Noir hadn't informed him about his biological father, Soldier Boy. Since they had been keeping this a secret for decades, Vought wouldn't be grateful if Noir told a thing. Though he didn't intend to break Homelander's heart, he had struck him so hard in the stomach that he could see his organs everywhere. He felt, nonetheless, that he handled confronting his past quite nicely.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard that the CIA had captured Soldier Boy once more. Decades later, when the time came, he was not sure if he would see him face-to-face, but he knew he would be prepared. 

He feared he would die there, too, when Homelander buried his full fist in his abdomen, but unexpectedly, Homelander gave him a lecture about friendship and honesty before giving him a significant dose of Comp-V in order to save him. Noir knew that, beyond his strange idea of his friendship, Homelander was really furious and disappointed with him. That is why he forgave Homelander as just like he forgave Noir. 

Noir spent months in the Vought Hospital before preparing to rejoin the team. 

Ashley whispered, “Sir,” as Noir continued to stare at her expressionlessly. Ashley had a nervous smile on her face. “I think I must inform you that you are replaced by someone else.”

Noir straightened abruptly, moving in closer to Ashley to get her to clarify exactly what she was telling him. He let out an irate sigh and waited for her to go on. 

“The public was asking about you, and to not make things anymore complicated, Vought decided to take a new Noir into the team, looking just like you.”

Noir thought, Fuck, fuck, fuck. That was unfair. Fuck Vought and everyone. 

That was not only impossible but also a massive betrayal of his complete allegiance to Vought. He had served the company for years, and that was how they repaid him.

Noir began to inhale in rage as Ashley left the room swiftly without saying anything further. He wouldn't allow a fake to lead those who supported him to believe he was the real Noir. The true Noir was Black Noir. End of discussion. 

Picking up his phone, he sat down in the middle of the hallway to see the latest news and check the most recent updates about himself. 

He snarled with hatred as he saw his own supporters applauding the imposter while he was acting foolishly in front of the camera. They had no idea that he had suffered greatly in the previous few months and had experienced a near-death experience. How could they not see that it was obviously not him? 

Noir lost all patience with the nonsense and smashed the phone between his hands violently. He then placed his hands on his head and considered the next step of action. He would not give in so easily. Noir would absolutely teach the false one how to act appropriately in public, as it was evident that he didn't know how. 

He looked up and saw that one of his duck friends was clutching his hand. 

“You were incredibly brave and strong to withstand such an attack from Homelander. We are all proud of you,” he replied, giving him a shoulder pat. 

Noir crossed his arms and looked away. No matter what, he wasn't satisfied with the circumstances surrounding him. 

“Come on,” his friend said, giving him another leg squeeze. “The new one is not as good as you, and you can prove everyone that.”

How? Noir pondered, unsure of what to do. Things would get much messier if he disobeyed Vought, and he really didn't need that at this point. 

“You embody the true spirit of Black Noir, while he lacks your strength and bravery. Given your current state of recovery, Vought wouldn't have any problem if you told him to move aside.”

No, Noir thought. Today, he was going to expose that fraud and prove to everyone who was superior. He would never permit somebody to behave in such a way. He was adored by everyone for his true self. He refused to give up all the adoration he had and rightfully earned. 

His friend sat by his side and said, “If you kill him, don't you think Vought will get angry at you?”

They won't give a damn. They never do anything if the company is involved. Noir did not know a life outside of Vought and Homelander, so even though he was terrified of them, he reasoned that one act of disobedience wouldn't harm anyone and that no one would give a shit.

Noir made up his mind then and there, dropping his damaged phone to the ground as his friend passed by.

He said, “I'm so proud of you,” and then he vanished once more. Noir felt joy and satisfaction fill his heart. He was confident that he could handle this circumstance as needed. Just like he always did.

Noir waited for fraud to appear in his home for hours while tracking and waiting in a shadowy place after sharpening his knives and weapons. Admittedly, he was a little dramatic, but he knew it would be effective.

When the new one eventually came inside the house after many hours, the fake one noticed something wasn't quite right. An odd fragrance permeated the entire place. Then Noir emerged from his hiding place, his blades sharpened in his palm, and wandered slowly in front of the window, the moonlight brushing over his helmet. He was satisfied that his entrance proceeded exactly as he had planned and knew he looked fine and cool enough.

“You are a strange one, dude; fuck off,” the man laughed. “If you just gave me a call, I'd have invited you, you know.”

‘What a bitch’ Noir thought to himself, growing more irate as the new guy spoke without pausing. 

“Heard Homelander beat the shit out of you.” He inquired, “How did you even survive?” Noir stopped pacing and glanced at him. His wounds hurt when Homelander was brought up; he remembered all those painful memories. 

Noir tucked his knives away in the back of his suit and showed him the papers he had prepared, telling him the one on which he had written ‘now I kiill you.’ 

“Man, fuck you. You're not as scary as you believe, and you're forgetting that, despite the fact that I am a supe, Vought purposefully picked me.”

Noir laughed beneath his mask, but his laughter was more of a fury than an expression of joy. Next, he handed the new one another piece of paper and said, “Nobody nevv me. I am unigue.”

He firmly challenged him, saying, “I'm not the new you,” which wasn't a wise move given Noir's desire for a real fight. After all, he spent his months doing nothing but lying in bed; he was hungry for a proper fight. “I'm superior to you in some way. People adore me.”

It's me they love, not you. 

“Guess we have to solve this fucking mess fist to fist, man to man, huh?”

Noir, unable to contain his resentment and hatred any longer, grabbed his knives and swiftly assaulted the impostor. Noir laughed this time because he could feel the fake one's anxiety and tense breathing. He was certain that he would be too strong for this feeble con artist.

He made an attempt to fight Noir with his pathetic fists, but Noir knew that man was much weaker than expected, so he dropped his knives and took the man's head, ripping it from his body in one motion. He was holding his bloody head in his palm, his entire suit smeared with blood. He placed one hand on his hips, and, for a time, he was unable to stop grinning beneath his mask. Vought found him specifically for the weakest man alive. Or not anymore. 

Noir put his head down on his desk and peered expectantly into Stan Edgar's eyes, displaying all of his brutality and pleading with him to return to Seven immediately. Enough time had passed. 

“What the hell, Noir?” With a disgusted mutter, Edgar averted his gaze from the bloodied head. “Get this thing out of my sight, oh god.”

Noir remained motionless, waiting for him to make a statement. 

“You're back to Seven, okay. Are you happy now?” He said it hastily. “I was already going to kick him out, you sick maniac fuck.”

Noir nodded to Edgar, took the head back off his table, breathed a peaceful sigh, and exited the room, placing the lifeless head in the closest container. 

That is where you end your head up if you fuck with him. 

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

A/N: Here's my other Black Noir fics: Stranger and In the Middle of the Night. Stay tuned for more and let me know what you think!˖ ࣪ .♡˚.

[panda-writes-kpop]

Demon! Dreamcatcher - Giving You A Helping Hand

a/n: i wrote this to help me with my dami b-day fic... so spoilers for that, perhaps? (this has nothing to do with the fic, i just had brain rot from my own idea... and wrote this instead of the fic 🤦‍♀️) I'll get back to requests and that fic eventually, I hope. 🫠

tw: lots of blood and gore for headcannons, demon eats human, the same human gets brutally murdered again and again, my opinions about what sin each girl represents, someone spits on a dead body, lots of death, DC are murder wives (literally)

♡ Masterlist ♡

Prompt - okay, this was pathetic. You couldn't even fight off one person who sent a right hook into your jaw. You didn't want to call her since she'll probably kill the person in front of you, but they started it by pulling out a switchblade.

Yeah, pleasantries went out the door a long time ago. Fuck, this was a bad idea.

Yet you still summon your girlfriend to your side.

○●○●○●○

• Your girlfriend didn't have the most elegant summoning pose - she was in the middle of biting an invisible dish.

JiU - Demon of Gluttony

• Annoyed, she turns to you before smiling and going to greet you...

• -before she notices the small cut on your face.

• Her head snaps to the other direction, noticing the other person who looks terrified at Minji's sudden change in demeanor.

• "I've always wondered what human meat tastes like."

• She lunges and tackles the person to the ground, and you close your eyes as blood and guts fly everywhere

• Not a bit of human flesh lands on you before Minji calls your name.

• You open your eyes to see her wiping her face of blood (as if her clothes and hands aren't soaked in the color red).

SuA - Demon of Pride

• "C'mon, my dear, I've still got leftovers back in hell. Shall we enjoy them together?"

• She's happy you called her - why wouldn't you call the best demon girlfriend to assist you?

• Oh, someone's bothering you? SuA simply opens a portal to hell behind the person and nonchalantly flings them into the portal.

• "Don't worry, babe, I won't touch them. Cerberus will tear them to pieces. :)"

• You forget how terrifying (and hot) she is at times.

• SuA, without dropping her smile, approaches you and gently places her hand on your cheek.

• With a bit of mischievous demon magic, the cut on your face is healed without a scar to be seen.

• She grabs your hand and drags you to a nearby bar.

Siyeon - Demon of Lust

• "Let's go have fun and forget about that miserable person, baby. Doesn't that sound like a much better way to end the night?"

• Your girlfriend drips charisma as she appears in a brilliant display of pink smoke.

• Her eyes glance between the two of you as a wicked smile appears on her face.

• "Well, what do we have here?"

• Siyeon corners your opponent and pins them to a wall with one of her hands as the other strokes their face.

• "You're going to regret ever touching them, you wretched little thing." Her voice drips venom as your attacker's face changes from pleasure to fear.

• The darkness of the night hides the gorey scene as Siyeon, in a brutal display of power, rips every body part from the other person.

• Once she's done, with a snap of her fingers, the blood on her, the ground, and the cut on your face are completely gone.

Handong - Demon of Wrath

• "Now we can enjoy the night together without any disturbances, right?"

• There's no warning after you summon Handong. She simply goes into attack mode after spotting the other person.

• They scream in terror and pain, but she simply scoffs at them

• "Should've thought about that before you punched them, huh?"

• Of course she knows about that, your girlfriend knows about every time someone wrongs you so she can correct things in your favor.

• With nothing but her hands, she's literally ripped them to shreds in what must be a world record.

• "Didn't even put up a fight." She rolls her eyes before landing another punch to their body. "Tsk, what a shame."

• You're the one who has to pull her off of them, with a gentle reminder that the other person was dead a long time ago.

• "I want to make sure that there's no chance that resurrection can happen, my dear." She hisses before spitting on the body.

Yoohyeon - Demon of Greed

• She's not always like this, you swear.

• "Hey, I was busy planning another bank robbery that would be totally foolproof! What are you-"

• She pauses as she looks at you and then the other person.

• "Well, you'll work as bait for Cerberus so SuA doesn't interfere in my plans."

• She snaps her fingers and the other person disappears, but you swear you can hear them scream in the background as you talk to Yooh.

• "They'll have a quick death, I promise!" She squeezes your hands as you nod and agree.

• In her hand, she offers you a bandaid. When you go to grab it, however, she snatches the bandaid away from your grasp.

• "Let me do it, babe!" She whines before opening up the bandaid. "It's the least I can do."

Dami - Demon of Envy

• She's awfully cute for a terrifying, murderous demon.

• She has a less flashier entrance than the other demons, and a less visible response to the other person.

• Her way of handling things is much less brutal. She simply places both of her hands on the person before gently pushing them against the wall.

• Their eye color changes to orange before running off while muttering on about coveting things or people (you can't really tell).

• Dami's attention turns to you as she wipes away any bruises, marks, or blood with the touch of her hand.

• "Are you alright, my dear?"

• Once you've fully reassure her that you're okay, you ask her why she didn't murder the other person in front of you.

• "I know that violence will scare you away, and that's the last thing I want. You shouldn’t be scared of me, darling."

Gahyeon - Demon of Sloth

• For someone who was created to be an incarnate version of envy, she sure doesn't show it off a lot.

• You've summoned her to you, but she's sleeping while standing up.

• So much for getting help from the demon representing sloth. You should probably know better at this point.

• When your attacker tries to approach you with the knife, Gahyeon holds out her arm and catches the other person's arm.

• She then proceeded to harshly throw them into a wall, giving them a quick death with a lot of head trauma.

• Without waking up, she sleep walks over to you. (How does she not fall over her own feet?)

• "There's something on your cheek." She mumbles in her sleep as you touch your face. "You should fix that."

• Thanks, Gahyeon, that's really helpful.

• "I'm going back to bed and I need a pillow." She says before pulling you into her arms. "You're coming with me."

• You can't break out of her grasp as she sinks into the ground, but you give up and accept your fate. That's simply how your girlfriend is.

[charliemwrites]

Okay, Alejandro time!!

(He’s a keeper but not via kidnapping. Still a deranged arrangement tho lmao)

You’d been a hostage - a tourist or just a casualty of narcos, it doesn’t matter. The men said all kinds of awful things while you shivered in the corner, tired with ropes that would leave scars.

It all happened so suddenly. You had no warning, no instinctive sense that something was going to happen. One second it was all half-drunk men playing cards and watching football - the next there was a metallic clank and the world went bright and loud.

Alejandro is the one to get you out himself, cutting so carefully through the binds. He helps you up on shaky feet, makes a furious expression at the state of you. You can’t hear what he says over the ringing in your ears and the distant cacophony.

He gets you outside, sits you in the passenger side of a big black jeep. You shiver and shake, wide-eyed. When he tries to move away you cling, begging him not to leave you, please please.

He shouts something to his men, then turns back to you. Gives you a once over. This time you can hear him cursing under his breath when he sees the damage to your bare feet. Another soldier brings a blanket that you’re quickly swaddled in.

You meet Alejandro. He takes you back to base, his sergeant riding in the backseat and trying to get your information. You give him what you can, glancing at Alejandro every now and then for reassurance.

He’s your savior, your angel.

On his base, you Velcro yourself to him, heart pounding when anyone else gets too near. He coddles you through the medics, through a debrief with his men, through a brutal punch to one of your arrested captors saying something nasty.

You shouldn’t be filled with warmth at the show of violence. But that it’s on your behalf means the world.

“Why are you letting me do this?” You ask, guilty as he leads you around for training drills.

“Because you need me, no?” he replies.

You do. “What… what if I never stop needing you?”

He hums as he considers that, head tipping side to side.

“Maybe you won’t. I will still let you be here by my side.”

And he makes good on it. As you heal, as you reunite with your family, as you settle into a post-trauma life, Alejandro lets you cling.

More than cling, he cares for you. Coddles you, just like he did that first night. Always hands you food first, and gives you extras from his plate if you still see hungry. tucks you into bed and gets you up in the mornings. Gives you little tasks for Los Vaqueros to keep you busy and keep you from feeling too guilty.

He starts calling for you by nicknames and you’re all too happy to perk up at “princess” or “kitten” or “cookie” exclusively. He starts pressing kisses to your temples, hugging you around the middle from behind while talking to his soldiers.

And because you’re always with him, you end up at a bar one night too. It’s loud, but the base gets loud too sometimes, so you don’t mind. What you do mind is someone making a pass at you after being told no - twice.

You stumble away, yelping for Ale and you all nearly get thrown out of the bar for the hell he unleashes. The night doesn’t last long after that and you apologize for ruining everything, trying to hold back tears. He shakes his head and bundles you in close.

“No, listen. I take care of what’s mine, yeah?”

“And… and I’m yours?” you ask hopefully.

“Yes, love.”

You nuzzle into him all the way back to base. Then spend the night in his room - not for the first time, though this instance is much… steamier than usual.

Ale is a romantic through and through. He takes you apart piece by piece with such care, whispering words of adoration into every inch of skin. He’s a proud man too, has to come twice before sinking into you with a sinful roll of his hips, hair falling around his face as he moans above you.

The next morning, he sees you in his shirt and has you for breakfast at the kitchen table. You follow him around that day with pretty hickies everywhere and his deodorant on your skin. He promises that you can move into his on-base apartment whenever you want.

Rudy helps the two of you the next day.

Still, you know he loves you. You know what kind of man he is. Good and brave and fierce. Loyal the way poets write. He would never stray… but you wish you had reassurance that you belong to him, and him you.

You get a bracelet that only he can take on and off, his name engraved proudly in the metal. He keeps the key with his dog tags. It feels right; you feel possessed. He gets this dark glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes when he sees you thumbing at his name.

A matching bracelet peeks beneath his sleeve when he raises his hand to call his soldiers’ attention. You keep the key on a necklace in the hollow of your throat on proud display.

When Valeria makes a snide comment about it upon meeting, you tilt your head at her.

“You seem like a very unhappy person.” And flounce off.

Alejandro laughs raucously about it still hours later, praising you while you sit in his lap and sip his beer.

[shalotttower]

A Heart Deceived

Title: A Heart Deceived

Fandom: Far Cry 5

Characters: Jacob Seed x Reader (female)

Summary: AU where soulmates share the same marking and Jacob doesn't have to brand you any further.

Word count: 2900+

Notes: soulmates, yandere!Jacob Seed, Reader is not the Deputy, captivity, violence, emotional manipulation, dub-con kissing, scars and injuries description: Reader has a mutilated ear and facial scars from a wolf attack and is not happy about it, a mild form of Stockholm Syndrome.

His fingers are surprisingly gentle. You don't expect it from him, the gentleness, Jacob is not kind or caring. Jacob is not warm, not nurturing, not indulgent. Yet his thumb skims across your jaw with quiet focus. Down the side of your neck, up your chin to follow the slanted line there, then it repeats the whole procedure on a different scar. They had long healed by now and turned into uneven ridges of mismatched tissue.

It hurt when the damned wolf bit you, the next day, and for many following days; the effective and precise killing machine aimed for the throat, and if you didn't twist the last moment, would have succeeded.

Jacob never punished the wolf, it was serving its purpose, while you, you were supposed to think before acting and understand the possible consequences.

The pain could be endured and later forgotten, what could not was the humiliation of lying on the dirty ground and the shiny view of Jacob's boots growing larger until they stopped in the line of your vision. A moment of painful awareness: the escape attempt which failed so abruptly and so brutally had become laughable. Jacob grabbed your hair and shook you like a disobedient puppy. "That's on you, sweetheart. Be wary of the quiet ones, they say."

Those last words sounded as if he were talking to himself, rather than anyone else.

"I warned you."

He did.

Jacob is right, not in everything, but in many things. One can try and deny it, another can scoff, but the bottom line is the same: Jacob is right in many things, and at times it's better to listen. Even despite an involuntary gagging reaction.

Your heart hammered and every single beat of it brought to the surface what you already knew — there would be no other attempts. The paleness from fear or perhaps blood loss must've shown on your face, because he let go of you and crouched down. "Pathetic."

It lacked genuine heat, disappointment, or any emotion. Being disappointed would mean that Jacob expected something in the first place. He pulled off his jacket and pressed it to your face, stemming the bleeding. The ground seemed more interesting than ever, dry soil dotted with rocks and grass blades scattered everywhere, trampled by people's feet.

You don't want to look at him or acknowledge the touch to a small sword on your wrist, identical to the one above his left elbow. The mark is a clean reminder and a binding claim for life. You don't want to see it or remember how Jacob's face twisted when he realized just who you were.

Like someone had slapped him.

A lot has happened; Montana turned different from what you saw on TV and the world suddenly shifted under your feet, rearranged from a little road trip across the states into his territory, his commands, his people. A part of you — a foolish, soft part — wished you could've met under different circumstances, in a different place and you told him once about it in a moment of weakness. Jacob stilled at first, but then kept cleaning his gun. "We're here, sweetheart. Nothing we can do 'bout it."

Could've beens and never happeneds weren't worth wasting thoughts on.

Now Jacob is tracing your scars. He's not handsome, not really, there's too much roughness to the lines of his face, dark circles and untrimmed beard, but... you frown. You don't know how to describe Jacob Seed or why you even bother trying. It's odd to think about him this way. Weird.

Jacob catches your eyes. "What?"

You close them. "Nothing."

He makes a noncommittal sound, then leans in. The kiss to your forehead is unexpected and brief. A lot of them are — quick kisses on your temple when Jacob thinks you're asleep, on your nape when he leaves the bed before dawn. They make you wonder just what he wants from you.

He never expects affection back.

Doesn't try anything further, and you both are suspended in this limbo, neither being the first to break it, nor acknowledge its growing significance with every passing day. One part of you craves it, to yield in a different way, not because it is required, but because you want, yet Jacob doesn't ask, so perhaps it's for the better.

Another gets nauseous. He breaks people. Like dry twigs, discarding the pieces when they have no more use. You've seen his Chosen training until they begged, cried and crawled, their pride crushed along with the body.

There are days you can't bear looking at him.

***

Sometimes, sometimes, you wish him dead and gone from the world, then the mark on your wrist aches like a fresh wound.

"When will you take off the chain?" You ask and wiggle your foot a bit. It's long enough to reach the bathroom, to wander around the quarters, but not to walk outside. Jacob doesn't look up from his book. The cover is worn out and you suspect he read it many times already, military stuff. Strategy. Survival tactics, you have no idea.

"When I know you've learned your lesson."

So, not today.

You sigh and roll onto your stomach. "It's stupid."

He doesn't respond.

It's annoying more than anything. Reason — you're his soulmate, not some runaway cow ready to get lost in Montana wilderness — didn't help and only gained you a blank stare followed by a lock click. The chain rattles with each movement, loud and distracting; Jacob just keeps reading as if nothing happens.

Sometimes, sometimes, you catch yourself thinking that this isn't so bad after all. He treats you well for a cult leader: fed, clothed, clean, sheltered. Compared to the cages his future Chosen sleep in, you don't get to complain. You have a comfortable bed instead of cold dirty floor, normal meals rather than a chunk of raw meat, privacy and silence without old school music 24/7.

You frown. No, it's not nice. It's Stockholm Syndrome, plain and simple. You should be free, away from this place.

"Are you angry?"

Jacob turns another page. "No."

His room smells of pine wood and gun oil, with an undertone of metal. The furniture is scarce and practical. A wardrobe, a desk with a radio placed on top, one bookshelf. Bare walls except for a giant map pinned opposite the bed; you've memorized all the markings on it during your stay. The areas which got liberated by Deputy are red, his outposts are circled in blue. Jacob doesn't talk about Deputy much, but the way he clenches his jaw over the radio frequency makes you think they must be a real pain in the ass.

Secretly you hope they blow Eden's Gate HQ to pieces soon.

What would it mean for you?

These are questions, vague and inappropriately timed, coming to mind. What if Deputy happens to eventually tear the Project apart? They escaped John, escaped Jacob and you were to personally witness his foul mood for two days straight. You overhear bits and pieces of conversations, the Chosen talk if they think no one listens — Deputy is strong and clever. Persistent and cunning. Maybe that's the reason Jacob's so obsessed with them.

What if...

You glance at him from under your eyelashes and rub the mark. They say there's a connection between soulmates. If one dies, another experiences it on a physical level. Jacob said that was bullshit. His brother didn't confirm or deny when you asked him after a sermon.

Joseph Seed unnerves you. Not just because he believes himself to be God's vessel. There is something in his voice, quiet and soothing like the distant rolls of thunder, it raises goosebumps when he starts preaching and you're forced to sit through it. Something in his eyes behind yellow-tinted glasses sends shivers down your spine, very little to do with his religious fanaticism.

What would you feel if Jacob died?

The thought creates an unpleasant twist in your stomach, unwanted bond or not, it leaves you queasy. You curl on the bed. Jacob has reading glasses, you barely held back a snort the first time you saw them propped up his nose. He shoots a flat look from above the pages but doesn't comment on your inquisitive stare.

By now you know when to speak and to remain silent (mostly). He dislikes unruly ones and finds satisfaction showing them just how insignificant they are, how mistaken in every single sense. Weak. That's why you annoy him mildly when feeling particularly brave or in need of interaction, but never play soldier or power. It triggers something which is best avoided, gets people punished, then shot in front of others. Or sent for trials, you're not sure which is worse.

Jacob marks a page and sets the book aside. "What?"

"What 'what'?" You ask back, fiddling with the hem of a grey camouflage shirt. It's way too big on your frame, Jacob likes the look of it, judging by how much of your wardrobe consists of his stuff now that you don't leave the room.

"I can hear the wheels in your head turning, spit it out."

"What would happen to me if something... happened to you?"

You're afraid of saying 'if you die' because it's final, even though Jacob seems invincible most of the times. A mountain against hurricanes. Yet everyone dies eventually and the Deputy keeps winning against all odds set before them.

"Nothing. Joseph takes care of you."

This is news, and frankly not the answer you hoped for.

('You'd go free' was. He didn't say 'I won't die' either.)

Tension seeps into your shoulders without a conscious thought. "Why? I am nobody to him."

"You are my soulmate," Jacob replies, simple as that, like it explains everything. Perhaps in their cult world it does, but not yours.

"So?"

He pats his thigh.

It's a gesture without much interpretation required, but you stay rooted on the bed. Cautious. You've grown familiar with each other after living together for months — sharing a space tends to do this to people — still tonight is different, full with awkwardness you haven't felt since that time he walked in on you changing.

Jacob's stare is intense. Heavy, cold blue eyes linger on your wrist where the sword surrounded by flames peeks from under the long sleeve. You swallow a lump in your throat and get up on unsteady legs.

"So he will do it out of memory. You're family, pup, whether you wish it or not."

With the same caution you sit on his lap, war memories written in pink-red skin decorate his face. Just like yours, you think, the only difference is the place and origin. There's something intimate about being like this. Jacob holds you in place once you settle down, not comfortable, but not exactly uncomfortable either.

"Never took you for a cuddly type," you say to shield yourself from growing unease. "Why the change?"

Jacob's thumb presses to the corner of your lips. "Got tired of those puppy eyes staring at me the whole evening, sweetheart. You can have a closer look."

"I don't have puppy eyes. And maybe I like looking from afar."

"Yeah?"

His beard has a prickly feeling to it.

You know your face will never be the same after what happened. From his point of view, Jacob can probably see where the scars begin in the hairline, then continue downwards only an inch away from your eye; small miracles and such. Half of your ear is missing, a good solid chunk. It's not a nice look.

"Don't touch them," you mutter.

You don't mean to share your thoughts in such an abrupt manner, but these intimate moments become a source of discomfort, like a sharp, twisting knife. Jacob doesn't flinch at the sight, he probably saw worse things, still it feels humiliating being reminded of your shortcomings and the fact that this is your face — permanently marked.

Jacob doesn't stop.

"Beauty dies fast, darlin'," he says slowly. "This here... this'll stay."

He never sugarcoats anything. Never lies to spare feelings, ruthless and pragmatic with a clear understanding of what matters and what doesn't. Only the weak need empty reassurances; his words. You hate this side of Jacob just as much as admire it on occasion, right now you wish he said something else. Beauty dies fast.

"Thank you Jacob, very comforting. Top ten phrases you should tell someone who got mauled by a Judge." You cross your arms, wondering why the hell are you talking about this. With Jacob. The worst choice possible to bring up sensitive topics, or maybe the only one, since there's not a lot of people around anyway.

"I ain't here to stroke your ego, sweetheart. This," he traces a scar, "is a lesson to remember. Next time when thinking 'bout running — think again and think good."

There will be no next time regardless of how he phrases it. The chain rattles every night when you shift under the blankets and falls down with an annoying bang as soon as you get up. There's nowhere to run too, the Whitetail Mountains belong to Jacob, he rules them like a king would rule his kingdom, with iron fist and strict order, and who knows what the local Resistance will do to you if they catch you first.

If they figure out whose soulmate you are.

You're trapped between the Deputy destroying outposts and Jacob hunting them across the region, like a mouse stuck in a corner while cats keep prowling around.

The sky outside has an orange-pink hue, casting Jacob's face into soft light and deep shadows. He takes off his glasses, setting them on the book's cover, then wipes a stray tear from the corner of your eye. "You gonna cry over looks?"

You sniffle. "Yes. I wish I never met you."

He stiffens. For a second you worry it might have pushed a wrong button. Jacob never hurt you physically, still there's a healthy dose of fear, not necessarily born out of past experiences. At times his presence just radiates off in silent waves so thick you can feel them crashing into yourself before he walks away and doesn't return for days, leaving you alone with the Chosen stationed behind the doors to watch over and report back to their Herald.

Jacob leans closer until your foreheads almost press into each other.

He doesn't initiate touch often. Once in a while he lets you sleep on his arm instead of a pillow or allows you to sit closer than usual during meals, but that's it. There are boundaries set, most of them are unspoken rules which you picked up along the way: you can ask questions and be generally yourself within reason — as long as it doesn't border on disrespect, Jacob will tolerate occasional attitude in very small doses; you can request certain items provided he approves; he prefers silence during breakfast.

Never challenge him publicly and don't talk bad about his siblings.

This confession can't be taken back, nor do you wish to, because it's true. You regret meeting him, and it was much better to wonder and guess, create images of a faceless man somewhere in the depths of your mind and fantasize about possibilities. How does one even go back to normal life after this?

(Not that any chance of doing so exists in the foreseeable future.)

"I figured, darlin'," Jacob says finally. His voice lacks anger, as if he expected those words one day or another, Jacob isn't naive or stupid and is surprisingly aware of himself in a lot of matters, of the fact that very little would want to end up where he dragged you and being imprisoned under the heavy metal chain doesn't add to fond memories either. "Fair enough."

In all months you two lived together, sharing food and space, in all months, he never kissed you.

Now he does.

His lips are chapped, dry and slightly rough.

You find yourself going rigid at first, unsure what to make out of it. It's different from what you imagined, the fantasy version seemed more... violent and harsh, less intimate and private. He breaks the kiss briefly and then resumes it again.

Slow-slow-quick, Jacob steals your breath away bit by bit until your head spins, until your hands feel clammy and then, when you think you can't take it any longer, he pulls back.

"Won't apologize 'bout the scars, pup. You deserved a lesson."

Your throat feels parched.

"But not of this kind. Never wanted it for you."

It doesn't sound apologetic, neither regretful, but it is what it is, probably the closest to it Jacob will ever be capable of. His hand strokes the back of your neck in slow and repetitive circles, and in an odd way, it does seem soothing.

He takes you to bed minutes later, maneuvers you closer under the sheets and turns off the light. The window is open letting in the sounds of evening wildlife: crickets chirp loudly nearby, some owl hoots in the distance; Montana smells different than other states. Sharper, wilder. You lie like this for a bit, curled against his side and he's always so fucking warm, a human furnace incarnate.

"The moment I saw the marking — I wished you never met me too."

[theostrophywife]

az x short reader??

shortcake.

a/n: listen it's 100% confirmed that azriel has a size kink i know because his shadows told me.

azriel is ridiculously tall. he's used to towering over everyone everywhere he goes, but for some reason, it's different with you. the shadowsinger thinks it's cute that you barely come up to his shoulders and that you have to practically crane your neck just to look up at him. he absolutely loves the height difference.

when you're out, he's constantly tucking you to his side, his arm around your waist while his wing brushes against your shoulder. he especially loves cocooning you from the world within the safety of his wings, knowing that you're his and his alone.

azriel uses any excuse to pull you behind him. whether it's to protect you from actual danger like when you visit the court of nightmares and someone speaks to you in a threatening manner or even when you're out with the inner circle at rita's and some random male tries to hit on you, the shadowsinger won't hesitate going full alphahole and securing you behind him while his shadows wreathe you in darkness.

you'd pretend to be annoyed, craning over his shoulder and reprimanding him for being so overprotective, but you'd secretly love it.

when you first move into the house of wind, azriel purposely moves all of your favorite coffee mugs on the top shelf so that you'd have to ask him for help. he'd watch you open the cupboards, that confused little frown on your face melting his heart, before you sheepishly turn around and ask him to grab a mug for you in your shy, sweet voice. he'd happily oblige and when you stand on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek in thanks, azriel knows he's absolutely fucking done for.

he'd tease the absolute hell out of you, calling you little one, munchkin, and his personal favorite, shortcake. you'd huff and puff, crossing your arms and trying to look as intimidating as possible which just makes you look even cuter to the point where he's actually chuckling at the sight.

once he gets comfortable around you, he'd flirt endlessly. casually moving you aside, lifting you up, giving you piggyback rides. you'd catch on easily and use that age old trick of comparing hands. azriel would be self conscious about it at first. you noticed that he always liked to hide his hands behind him and one day while you're playing cards and drinking wine, you surprise him by grabbing his hands.

azriel half-expected you to pull away from his touch, but you only lay your palm against his, grinning as his large hand swallows up your much smaller one. he'd watch silently as you trace every swirl of scarred skin, every bump and ridge a reminder of his traumatic experience, every crack and crevice filled with blood and brutality, but you'd intertwine your fingers in his, never hesitating never faltering.

"it's like ripples of water. strong and swift and solid like the sidra. your hands are beautiful, az. just like every inch of you."

and gods, that exact moment is when his harmless little crush on you evolved into something bigger than he could've ever imagined. azriel knew then that he was falling in love with you.

the shadowsinger would surprise not only himself, but the rest of his friends—his family. for five centuries, they have always known him to be reserved and sensitive to touch, but now he couldn't even help himself. he'd seek you out in every room, constantly pulling you closer, wrapping his arm around the back of whatever chair you were sitting on, his wing curved protectively around you and his shadows swirling through your hair and wrists and ankles.

azriel is also a big fan of giving you hugs. he knows it makes you flustered when he picks you up and squeezes you into a bear hug, twirling you in the air while you kick your feet up. you’d feign embarrassment, demanding for azriel to put you down right this instant even though you can’t get enough of his addictive embraces and that night chilled mist and cedar scent that was so distinctly him that you can’t help but wrap your arms around his neck and squeeze back despite your initial protests.

don't even get me started on the cuddling. azriel loves when you curl up against him, head tucked into his chest, arms and legs twisted together while he wraps you in his strong arms. you're so small compared to him especially when his wings cocoon you in completely and he'll hold you so gently, whispering sweet nothings into your ear while he strokes your hair. it's warm and toasty and you're falling fast asleep in seconds murmuring dreamily.

sometimes you'll have nightmares and azriel would wake up in the middle of the night, reaching out for you and cradling you in his arms while reminding you that there's nothing to be afraid of because he's right beside you.

azriel would whisper in the darkness, "it's alright, my love. you're here. you're safe. i won't let anything bad happen to you. i've got you, sweet girl."

you believed every word. you knew this beautiful male meant it with every fiber of his being. "i feel so safe when i'm with you, az. like nothing bad could ever happen when you hold me."

his heart would soar. all his life, he'd been known as the feared spymaster. the ruthless illyrian warrior. the dark shadowsinger, but to you, he was azriel. the male that you fully trusted to protect you and keep you safe.

and gods, he'd be so careful with you. so gentle and restrained to keep from hurting you, but fuck one day you'd decide enough was enough.

things would get heated in the bedroom and you'd be in the middle of a particularly steamy makeout, lips and tongues and teeth clashing as you kiss and kiss like you're trying to crawl into each other's skin. you'd be straddling him in nothing but your bra and panties, the shadowsinger shirtless and panting as you finally bite down on his bottom lip and declare, "stop holding back, az. i want you. all of you."

this results in azriel absolutely losing his shit and manhanding you, flipping positions so that you're pinned down and helpless below him. he'd chuckle darkly, palming your breasts in his large hands, squeezing your thighs and hips and ass, reveling in the way his body covers yours while he hikes your legs over his shoulders.

the shadowsinger would watch your petite form writhing underneath him, delicate hands gripping his cock while you pump him eagerly. then you're guiding him between your legs and he nearly passes out from how fucking tight you are, how snug you feel around his cock as you take him in inch by inch. he'd press down on the bulge in your lower belly, swallowing your moans as his proud length stretches your walls. then he's moving and you're wrapping your delicate legs around his waist, trying to get more, more, more.

and when you guide his large hand over your throat, his fingers splayed out across your soft skin like a perfectly crafted necklace, azriel finds himself unable to hold back. he gives you everything he’s got, rough and hard, soft and sweet, caring and intimate.

from that day on, azriel would take you against the wall, outside the alley at rita’s, on a balcony in the house of wind and even in a coat closet at the river house. it’s so easy to pull you into a room and have his way with you. he absolutely loves getting you all flustered and he thinks it’s cute when you’re an absolute mess for him.

“what’s the matter, little one? did i make you all hot and bothered?”

as much as he loved to tease you, az would also treat you like a princess. aftercare with him is heaven. he’d run you both a bath, letting you sit in his lap while he scrubs your exhausted body, his hands gently shampooing your scalp and massaging all the tension out of your taut muscles. after you’re done he’d wrap you up in a soft, fluffy robe and set you on the counter, kissing your forehead while he gets you ready for bed.

azriel would help you into one of his shirts, smirking at how the fabric swallows your petite frame. there’s something so satisfying about seeing you wearing his clothes. he’s so possessive of you and he loves knowing that it’s his scent covering you while you sleep cuddled up beside him.

he’d chuckle as you greedily snuggle against him, burying your face in his neck and peppering him with kisses as you claim your place in his arms. azriel would kiss the top of your head, stroking your back.

“goodnight, az.”

“goodnight, shortcake.”

[wannaeatramyeon]

Young!Samuel Seo with Young!Reader: Baby

G/N. Your family owning a convenience store AU: Leave Him Be | Dinner Guest | Doctors and Patients. Next - Dragons

Samuel is pissing you off.

You could have sworn he was shorter than you.

Or at least he was when you first met. You could have had a fun few months goading him for his height if you knew this was going to happen.

You glare at how much taller he is.

He smirks and calls you a shortass when you point it out. Then you stamp your feet, telling him it's unfair and he calls you a baby when you pout.

You're growing. By the day, your mother would complain, tutting when you need new trousers again. But Samuel is growing faster.

For a brief moment in time, you were the same height. Maybe it was just for a day you were at eye level. Then he started to tower over you.

He's no longer short or scruffy, underfed with unkempt hair and threadbare clothes. That's thanks to your parents, who have graciously taken this kid under their wing.

And as he grows taller, it instilled in him strength, and his fear of home and of his mother recedes.

He stays at yours later and later. Hanging out in the aisles turns to staying for dinner turns to sleepovers in your cramped living room above the store.

Lying side by side with pillows and duvets pulled from your bed and spares from the closet. Nights filled with conversations that lead to everywhere and nowhere. Playing on your game console, both fighting over who gets the better controller instead of the one with the sticky buttons and dodgy joystick. Watching TV and movies, full of violence and other content that you're both too young for.

When Samuel is around, your parents are lax. You both get spoiled more than ever.

When he leaves, checking in on his own home occasionally, it makes you want to cry. You bite your wobbly bottom lip as he calls you a baby again, then placates and tells you he'll be back tomorrow with a roll of the eyes and a huff of amusement.

You can't remember the time before Samuel was in your life, although it's only been a few short seasons, and you are starting to piece together the origins of his bruises and scars. Appearing less frequently now, but still appearing nevertheless.

Sometimes you worry about him never coming back.

.

.

"My dad is a gangster," Samuel wants to comment one night when you're lying together, in matching pyjama sets, watching some gangster on TV do something awful to the rival gang.

He doesn't though. He can't bring himself to say it.

It's something he now sprinkles into conversation with pride, demanding respect and reverence from his seniors and juniors and everything in between.

Yet he has never mentioned any of his home life to you, his lineage, and you never asked. You never treated him any different.

You're pure, innocent. A small piece of his life untainted.

He supposes he never needed to demand respect from you, even since the beginning. You already look at him with reverence, like he holds all the answers in the world.

Most of all though, Samuel doesn't want to demand anything more from you than you're willing to give. And you have already given him so much.

He watches you squeak at the screen and shield your eyes with a pillow. You never had a stomach for violence but like to pretend you're much braver than you are.

"Sammy!" you squeal at a particularly gory part, the camera panning over to a severed horse head. You shuffle onto his side of the makeshift floor bed and cling to his arm.

Normally, Samuel would wonder if his dad has ever done that. Ruthless and brutal, sending a message, a warning to his rival. Wonder how Gapryong became King, and how he himself can follow in those footsteps.

But with you, he doesn't wonder that at all. 

He doesn't think about the past or the future, just the here and now.

Samuel calls you a baby. Laughs, mean and taunting, at how squeamish you are. He inches closer anyway, making it easier for you to tuck yourself into his shoulder.

[kxizoku-ou]

CP9/Reader Shorts

I've posted these on Ao3 already, but I think they're of a reasonable length to be here too! They're more or less just character studies/test-run shorts written so I could get a feel for this group (and their unique brand of issues, of course). Enjoy the angsty fluff~ ;3c

. . .

—Lucci—

It’s not exactly rare for Lucci to be touched (in combat and while being patched up afterward, at least), but not like this. 

This meaning lying on his stomach while your unnervingly gentle hands take a leisurely path down his back, pausing to trace over every scar they find along the way. There’s strange confidence in the unhurried, careful motions— or rather, none of the usual caution of someone handling a living weapon.

“These are awfully deep,” you comment as your fingertips trail feather-light over the uppermost circle branded into his back. “Do they hurt?” 

“Of course not,” Lucci replies, almost automatically.  

Those wounds are old enough to barely qualify as damage. He’s grown used to the hindered mobility and the aches that come and go— they don’t affect how he fights, and that’s all that matters. 

You give a sympathetic-sounding hum, following the arrangement of scars with a broader touch. This time, the motion feels more like petting , and Lucci is vaguely horrified at how his body relaxes ever-so-slightly in response. It still doesn’t hurt, but the deeper patches of scar tissue are uncomfortably sensitive, nerve signals radiating outward from every new point of contact. 

And despite a lifetime of experience spent hardening his body into a perfectly controlled tool, he finds himself alarmingly unprepared. 

By now, you’re past the lowest of those five scars, moving on with no further comment. There are plenty more marks to examine— two bullet wounds low on his shoulder blade seem to catch your attention next.

Against every trained instinct, his body relaxes a little more.

—Kaku—

Kaku is built tall and lean, all straight, narrow lines and square-ish angles, with lithe, corded muscle that betrays unexpected strength. 

With your hands on either side of his torso, palms resting at the lowest point of his ribs, you can feel that strength in every movement— each slow intake of breath or subtle, nervous fidget makes iron-solid muscle shift under his skin. 

Skin that bears far more scars than a normal two-ish decades of life could account for. 

The ones on his upper body are mostly from battle (or so you’d guess); bullet wounds, a couple of burns, and messy, jagged slashes too uneven to be from a doctor’s steady hands. Your touch moves lower, brushing over those long-healed marks on the way, and Kaku goes tense . 

“You okay?” you ask. Usually, he suppresses bodily reactions better than that.

Kaku nods. He won’t look at you, but with no hat brim to hide behind, avoiding eye contact doesn’t save him. “F-Feels a bit peculiar, that’s all,” he insists, though the tremble in his voice says otherwise. 

Lower down, you find more; neat, faintly pink lines arranged next to the crooked places in his shins, and pale, shiny splotches haphazardly covering his bony knees. The damage is worse here, more obvious, and with every inch your careful fingers explore, Kaku seems increasingly overwhelmed by the sensation. 

Whatever brutal training goes into Cipher Pol agents didn’t prepare them for gentleness— you’ve seen Kaku shrug off pain that would put most people unconscious, yet a bit of skin-on-skin contact makes him flinch.

—Jabra—

The scar on Jabra’s face may be the most obvious, but it’s far from the worst. From the pale shine of countless split knuckles to lopsided rows of what were once hasty sutures lacing together some awful wound, the scars are everywhere. 

With his skin bared and his hair down, Jabra seems older, tired; some of his sharp edges filed down.

Sprawled on his side so you can inspect a series of gashes along his shoulder blade, he’s oddly silent. For once, there’s no boasting or playful teases— nothing to distract from the somber reality of what his body’s been through. 

“Are these all from fights?” you ask, idly tracing a particularly messy line. 

“Nah. Some of ‘em are from training,” Jabra explains, “back before I’d been good enough for any real fights. And some are from getting patched up afterward.” 

You trail your touch down, to the side, until your fingers lie parallel with his ribs. A shiver runs through him, and he hisses through clenched teeth, eyes slipping closed. Not a response to pain (he’s better at hiding those), but sensation , too sudden and unfamiliar to withstand in silence. 

A few seconds tick by. Slowly, the coiled tension goes slack; in its absence, Jabra slumps backward and almost into your lap. It’s a deliberate show of trust, likely intended to convince himself more than you. 

Brushing a few locks of hair off his face earns a contented, heaving sigh. Your fingertips follow his scar from forehead to cheekbone, the caress feather-light.

—Kalifa—

You can wrap your hand around Kalifa’s ankle with room to spare, yet even the slightest shift of muscle betrays strength behind the narrow joint.

It’s not as obvious that she’s a well-honed weapon, just looking at her; Kalifa knows intimately how lust can catch a target off guard, and her appearance is intended to make full use of that. This close, however, you can see the scars crisscrossing smooth skin, and feel solid muscle under every uncushioned curve. 

Moving up her shin, the bone seems crooked in places, uneven like fractures that never fully healed. Painful, you’d think, but Kalifa stays perfectly still— at least until your careful, exploratory touch moves past her knee. 

“That’s—” The start of a familiar phrase drops off as quickly as it slipped out.

“Sexual harassment?” 

“...strange.” She says it with an odd sort of deliberation, as if the word doesn’t quite fit. Her gaze stays intently fixed on where your hands meet her skin.

“Do these hurt?” you ask, resuming your slow path up her thigh. Lines of textured scar tissue stand out under your fingertips, as do the neat, freckle-like puckers of sutured wounds long healed. 

Kalifa shakes her head. “Not anymore. What you’re doing doesn’t hurt, either. It’s just... different.” 

That’s as close to a confession as you’ll get from someone who’s used to weakness being a punishable offense, but the implications add up just fine. Your thumb traces the ragged edge of a broad slash across her hip, and Kalifa’s next breath comes a little sharper. She doesn’t move, and doesn’t flinch.

—Blueno—

Even though Blueno’s discomfort is sharply present, visible even through the layers of suppression and stone-faced sufferance carved into him by years of practice, he doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Of course, it’s tricky to tell whether that’s a sign of genuine contentment or just one more hard-taught habit to unpack. 

“Still okay?” you ask, keeping your open palm unmoving on his chest.

“It’s fine,” Blueno assures you, and offers no further words than that. 

You slide your hand up closer to where his voice rumbled when he spoke; from sternum to clavicle, tracing over scattered blotches and lines of scar tissue as you go. Cipher Pol agents are durable. They heal well. Or at least, they have to, to last more than a scant matter of years at the job. 

As you trace the tight lines of muscle leading upward, Blueno closes his eyes. His throat bobs beneath your touch, but his skin stays unhardened. No Tekkai to guard him, should your wandering hands suddenly try to do harm. 

His body feels rather iron-like even without the added defense, however. The thick layers of sculpted muscle beneath a canvas of callused, scar-spattered skin are a weapon and a fortress all on their own, regardless of his unprotesting willingness to yield himself to your handling. 

Perhaps that’s what makes this whole scenario bearable— that near-mechanical surrender of will found in following orders with no choices to be made.

Lie still. Don’t hide. Let me see you. 

Your hands shift outward to broad, sturdy shoulders, memorizing the textures of old wounds along the way. Blueno exhales slowly, the breath almost a sigh. 

—Fukurou—

Fukurou’s body is sturdy; it has more soft parts than one might expect for a highly trained combatant, but solid. Durable. Like a sandbag that won’t tear at the seams no matter how many hits it takes. 

With your hands on his skin, however, Fukurou wishes he could zip his mouth shut before something comes leaking out that he’ll really regret. 

“This doesn’t hurt, does it?” you ask, splayed fingers trailing over a deep, puckered line of scar tissue.

“N-No, it doesn’t...” As always, Fukurou is honest. He tries to stop there.

Your touch wanders lower, though, kneading into his stomach as if trying to feel the battle-hardened muscle underneath, and Fukurou’s startled ‘chapa—!’ comes out as nearly a squeak. It feels strange to be handled like this, especially when you’re watching so intently for every little reaction he lets slip. You won’t think less of him for anything, but the scrutiny is still hard to face. 

“What’s this one from?” Your fingers settle on a wide, pale mark just a few inches above his kneecap, clearly old and long-healed. 

“Oh, a bone broke badly enough to poke through! Back in training, I missed a step when I was high up, and didn’t think fast enough to...” 

The words keep flowing from there. As always, once he starts talking, he gets too caught up in the details to know when to quit. You’ve exploited that weakness countless times— not that Fukurou minds, by now.

He’d rather be talking than thinking about how your touch makes him feel.

—Kumadori—

When you get close enough, the sakura-pink curtain of Kumadori’s mane-like hair does little to conceal the scars. For once, he’s silent.  

At first glance, only the wide, jagged-edged scar across his abdomen stands out. You move slowly when you reach for it, leaving plenty of time to suppress any instinctive flinches or hardened skin. 

Still, you see Kumadori’s chest rise with an inaudible, startled gasp. Abdominal muscles spasm under your palm, rigidly nervous— but he doesn’t pull away. You trace the bumpy path of healed-over tissue, moving up toward his rib cage, and feel the effort it takes him to stay still. 

Brushing his hair out of the way reveals more damage. There’s a deep, curved row of old suture marks along his side that stands out most, and the slightest pressure at one end of it earns a subtle flinch. 

“Did that hurt?” you ask. 

“N-No, it was merely unexpected,” he assures you, though his usual dramatic intonation comes out oddly subdued. 

Up higher, past a solid chest, broad shoulders, and the sharp ridge of his collarbone. Kumadori silently allows your hands to wander. He keeps his eyes closed until your palm comes to rest on one side of his neck— his head tips away, then, yielding to the touch almost too quickly to be deliberate.

When you cup your hand over his jaw, he sighs. There are little scars and spots of damage even here, and unevenness in the bone that hints at a messy break.

Still, when you don’t move away, his head soon sags into your touch. 

—Who’s Who—

You start with the tattoo on his chest, tracing the inked-in letters and the dark outline of an eye. Already, you find plenty of scars— most of them subtle and faded with age. 

Moving up, however, they get worse. One thick, sharp-edged line starts on the side of his neck, then veers inward, narrowly missing his jugular on its way down. Who’s Who nearly flinches when your fingertips brush over his collarbone (you don’t point it out), but he still rolls over obligingly at your request. 

“You just gonna... touch shit until you get bored?” His deliberately nonchalant tone is far from convincing, with the mess you’re looking at now.

The scars on his back are deeper, many of them patterned far too neatly to have come from a fight. 

“Would you be okay with that?” 

Who’s Who shrugs. “Sure. If you’re that interested, do whatever.” 

A palm on his back earns another not-quite-stifled twitch. You stroke gently down, then back up, going slow enough to feel every rough patch of skin on the way. Who’s Who goes tense all over at that— as if he can’t decide whether to melt into your touch or brace for a blow. 

You just keep petting him, tracing scars to find the softer, unmarred gaps of skin in between. He doesn’t protest the handling, and you don’t call attention to the unsteady breaths that he can’t quite suppress.

[herukapadmajungiansworld]

Decolonisation is beautiful.

Here’s just one example from one small corner of one small Estonian town, Viljandi.

Picture 1: An ugly communist party building and car park, built by the soviet occupiers on top of a memorial they demolished for local people who died fighting for independence.

Pictures 2 & 3: The memorial, lovingly recreated down to every last detail, is back at the heart of a public square.

There are some commentators abroad who like to lecture russia’s neighbours not to “erase history” by removing the scars of occupation.

It’s weird because this kind of thing is normal everywhere else in the world. In fact, the very same people who get particularly upset about occupation monuments being removed here also tend to be very articulate about the importance of removing statues to ousted oppressors elsewhere. They just think russian imperialism gets a free pass.

Newsflash: It doesn’t.

Rather than erase history, plenty of occupation junk across the Baltic countries has been transferred to museums so that future generations can learn about it in its proper context. But it doesn’t belong in our public spaces. Local people here hated that brutal communist party building, which desecrated the memorial in a way so symbolic of the wider ugliness of russian imperialism.

Public spaces belong to the people who actually live here and should reflect the kind of free, modern, open, independent countries that we are - and which remember those who made it possible.

The other bad take on this issue is to constantly frame this kind of thing as a ‘reaction/response/message to russia’. That, again, is imperialist thinking. We make decisions for our countries based on what we want our countries to be. We’d want to remove this kind of junk even if russia had ceased to exist in 1991 or if it had flourished into a friendly democracy.

In fact, here in Viljandi, it took three decades of planning and sculpting to recreate the monument based off grainy photos of the original. The building was finally knocked down a couple of years ago and the memorial unveiled this midsummer.

In the interim, the building was expanded after the occupation to serve as Tourist Information, which was pretty ironic considering the communist aim was to keep us closed to the world. But that has a new home and the time has come to return the space.

There was quite a debate locally about whether to recreate it exactly or update it with some kind of modern reinterpretation. Both are legitimate, interesting ideas.

In the end, the only difference is that the materials are now of a much higher quality. I think they made the right decision.

And the fact that it was recreated in perfect detail by people who never saw the original but emerged from occupation with the same determination to live free does send its own new message from our time too. We will continue to exist.

Decolonisation can suffer setbacks, horrendously painful as we see in Ukraine, but the long term trend is unstoppable. The special protection that russian imperialism still enjoys in the minds of many around the world is starting to shatter.

I stopped by to take a photo of it for you all and a rainbow appeared. 🙂

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

The sweetest taste ♤

Astarion Ancunin x reader

A/N: heyyyy :) this was supposed to be a short drabble, but I mayhaps got carried away... oops lol Astarion is the tadpole in my brain and he told me to write this so yeah. First time writing for Astarion so I'm a lil hesitant to post this but I figured you guys will tell me if it's shit lmao Enjoy!

~ Fi 🪻

Warnings: blood consumption (reader licks blood off Astarions face bc I felt like it), slightly suggestive? Astarion is flustered, ooc Astarion?? maybe??? Idk

Word count: 1.2k

!short disclaimer: I haven't actually played the game.. (shame on me, I know lol)!

Please don't copy my work! I put a lot of effort and heart into the things I write.

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The latest battle had been brutal. Blood spilling, dirt and debris flying everywhere. You were wiping your sweat and grim covered forehead with your sleeve, lightly staining the fabric.

"Wasn't that so much fun, Darling?" Astarion beamed, wiping his dagger on his shirt. He was covered in blood splatters, they dyed his white shirt and his fair curls a deep crimson. Astarions pale complexion wasn't safe from the blood bath either. But,Gods, he has never looked better. Smiling, covered in blood, sure he looked a little manical but you wouldn't have it any other way.

It was cute and horrifying at the same time to see how his eyes lit up after a battle as intense as this one. He'd become all giddy and excited, the adrenaline in his veins giving him a delicious rush. It's kind of odd after you just killed people, but Astarion is, well.. Astarion. The intimidating, charming, witty, yet so lovable vampire. A small smile crept onto your cheeks. It was nice seeing him smile and laugh. That laugh. It was going to be the death of you. Just like the rest of him, really. The worst part about that? He knew it.

Astarion glanced over at you, the setting light of the sun perfectly hitting his ruby eyes. He let out a deep chuckle, twirling the ornate dagger between his slender, pale fingers. "What's so funny, hm?" You questioned, crossing your arms in front of your chest, brows furrowed. He chuckled again, lighter this time and stopped walking.

"Just the way you're ogling me, my sweet," he answered, clearly amused, "you like seeing me covered in blood, don't you, you cheeky little thing?"

A subtle blush adorned your cheeks and you let out a huff. "So what if I do?" You responded. Astarion lightly shook his head and laughed. He walked up to you and tilted your head upwards with a finger underneath your chin.

"Well... that is perfectly alright with me, my darling." he grinned.

As you arrived at your camp, the sun had already said her goodbye and the beautifully glowing moon was illuminating the dark night. "We should get cleaned up," Karlach said, stretching her back, "we've got an early day tomorrow."

You sat down on your bedroll, dampening a rag with some of the leftover water in your flask and began to wipe your face down. It felt good to finally get all of that dried blood and dirt off your face.

Astarion emerged from the woods, even more blood covering his face now. The carmine liquid was dripping down his chin. You grinned as he made his way over to you and sat down next to you. "I suppose you've had your dinner? Am I not to your fine taste anymore or have you just decided to be Gentleman and give me a break today?" You asked teasingly, not looking at him but continuing to clean yourself. He laughed.

"You know I could never get tired of your taste, my sweet. But..",Astarion trailed his fingers up your arm to your neck and gently ghosted over the two scars sitting on the side of your throat, ever so beautifully,"I could go for a dessert, dear.." he smirked your way.

You looked over at him and smiled. "I'll think on it, my love."

He nodded and returned a soft smile, his fingers still caressing the side of your neck. 

"You should really clean your face, Astarion"

"But you like it when I'm all bloodied" he teased.

You rolled your eyes. Teasing was his middle name.

"I'll do it for you" you offered. He raised his eyebrows in surprise but quickly a smirk made its way onto his face. "Why, I'd be honored, my darling."

You climbed onto his lap and his hands immediately situated themselves on your hips. You were holding the already bloody rag in on hand and his jaw firmly in the other. You leaned in and licked a stripe up his bloody cheek. Astarion froze. Did... did you actually just do that. Not that he was complaining, he would never, it just caught him off guard. And was he.. was he flustered? No way in the hells. Astarion doesn't get flustered. He's the one flustering and making other people blush. But he couldn't deny the slight heat in his face and the proud smirk on your face as you caught the slightest hint of pink on his cheeks. Astarion couldn't believe it. His innocent, oh so sweet darling, that wouldn't hurt a fly, had just licked the blood off his face.

You pulled back and smiled, slightly turning his head to get a better angle. You let your tongue trail over the corner of his mouth and along his jaw, taking off the crimson liquid. He let out a raspy groan, quickly followed by his grip tightening on your hips. "My, my... who would've known you were so... filthy, my sweet.." his voice was filled with lust and as smooth as honey. A seductive smirk was on his lips, and you just looked at him innocently.

"You're not the only one who likes blood here, my star," you whispered, tilting his head up a little and batting your lashes at him.

Astarion stared af you, full of lust and adoration. This just made him love you so much more, you had no idea.

Putting your hands on his shoulder, you began to stand up. "Well.. early call tomorrow, so, good night, my lovely, " you said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and making your way to your bedroll. His face fell into confusion as he sat there, dumbfounded. "I- what?! you can't just-" he yelled, outraged, but he cut himself off with a scoff. You got him all riled up and just.. left! Thankfully, he couldn't see the grin on your face as you continued to approach your resting place for the night. "Can and will, my dear"

Gale stomped towards Astarion, obviously annoyed. "For the sake of the God's, Astarion! Some people would like to sleep, what's the matter with you?!" He questioned, making gestures with his hands. "I- she- SHE JUST-" Astarion still had a hard time finding words to describe what just happened, completely baffled by your actions.

"Oh for fucks sake, what is it?!" Gale spat, getting angry. Astarion just pointed your way. Gale looked over and saw you licking off a little bit of blood from the corner of your mouth. He then looked back at Astarion, where a perfectly cleaned patch of his fair skin shone through the mess on his face. Gale grinned. "A taste of your own medicine, Sir tease-a-lot?" He then turned around and made his way back to his bedroll, laughing at Astarion.

You couldn't contain your giggles as you watched the scene play out. Astarion's head snapped towards you and he stared through you, his eyes narrowing. He accusingly pointed a finger in your direction, "I'll get you back for this!" He yelled, infuriated, which earned him a distant "Shut it, Astarion!" From Shadowheart.

He probably would get you back for this, ten times worse at that, but that was a problem for the future you, because it was absolutely worth it. You blew him a kiss and turned around on your bedroll with your back now towards him. You heard him huff and mumble something quite grumpily. Smiling, you bit your lip, closing your eyes and drifting off to sleep with a picture of Astarion with slightly rosy cheeks in your mind.

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