#truth be told he can tell who he is by how much his bones scrape together bc of the damaged cartilage

[apollo18]

Imagine being a JL member and Superman randomly says to you, “did you know you have an abnormally slow heartbeat?”

I don’t even know man the fact he can just recognize certain people by their heartbeat fucks me up.

Like what about their digestion?

When I put my head on someone’s tummy I can hear their stomach, can he hear that too?

Could he recognize someone just via their IBS

[spotsupstuff]

"And that's- that's really the problem, right??" Six Ear stumbles through his words, possibly still unused to being so earnestly honest. Shā Dàlì taught him to talk, though, so he swallows his fumbling in favor of continuing.

"I'm falling in love with you!" He laughs as if he just told the most awkward joke in the history of jokes. "ME! At least I think so-." He points to himself, expression beyond distraught.

"I can't even tell if it's genuine-" he takes a deep shaky breath, "-or if... if I'm lusting after normalcy I've never had so badly that I'm trying to use you as a ticket to it."

For all that terrifying truth he only gets a long stare from Táng as a reward.

It's not that Táng is trying to be heartless about this, no no. The idea of doing that to a man who's been working on himself tirelessly for over a year is needlessly cruel. Not to mention- the man in question became his friend along the way.

Just... he would've never guessed it would end up like this.

Everybody else is sitting a bit away. Just far enough so they wouldn't hear their conversation, chatting at the fire of a grill and few lamps. Shā Dàlì had invited them all over to his beautiful boat-home for the night. Just to bond, to maybe sing songs badly while he strums along on his old bass so they can laugh about it. It was all nice and lighthearted until Six Ear gently tugged on his sleeve, slightly frowning, and asked him for a moment for just the two of them.

And after that confession, Táng himself isn't so sure what he thinks or feels about the black furred monkey monster sitting next to him as they overlook the calm sea. He can hear Six Ear's claws scraping against the railing lightly because of the nerves, but he doesn't feel rushed or threatened to answer as fast as possible.

And that's something, right? With Six Ear of all people?

Because with Six Ear of all people, everybody should be feeling threatened all the time. Or at least speaking in past tense, nowadays. Táng still remembers how much of a struggle it was to travel with him on board during their quest to stop the White Bone Spirit, of course. There were evenings when he thought he wouldn't be waking up the next day, with how violent the shadow monkey could get. Six Ear scared Táng and actively scarred Xiǎotiān- that always made his blood boil, to see Xiǎotiān shaking so so badly after a particularly bad encounter.

Táng remembers all the hurt. After all, he was usually the one who had to patch all the wounds up (along with chef Zhū and lǎo Shā, of course).

And still he's... there are still moments when Six Ear's old approaches poke through. Naturally. Those moments are always scary. Past is never not scary. But the thing is...

He shifts where he's sitting, getting more comfortable. He can see from the corner of his eye Six Ear glancing at him, looking suspiciously like an expectant puppy before straightening himself up and looking aggressively forwards at the ocean with an expression one would shoot a friend who's been "borrowing" DVDs for two years too long.

Táng snorts, the other's ears perk up at the sound and somehow the expression becomes even more intense.

That's really as good an example as any, isn't it?

The macaque has become sillier over the time. More easy to deal with, lighter in nature which is kind of ironic to say for the shadow. A year or so ago, during the Mid Autumn festival, Táng offered his friendship to the guy and ever since then it started spinning. Six Ear would be either specially cautious around him, probably afraid that a mistake could break the wobbly friendship bond they had going on, or he would be daringly brash about things, probably unused or disbelieving any of this could possibly last.

Táng started offering him some of his books and at first the monkey had been rather destructive towards those- bending the corners of the pages and sometimes he even went as far as to tear at the paper. The scholar's guess was this was supposed to be some kind of test of his patience, their "friendship" or some sort of self-sabotage. Characteristically, Táng one day simply offered to go and buy a stress toy for the other. He was confused, but allowed Táng to pull him along into the proper shop for that.

They ended up having to buy another one and then hex it so it wouldn't break, what with Six Ear's almost-equal-to-Sūn-Wùkōng's strength, but at the end of it all the toy did its job. And Six Ear seemed genuinely touched and listened when Táng suggested he should maybe pitch the destructive tendencies to Shā Dàlì.

So he listened. With all those ears, one would think it would come easier to him and yet..

From then on they've seemed to start growing somewhat closer. Now knowing the macaque monster wouldn't tear at his books, Táng resumed offering his favorite ones- recommending the ones he hadn't owned personally. It turned out that Six Ear himself was kind of a nerd. And that's what they bonded over mostly.

Thanks to their curiosity, they've reached for the same book and knocked their heads while doing it, talked about different cultures, gone to libraries- one day, Six Ear shapeshifted into human and came to the library Táng works at entirely just to ramble about the book that Táng had beamed to him about a two days ago.

'You already read it all???' Táng remembers asking.

To which, the yāoguài added slightly embarrassed: 'I... ...I got a little bit hooked, I'm not gonna lie.'

'That thing has over 800 pages!! Did you sleep at all???'

'...no. Now let me talk about the plot for an hour or so-'

Their friendship has gotten far enough that Six Ear has unfolded to the scholar in a manner that is almost scary for someone like him.

They've sat a few times deep into the night flipping through Six Ear's own books- things written over the centuries, diaries so he wouldn't forget he said, recipe books, poems, notebooks where he had written down everything he saw through his travels; all he'd translate just for Táng. That is a vulnerability that scares Táng, because he's fairly sure if he'd fuck up this whole friendship thing at this point, the monkey might retract into himself to the point he would never come out again.

And Táng is too compassionate and caring to be alright with that.

Slowly, he looks to Six Ear in present time.

Love... romantic one, at that, hmm.. He will admit he thought about the yāoguài in somewhat similar a vein like that- physically, Six Ear is very appealing- quite the eye candy. But Love love..? Not even Six Ear is apparently entirely sure of it. That alternative to the love kind of scares Táng, to be honest.

When it comes to his marriage to Zhū- he would absolutely need to have a talk with the chef about this, because despite their agreement to have their relationship largely open, what Six Ear might or might not be desiring is a level of commitment that might be out of the comfort zone. For either of them, really- Táng is definitely not going to be comfortable with it if chef Zhū won't be.

"Okay, listen." Táng stands up to be closer to the other, wrapping an arm around him, settling a hand on his shoulder. The macaque melts into the touch. "There's..." his free hand gestures vaguely as he searches for the right words. "There's a lot of... Stuff... in this that we should figure out first before- y'know, settling for something too solid."

Six Ear moves his head just enough so he can get a look at Táng. He doesn't say anything, waiting for the other one to continue.

"I definitely have to ask lǎo Zhū what he thinks about this first."

"Yes- yes, of course, that's-"

"Hey shush." Táng lifts one finger to silence the monster. "I'm going to ask him and you are going to figure out what your actual feelings about this are. I don't want to be just some 'ticket'."

He takes a deep breath, nodding to those conditions. "Then we will see?"

"Then we will see." Táng nods, taking a chance with flashing a little careful smile. "I'd be down to try it out. You've been working hard this past year on things and like..." Táng pulls Six Ear closer, squishing him a little bit against his own body as he fixes his glasses. The monster allows it without a second thought, only shifting his grip on the railing with his tail to adjust to the human's actions. "I can and do appreciate that. I enjoy your company."

At that Six Ear pointedly looks away, but Táng still can see a little trace of a blush on an ear. It prompts a little giggle from the scholar that only adds fuel to the flush.

"And if it won't work out, I'll still love to be your friend. I don't really wanna give that up- not even a bitsy."

[witch-hazels-musings]

zhongli, albedo, diluc and xiao with an s.o who is clingy, but also is closed off and has a hard time showing affection and just their emotions in general, and also isn’t generally well liked by their peers?

our affection is different

Warning -> SFW 

Character X GN Reader | Anthology 

Includes: Zhongli, Albedo, Diluc

Zhongli

For someone so reserved and universally liked, people find the contrast between his demeanor and your own clashing - while he is pleasant, greeting others with a steady bow, a kind expression, you look uncomfortable to even be there. You avoid all eye contact unless it comes from Zhongli, you turn your head, fiddle with your thumbs if they aren’t already holding onto the fabric of his jacket, and practice short, quick conversations 

Most try not to talk to you for very long - which you don’t mind; small talk isn’t really your thing and it’s hard to connect with others when they are displaying the emotions that you find hard to grasp 

You find comfort in the repetitious actions of your day. The few things that always come up and need attending to, there is no stress there and so you can get it done quickly. Luckily, your profession doesn’t give you many opportunities to communicate with others. You show up, do what you need to, and leave. It’s proficient, the work that you can accomplish so no one complains, other than to suggest you be a bit warmer (a comment which sets your bones on fire). 

The benefit of your personality means that if anyone needs to hear the truth, you are the best person for the job. You state what needs to be said and move on, resolute like the mountain you tell people what you see. It's the way you’ve always been, and the way you always will be. 

There is one person who perpetually seemed to appreciate your honesty, telling you stories and listening to your earnest reaction to them: Zhongli. His patience and interest in you was a shock to everyone, including yourself, and as he started to share his feelings for you - it took you a while to reciprocate them. Though, when you did he felt the happiest man in all of Teyvat. 

It was hard for you to tell him how you felt, to ease his mind that you held feelings for him - so you found yourself getting closer to him. Standing at his side, holding onto his clothes, or resting your hand in his. Placing a hand against his arm - lingering longer than you would with anyone else and at times forgetting that you were doing it in the first place 

He thought it was endearing, the way you hung around him. If he went on a walk, you were sure to be there, if he read a book, you were following close behind, if he was anywhere he knew you’d be there too - at this point, you were a fixture in his life - a fixture he would treasure for all eternity 

Zhongli wandered through the streets of Liyue, a checklist in hand and yours in the other. You had found him earlier in the day and decided to tag along; even though you weren’t sure how much you could help other than carrying a few items for him. He had several things to collect for a funeral ceremony: incense, flowers, tapestries, and the like. It kept his whole afternoon busy, and, even though he was told to keep the expenses to a minimum, he was choosing rather costly options which he explained, “best suited the life which was to be celebrated.” 

When he made it back to the parlor and settled all the items down in their proper place. He assists you with the ones in your hand.

“Your assistance today was invaluable.” He commented, reaching for the items and placing them on the table in front of him. When he finished, he leaned in and placed a kiss against your cheek and admired the way you reacted. Confused, unsure, and perhaps a bit embarrassed. 

“It was nothing …” You mumble, for a person who already had a hard time finding the right words, he had a knack for making that skill fall to the bottom of the ocean. 

It didn’t matter what others thought about you, Zhongli’s opinion was always the most important and he loved you, every day, every night, through all lifetime: he loved you 

Albedo

There isn’t a day that goes by when you aren’t around, whatever is happening in the Knights of Favonius, out in the field, you’re there - ready to go 

Even though most find it hard to talk with you, considering your natural facial expression is off-putting: the way your mouth turns into a frown when it’s at rest, the disinterested eyes and generally bored features as you go about your day - you still seem to offer support in whatever way you can, so they do their best to let you be 

Shifting through the papers in front of you, your jaw moving as you focus gives the impression that you are upset to even be here. Still, you diligently organize the papers where they need to go, jot down notes and requests which still need to be fulfilled. You’ll probably hand those requests to Sucrose when you’re done, she seems to always be okay with your disposition and doesn’t get the wrong impression. 

It’s warm, the summer sun is beating down onto the building and making the rooms get a bit toastier than normal. So, you run your hands over your neck and fan yourself to cool down which gives you a moment to look around. Though there is only one thing that catches your attention, and that’s the Chief Alchemist who is busy with his work in the corner. It’s the only spot he will gravitate back to, and if you could, you’d invade it every chance you could get. 

Instead, to keep yourself together, you sigh and return to the work in front of you. 

You loved Albedo, you had for so long that to be on the receiving end of his attention was stronger than the heat from the sun, more overwhelming than standing in a crowded room, and as rejuvenating as much needed sleep

It was the last thing that you imagined - him falling for you - because most people have a hard time conversing with you, so the fact that he was able to get to know you, the real you, was a miracle 

Albedo never once looked at you with eyes other than compassion and kindness and he seems to know that your intense affections - when they do slip from your grasp - are stronger than the words that seem to come across as unclear 

The day was coming to a close and even though most everyone had left, you stayed in the room. It was some of the only times you could have a moment alone with the alchemist, and since he was bound to continue working late into the evenings, it was the perfect opportunity. 

Setting your items down onto the counter, you moved toward him. His hands moved quickly over the blackboard as he jotted down notes and drew small diagrams. Watching him as he drew was an activity you rather enjoyed, he was unbelievably talented in more ways than one. 

Slowly, you slid your arms around his waist and rested your head on his back. He's short, but you don’t mind, he’s the perfect size to hold for you. You feel his hand move your own, his thumb slipping to rest against the inner side of your wrist. The only sound that fills the room is his scribbles as the chalk scrapes across the board in a steady rhythm. 

He has never once pushed you away. This physical contact that you sometimes drown him in is always welcome, plus it’s gotten better and if it means he can continue to work while you get what you need, he’s onboard. 

You hear him whisper to himself, mouthing out the words he’s just written and thinking out loud what the next steps will be. There is a lull in the movements of his writing, his arm hovers in front of the board and you shift to rest your head on his shoulder to watch what he is doing. When he finally figures out the answer, your head rocks as he continues his notation. 

Diluc

The level of intimidation that seeped from the two of you as you walked through the streets was incredible - people already felt the disinterested and irritated eyes of the bachelor of Mondstadt was enough, but to add yours to the mix - archons … 

Since both of you were naturally closed off, stunted in your ability to show affection, emotion, it was a wonder how you were able to come to terms with your feelings

Diluc started to notice how you were around more than before, how you would offer to help around the winery or the bar, and if it were possible, how you stood right at his side --- you started to notice how his touch lingered, when he thanked you with a pat on the shoulder but kept his hand there, or when he stepped behind you, resting his hand against your back to let you know that he was there and taking his time removing it when he was done

The two of you had it bad, even if you couldn’t see it - the rest of the town did 

You were lost in thought, as you normally were. It had rained recently and the smell still lingered on the stones which passed under your feet. That subtle musky smell mixing with the flowers that climbed the building walls made you feel at home. Mondstadt became your home years ago, even if it took a while for others to accept you and the guards to leave you alone. Especially that Cavalry Captain, he seemed to be the most curious to your arrival but after seeing that your disposition had nothing to do with potential devious actions, he left you be. 

Though, he still seemed to be around since most nights you found him at the bar of Angel’s Share. He explained how entertaining it was to have two unhappy-looking bartenders tend to his whims. His goal was to make you smile, to make you crack, and to see just what type of expression you could make. He’d have to wait a long time because the only person who could flip the corners of your mouth was the red-headed pyro user whose expression was a mirror of your own. 

Citizens spread rumors about the moment under the streetlights where Diluc and Y/N smiled. They make jokes about how the action was so powerful it birthed a thousand stars in the sky. You sigh every time you hear these stories and continue as if it’s not happening. 

Diluc was a private person, and so were you - so it was fortunate that the two of you shared your interest in one another by just being in the same space 

Tied at the hip they would say, tethered by fate

You hated being away from him for longer than a few hours and he couldn’t stand the thought of not being at your side - so, for the most part, that’s where you two always were

It was a busy day, the patrons were more hectic than normal and it was likely due to the new drink Diluc developed a few days earlier. He didn’t expect it to be so popular, especially since it was a non-alcoholic beverage, but the sales spoke for themselves. 

You made your way down the stairs and he tracked you. Placing a cup back on its wrung before turning his attention back to you. The way you dried your hands with your apron as you - with almost an irritated expression, though he knew you better than that - walked up to check on the rowdy party near the back. Luckily, their inebriated states distracted them from the movement of your hand to press the bridge of your nose. You’d been working for hours now and he was sure you were starting to get tired. 

When you made your way behind the bar, you got to work on the drinks and he watched how diligently you worked. Setting the glasses on the counter, pouring the alcohol and mixers, the way the liquid made its way through the ice cubes and changed colors as they combined. You’d picked up this skill so quickly, he found it hard to believe that you had never done this before. 

You dropped the drinks off at the table and returned, jotting down notes on the order sheet before closing it and slipping it inside your apron. Stopping on the other side of him, you leaned against the bar, your hand gripping onto the edge and eyes trailing up to the second floor. 

Words didn’t need to be shared between the two of you. He knew ...you knew, it was the way you communicated and through your glances, your body language, your closeness, nothing was ever left unsaid. He took a few steps toward you and placed his hand over yours. The heat that spread over your skin eased the ache in your legs, relieved the weight on your eyes, and made your chest warm. You closed your eyes, sighed, and smiled slightly. 

As the sounds from the patrons filled the bar, Diluc’s hand covered your own and for as long as time allowed, the two of you took a breath in each other's company. 

--- 

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[the-tiniest-one]

Parenting Rock Lee with Might Guy :)

Note:@xemaliahrssx here ya go! I hope it tastes just like you dreamed it would!

Sitting at the kitchen table, watching Guy and Lee devour the dinner you made, had you feeling nostalgic... You watched with your head rested on your hand. It was the little family moments that you appreciated more than anything else these days. "Yeah! and then I caught him in a cross block!" Lee said, describing their latest mission, his mouth full of food.

"Haha yes yes (y/n) you should have been there, our Rock Lee is becoming a real force to be reckoned with, much like his handsome sensei" Guy said with a wink in your direction.

"Handsome indeed" you said with a grin.

Thinking back to the days when you were a little more of a workaholic made you laugh. If you told your younger-self all those years ago that you would be Konoha's worst helicopter parent in just a few years, you'd have never believed it. Guy was a perfect match for you in that regard. You two were a well oiled machine when it came to parenting.

While Lee could do no wrong in your eyes, Guy was a bit heavy handed in his discipline of Lee's skills as a shinobi. You kissed every bruise and scrape, while Guy was teaching him how to prevent them in the first place.

Rock Lee has had more than his fair share of the short-end-of-the- shit-stick his entire life. BUT One could be forgiven for not recognizing the true level of hardship the boy has overcome in his short tenure as a shinobi. Lee is a true underdog.

Lucky for him, you've always been a bit of a sucker for an underdog.

You thought back to those early days......

Even before Lee evolved to a mini version of your childhood crush, you felt the need to protect him. Watching him fumble and practice jutsu in vain day after day.....early in the morning and into the night. You would watch him from a distance while training your own team. One early morning, you decided to check in on the boy with long black hair. He kicked at a post, counting off as you looked on...10....11.....12.....his kicks were weak even for his young age. As he got closer to 50 he fell back, overwhelmed by the pain of repetitively beating his shins into the wood without chakra to safeguard his bones.

Clearly angry at his situation, the thought occurred to you that maybe he wasn't using chakra because he couldn't....the boy had tears streaming from his eyes. It broke your heart to watch a kid who couldn't be more than 10, cursing his life.

"A kid working that hard shouldn't have to feel that defeated..." you said to yourself.

You felt conflicted. Torn between wanting to step in and takeover his training...but feeling the weight of responsibility that would come with encouraging a child to chase a pipedream that would only lead to disappointment. You knew all too well what happens to weak ninja. The reality was that it would be cruel to encourage the boy to peruse a life as dangerous as that of a shinobi. You were no slouch when it came to taijutsu but ninjas are able to compete with one another because of the advantages that come with developing kakai genki.

Could a boy with no use of chakra stand a chance against the generations of those families of ninja who use fearsome jutsu and tactics like lightning...wind....wood or even hereditary gifts like the dreaded sharingan or byakugen? The real answer was sad and harsh. No. He couldn't.

You wouldn't be so irresponsible as to tell the boy he could be anything but a failure.

If he perused that path, he would die young.

So you stood back, restraining the desire to comfort and nurture the little boy out of what you told yourself was mercy. Day after day, week after week....you watched on....until it became too much. You couldn't sleep anymore, couldn't function on missions the same way. Always thinking back to him still out at those training grounds.....always struggling.

....

One morning it was pouring rain. You called off training that day for your team and headed out to the place you knew he would be. He was there of course. He was doing his best to catch a cold while practicing hand signs to no avail. After watching him for a few minutes you finally asked, "What's your name kid?" speaking loud to project over the rain. Startled he looked up to where you stood, perched on a post a few feat away. "I...Im Rock Lee" he said timidly. You laughed at his shy but sweet face, "Im y/n" you said.

"Your kicks look like they could use some work", holding your palm about chest high, to show him where his blow should be landing. The boy grimaced...clearly angry with his lack of direction in training. You laughed and the both of you worked on his kicks for the duration of the morning.

"I think you'll be a splendid ninja someday" you said as you offered him a bit of lunch you packed. The boy looked up at you with the most heartbreaking fear in his eyes, "I can't use chakra" Lee said barley above a whisper, clearly ashamed to tell you the truth.

You ruffled his hair. "Look kid, life is shitty sometimes. But I can tell you are someone who will never quit. No matter the odds, and that is something worth more than all the talent in the world." He instantly smiled up at you, melting your heart for what would be the first of a million times. Laughing and showing you also first time you saw that shiny smile that you would come to love more that anything on earth.

From then on he was your responsibility. Your chest burned with pride in his concrete determination. Feeling instantly the protective burn and feral instinct to insulate him from anything that would hurt him.

....

It was about a year later when things evolved. You and Lee had become close. He, being an orphan as you found out he was, had taken your invitation to live in your spare bedroom. It wasn't long before you were nagging him to be sure and eat breakfast before class, take baths every night. You were often hearing your mothers voice echo in your own as you guided the child to a structure he lacked.

You even went to his parent meetings at the Academy, much to the surprise of Iruka (because he himself was 2 years older than you and had known you since you were smol) laughed when you asked to see Lee's reports.

----

Then one hot summer day you got the order... your team was dispatched on your first extended mission with your new genin. 3 months on a C rank mission to Suna. Your heart sank as you remembered Lee's graduation exam was in just a few days. Before you left, you kissed his forehead and promised a tearful Lee who had become just as attached as you over the last year, that would bring him back a graduation present.

You just knew he would finally pass.

....

Returning to the village near midnight you couldn't wait to see Lee. After giving report to Lord Third, you quickly made your way home. Quietly cracking the door to his bedroom, you peaked in to see his sweet little face. The snoring boy looked peaceful.

"He cut his hair?" you thought puzzled..."he must have done it himself, it looks a little odd." You laughed at the thought of him using a bowl to cut his hair.

Then your eyes traveled to the headband still around his forehead, "He passed!!!" you quietly celebrated, careful not to wake him up. You placed the promised gift on his dresser, a brand-new set of num-chuks you'd had made in Suna.

The next morning you were up before sunrise making a celebratory breakfast when an extreme round of knocking came from the apartment's front door.

You quickly answered, immediately flustered when on the other side was none other than Might Guy....the same Guy you'd had the hots for over a decade.

"Y/N!, I must have the wrong address! I was looking for one of my students!" Guy said in his familiar boisterous cadence. Laughing nervously you started to respond, when behind you Lee pushed his way through the doorframe. Your eyes widened at the sight.

The haircut made sense now, Lee stood side by side with his sensei. He was wearing Guy's jumpsuit... they could have been father and son.

Looking at the two of them standing side by side in front of you for the first time gave you the most jarring sense of dejavu.

"Guy sensei! Look what Y/N brought me from her most dangerous mission!" Lee brandished the weapon, beaming up at his teacher who laughed and winked in your direction. "Ah, a great choice! Only the most skilled ninja know how to use such a fine weapon! We must enlighten you at once Lee my boy!" With that the handsome jonin and your sweet Rock Lee were off to train.

You had known Guy since he was still struggling to gain entrance to the Academy, you knew that the man who radiated confidence today, only earned that ability through blood, sweat, and tears.

You apprehensively accepted that Might Guy was a good match to be Lee's sensei.

"Be careful!" you called, more than a little apprehensive at the thought of your sweet baby boy training with such an admittedly impulsive man. Feeling a small tug of sadness as you watched the two of them disappear down the street.

"Lee's getting tall..." you though as you closed the door.

....

Over the next few years Lee had grown into a strong young man. You felt such extreme pride in everything he did. Even though you being in your mid-twenties were not nearly old enough to be Lee's mother, he had taken to occasionally calling you mom.

Lee was never embarrassed of you as he grew into a teen like some of the other kids his age. He was always just as willing to give you a hug before a mission as the day you met him.

It would be a lie to say that the relationship you and Guy shared hadn't also matured along the way. Although you weren't Lee's biological parents, anyone would be forgiven for thinking that you were. Everything you had admired about Guy, his hot-bloodedness, his devotion to youthful perseverance, his love of his village had been passed down to your surrogate son.

It was only natural that you and Guy would become a team in raising Rock Lee. Over time after a few years of dinners, training sessions, birthdays, holidays etc...Guy decided to propose to you.

It was a literal dream come true. You couldn't say yes fast enough. But as required when two shinobi become married, when you went to sign the paperwork to make your marriage official, requesting a stamp of approval from Lady Tsunade....she extended to you a folder with a second set of forms.

Guy beamed as you read the contents. Adoption papers with Lee's name printed at the top in bold.

"He will always be our son. Since we are making it official... why not add one more?" Guy said with a laugh. The tears began welling in your eyes. "He's 17" you laughed, "I love you" is all you could think to say in response to the most kind gesture you have ever witnessed.

Guy held his trademark thumbs up high as he replied, "Lee will always need his mom, no matter how big he gets!" His words like music to your heart...

You'd never felt so complete as you walked hand in hand with Guy, on your way home to surprise your sweet son with the news.

Upon telling Lee what the two of you had done, he looked from the papers back to you. Confusion spread across the sweet ravenette's features. "But I do not understand" Lee said with a hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Have you not always been my mom?"

The innocent look in his eye and profound sincerity in his voice made tears well in your eyes for what felt like the tenth time that day. You laughed and swept he and Guy into a hug that didn't last long enough. "What's for dinner?" the two men asked in unison and in that moment you knew you were the luckiest person in the world.

[sidespromptblog]

The Accident

Warning: Medical scene, mention of broken bones, blacking out (once mentioned), cast, and Logan angst.

Summary: While out on a date with Remus and Janus, Logan falls and hurts his wrist.

Word Count: 1,631

“Are you sure that it’s alright?” Janus asked suspiciously, as his cold fingers gingerly touched the tinder flesh of Logan’s wrist. His eyes were narrowed as if he was already on high alert to see if Logan was going to dare even lying about something like this.

“It looks a little swollen,” Remus helpfully added, circling around them like a wild hyena protecting his little pack, his eyes barely stood still long enough to even get a glimpse of Logan’s wrist.

But when he did, without a moment’s worth of hesitation…

He cringed every time.

That should have told Logan everything he needed to know about the situation. Remus wasn’t making jokes, and was well past being worried. Janus was using his literal body as a shield so that no one could even dare to get close, and there wasn’t the slightest bit of sarcasm coming from him. Logan should have been more worried about the state of his wrist, in his writing hand no less. But all he could feel was the sharp throbbing of where Janus’ grip was, and the occasional fleeting touch from where Remus would look over his shoulder and down at his injury.

Stupid.

He had been so stupid.

Of course there would still be patches of ice, even with the weather being over the standard freezing of thirty-two. The wind chill matched with it being later time of day should have made it obvious, he had been too careless. Too…

Stupid.

“Logan?” Remus’ worried voice struck up again, as he took up the position on his other shoulder. “You’re not going to black out again are you?”

Ah yes, that one moment of pitch darkness the moment his head had connected with the frozen sidewalk. He doubted that any of them wanted to recall that, especially given the way that Janus had screamed and he had come to being cradled in Remus’ arms like a limp noodle.

Swallowing thickly Logan attempted a smile. “It hurts,” He honestly said, because what was the point in lying with a human lie detector right in front of him. “But, I’m sure that once we return back to Thomas’ mind, the injury will go away. Just like they’ve done before in the imagination… right?”

An uncertain whine curled in Remus’ throat, like he was a dog that had been left chained outside on a rainy day.

That alone told Logan that even he wasn’t exactly sure just how much the imagination could and couldn’t cure.

“No.” Janus firmly shook his head, “If we don’t know then there’s no use in going back and just causing you more pain. We’ll…” Here Janus grimaced just a little bit, the scales in his face shifting into something more socially acceptable. “We’ll have to take you to the hospital for an X-ray…”

Two groans accompanied this declaration.

It was almost three hours later that Logan was able to see the doctor in question.

But by far the most annoying and anxiety inducing tribulation was the fact that he had to be separated from the other two sides when he needed to have the X-ray done. Which he had known going in, of course he had known it. But knowing it and actually having to do it we’re two entire different things. When it had come to him leaving the mind space, he had never been alone. Usually he’d had Thomas, or some of the other sides to accompany him on his days out and to be without them for some terrifying and quite painful procedure, was… scary.

He was scared, and also quite a bit embarrassed about the whole ordeal.

Sitting back in the doctor’s office with both Janus and Remus on either side of him waiting for whatever news was to come, made him feel both worse and better at the same time.

“I’m sorry.” He finally mumbled, a bolt of shame ramming itself into his guts.

A part of him wasn’t even sure what to be sorry for, but another part deep and loathing knew exactly what he was apologizing for.

Janus who had been staring ahead at the posters decorating the walls immediately snapped his attention back to Logan, his brows furrowing for a moment before an unreadable expression took over his face. It was an expression that both Remus and Logan knew all too well. “Sorry?” Janus asked, his voice carefully clipped. “For what might I ask.” Having just started he shifted his entire body to face Logan. “For having an accident? For slipping? For falling? For doing something that wasn’t your fault to begin with?”

Behind him Remus cringed back, they both knew what was coming.

“I ruined our day.” Logan tried to argue, trying being the key word there.

Just for Janus to immediately shake his head, his cold fingers seeking out Logan’s cheeks and cupping them carefully enough to avoid the scrapes on his face. The look on his face was adoring and yet exasperated at the same time, as his eyes watered but no tears seemed to fall in Logan’s presence.

“You,” Janus choked out, “Didn’t ruin anything. We can always have another day, hopefully with you being hurt a little less. It’s okay Logan… I promise. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Behind him Remus dug his fingers into the fabric of Logan’s thick winter coat as he buries his face into the logical side’s neck. His bristly whiskers tickled as he merely held Logan in place, bestowing all the love he could possibly give to him.

A laugh then shook Remus’ middle, “Hopefully Thomas has insurance.” His muffled voice finally got out.

And just like that the other two sides were tearfully giggling, knowing that thanks to Virgil’s worrywart tendencies Thomas had the best possible medical insurance he could get. And whether Logan knew it or no, which he did, he was technically going to be committing insurance fraud simply by the fact that he looked so much like Thomas.

Almost another several hours later though, with a dark blue cast now seated on his hand and wrist with the instructions to come back in a months time it was time to go home.

“So,” Remus popped the word out of his mouth, as he took up the duty of spoon feeding Logan some ice cream before they actually had to go back. “What are you going to tell the others, you know… about the cast and everything?” There was a quick glance shared between him and Janus. “The truth?”

It took genuine effort to not snort in Remus’ face after swallowing his mouthful of ice cream, and by a lot of effort it obviously meant that he coughed right into the crook of his arm in an attempt to hide it.

“No.” Logan answered back almost immediately, “Are you kidding me?! Virgil would never let me leave the house again if I came back looking like this. Roman would more than a little bit blame you. Patton would go along with it, in an effort to keep me ‘out of harm’s way’, and Thomas would just be concerned.” He gestured with his newly casted arm, they all knew that if it was discovered that Logan had left to go on a date with Janus and Remus, and had come back with a broken wrist they would be dramatic as possible when it came to any future dates with the dark sides.

He wouldn’t allow that.

Janus hummed as he nodded his head, his lips twisting just a little at the unpleasant thoughts that came with the scenario that Logan had just explained. “So what are you going to do?”

Surely Logan couldn’t just hide in his room until a month passed, and then get the cast off.

“I’ll just stay in my room until it’s time to get the cast off,” Logan shrugged, “I’ll put a sticky note on the door saying that I’m working on a big project and I don’t want to be disturbed. They usually listen to my sticky notes, a lot better than me since there’s no actual listening involved.”

“Are they threatening, these sticky notes?” Remus teased.

Instead of replying to his teasing with a retort Logan merely rolled his eyes, grabbing the front of Remus’ shirt to pull him in for a short sighted kiss.

“You know,” Remus mumbled in between kisses, “You can just stay with us right? The couch is always open for you, and so is any of our bedrooms.”

Logan pecked one last kiss on the corner of the creative side’s mouth, a warmth stirring in his chest at the offer of another place to stay if he wished to.

But…

It would be easier to recover in his own bedroom without Janus’ or Remus’ room effecting him in anyway, and recovering from a broken wrist on the couch didn’t exactly sound like fun to him.

“I know Rem,” The warmth he felt blossomed onto his face as a loving smile. “And rest assured you and Janus will see me in this month. But my room is probably easier for me.”

Satisfied with his answer, Janus nodded as he threw away the plastic spoons and cups that they had been eating from. Finally ready to head on back to the mind space, as both he and Remus held tight to Logan’s hands on the way back. It’d be a while before they could go on another date again, and maybe a little bit longer before it was anywhere in the wintertime again. But that was okay, because he could wait.

So with him lovingly holding onto the blue cast that kept Logan’s broken hand safe from the world, Janus felt at peace for the first time since the accident.

Everything would be okay.

[variousqueerthings]

Johnny and ADHD

alright, I’ve wanted to write something about ADHD Johnny for awhile now.

Waaay back in February @deliciousbananavoidpurse made this post and I made some haphazard additions, but now, at last, I ramble!

This isn’t really an addition to that list so much as a... idk, seeing it from an almost fic-but-kind-of-meta point of view. Those points In Practise, with an additional young Johnny.

1.

Johnny’s a kid. He and his mom have been living hand-to-mouth for as long as he remembers, in and out of schools, in and out of apartments and cars. Of course he’s going to be flighty, spaced-out, unfocused.

He’s an easy target – not very big (he doesn’t get a lot of good meals), dirty clothes, and… weird. He gets beaten up sometimes, but mostly he sticks as much to himself as he can and doesn’t go to school if he can help it. Laura saves up and gets him a walkman.

After that it’s like the world doesn’t exist to him at all.

She thinks that’s easier than trying to make him live in it. But he deserves better. They both do. So she makes a decision that changes everything…

2.

Johnny’s not going hungry these days. In fact, he eats constantly, like he’s making up for lost time. His clothes are new and he gets anything he wants. He’s enrolled in school properly.

But Johnny himself doesn’t change much. He’s vibrating with an energy he can’t explain – normal for boys – he skips school, he goes off somewhere in his own mind, struggles with making friends, gets into fights he can’t win, and all day he listens to music. Still skinny, still flighty, still weird.

Tries new things that become all-encompassing for him and drops them one day to the next – normal for boys, all normal for boys – and then -

3.

Johnny sees those boys: Tall, broad, leather jackets, rad bikes, shining, beautiful. He watches them through the window for hours, transfixed in a way only riding his bike and listening to music used to do. 

He joins Cobra Kai.

And finally, like a dam breaking, he focuses. He focuses like he’s a machine. Like nothing else matters. He takes everything happening at home, every beating he ever took, every failing grade (he tries, but school never manages to matter – the other Cobras help, simply by being there and sometimes especially Bobby forces him to sit down and write a paper, but he’ll never be smart, that’s fine), and he puts them into his fist.

He trusts Kreese to tell him what to think, what to feel, what to do. Finally, finally, everything makes sense. It’s just him and his body and someone he trusts telling him what to do with it. 

Nothing else matters.

4.

There are other things that matter. 

He’s getting his life in order so he can leave Sid’s and take his Mom with him. He’s going to be the right kind of boyfriend to Ali. He’ll do well enough in his final year to make up for the previous ones, and he’s got karate, and Kreese, who’s telling him he’s the champ. 

Who he can trust.

But he gets into trouble, he drinks, his grades continue to slip, and suddenly (or is it gradually, he can’t tell with time sometimes) Ali is telling him he’s changed – angry, volatile, forgetful, (okay he was always forgetful, but it’s getting worse – is karate the only thing he cares about?), but it’s fine, he can fix that too. He just has to change everything that doesn’t work. If he can be that good at karate, it just means he’s not trying hard enough everywhere else. Just needs to try harder.

Just. Easy. He has a plan. He has a hundred plans.

5.

It all blows up in his face and suddenly he’s faced with the truth: that there really is nothing he’s good for. Karate? What’s that ever gotten him? What else has he got to show for it? 

He’s still just the same kid he was – alright, he’s bigger, babes will stop and check him out, he’s learned how to charm people if he has to, but those are just scripts and they don’t work for long if he doesn’t have anything else to back them up and they bore him - they bore him in ways he thinks have gotta be different to what everyone else means when they say they’re bored. 

He doesn’t have a plan. He has a hundred plans. He doesn’t have anyone to tell him what to do. He doesn’t know what to do. He knows what to do.

He drinks more. What does it matter, he’s young, life’s short, there’s nothing he can learn now (and really, if you know a couple of things you can scrape by – when they turn off the lights he knows he forgot to pay the bills, when he gets arrested he knows he fucked up and let his emotions get away with him), and before he knows it it’s 2002.

6.

His mom dies. Robby is born. Someone smarter than him could figure out some kind of poetic meaning behind that, but he’s not smart, so he just lets the moments pass him by like everything else has passed him by.

He’s getting by with what he knows. The world outside is like a blur. He’s got what he’s always had: music, a car, his looks. He’s doing okay for someone in his mid-thirties who doesn’t know how to boil spaghetti and drinks first thing in the morning.

 Probably all the fighting. He kept it up, informally. Maybe because it’s too deep in his bones for him to let go of, even if it just reminds him over and over that he couldn’t take it. That he can’t take it.

He fights whenever it all gets to be too much and even the drinking doesn’t work. Sometimes he punches walls to fight himself. It’s like a sharp feeling that he can’t ignore that can only be silenced with fighting. The off-button.

7.

2017 (again, the past is a blur. 2017? what happened to thirty-five? What happened to being young? Someone who’s young is allowed to be like this, but he’s…)

He never owned a computer. He never learned new words or anything else that wasn’t immediately important. He makes a handshake deal, because his credit is shit, but also because he never figured out how contracts really work. He still struggles with bills (you can leave anything to the last minute and beyond and things can still turn out okay), struggles with communication. His old scripts don’t work any more and he can’t learn new ones. He’s forgotten enough promises he made to watch Robby’s matches or drive him to school – even his birthday sometimes, even when he writes it down and forgets where he wrote it down - that Robby wants nothing more to do with him. Forgets groceries. 

He’ll do or say something and people will look at him like he’s stupid and he doesn’t know why. He refuses to ask, because he just wants the looks to go away. He knows he’s stupid. He knows he can’t figure things out. He knows, okay? Shut up.

He’s not an alcoholic. He just drinks to wake up. To forget. To calm down (that electricity that existed in his body as a kid never went away, even though he’s so so tired. The machine inside of him that won’t shut off without a fight, won’t let him stop moving). To sleep. To drink. To do something.

He sees Miguel and has a hundred new plans. He sees the future like it’s right there and a million miles away. He was never good at implementing long-term plans. He thinks maybe karate can save him, just like it did when he was a kid. 

8.

There’s something wrong with his brain. Has been all his life. That’s not how he was told, he was given a bunch of tests and gently informed – undiagnosed it can lead to some of the problems you’ve had, it’s normal, it’s okay – like he’s dying of cancer. But that’s the gist of it. He didn’t fuck up because he didn’t try hard enough, he was always going to fuck up. That doesn’t make him feel better.

It means quitting the alcohol is gonna fail. It means he really is stupid. It means he could’ve never been the kid his mom needed. It means he was easy for Kreese to manipulate. It means Robby could be fucked up too and he’s failed him again. It means he’s not worth the time and pain that people invest in him, like his mom, Ali, Shannon, Robby, Bobby, Miguel, Carmen, Daniel -

“Hey.”

It means he’s got Emotional Dysregulation. Translated: he’s the kind of man who has to work extra hard not to cry (explains why he was such a pussy as a kid. Also explains all the pain in his chest and throat right before roughly... 70% of his most recent fights). And fuck, he just failed.

“What?” Anger is better. It’s also a dysregulation apparently, but it’s better than being weak.

“It’s okay,” says Daniel, and of course he’d think that – he’s never seen a nameable problem he didn’t wanna fix, but didn’t you hear LaRusso, you can’t fix this. Never could. 

“It’s not about fixing,” answers Daniel. “It’s about understanding. It’s about knowing who you are. If you know who you are, you can make a choice.”

“What kinda choice do I have?”

Daniel shrugs. “You chose to take in Miguel. You chose not to fight me, more times than I chose to fight you in the last couple of years. You chose that you wanted to know who you were. And you chose to try being sober. Those are all good decisions in my book. Anything else… we can figure things out from here. Trust me.”

He places a hand on the back of Johnny’s neck, grounding him. Daniel has that power. The power to make everything okay for a second. 

Johnny thinks: Please tell me what to do. I was always okay once you gave me something to do. Like karate. Figuring things out is… too abstract. Eventually though, he knows, if he’s patient, Daniel will tell him what to do next. 

He just has to trust him.

9. (Extra: things Johnny does, because of the brain he has)

Johnny trusts easily, despite it all. He’s honest (and sometimes too literal). He’s passionate. He’s driven. He’s loving. He feels, so so much. He’s protective and he’s loyal. He tries his hardest, even when everything – including his own brain – refuses to help. He believes in second chances for others (and he’s beginning to believe in it for himself). He’s good with kids when he lets himself be. He’s learning to be gentle with himself and others. He’s learning that bravery takes many shapes. He’s learning that he can learn, and he’s learning what he needs for that to happen. He’s a good mentor. He’s learning to be a better friend. He’s kind. He’s honourable. He’s trying to rectify his own mistakes, and he’s trying not to let the mistakes of others continue to impact his life. He’s moving forwards.

[waithyuck]

cold

pairing: vampire!huang renjun x reader (f) *halloweenie special*

genre: smut, supernatural au

word count: 3k

warnings: blood, biting, blood drinking, brief descriptions of gore (I guess idrk), explicit language, degradation, sexual content (oral, facefucking), no aftercare, mentions of being killed, renjun is a mean dom :/, reader is kinda weirdly into the whole vampire thing **unedited**

a/n: this was kinda written in a rush but I tried my best to produce it in the best quality I could! I hope y’all enjoy 💕 (I also wanna add that yes, it was already planned that there wouldn’t be any penetrative sex in this)

< previous | next >

~10/24/2020~

~~~~

walking home from work at eleven o’clock at night was probably the worst mistake you could have made. even worse, you thought it would just be such a great idea to take the back alleys, since it was faster and all you wanted to do was lay down on your bed and go to sleep.

you were an idiot, straight up.

you were walking with your head down, too preoccupied reading something on your phone to notice and be alert of your surroundings. you didn’t notice the creeping shadow coming up on you from behind.

when it grabbed you, you weren’t even able to scream; it covered your mouth immediately and shoved you against the brick of the building next to you. when you looked to see what it was, your body froze in horror.

this man–thing...no, creature, was standing before you grinning sinisterly, his sharp canines bared to you as he drank up your figure with his glowing, blood red eyes.

well, this was it. you were going to die in the hands of something you were pretty sure classified as a vampire. you didn’t stand a chance, not with the amount of strength, speed and stealth this man had already showcased to you.

you couldn’t make a sound, the fear inside you suffocating your lungs and making it hard to breathe. the man didn’t utter a word to you, and as he inched his fangs closer and closer to the vein pulsating in your throat, you squeezed your eyes shut and awaited to feel your death.

but it never came.

the weight of the man-creature-vampire thing was lifted off of you, his cold presence gone in an instant. you heard blood curdling snarls ringing out in the darkness of the alley, and you were too afraid to open your eyes to see what was happening.

you imagined that it was basically a fight between two vampires, and the victor would claim you as the meal. you should have run, but your legs were weak as the fear still consumed every cell in your body.

you were basically dooming yourself.

the wild growls finally ceased when you heard a loud crack of bones snapping, followed by a cut off yelp.

you assumed one of them was now dead, and finally you opened your eyes to take in the sight before you.

there stood another creature; much younger than the previous one by the looks of him, standing over the body of the now dead vampire. it’s head was severed from its body messily, the neck snapped clean off to where you could see the spine poking out in its place.

you wanted to throw up.

when the younger vampire looked at you, his blood red eyes squinted, and he moved closer to you in seconds, using his super speed to crowd you back against the brick wall. you whimpered, but didn’t feel as much fear as you did before, and you managed to keep your eyes open as you stood before him.

his nostrils flared as he sniffed around you, and it surprisingly didn’t weird you out as much as it should have. truth be told, even in the dim light of the moon, you could tell that this man was highly attractive. you cursed yourself for thinking this way about a creature that could easily tear you in two.

you were torn from your thoughts when you saw two fingers snap in front of your face, making your body jolt in return.

“the fuck are you doing out this late?” he suddenly questioned, his voice not at all like how you were imagining it to sound. it was soft…it wasn’t a voice you would have paired to be with a vampire. “it’s dangerous as fuck out here, you know.”

he was speaking so casually, like he didn’t just rip the head off of one of his kind. you sputtered out of cheer nervousness (and a little bit because he was so dazzlingly attractive), not knowing how to respond. his blood red eyes practically rolled out of his head at your pathetic attempts to speak.

“humans are so pathetic, seriously.” he spat, looking you up and down. “I don’t even know why I saved you. you smell good enough to devour.” his smirk, paired with the last part made your spine straighten, your hair prickling at the sense of possible danger.

“n-no!” you finally managed to blurt out, your hands coming up to instinctively cover your vulnerable throat. you wracked your brain to try to figure out how to negotiate with him; to get him to leave here without draining your body of life and blood.

unfortunately, only one thing came to mind, and you hated yourself for thinking it in the first place.

...you couldn't deny that you kinda had a thing for the whole undead, blood sucking, super strong creature shit he had going on. a million and one flashes raced through your mind, showing you different scenes of this stranger taking you up against the brick wall right here, and even biting you just to have a little taste.

it was fucked up, but you could stop your thighs from clenching at the possibilities.

he quirked an eyebrow at you, his smirk never leaving as he leaned into your space even further, flattening your body to the wall with his own.

“no what?” he practically purred, his cold breath fanning against your skin, causing goosebumps to form instantaneously.

“I’ll…” you started, weakly meeting his strong gaze. “I’ll d-do anything...j-just don’t kill me.” you tried to sound strong but there was a shiver in your voice, your chest trembling as you tried to speak. you saw his eyes flash with mischief before he pulled away entirely, giving you your space back.

“okay.” he nodded, his lips still presented in a smirk. “I’ll come find you whenever I need a favor.”

you couldn’t even ask him to elaborate or question him on exactly how he would find you, because in an instant he was gone from your sight, vanishing away and leaving you in the darkness with the still laying dead body of your first attacker.

with a quick shake of your whole body, you practically ran home, slamming the door shut and locking everything, including the windows.

~~

you weren’t sure when to expect to see the vampire who saved you again, but you didn’t think it would take him two weeks to show his face.

you were minding your own business in the safety of your home, throwing your dirty clothes into your bedroom hamper when you heard a soft thud come from your window.

turning around, your eyes met the same red ones from that night two weeks ago, and you had to fight yourself not to shriek. his face was stoic as he stared at you, decked out in all black from his hoodie to his jeans, lowkey making your mouth water.

“hey there,” he said, slithering closer to your form. once again, he cornered you against a wall, not caring to give you any personal space. he inhaled softly, his nose living closer to your neck. “you smell absolutely delicious, darling.” his sharp canines were on display as he smiled mischievously at you, your heart racing in your chest at not only the fear, but the proximity of this attractive man as well.

“um, h-hello.” you muttered out stupidly, wringing your hands together in front of you.

“let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” he stood up at little straighter as he spoke, his eyes glinting as he looked at you. “you owe me a favor, and I’m being generous enough to let you choose what you want to give me.” he looked down at his nails, feigning disinterest as you were practically hyperventilating before him.

you nodded your head to acknowledge that you were hearing him, and he took that as a sign to continue.

“so, what will it be?”

you thought back to the thoughts you were plagued with that first night, and you almost immediately clenched your thighs. you really wanted this vampire to have you, all of you, even your blood for fucks sake. it’s like the sight of him cast a spell on you, and all you wanted to do was have his cock shoved down your throat as he did his best to ruin you completely.

you knew he was capable too; there was an aura around him that screamed dominance, and having the extra factor of being a vampire did nothing to extinguish your lewd sexual fantasies.

it was really fucked up, but you made your mind up in less than a minute.

“you can bite m-me.” you squeaked, looking anywhere but him. you swore you heard his breath hitch, but he nonetheless crowded you once again as he nosed into the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

“hmm, tempting.” he allowed the tip of his nose to graze softly against your sensitive skin, causing you to shiver as it tickled you. his sinister eyes flicked up to meet yours. “are you sure?”

with a small nod you agreed, your brain screaming at you to run and never look back, but your core telling you the very opposite.

his hands found your waist as he grounded you, holding you steady as he finally began to scrape his teeth along your flesh.

“I won’t take too much,” he muttered, almost like a reassurance to you. before you could even nod, he quickly plunged his fangs into your skin, and the pleasurably painful sensation immediately had you moaning out loudly.

you gripped his shoulders tightly, your eyes glazing over as your whole body pulsated with a sudden need, the burning hot pleasure running down from where he was currently biting you to your core, instantly causing your panties to flood with your desire.

he took a few large gulps, and once you began to feel lightheaded, he pulled his fangs from you, moaning at the taste of your blood.

not being able to hold yourself back, you spoke very through that came into your head.

“I w-want your cock,” you breathed out desperately, not sure exactly where the statement came from. it was so sudden and out of the blue, but he didn’t seem fazed for one second.

“oh really?” he questioned playfully, his blood stained lips quirking up in amusement.

“”yes, please,” you begged in response, gripped at the fabric of his hoodie tightly.

he hummed, his throat vibrating with the sound.

“get on your knees.” he demanded, his demeanor changing as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. he pointed to the ground in between the both of you and at first you were shocked at his words, even though you were the one who admitted you wanted him in the first place. you pressed your back against the wall even tighter as he gazed upon you with his blood-red eyes, your woozy head spinning.

“h-huh?” you managed to sputter out stupidly, causing him to sigh in annoyance. he shot his cold hand up to grip your throat, his nails squeezing into your skin slightly as you squeaked in surprise.

“you said you wanted my cock, right?” renjun growled, getting closer to your face with each word. you managed to nod shyly in his hold, your eyes wide and glassy as you stared back at him. he smirked, “then get on your fucking knees. don’t make me tell you again.”

he let go of you neck and returned his hand to his side, your eyes watching his every move before you finally shook yourself out of your stupor and lowered yourself to your knees in front of him. you didn’t really know what to do with yourself at that point, so you looked up at him with wide eyes, waiting to see if he would say anything else.

he rolled his eyes, scoffing as he reached for the button and zipper of his black jeans.

“dear fuck, do I have to fucking hold your hand through all of this?” his voice was icy and biting, but you still felt a warm shiver crawl up your spine as your core clenched at his words. he finally was able to undo the button and zipper and he then pulled down both his pants and underwear, leaving his almost fully hard cock out in the open on display for you.

he gripped your hair suddenly, forcing your face toward his crotch roughly. “put it in your fucking mouth, slut.”

you didn’t hesitate then, opening your mouth while using a hand to guide him past your lips, immediately swirling your tongue around the sensitive head. he groaned out above you and reached a hand to rest behind your head, not pushing on you just yet.

this wasn’t your first rodeo, so you were able to almost instantly take him all the way down your throat, only having to work up to it about three times. when his cockhead hit the back of your throat, you gagged a bit but it paid off to hear his moan cry out above you. you looked up innocently at him, bobbing your head up and down with your cheeks hollowed, drool dribbling out of the sides of your lips, adding to the messy look.

“that’s a good girl,” he breathed, his hand rubbing the back of your head almost tenderly before he shoved you completely down on him, your nose pressed against the skin of his pelvis.

your eyes blew wide and tears were prickling, but you willed yourself to relax, your throat slightly constructing instinctively around the intrusion in it.

“can I fuck your pretty face?” he growled out, finally letting you up for air. you pulled off to breathe, spit connecting your lips and the head of his angry red cock.

you managed to croak out a rough “yes”, your voice already hoarse from the few minutes of action it had been through. he gave you no time to prepare before he reached down to cup your chin and jaw in one hand, opening up your mouth before he roughly thrusted inside.

it sounded so filthy; the sounds escaping you were not cute and you were a bit embarrassed, but you were enjoying every second of the abuse to your mouth and throat. your panties were most definitely ruined at this point, and you could feel your pussy pulsating with every rough thrust of his cock down your throat.

“fucking take it, slut,” he grunted, his hips never ceasing their movements. you tried to breath through your nose as best you could, and were grateful for the small breaks he would allow you before going to town once again.

you braced your hands on his thighs as his pace quickened, his hips sloppy as he chased his high. there were no words shared and no derogatory comments spit at you as he grew closer and closer, his growls and snarls only growing louder with each passing thrust.

the sounds he was making were almost enough to get you to cum untouched, the mental stimulation almost overbearing as you felt your core tingle in need for him.

there was a nagging precense in the back of your mind that told you he wasn’t going to fuck you like you so desperately wanted him to, and there was a part of you that was perfectly okay with that.

the vampire let out a loud growl before he coneoktelt buried himself to the hilt down your flexing throat, your head knocking into the wall behind you as his cum shot directly down your esophagus.

it was uncomfortable, but you managed to swallow what you could before he pulled out and shot the rest of his hot cum all over your awaiting face.

you basked in the feeling of each shot landing on your skin, and you closed your eyes. your body felt as if it had no energy left, and you barely noticed him pulling his pants back up and fastening them closed in one swift movement.

you were right about him not fucking you or returning the favor, which was fine considering the lack of strength you currently had. the burn in your core was slowly fading along with your physical and mental strength.

as you lay slumped against the wall, his cum painted on your face and mouth, you mustered up the strength to look at and found him perched on your windowsill, ready to leave.

“what’s your n-name?” you croaked, your eyes barely open.

you could make out a smile forming on his lips.

“renjun,” he quickly responded, a lightness in his voice that you hadn’t heard before and that was a complete contrast to his earlier tone.

“and don’t worry, darling. I’ll be back for you.”

and in a quick flash, he was gone, and it was like he wasn’t ever there in the first place.

[pleasantanathema]

Graves into Gardens | Reiner Braun x Reader | Chapter Two

Chapter Two: Sins of the Past

Pairing: Reiner Braun x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Warnings: Modern AU, spoilers up to season four, slight manga spoilers (only by including characters met later), captivity, mentions of violence, mentions of character death, enemies to lovers, angst, and eventual smut (don’t worry, it’ll come sooner than you think).

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: As promised, here’s chapter two! Chapter three will take a little longer to come your way as I have a final thesis due in a few days. Also, I promise that I’ll give answers to things that have happened in the past between Reiner and reader. Just gotta wait for the right time to reveal it all. 💕

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter

          Reiner laid flat on his back, chest twisting with melancholy as he eyed the lazy ceiling fan. He couldn’t sleep even if he tried, not with the day’s events still so fresh in his mind. Everything happened too quickly, a whirling rush of movements and decisions that left him caught in a purgatory of past and present. When Zeke had kicked your head into the floor, Reiner instinctively put pressure on the trigger of the gun squeezed too tightly in his hand. He wondered if things would be easier if he had taken the situation into his own hands and not let you live to torment him another day.

           Though, he knew the ghost and the guilt would haunt him even more than your living presence.

           That saying was rolling around in his brain, the one his mother always used to recite whenever he’d get into mischief as a child, be sure your sins will find you out.

           Well, they had, and one of his biggest regrets was now asking him about fucking Marco Bott. How long had it been since he heard that name? The Scouts had stopped muttering it even before the boy’s blood ran cold. He still remembered the smell of gun smoke, remembered how Bertie had fallen into his chest and cried at the horror of it all.

           But there was nothing new to be said about that past, yet even still, Reiner feared that you already knew what had been left unsaid.

           He hadn’t even bothered to undress, just let his weight sink into his mattress until his restlessness got the better of him. He knew his agonies would call to be smothered, that his frustrations would lead to him marching down the same hallway to face the inquiries of an equally troubled mind.

           He debated going to Zeke first. He knew his comrades would still be up in the meeting room, sleep and disgust in their eyes. Last he checked in, the Chief had Bertie scribbling on the whiteboard as he threw out all the notions and ideas that they had on how to break you down, on what you could possibly know that would be of interest to them. Reiner hadn’t stayed long enough to watch the black ink dry—he didn’t want them to pry into his time with you. He’d told them just enough: you didn’t give him anything worthwhile other than admitting you might speak if you were fed information from their side as well. When he’d left, the last thing written out in bold letters was a list of lies to feed you.

           Reiner was going to end this shit. One way or another, you were going to disappear from his life again; he was going to throw you back into the sea of the past where you belonged, dead or alive.

           A sick pride boiled inside of him as he saw the shock and fear spread across your pretty face as he threw open the heavy metal door. Good, you should be scared of him.

           He spoke your name with a bitterness he’d become too familiar with, dragging a chair from against the wall to sit directly in front of your iron cage.

           He’d only been gone a few hours, yet you already looked more tired, a little more frail, like if he screamed too loudly you might melt into a puddle where you sat on the floor.

           Too much time alone with nasty thoughts can make you weak, that much he knew all too well.

           He cleared his throat, cracking his knuckles beneath his fist, “Listen to me. You talk now, and maybe I’ll be merciful and kill you quickly before the others get the chance to come pick at your bones.”

           “You know my stipulation, Braun,” he watched your eyes narrow, determination coating your voice, “answer my question and I’ll answer yours. Let me die knowing the truth about—”

           “There is no truth about Marco.”

           “I know you had something to do with it. I kept finding holes in your story, and now that I know who you really are, I have no doubt that there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

           An angry sigh rushed out of his nose. He didn’t know what he was thinking coming back here so soon, why did he ever suspect that you’d ease up on this issue? He should’ve known that all your disdain for him began when that idiot got himself killed.

           “Marco was cute and clumsy, you know that. He was in the wrong place at the wrong—”

           “No, he wasn’t!” you sat up on your knees, shackled hands shaking, “I trained that kid myself. I know he knew how to use his gear; I know he wouldn’t just…he couldn’t have gotten into that situation alone.”

           “You’re running out of time. Stop wasting your breath on something as useless as Marco Bott.”

           He could tell there were more words brewing in your mouth, but you were swallowing them down.

           Reiner leaned his elbows on his knees, burdensome back hunching as he debated what to do here. He watched you closely for a moment, saw how you were constantly shifting your weight, fidgeting with the cuffs around your wrists. Bruises were blooming on your skin, especially around the tender flesh of your fingers where he had crushed them earlier. A vile mixture of remorse and compassion spread down his nerves at the sight of you.

           “My friends don’t know I’m here,” he admitted, observing how your still brilliant eyes looked up at him.

           “I was once your friend, you know.”

           You spoke the words so slowly, so dolefully that he actually felt them begin to pierce at his heart.

           “We were never friends.”

           That much, he knew, was a lie.

━━━─── • ───━━━

          “Reiner,” your tongue pressed against the back of your teeth as you stared into his golden eyes. He felt dangerous, fingers mean against your flesh, digging into your thigh, petting at the column of your throat.

           But you felt protected, secure, your hands threatening to tear at the buttons of his shirt from how tightly you clung to him. You craved a comfort that you’d come to find from being pressed against his body.

           “I’d kill someone for you, I hope you know that.”

           You wondered if the same memory was playing in his mind, behind his older, more noble face. You felt them, the sins of your past, like a heavy string binding the two of you together in this cold room. You knew there were feelings you could tug on, emotions that could have you both tumbling to the floor and wishing that the past could be washed away. But there were too many scars, too many faults that bound you together, wounds that time could not heal.

           And you knew your time was running thin.

           Selfishness reared its ugly head. You wanted to live, you needed to get back to Paradis, back into the arms of the people you loved. You didn’t want to die because of your stubbornness, or out of some forged loyalty that you knew friends would even give up if it meant being together one last time.

           “We know about the arms trading,” you conceded, head hanging low.

           You heard his chair scrape against the floor as he sat to attention.

           “How?”

           You thought about all the carefully considered words that you’d played in your mind earlier. You couldn’t give too much, but you had to lay enough on the table to make yourself valuable, to perhaps make yourself trustworthy. You needed to sprinkle lies into the truth, give a little in hopes of taking a lot.

           “Not everyone knows. It has been an investigative project I’ve been working on with Erwin and Miche…” you sucked in a deep breath, eyes closing, “we only figured it out because it came up as we were inquiring into the legitimacy of the President of Paradis. We’re pretty sure he’s a pawn, that there’s some untouchable group of aristocrats pulling his strings and ruling the nation from the shadows.”

           You waited patiently to see if he had any remarks, but the brooding man before you stayed silent. You could feel the weight of his gaze, scrutinizing, curious, perhaps disappointed that you’d be willing to give away secrets so easily.

           “That’s what you can give to Yeager. Tell him that…tell him that I’m tired of working and killing for a government that I can’t trust, whose true intentions I don’t know. Tell him I’m willing to work with him.”

           “And why would he be interested in that? You’re much more valuable as an information source than an agent.”

           You finally lifted your face to him then, a bold trepidation creeping over your skin.

           It was now or never.

           “Reiner, what I have to say next is something I’ve saved only for you. You can do with it what you will, but I beg of you, be careful with it. This could hurt you as much as it could hurt me in the long run.”

           Part of you expected him to leave again, to bristle at the thought of hearing something he doesn’t want to know.

           But he stayed, brows wrinkling together as he studied you before him. You felt like a beggar at his feet, spreading out all you carried in hopes that it was enough to appease the executioner before you.

           “Tell me,” he demanded, “though I make no promises to keep it silent.”

           You felt your courage implode. You almost wanted to gobble up your information and let it rest inside you forever to be gnawed at by your conscience.

           But if there were any fragments left of the man you once knew, of the Reiner Braun who had once held you so dearly, you knew that he would latch on to your words.

           “Zeke—your war chief—is working with Paradis. He’s plotting something so devious that even Erwin can’t pinpoint what it is, but we are certain he has contacts within the government that go beyond securing weapons for Marley.”

           You took a moment to pause, to let what you were saying sink into that thick skull of his.

           “Reiner, something seriously fucked up is going to happen if we don’t figure out what’s happening. And what’s happening is bigger than us—it’s bigger than all the shit we’ve been through. Help me, or it will be more than just me dying.”

You surveyed him as he straightened his broad shoulders, rolling them like a predator who was examining his prey. You’d just offered your life to him, held it out on willing hands with perhaps irresponsible words.

           You held in a sob as he left wordlessly, leaving his empty chair behind.

━━━─── • ───━━━

           Reiner sat with his arms crossed, trying to keep his face neutral as he watched Bertie haphazardly stretch his long arms across the board to erase of their previous work, writings of threaten Erwin, reveal the past of Paradis, and remove the bucket so she can’t piss all being wiped away from thought. He wondered, for a moment, if his friends were idiots, or just wasting time because they knew he’d wander back into her orbit sooner or later.

           He’d come straight to them, of course, straight to his trusted comrades and announced he’d managed to pry your lips open.

           Sans torture, he had stressed to Galliard.  

           But he had sat on the real information you gave him, letting your confessions about Zeke fester in his mind.

          Part of him wanted to believe you; he’d always been wary of his superior officer, always knew that his cunning and depravity could lead them all down a path of no return one day. But another part of him thought you were toying with him, trying to manipulate his doubts and sow seeds of skepticism into his mind. You’d always been so capable of getting whatever you wanted, always had a charm for subtle exploitation.

          “How can we believe any of this?” Annie berated, lighting a cigarette in the room despite knowing it was against Zeke’s rules.

          “Because we know she’s close to Erwin, close to the brass that runs the Scout Police Force,” Reiner countered.

          “More like she has always been up his ass, probably in his fucking bed too.”

           Reiner didn’t like the image that flashed in his mind, didn’t like the thoughts of the Commander running his hands across your skin, of you tangled in his sheets. He chided himself, worried it was a jolt of jealousy, but at this point, he could never distinguish his emotions anymore.

          “Annie,” Zeke hushed her, finally taking a seat at the rounded table instead of pacing a hole into the floor, “everything she has said adds up. I’ve kept our arms trading as quiet as I can, but if those little rats were going around interrogating congressmen, then it’s very possible one of them squealed on our operations just to keep their puppet president in power.”

          “So, it’s true then?” Bertholdt chimed in, shaking a marker within his aching fingers as he paused from taking notes, “that the government of Paradis is basically a sham.”

          “I’m afraid so.”

          And how do you know that? Reiner wanted to question, wanted to prod at the smug man who was waving cigarette smoke from his face.

          “So, what are we going to do with her?” Reiner finally addressed the elephant in the room, pulling at the last remaining thread to this horrible game they had gotten themselves into.

          “We’ll keep using her, of course. Though I don’t think she will give anything else up so freely. We need to give her some hope that we trust her, that she’s going to live through this little nightmarish web we’ve caught her in.”

          Reiner didn’t like the tone in Zeke’s voice. He seemed too relaxed, too humored by it all.

          It was at this time that Pieck wandered into the room, carefully balancing a crutch underneath her arm. She was carrying that soft smile of hers, leaning against the wall momentarily before also settling at the table.

          “A little birdy told me what all is going on,” she turned her grin to Galliard, whose chest puffed at his recognition, “Sorry I couldn’t make the last mission, Chief, the old leg just couldn’t handle it. But, I do have a suggestion to your little, hm, captive issue here.”

          The room felt tense, everyone focusing on the small woman as her prim cheerfulness refused to fade.

          “Let her free, under supervision, of course. Turn our old reconnaissance mission on its head; watch an outsider from inside our group, see if we can get her comfortable enough to open up again.”

          “Yes, exactly, Pieck!” Zeke let out a hearty laugh as he smacked the table with an open palm, wicked delight brightening over his features. He ran his fingers through his blonde ponytail, like he was settling into relief.

          Reiner felt his heart sink into his stomach, acid tearing at its flesh.

          “And it seems we have just the man for the job, seeing that he magically got the little vexation to open her mouth.”

          “No.”

          Reiner gritted his teeth, jaw flexing at the thought of being your god damn babysitter.

          “Oh yes,” Zeke fished around in his pocket then, pulling out a set of keys and sliding them across the table. Reiner didn’t move, just let the clinking metal fall into lap and sink into his thigh.

          “Go let her out of her cage, let her know we’ve agreed to take up her offer of help, but only if she follows orders and stays in your sight.”

          “Don’t you think a woman is more suited to this?” Annie chirped, carelessly smothering her cigarette out directly onto the table, hot ash settling into the grooves of oak.

          “You already passed on this task, sweetheart. Besides, it seems she might find Braun a little more tolerable after all.”

━━━─── • ───━━━

          And all this, all these words, all this fucking time passed, led to Reiner standing before you once again. His head rested against the rusted iron; grip so tight around the metal bars he worried he might actually bend them.

          He’d relayed the messages, but ensured you that this fucking Zeke business had stayed behind tight lips.

          When he opened his eyes, his vision focused on you, still sitting, an almost dumbfounded look on your tilted, tired head.

          “Thank you,” you whispered to him, a sincerity he wasn’t used to pooling in his ears, dripping down his skin.

          “Don’t thank me yet. There are still long nights ahead of you.”

          Ahead of him, he recognized.

          All he wanted was for you to disappear, to be washed away, but it seemed you were about to become a permanent stain on his life—a living, breathing body to remind him of the past he had left in the dark depths of his mind to rot.

          Be sure your sins will find you out, he mused, looking at a sin that might be too tempting not to partake of.

Next Chapter

[faerienextdoor]

pastas and your insecurities

tw: i think depictions/descriptions of stretch marks may trigger some people! and mentions of scars, but no specification

Brian, cellulite and stretchmarks:

- he is a gentle himbo soul. He calls your stretch marks your lovemarks and lightning bolts.

- he loves the bumps and grooves on the back of your comfy thighs. thighs he's constantly found himself resting his head in when his head rumbled and ached from a migraine.

- you're a gift to him and the world.

- and he wants you to feel like you're perfect. because you are, to him.

- during cuddle time, he rests his head on your tummy, snuggled between your thighs.

- he'll lift your shirt and kiss the marks that travel up your tummy, and smile at you as his kisses tickle your soft skin

- "have I ever told you how beautiful you are?"

- he asks that so innocently and with so much sincerity. it can melt the hardest of asses.

- he is your personal hype man! If you wear something you usually wouldn't, he'd stop to stare for a while at first

- then breaks out in a giant happy grin, and pulls you into him.

- grabs your hand, and spins you around.

- all that shit. so he can get a good look at you

- kisses the crown of your head gently

- "how did I ever get so lucky?"

jeff, and scars:

- his initial reaction is to laugh off your insecurities

- he's used to joking around what he hated about himself and knows he doesn't want anyone delving in, and finds it more comforting for them to laugh it off with him

- but the laughter dies down and the smiling bastard is frowning at you now

- he knows what it's like to hate your scars. He's picked and tried to scrape off his own burnt flesh, and made them worse in the bed.

- "what the fuck are you on about? c'mere"

- he aggressively loves you. He doesn't want you to feel like how he feels about himself.

- he'll kiss any patch of scarred skin he has permission to and can get to. even if it's an awkward place, his thin lips are pressing his love to them.

- "beautiful. gorgeous. handsome. I could never get enough of you"

- he mutters compliments to you and holds you, pressing his face into the curve of your neck. he breathes in your smell and let's it out in a soft sigh

- "never talk bullshit about yourself again, you got it?"

- he won't take any of your negativity from then on out

- in his eyes: he's the only one who can tease you

Tim, stretch marks and thighs:

- he's a big dude himself. and in the best, most pleasant way.

- he has muscle + fat. a good mix that has made him the best cuddle buddy

- you've told him yourself. So why do you put yourself down for what you love about him?

- he loves how cats can curl so happily on your sun soaked lap in middle of summer

- he loves your beautiful marks, and finds them to be so unique and beautiful on you

- the deep grooves he can't keep his hands away from when you're cuddled (skin to skin, or with very little clothes)

- he looks you in the eyes and gently tells you how you make him feel

- "you make me the happiest I've been in... a long time."

- Masky loves your form too. He loves how it looks in tims shirts or a tight fitting outfit.

- masky rests his heavy head in your lap in the most annoying way.

- I'm talking about forcing himself in your personal space, just for some sugar

- and he's content laying there for /hours/

- and you bet your ass you're not moving an INCH unless you threaten to piss on the couch/bed

- "gorgeous"

- he compliments you in a blunt way

- and when you feel especially down, you'll find extra shiny rocks in your pockets

jane, voice:

- she could listen to your voice for hours

- or the rest of eternity

- and she damn well should

- when she's stressed and unable to nap, she'll beg you to tell her how your day has been. and in the most detailed way imaginable. tell her which direction the blender spun when it churned up your fruity smoothie

- and pretty soon her eyes are fluttering shut and sleep is welcoming her like an old friend

- "oh dearie, want to talk about it?"

- she sets everything aside for you. she wants you to spill your feeling guts out so she can make sense of it all. it doesn't make sense. your voice soothes her and makes her feel so happy. it's tender and gentle on her canals.

- she holds your hands and makes you look her in the eyes. she tells you how she sometimes can't sleep without you talking to her. she's fallen asleep countless times by your side because of your voice alone

- and she swears you are an angel from above with an voice as soothing and musical as yours.

- when she misses any of your calls, she'll pray that you left her a voicemail

- and instead of texting, she'll call to hear your voice. even if it's a simple topic that can be solved better through messages

Helen, hip dips/tummy:

- you're like the most perfectly sculpted statue to him. or a portrait made with the best paints and spent the most amount of time on

- he's breathless by your beauty constantly

- and he's a flustered blubbering mess. unable to find his words or compose himself when you so much as smile at him

- god knows how he managed to land a date with you. or a committed relationship.

- he begs to paint you and that's when the topic comes up

- he sits there and listens patiently, frowning more and more as you spill your squishy heart out to him

- he's silent for a moment

- "but I think you're beautiful."

- he isn't sure how to say it. but to him, god spent the most time on you

- you stun him anytime you enter a room

- and he takes extra care of you. he makes sure to compliment you more and more, hoping his words and the love he manages to shower you in is enough to mend you

- it probably isn't, because that might not be how it works for everyone, but he's trying and will do anything it takes for his lovely

- he's extra touchy, hugging you closer. you can feel his heart beating against your back as he holds you to him, back to his chest.

- "you always look so beautiful without even trying... how?"

- and he kisses you

- you'll get some good ol' helen lovin'

Ben, acne/eczema:

- let's get something straight first: he's a tit. a whole one. he's teased you before but never jabbed at insecurities

- and he did it to show his love at first

- but here you are, mumbling about how you hate your acne and the deep scars it's left on your back and face.

- "that just means your skin is oily"

"I wish it wasn't. it makes me look /ugly/"

- he stops right then and there, turning to stare at you like you insulted his entire family tree

- and you may as well have

- he tells you to never say that again and doesn't listen to excuses

- takes your face in his hands and makes you swear on it

- he kisses all over your face

- "I'll do face masks and shit with you if it'll make you happy"

- and he follows through with that!

- when he's at the store he buys new products to try, and he reassures you that your skin will get better eventually when you're upset over his glow

- he had a hell of a lot of acne when he was alive and a thriving teen

- and he can't find words to explain how beautiful you are to him

- you just are and he assumes it's common knowledge

- to you and everyone else

- he won't let you talk shit about yourself, and won't let anyone else do that either

LJ, face shape/proportions:

- he just frowns insecurities at first

- isn't there more to worry about?

- he sees it genuinely dishearten you and softens. he gently takes his claws through your hair, mumbling about how he didn't know it bothered you so much

- "...but it's.. your face?"

- he winces at his own stupidity and inability to comfort someone else

- he lets you ramble it all out and tells you the hard truth: there isn't a lot you can do. plastic surgery is expensive and often gets botched, and there's people out there who'd kill for a face like your own

- he's a hard ass but a very very loveable one

- he kisses you and holds you to him, telling you that he loves you over and over

- the next day he's arranged a day to yourself so you aren't stressing your weak squish brain.

- he's taken care of your household responsibilities for you and brings in your favorite snacks

- puts on your favorite show or movie and cuddles you the rest of the day

- he holds you so securely and protectively, even when it's just the two of you

- no one will get their hands on you or make you feel bad about yourself

- not whole, he still has a good ass kicking in him left.

Toby, and scars:

- he knows what it's like. he has scars up and down his arms and over his back from the car wreck and faint ones on the side of his fingers from how he tore his skin down to the bone with his his teeth

- he doesn't take the same approach as jeff, and instead wants you to talk it all out and cry until you're exhausted

- he tells you every scar has a story and he loves yours

- because it brought you right to him

- and he couldn't have made it through most of the shit he has without you.

- "I l-luh-love you"

- you make him feel better about himself and he wants you to feel the same way with him

- he'll gently brush his fingers across your scars, tough so light and airy you can barely feel it

- he's always ready to listen to how you got them

- no matter how stupid or not badass the story may be, he's invested because you're his storybook

- and he can't wait to dig in and read it again and again

Ej, big nose:

- he's always found himself gazing at your profile from his spot. anytime he can see it, he traces it silently with just his eyes

- and he looks away flustered

- he thinks it's fits your face. he doesn't take listening to you talk about a nose job or anyone else's straight bridged nose

- yours is perfect and he can't picture you with another one

- he lifts his mask and presses a kiss to the bridge or the tip of it often

- and he loves watching your face flush red in reaction

- "I think it looks lovely on you"

- and he'll tell you that every single day if he has to

- with him being an immortal demon means he has plenty of time

- as long as you're glued to his side he's telling you how much he adores the features that are plastered to your face

[fandom-monium]

For the Holidays - Part 4

Summary: In which Spencer doesn’t want to go to his high school reunion, but you tagging along changes things. “You know, I don’t remember you being able to run this fast back at the academy.”

WC: 2.4k

Tags/Warnings: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader, fake-dating trope, pining (so much pining), fluff, defensive Spencer, more angst but not from unnecessary trauma, more emotional-support Reader, reunion arc, song fic, emotional/physical intimacy (to the max)

Don't think we fit in at this party Everyone's got so much to say, oh yeah, yeah When we walked in, I said I'm sorry, mmm But now I think that we should stay

Not a lot of things shake Spencer. It’s a very short list; his knowledge is expansive, he reads studies and scientific journals for fun, knows the most random statistics and facts just for the slightest possibility of it being useful. There're the rare occasions where unsubs catch him off guard, but at this point he's hardly phased. Nothing surprises him. 

Although, this⎼this has made it to the top of that list.

“You’re sorry?” Spencer repeats, not sure if he heard correctly. His body cements in place and he holds his breath, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for one of them to jump him, for someone to say, ‘LOL jk’ like Garcia does when he doesn’t get the joke.

Because he doesn’t like this joke. It wasn’t funny back then, it’s not funny now.

But they don’t. Seconds pass and his tormentors, like him, are just as frozen, just as breathless, just waiting for his reaction.

They’re serious?

Spencer’s lips curl as his nose wrinkles. “You’re sorry? You think saying sorry is going to make up for everything?”

“God no, of course not. But over time, we’ve come to realize,” Alexa’s voice trembles, like she’s holding back tears. She exchanges glances with Harper and the football team before taking a tentative step towards him. “You deserve a real apology at least.”

Spencer recoils, the words jostling his brain. Alexa, Harper, and the few members of the football team all nod in agreement, as if they discussed this beforehand.

She adds, “We don’t expect you to forgive us now or ever. But we hope to try and⎼”

She’s preaching, something about regret and forgiveness and bridging gaps, but Spencer barely registers her voice⎼the words drowned out by the thrumming Christmas music. It becomes more garbled and muffled. Like he’s under water and he’s sinking. 

He struggles to catch his breath. His brain reels until the only thing he can focus on is…

Anger. Familiar and hot and so loud that it rings in his ears. Against the storm, it’s a buoy in a rumbling ocean, the clearest, safest, most tangible thing he finds as he’s caught in the undertow. 

Just like that he breaks the water’s surface. 

And he latches on.

“You’re not sorry,” Spencer lets out a dry chuckle. Alexa and Harper open their mouths to protest but he continues, “You want to know how I know this? Because I have several degrees, one of them being in psychology.” 

They shake their heads. “We are⎼”

He cuts them off, his tone rising above Santa Tell Me as it bellows overhead. “No, you're not. You don’t feel remorse. You don’t blame yourselves. You feel guilty, and your attempt at apologizing for what you did tells me that you can’t live with that guilt. That’s why you’re apologizing. You want a clear conscience. You want me to⎼to just act like what you did was okay, to act like nothing happened. But it did and I⎼” Spencer’s vision blurs and his eyes burn. He squeezes them shut. 

He will not cry. He will not cry. He’s wasted enough tears on these people.

Spencer meets their gaze, and he knows they have to strain their ears when he rasps, “⎼It wasn't okay.”

“Reid,” Harper’s calls, her voice wobbling. For a second he sees it; Alexa, Harper, the football team backing them up as gold and white spotlights roam over them. Their eyes glisten with worry, and he sees the pain, the honesty, all the signs of truth and genuine regret with a profiler’s accuracy.

A small part of him hopes maybe they are. Maybe they do regret it the pain they caused him. 

The concept is jarring. And Spencer doesn’t have the capacity to process it. Not now.

So he turns away, clearing his throat. “Excuse me.” Without thinking, he slips his hand out of yours, startling you, and pushes through the throng of people.

“Um,” You hesitate as your gaze switches between watching Spencer and his (ex?) bullies. Then his back disappears in the crowd and you start after him, “I’ll be right back?”

Not the smoothest exit, but it’ll have to do.

You quickly weave between party-goers, rushing towards the exit. By the time you burst through the doors, Spencer is gone.

You’ve lost him.

⎼

Okay, you didn’t lose him.

You’re not even surprised, catching your breath at the gaping doors. Light spills from the hall, casting a long shadow as you scan the room, your footfalls muffled by the old carpet. It takes a little browsing until you realize you’re in the fiction area.

You find Spencer in the deepest corner of the library. He sits on the floor, slumped against the shelves of the classic literature section. You bite back a smile; his legs are too long for the small aisle between the bookcases, so his knees are bent and his hands rest in his lap. 

He barely notices as you carefully pad over to him. “Hey.”  

“Hey,” Spencer mumbles, staring vacantly at the rows of worn books. They’re dusty, mostly 3rd and 4th editions. He’s fairly certain they’re the same ones he read when he attended⎼damn, the American education system is underfunded⎼and despite the comforting presence of you and his old friends, he can’t bring himself to look at you, ashamed of his outburst. 

“You know, I don’t remember you being able to run this fast back at the academy,” You let out an exaggerated wheeze, an attempt to lighten his mood.  

It sort of works. Spencer huffs out a laugh, but he sobers quickly. “Sorry for running out on you like that.” 

You squeeze yourself into the small gap, mirroring him against the adjacent bookcase, legs tangling with his. “I told you, you have nothing to apologize for.” 

“Maybe but it’s still not fair to you,” Spencer swallows the lump in his throat. He hears you snort and he looks up, seeing the wry smile on your lips. “What?”

You roll your eyes. “Of course you still manage to think of me, even though this whole thing is for you. Reid, if I wasn’t so concerned, I’d feel touched.” 

He flushes, and while it's too dark to see each other clearly, Spencer still ducks his head. 

You smile shyly as you nudge the toe of your shoe against his. A question.

A second later, he nudges you back. An answer.

Satisfied, you don't say another word as you both find comfort in the silence and in the musty scent of used books. If you strain your ears, you can hear Snowman faintly echo down the empty hallways. It's hauntingly peaceful. 

Then Spencer breaks the silence.

It starts with a sniff and you shrug it off. Probably dust, allergies. But there's another and another until all you hear is his breathes, unsteady and wet and⎼fuck.

Spencer is crying.

He bites his lip as he clasps his hands tightly in his lap, trying to pull himself together. Scrape together whatever semblance of pride he’s got left. He's been humiliated enough today; he doesn't need to fall apart in front of you too.

Tears well in his eyes. A whimper escapes him, and because you’re alone⎼no music, no loud guests to cover him⎼you feel the brunt of it, rattling your bones.

Your willpower snaps.

Touch is a powerful thing. There are people who simply don’t care for it but others, they’re uncomfortable with the intimacy behind the sensation. Many underestimate the tremendous courage it takes to let others into your personal bubble. And for you⎼ 

Touch is... personal. It’s giving a spare key to your place. It’s confessing your sins before you face Death. 

It’s sharing your sweaters with Spencer because he thinks they look cool. It’s cooking and cleaning the failed trials afterwards, standing at the sink and flinging soap bubbles at each other. It’s sharing the blanket when heading home after an exhausting case.

Touch is comfort. So that’s what you give him.

Spencer's breath hitches as you crawl over to him. On your knees, you settle between his legs and he freezes, terrified if he moves you will leave. Or disappear. He’s not sure. But you’re so close that his breath puffs against your chin. He tries to hold them in. It makes him hiccup. 

To his surprise, you pull out a handkerchief. 

Though his body trembles, he doesn’t protest as your hands gently push back his hair. He follows the movement, his head falling back against the bookcase as he watches your dark silhouette hover over him, softly outlined by the streetlight seeping through the windows. He lets you take the tears and the hurt, dabbing them away from his tear-stained cheeks. 

Every teardrop is a knife. Every droplet you don’t catch, it's a cut. 

Spencer wonders if he's dreaming. Maybe he tripped and knocked himself out? Or did the football team clock him so hard it put him in a coma? Or maybe he fainted? 

Because if the universe is rewarding him after all the bullshit he's been through, all the work he’s done, he hopes this is it. This is the closest you've ever been⎼you’ve hugged and comforted each other before but this is so much more intimate than any other moment you’ve shared. And given the chance, he knows he would spend the rest of his days like this. His face in your hands as you wipe away the misery and despair.

The thought sends him into a new wave of tears. If you mind, you say nothing.

Spencer shuts his eyes, leaning into every touch, every caress. It’s too dark to see, so he tries to memorize what his eyes can’t. Your hands are cool against his skin and your soap smells good (or maybe that’s just you?). And as much as he appreciates your mindfulness to his germaphobic tendencies, he wishes you'd come closer. To keep touching him. 

But it’s odd, Spencer thinks as you smooth back his hair. You offer no words of encouragement. No words of wisdom. No motivational speech that’ll prompt him to bounce right back. You simply wait, brushing away his tears as he hiccups and sobs.

It just… doesn’t seem real. Attending the reunion like Morgan suggested (and the fact you're kneeling between his legs, but he's trying not to think too hard about it). The idea sounded so simple and terrifying at the same time. He planned to show off⎼peacock, if you will⎼and you even helped him practice. Spencer was prepared to bring them to their knees (okay, not really but he was willing to try). 

And now years later, they decide to apologize?

The audacity.

They didn’t spend years pushing past the pain. They didn’t hope the memories would erode with time. They didn’t have to pretend everything was okay, like nothing happened, like they didn’t do anything wrong. 

So excuse him if a little ‘sorry’ doesn’t make him feel any better.

Is it⎼is he weak for feeling like this? It’s been too long. They shouldn’t have this sort of effect on him.

“I don’t think that matters.” 

Spencer frowns at you. After his tears dry up and his hiccups subside, you settle beside him, your handkerchief, moist with his tears, fisted in his hands now. He tries to ignore the way your shoulders and thighs brush against each other. 

“I-I’m not invalidating you. But I don't think this is about being weak or sensitive. What they did to you… cut you deep and you never got closure and-and you’re still hurting. Even if it’s just a little,” You speak low, gazing at the bookshelves across from you as you stumble for the right words. He sees you angle your head towards him. Feels you shift next to him. “It's been years, but time and space doesn’t make your feelings any less valid. So no, I don't think this is about strength. It was a prank gone wrong, and you were just a kid.”

That’s putting it lightly. Spencer bites his tongue. 

You don’t need to know that.

He folds the handkerchief in his hands as he murmurs, “Easy for you to say.”

He feels you stiffen, and he considers the possibility that he said something wrong. 

“What do you mean?” You ask.

“It’s not bad or anything,” Spencer sits up, hands waving about as he rushes to assure you. “You’re always so composed. Even during the worst cases, you hardly lose it. In terms of stoicism, you’re basically on par with Hotch.”

Spencer cringes, the words out of his mouth before he realizes. 

For a second you don’t respond, but his heart stalls as he practically feels you pull away from him, even though physically you’re still there. You turn away, pulling your knees to your chest.

“Is that what you think of me?” Fuck, you sound betrayed by his assumptions. 

“I⎼well… ” Spencer wrings his hands together. He’s at a loss for words, afraid he’ll say something wrong again. He wishes he had night vision; your body language is closed off, protective, and he knows your expression is pained. 

Oh god, he did that. It hurts knowing he did that.

“Believe it or not, Reid, I’m not exactly the poster child for calm and collected," You unfold as you look back at him, voice laced with vulnerability. "I've got cracks of my own."

"... Eh,” Like you, Spencer attempts to brighten your mood, elbowing you, “I need to conduct an observational study to back that up."

He knows you're smiling as you huff, “Is that your roundabout way of saying I can go to you? When I need a shoulder to cry on?”

I'd literally drop everything if you came to me for no reason but okay.

Spencer shrugs, grinning as you push him so hard he topples over. And as you laugh and shove at each other like teenagers, Spencer concurs. You both have your cracks. You're cracked and chipped and if you take the time to look there's damage in places hidden away from the naked eye.

You're cracked but it makes you all the more perfect. 

AN: 4/5 whoops

yall don’t kink shame me but i’m a slut for emotional and physical intimacy 😳 and not to be toxic but Reids hot when he mad 😳 

what kind of student were/are you in school, middle/high/college? 

i think i got the hang of the angst now im quite proud of my writing here :) i bummed myself out writing these scenes you dont even know

small background with Mysterious!Reader and Reid yes they were in the FBI academy together :)

fun fact: when i was writing part 3 and 4 i had to go back and watch the elephants memory episode after realizing i forgot the names of Reids bullies. i was already halfway done before i noticed i wrote Harry instead of Harper gdm

when i started FtH, i cackled at the idea of Reid confronting his bullies. just seemed funny to me to have him be pissed and ready to shank his enemies with words and just lose that chance bc his bullies are human too and realize their mistake so they want to make up for it lmaooo now here he is angry and he can’t really express it the way he thought he would

(also if you noticed the lines ref to @idmakeitbehave’s fic cracked perfection, just a little thingy bc they inspire me and i love their everything <333) 

[hotdamnhunnam]

Will You Just Fuck Me Already

A/N: Here’s another requested fic from my Ironhead Imagine Ideas list!! In which Will Miller is the biggest tease ever—he can spend hours with his fingers and his face buried between your legs… before he treats you to the world’s most epic sex. You’ve been bratty all day, so Will is gonna make you pay for your behavior in his favorite way: taking you to the edge, making you fucking beg.

Pairing: Will “Ironhead” Miller x F!Reader Warnings: smut, swearing, dirty talk, teasing, edging, orgasm denial, punishment, dom!Will Request: This delightful anon request!

Word Count: ~2k

“Just a quick fuck before dinner, babe...”

“Will...” you squeal as you squirm your way out of his grip, trying not to cave in to the dominant way he takes hold of your hip. Softy slapping his hands away. “Stop that—we’re already late.”

Your insatiable fiancé clearly doesn’t give a shit about your fancy dinner date. “Dinner can wait.”

“Unlike someone who can’t,” you snap as you wriggle again from his ravenous hands. “Apparently you need to learn some restraint. Showing up late is rude.”

“Then push the goddamn reservation back,” he rasps, his hot mouth latching onto your neck, as one hand gropes under your dress to deal your ass a playful smack. “You know you want to. Know you want me more than food.”

Ugh—you both know it’s true. There’s no denying Will when he is in this kind of mood... which happens all too often. You’ve lost count of all the times you’ve given in. He knows that you’re a total slut for him and always have been.

But this time is going to be different. This time you’re going to keep him on his toes. Although Will knows you’re his to own, of course he knows... you can’t let him go on assuming that his dick is the one thing you’ll always want. “...what if I don’t?”

Will drops his jaw, the slightest bit. Blue eyes dark as he processes that shit. Confused and honestly in awe—you’ve never turned him down this way. Responds after a long, bemused pause. “The fuck did you just say?”

Averting your gaze, you try not to laugh at the straight up hilarious look on his face. “What if I’m actually more in the mood for a Michelin-starred amuse-bouche?”

“You can’t be serious,” he groans, like a dog going after a bone, barely able to handle how hungry he is. “Bitch, I’ll amuse your... bouche...”

“That’s cute,” you coo, kissing his cheek while he stands there unable to speak, as you head toward the door. “High time you learned some patience, Miller. You can have me after dinner.”

Will may have lost this battle, sure. But he’ll be damned before he lets you win this war. Shoots you a look savage enough to kill. “Babe, you’re gonna regret this.”

You sure as hell will; mark his words. Even more than you’d ever expected.

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

To tell the truth, you know exactly what you’re doing. Will does, too. You’re goading him on with the goal of getting ruined. Playing coy, because you know that if you work your wooden soldier like a little wind-up toy, then you’ll end up good and destroyed. He’ll slam you up against the wall when you get home, and make you cum a million times before the night is done. Whip out his raging cock and rip apart your cunt. Which is exactly what you want. If this is war, you’re pretty sure you’ve fucking won.

Too bad this time you’re dead fucking wrong.

You’d been teasing him all dinner long. From the amuse-bouche to the salad to the soup course. That was probably the worst—you practically put on a porno with your spoon and didn’t care if it was wrong. Played into all your filthy thirsts. Ordered some sort of decadent bisque, white and creamy and thick. Let the delicate silver spoon linger against your lips, transgressing etiquette to let its contents drip, a little bit, so you could scrape and slurp the white stuff slowly off your fingertips. Meat for your entree, needless to say. Something creamy again for dessert, crème brûlée, which got him feeling some kind of way.

Now the two of you are finally back home again, and you can’t fucking wait. 

Before dinner began, you’d honestly been teasing Will all fucking day. Woken up before him in the morning, denying him your usual kick-off-the-day sex without any warning. Hopped out of the shower before he could join in. Kept on making escapes and excuses all day and all evening. Repeatedly told him how busy you’d been, though you really weren’t even. 

All damn day you were being an absolute brat. Now at last you’re all finished with that. Day is done, night is late... and you’re just glad that your wound-up soldier will finally be taking the bait.

Once he guides you inside and the front door is slammed shut, you’re all set to serve as his personal slut.

So you desperately throw your whole body against him.

Will doesn’t react in the way that you had been expecting; he doesn’t melt into your hands as you reach to unbutton his shirt. Simply mutters one word. “Bedroom.”

Blinking up at your beloved Ironhead, you take a hot minute to make sense of what he just said. The meaning should’ve been obvious, but your own raging hormones have turned you into an oblivious mess. Your own hunger to cum always renders you dumb. “Hmm...?”

“Haul that naughty ass upstairs and wait for me there,” he commands, loud and clear, every word an attack on your ears. “Naked on the bed. Both hands above your head. Don’t even think about touching yourself, because I own that cunt. No one else. Understand?”

Holy mother of hell... you attempt to obey, but you end up just taking a couple steps back till you’re pressed up against the far wall in the foyer. You’re unable to take your eyes off of your captain when he’s barking orders at you in this way. Try to answer him yes sir but it inevitably comes out as a desperate, unintelligible yelp.

Will just places both hands on his hips and expectantly purses his lips. “Well?”

You trip over the flat fucking floor as you hasten to do what you’re told like a good little whore. Who the actual fuck even are you anymore?

Without a clue just how much Will intends to torture you, just how long of a wait you have in store... you quickly strip naked and spread out on the bed, just as he’d said, and lay there waiting with your eyes glued to the door.

Ironhead always likes to win his battles fast. He’s all business, efficient like that. But when it comes to shit like this... well, this is different. Damn does he like drawing out the war.

When he finally enters, he’s never looked better. It goes without saying you’ve never been wetter. His shirt is off, letting you see every inch of his bare upper body, glorious and godly, the smooth sculpted muscles you love.

You honestly cannot believe you’re engaged to such a fucking heart-stopping hottie. Your gaze wanders all over his epic tattoos, lingering on your personal favorite, the one dedicated to you.

Your gaze can’t linger for too long. Without saying a thing, Will orders you to meet his deep blue stare—he never needed words to issue a command; he’s such a captain, such a king, that even his silence is strong. So you obey right then and there. Your fiancé, this flawless sex god of a man, has fucking plans to make you pay, for every damn thing you’ve done wrong.

He approaches the foot of the bed, raising one hand to rake through the soft golden hair on his head. Thumb of the other hitched in his belt. God, he wears those jeans so fucking well. You are such a damn whore for his hands... only thing for which you’re even more of a whore is the massive dick you can see bulging like mad through the crotch of his pants.

The force of Will’s gaze silently commands you to look back up at his face again. Aye, Captain.

Then the bastard has the nerve to ask a motherfucking question. “What did I tell you earlier tonight?”

Excuse me, sir? How dare you ask something like that? He asks as if you’re even capable of forming words, to give him a reply. Yeah fucking right.

Will takes a few steps closer, leaning down over your body on the bed. And you’re so fucking dead. “You really gonna start shit off this way? Two seconds in, already you don’t know how to obey?”

Sir... this is not okay...

“Remember what I fucking said...” he grunts, and then—sweet Jesus Christ—places a hand upon your thigh, dangerously close to your wet cunt, “...or else you’re gonna spend the next whole week waiting for me in bed. That what you want?”

Oh God. Oh God. How is it even possible for any human being to be so painfully hot? You force your breathless mouth to stammer out an answer. “N-no, sir...”

“That’s what I thought,” Will huffs, squeezing your tender inner thigh with a firm touch that’s somehow all at once both sensuous and soft, yet ravaging and rough. The kind of touch he knows you love. “You should’ve thought of that before you spent the whole day being such a goddamn brat. Denying me a piece of this sweet ass. This pretty pussy, every inch of this delicious little body that you know fucking belongs to me.”

“Will... f-fuck—” you gasp, as he tightens his grasp. “Fuck, I’m so sorry...”

“What was that? What do you call me?” he rasps, dealing your soft skin a sudden sharp slap. “I know you’re sorry, babe. Don’t worry. Know just how to make you pay.”

“Ugh—sir, yes sir...” you murmur. Honestly couldn’t be sorrier, for how you had behaved, all fucking day.

“Now what did I say?” he demands, moving in closer toward your dripping cunt with his dominant hands. “Tell me or else I swear I’ll never let you cum again.”

Fuck yes—fuck no—whatever you say goes, Captain. Somehow this man makes hell sound like heaven. His words, his touch... it’s all just going to your head. You want him so damn much. Whole body squirming on the bed. You’re so insanely wet, you’re almost squirting and he hasn’t even touched you yet. “You said... you said I would regret...”

He deals your upper leg another swat. “Go ahead, slut. Regret what?”

“Denying you like that,” you stutter, doing your best to obey your fucking sex god of a fiancé, the man who owns you like no other. “Being such a fucking brat...”

“That’s right,” he sighs, palms sliding even further up your inner thighs. “Now are you ready for punishment? Why don’t you go ahead and tell me, cunt... tell me what kind of punishment you want.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you plead, as his masterful fingers move closer toward your soaking heat.

Then the wicked son of a bitch snickers... no such luck, you figure. “Well, isn’t that sweet.”

You grovel on the bed, groaning through gritted teeth. “Sir, just—please...”

“Please what, you dirty fucking slut?”

“Please, sir...” you whimper, as you turn to mush beneath his fingers, melting at his touch. His hands hovering just above your cunt. All you can think of is the thick hard cock that you can still see throbbing through the denim of his crotch. It’s everything you fucking want. You’ve truly never needed anything so much. “Will... Will you just fuck me already?”

Will loves making you like this—all shaken, unsteady. Always says when you’re right on the edge, you look so fucking pretty. You sure don’t feel pretty right now. But the way that his eyes fucking sparkle at you, as he takes in the view, clearly he seems to think so somehow.

“Mmm, so greedy. So needy,” he taunts, as his hand comes within inches of your aching, dripping cunt. “You want me to just fuck you already? Is that what you want...?”

Without words, your whole body responds.

And without words, Will answers: you’re not getting fucked until he’s good and done. Till then, he’s gonna punish your ass all night long. Just as you had been doing to him all damn day.

Now it’s Will’s turn to make you pay, in his favorite way: by spending hours with his fingers and his face buried between your shaking legs... denying you the right to get fucked by him, or to cum—you’ll have to earn that fucking privilege—taking you to the edge... making you fucking beg.

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

... Continued in Part 2!

Hope you enjoyed this, and would love to hear if you did!! 🤗💖

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[headcanontheshitoutofsoulsborne]

Sekiro Chain 1

Original prompt: Kuro teaches Wolf how to play Shogi. Mun's note: I love how this chain turned out. Everyone did such an amazing job. Please show your apprecation for the characters by checking out their work and consider giving this chain a reblog.

@ghoulsteak

In Kuro’s tower, the summer air is warm and still. The sliding doors stand open to let what breeze there is pass through unimpeded. Sun streams in through the western door, painting a bright square across the tatami. Motes of dust spiral in the light.

Kuro can see Wolf from where he sits reading, a dim figure with only a foot caught in the sun, seated with his back to the opposite wall. It’s easy to forget he’s there, both because Wolf has been present in the corner of Kuro’s eye for a long time now and because being forgettable is a trait the shinobi has carefully cultivated.

He stands now and pads silently across the floor. Time for another inspection, Kuro supposes; another circuit around the tower’s perimeter (cliff side included), another quiet pass among the sun-streaked piles of books in the upper room. Wolf is always conscientious in his checking and rechecking, but today he seems to be wound even tighter than usual. On a day as beautiful as this one, that strikes Kuro as something of a shame.

As Wolf steps back inside from his patrol, Kuro sets down his book. “Wolf,” he calls. The shinobi’s head turns. “Would you like to play shogi with me?”

“I do not know how, my lord.”

“That’s no matter. I can teach you,” Kuro says.

Kuro himself learned from Owl. The old man taught him the game years ago while he lingered at the castle. He kept to himself whether was simply resting between outings or sniffing around amongst the servants and courtiers. Kuro has beaten him only once, and he suspects that the old man threw that game. He is as difficult for Kuro to read as his son is easy.

But still, he offers Wolf the same reason for learning as the Owl gave him. “They say shogi is good for the mind. It helps one practice strategy.” He knows Wolf struggles to justify doing things that don’t reap tangible results. The shinobi’s chief leisure activity, insofar as he can be said to have one, is sleeping. Wolf inclines his head in agreement.

Wolf seats himself across the table, and Kuro begins setting up the board. He explains the rules of the game to him; they’re a lot to take in, but he knows Wolf prides himself on only having to be told something once, and thus does not repeat himself. He listens in silence, nodding from time to time or interjecting with a murmured question, and they begin to play.

A minute and a half passes. Wolf loses.

“Hrm,” he says, brow furrowed. Kuro hides a smile with his sleeve.

“I didn’t think you’d want me to take it easy on you, Wolf,” he says.

A slight shake of the head. “Of course.”

“Again?”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Kuro offers him no advice. He doesn’t want to teach Wolf to play like him; even after three years’ worth of rainy days spent at the board, he suspects his own style is still too much like the Owl’s. He wants to see how Wolf plays shogi.

As they begin again, he watches the shinobi’s expression. Between turns, his gaze darts about the room, quicksilver eyes beneath a stone brow. His attention is divided a dozen different ways. This, rather than his inexperience, is why Kuro beats him again.

“Again?”

“Certainly.”

Perhaps, Kuro thinks, he should ask him to play next in a room with shuttered windows and a single, easily barred door. He can see the roots of Wolf’s technique, the shape of his quick, guarded mind beginning to describe itself upon the board, but he won’t let himself become immersed in the game. Wolf can’t let go of his awareness of the tower’s points of entry and escape, of the distance between the palm of his hand and the hilt of his sword.

Kuro begins to push Wolf’s slow offense back, intending to corner him on his own side of the board. Confident in his advance, he overreaches. Wolf capitalises on the chink revealed in his armour and cuts behind Kuro’s lines. As he finishes his move, he glances up at Kuro.

“Hah!” Kuro sits back in surprise, eyes alight. A hint of a smile runs along the furrows of Wolf’s face, and is gone just as quickly.

“I apologise, Wolf,” he says. “I underestimated you.”

Wolf inclines his head. “It is no matter.”

As the game continues to its close and the game after it begins, Kuro watches Wolf’s hold on his vigilance relax a little more. Perhaps there’s something comforting to him after all about a battle with no stakes, an enemy who wants nothing more than to pass a summer afternoon.

@dragonbasket

@fateoftheundead

“Are you ready, Wolf?”

Sekiro nodded and knelt before the low table across from the young lord, who busied himself shuffling a stack of papers. Kuro’s movements were not that of a studious priest, or a graceful shinobi, but guileless and clumsy like the youth he was.

“Why is this necessary for my mission?”

“Your sentiments are pure and honorable, but the pursuit of knowledge and understanding is just as pure, just as honorable.”

“As you insist. I do not know exactly what it is I do not know.”

***

The Wolf turned his head back and forth, flustered as he had ever been and rarely showed. “As I told the Heir, I do not know what it is I do not know. I… have heard that that is a good place to start. To start knowing.” A snort emerged from the background, amidst the wooden idols.

Emma, the mild doctor, approached, frowning in the direction of the snort. “That is true. Do not be so hard on yourself.” She took a seat. “Please continue.”

Sekiro handed the stack of Kuro’s scrolls to the man seated on the ground, who blinked with wide open eyes at the documents. Fujioka gave the smile of a man retreating from a tiger. “So whaddya need me for, anyway?”

“My letters are insufficient. You are the right choice, despite your grumbling.”

“Fine, fine, some compliment.” Spreading the papers out, he bent his head to the scroll he had selected. “So… I have heard it said, oh monks, that… hmm, I dunno that’s the best way to begin. You’ve got far more wisdom than you know, Wolf, but these doctrineses may be too big a breakfast. Tell me- what scriptures did you learn as a child?”

Sekiro sighed. “I remember very little from before I was orphaned, and once the Owl had adopted me I had very little time for scriptures or doctrines.”

Another scoffing laugh came, and this time it’s owner came closer. The Sculptor rose creakily and made his way over as well, though much less gracefully than the doctor.

“Ahh, these old bones need a stretch anyway. The Owl? Ukonzaemon Usui? One slip of the pen and he would have been a cloud-and-water man. Bah, you’re more a cloud-and-water man than the old fool ever could have been.” He bowed deeply to Fujioka, his wooden left arm almost scraping the floor. “Forgive me, scroll jumbler. Forgive me, Wolf. Please continue.”

“I suppose that I know as much as anyone. Gate gate pāragate pārasaṃgate bodhi svāhā?”

Seeing the lost look on his face, the others in the room repeated the simple sutra. “You all know it. I’m gald I knew it as well. Perhaps this is not the correct interpretation, but it has always struck me... gone, gone, everyone gone... What does it mean to be shinobi? If we become one with the shadows, then do we exist at all?”

Fujioka beamed. “Oh, that’s wisdom alright, Wolf! As direct as the 6th Patriarch’s famous verse, and maybe as good.” He looked around sheepishly. “What? I know stuff.”

“Do you know who else had something to say about the Heart of Wisdom?” The Sculptor’s grimace was unreadable. Emma turned to him, but cut him only with the gaze of her eyes. “Master Hakuin! Do you know what he said about our beautiful Heart? Scripture scrolls dug from piles of garbage!”

“Garbage?” Emma’s face at last betrayed a hint of anger.

“Easy, sweet doctor. I mean no offense. We may pare our nails at the foot of a burning lamp, we may polish a brick into a mirror, but these base things are not bad. Simply a glimpse of truth. These,” he said, flinging a gnarled finger past the Heir’s donated stack of scrolls. “are wonderful in their own way, but for a man of my inclinations, I prefer the schematics our Wolf brings back. To build wondrous things!”

“Not from piles of garbage.” Sekiro’s face grew dark as he thought back to where he had found many such scrolls and the like that he’d found, in pockets and pouches, in dark corners used as hiding places, and he thought of the secrets he’d found as well, the deep crimson secrets that lay at the heart of men. And monsters.

“Of course, Wolf. Now, of all the treasures you bring back to our little ryokan... I prefer the sake best.”

“Sake!” Fujioka theatrically covered his face, mimicking the voice of a mortified grandmother. “In the midst of our scripture study! Would that not violate the Fifth Precept?”

“Indeed, indeed, sir, but there is one sin that the Tathagatha held more grave than any violation of the precepts.”

“What is this sin, Sculptor?” Emma’s face had lost all anger and she seemed genuinely curious.

“The disruption of the Sangha! Chaos amongst friends and disciples! Vituperation!” He grinned. “I am an old man. I get cranky when I do not get my sake. And when I get cranky...”

“The next time I find any sake, I will bring it right back. For the Sangha, that is.”

“Make sure you do. My friends, is anyone else cold? Without a little something to warm my belly, I feel every draft.” Without waiting for a response he walked over to the hearth where a few embers struggled to produce rarefied strands of flame. “We’re out of firewood.”

The others ignored him and Fujioka produced another scroll from the pile. “The Hekiganroku... some of these things the Heir sent us are quite advanced. Don’t get me wrong, I find a quality koan to be pleasing on its own merits, but the solution of these... beyond me.” The information broker squinted down at another scroll. “Oooh, ooh. The Heir left a little note in the margin. ‘Master Dogen’s commentary is superb.’ Aha! Dogen.” Fujioka became suddenly excited and turned his squint towards Emma. “Waittaminute...”

“I was indeed apprenticed to Dogen.” A faint smile. “Not the original Dogen. He was centuries ago. How old do you think I am?”

Before the broker could reply, Sekiro piped up. “Doctor, you don’t look a day over 200.” She rewarded him with a widening smile at the quip. She rubbed her hands together.

“It is cold. My Master Dogen would sometimes pretend to be a Zen master and jump out of corners to frighten me. He made a crude kesa out of bandages and covered his hair with a sack to seem bald.” She paused in thought. “I am not sure why.”

“Students must sometimes go along with their master’s teaching, I am sure.” Sekiro nodded.

Fujioka continued. “No offense, Wolf, but I got something here from the Hekiganroku that reminded me of you, and our dear ol’ sculptor. Case 54...” He recited the koan and put the scroll down.

“Yunmen Extends His Hands. I see. But I have only one hand.”

“Between the two of us we have two, Wolf,” called the Sculptor from the background, still puttering noisily among the idols. “Yunmen would slap us well if that were the case.”

Sekiro stood momentarily from where he’d crouched across from Fujioka and stretched his back before sitting again. “I recall some dharma if you forgive my rough understanding.”

“Of course!” The broker smiled in anticipation despite himself.

“Yunmen’s koan reminded me of another great master fond of hitting his disciples. Rinzai! What a fearsome teacher. There are tales that I have heard of his striking pupils to teach a lesson, but his most impressive act was worthy of a shinobi. In the meditation hall, during the most serene meditation, he would appear out of nowhere beside any monks whose minds were wandering, and beat them with a stick!”

“That stick is called the kyosaku and the monks must raise their hands and ask to be struck. It is an efficacious remedy for a sluggish mind.” Emma nodded to Sekiro as she rose as well. “I think I prefer your version, though.” “Aha! A fine Buddha indeed.” The Sculptor appeared with one of his wooden idols, one of surpassing craftsmanship. Without any hesitation he flung the idol onto the fire. The others reacted with a combination of horror and disbelief that led into a general clamor. Sekiro himself adopted a blank expression, as there was certainly a finer point to this act that he did not understand. “Protest all you like, it’s only a statue.”

“Of the Tathagatha. Such shame you bring with your recklessness,” seethed Emma. The sculptor scoffed.

Having recovered from his initial shock, Fujioka looked into the Sculptor’s eyes. “This is something I heard about once. That old pervert Ikkyu once did the same. But...”

“A common error, sir. Not Ikkyu, but Tanka.” He turned to Emma. “Do you mean to say that I burned the Buddha himself? Some relic of the Shaka Nyorai?”

“No, it is simply a wooden statue, but-”

“Simply wood,” he interrupted. “Then you do not mind if I burn another as the night grows colder?”

No one spoke for a long moment.

Fujioka broke the silence. “Ya think maybe we studied enough for the young master? I’d like to know for next time... I mean, if there is a next time... who are the masters you’d wanna hear more from?”

“Let us decide which sage would win in a battle, then!” The Sculptor’s face creased with amusement. “Wolf, who do you think?”

“Rinzai, of course. His stealth and fearsome strikes would take the day.” He turned to Emma. “What would you say, doctor?”

“Eno, the patriarch. His touch could make even the most ephemeral things as immovable as mountains. They say in a distant temple he sits mummified, unmoving but still meditating. True strength.”

“I dunno if the Heir thinks this is appropriate. Says here the Buddha himself specified that this subject is not suitable for the path to enlightenment.” He leaned forward with a sly whisper. “I would be like Dorin. Simple, happy teachings, and could spring through the trees like a monkey. Or a shinobi.”

“My turn,” said the Sculptor. “I am sure of my preference for the toughest master. Eka, Damo’s disciple. A great general before that, a fearsome warrior. To prove his devotion to becoming a student of Damo, he cut off his own arm and presented it to the patriarch, and became a great teacher in his own right. Invincible.”

Sekiro’s intuition prickled at him. He tensed, sensing something akin to danger, but...

The sculptor removed his wooden arm and held it aloft. “Wolf, I’ve seen how well you adapted to my previous arm. Such clever uses of the humble mechanisms I installed. But this thing? What use is it? I carved one arm with the other arm. Eka did not even replace his. So perhaps...” He shivered. “Is it cold in here?”

The sculptor tossed his wooden arm onto the fire.

There was no outcry from the others. Only a shocked silence. The sculptor rubbed the bare spot where his shoulder terminated. “Now, Wolf, about that sake...”

A slight smile. “For the Sangha?”

“For the Sangha.” Another uncomfortable pause, then the Sculptor let loose with a cackle.

In the warmth and light of the fire, the others joined him in laughter as the arm lit the room with its flames. @thefatladysang

@poisonhemloc

The old route to Senpou Temple started in the silvergrass field. Genichiro had never been to the temple, but there was a first time for everything. He needed the Mortal Blade, now, that was held there. The crimson one. The black one was further but much easier to get to, and relatively unguarded- but he didn’t want to risk the black one, the one that would kill Grandfather if he used it too much. Grandfather staying alive was the only reason the Interior Ministry hadn’t fully attacked Ashina. And he didn’t dare hasten the illness’s work before he had the Dragon’s Heritage, true immortality, not the Sediment’s poor version. With the Dragon’s Heritage he could stand up to the Interior Ministry, and win.

Grandfather had obviously thought the Sediment was making him unstable, when he stopped to tell him where he was going. A little part of Genichiro still wondered why he had even taken the time to do that. And wondered why he had come out here, where he had lost against the shinobi for the first time by a hair’s breadth, when the more reliable route to Senpou now ran through the dungeons. He turned to leave-

-and a strange depression in the grass caught his eye.

There was an arm. There was the shinobi’s arm, laying here unrotting. It had been a month, something should have at least tried chewing on it, but it looked as though he had just cut it off.

Some part of him knew why. He waited for the knowledge to work its way to the front of his mind through hazes of red.

The Dragon’s Heritage. The same as Tomoe. And Genichiro remembered a spar between Grandfather and Tomoe, when he was younger, before Takeru had died and Kuro had been born.

Neither of them were trying to be careful, but Isshin was always better at swordplay than Tomoe; xe had shined with archery instead, and taught Genichiro. And Isshin had cut off Tomoe’s right arm, with the same lunge Genichiro had used for the shinobi. And had given Genichiro a look, as Tomoe collapsed, and held the arm next to the stump, and when Tomoe revived it had reattached. And it had been like Isshin had never cut it off.

It must have been due to the Dragon’s Heritage. And now…

The prosthetic Dogen had spent days, months, working on, had been given to the shinobi. Every shinobi trick conceivable could fit in it. It would be better, smarter, to leave this somewhere the man would find it, and have him reattach it and lose the prosthetic and the advantage it gave.

But the rational train of thought was being drowned out by the louder, much more insistent voice that had listened to Orangutan complain, sometimes loudly, every time he was at the castle, about the arm he had lost continuing to hurt. And several soldiers, and samurai, who had also lost limbs and complained about the same thing. He shouldn’t delay any longer though, he needed to be moving. Genichiro grabbed the arm and left for the dungeons.

There was a brazier not far from the entrance, next to the cave Doujun had been reduced to using. Genichiro knocked it over and dropped the arm on top of the coals, watched it smoulder, and then catch when he dumped fabric- Doujun probably brought it over to tend to the stab wounds but they were fine, the Sediment was healing everything- and watched as the arm caught and blazed. He had a lot of things he needed to do but… he could wait, for a few minutes, ignoring Doujun grumbling as he retreated to the little cave and watch the armor distort and melt and the arm reduce to blackened bones before he turned and left for Senpou.

Isshin watched the shinobi nod politely, and stand. He would be after the Crimson Mortal Blade, now, like Genichiro was. He half turned- and tensed up, and grimaced, just for a second, but Isshin saw it. The prosthetic definitely twitched, and his good arm looked like he was going to grab at it for a moment, before he went back to the blank face he always wore.

“Something wrong, Sekiro?” Another little hint of emotion, he did not like that Isshin had seen that and commented on it. Now, would he lie, or admit to it? And which would make that shadow in his eyes worse?

“...Just for a second, my… injury, hurt. More than it has. I… believe I need to talk to Lady Emma.”

“Go then! Emma knows what to do with severed limbs.” Isshin watched him leave, not using the prosthetic’s grappling hook like he had to get here. Not using the prosthetic at all, actually. He would have to ask Emma what had happened. He had not painstakingly arranged for this man to get to Kuro and helped him hone his talent for killing just for his arm to twinge a little and have him give everything up.

Wolf had opened the library window Kuro hadn’t been able to budge as soon as he was back, and talked to Kuro, and now was approaching Emma. He looked tenser than he had, had Isshin given him bad news? And he hesitated for a moment, before seemingly resigning himself.

“Something… happened, to the injury.” Emma fought to keep the shock off her face, Wolf was asking for medical help beyond the gourd? When she went to check in with Isshin would she find him cured, talking to a normal, sane Genichiro?

“Okay. We need to take the prosthetic off anyway, I need to check the bandages. What happened?” Wolf had been keeping his voice quiet; Kuro hopefully was too engrossed in reading to notice, and Emma stayed quiet as well.

“It felt like I touched metal held in a fire, with the cut part of my arm.” Emma frowned, helping him remove the prosthetic and the remainder of the kote, not touching the scarf he was overly protective of. Pain from the missing limb, that happened a lot, and he had said it felt like burning. And pain in the remaining limb, from being cut. Burning in the remaining limb was not normal.

Wolf tensed up when she started unwrapping bandages, too, but that was normal for him. There were clean bandages up here, at least, Emma didn’t want to reuse what she was unwrapping. She should have changed everything when he woke up, but there was no way he would have trusted her enough to let her. Nevermind that she had bandaged the arm in the first place and been changing it while he’d been unconscious, and worried that it never looked like it was healing, just not bleeding as much.

Now it did, it looked… like he had said, like someone had cauterized it. Which was normally what Emma would have done anyway, except the Dragon’s Heritage should have healed it completely.

“You were just talking with Isshin?”

“Yes.”

“...Well, it cauterized itself. I don’t know why. It’s still going to hurt- it might hurt more, for a while. I need you to stay here for a few hours, at least, in case something else happens.”

“I cannot. I have Lord Kuro’s orders to fulfil.” Like he hadn’t asked Emma to check his arm. “I will-”

“Not leave until tomorrow at earliest.” Loud enough Kuro heard, hopefully. “Give your arm some chance to heal, since it’s finally started to.” She ignored the dirty look that flashed across his face for a moment as she placed new bandages and helped replace the remains of the left kote that the prosthetic tied onto.

Kuro walked to the front of the library as Wolf pushed Emma’s hands away and finished tying on the prosthetic himself.

“Wolf, please, if you are in pain the ingredients can wait.” Kuro was frowning, one of his hands was fidgeting with the book he still held. “And you did just duel Genichiro. Everything can wait til tomorrow morning, Wolf.” Kuro was probably too far away to hear a bitten back sigh.

“Of course, my lord.”

Emma had her own quarters at night, and Kuro had blankets in this room and had insisted on giving Wolf one of them; he had insisted on giving Wolf several of them, actually, and it had taken a few minutes of careful discussion before Wolf convinced him not to, but he wouldn’t be budged on Wolf having at least one and continuing to refuse was inviting him to order Wolf to accept more. How much Kuro seemed to care for Wolf- Wolf, who had failed at Hirata, who had spent too long trying to find Kuro and get to Ashina, and then failed again immediately- was. Strange. It must have been because Wolf was the only person left from Hirata, this was not how masters treated their servants. At least Wolf would stay awake if he was here, stay on guard.

And he failed at that, too, jerking awake in the middle of the night, biting his tongue to stop a yell like he had with Isshin, feeling like his missing arm had been crushed. It was still gone. The pain persisted for a few minutes, before fading back to the burning pain he had been trying to tune out. Emma was not being told about this, if she came before he left in the morning; Wolf had a duty to his lord, and he did not want to be delayed again because she thought he couldn’t work through pain.

Genichiro, angrier already than he had been, stomped back down the passageway, snapping at the soldiers he had ordered to keep watch down here to pay attention. Senpou was a waste. The monks were easy enough to kill, not one of them could block a swing from him, but every bridge to the monastery was broken. What was he supposed to do, scale Mt Kongo itself just to get to the main hall?

So the black blade would have to do. Open Gate. The weaker of the blades, sure, but it was enough. It was closer too, easier to get to; why had he even bothered with Senpou Temple? He should have gone straight for it. Yes, Grandfather thought it was tied to his life, but no one really knew, just some shrine maiden twenty years ago wrote a lot of stuff on a scroll to justify keeping the sword. It was all speculation. And it was just in a shrine halfway to Hirata and north. And Dragon’s Heritage or not, it would kill the shinobi for good and Kuro wouldn’t have a choice, and with enough of the generals sharing immortality they would drive off the Interior Ministry.

...Here was the remains of the fire where he’d burned the arm. The bones looked blackened, but still recognizable. Genichiro stamped on them as he passed, splintering them into pieces, and continued out of the dungeons, back out of the castle, before it was light.

[sondrawr]

Where Monsters Dwell

“What kind of place is this?” “The kind of place where fairy tales live and monsters dwell.” —Smoke Bitten

Adam Hauptman is intimately acquainted with fear. It was born in a jungle in Vietnam and never quite left him. Even in his happiest moments—of which there were many, especially recently—it lurks in the fringes. Lying in wait.

When he sees Mercy broken on the burnt grass, seemingly dead, he feels that fear claw up his chest and strangle him. He blacks out for god knows how long, his worst fear playing like a feedback loop in his mind. It isn’t until Samuel, still wolf, bites him in the arm that he finally comes to.

That’s how Adam finds himself, naked and half covered in blood, cradling Mercy’s body. His pack huddles around him, worry creasing their faces. He feels the stink of his fear billowing out of him like smoke, choking everyone around him.

“She’s alive, damn it!” Gary finally manages to gasp. He is panting, voice raspy. How long had he been trying to tell him?

Adam reaches down into himself and feels for that thread-thin bond that connects him to his heart’s mate. It’s there, flickering. He grasps it in both hands, wrapping it around his wrist, anchoring himself to sanity. To her.

Mercy survives that night, like she has done so often before. But one day her luck will run out; his fear whispers the words he knows too well. She’s not like Coyote—damn the man—who resurrects like the sun every morning.

Adam hates beyond telling that her unconquerable spirit is wrapped in such an insubstantial thing as human skin and bones.

:::

Adam first met Mercy Thompson in Montana when she was about thirteen years old. He was up on business, Alpha of a New Mexico pack and newly engaged to a blonde, 22-year-old coed named Christy.

Mercy at the time, before the deaths of her foster parents robbed her of childhood, was still all scraped knees and awkward arms of adolescence. Jutting chin and slumped shoulders—defiant and bored.

There was a ghost of a bruise on her face from the accident where she wrapped Bran’s brand new sports car around a tree. He had heard of that incident within hours of it happening, as he suspected most wolves did, even across the ocean. Mercy’s antics were already famous.

She sat on a chair outside Bran’s office, the scuffed toe of her sneaker knocking into a leggy console table nearby. Looking at him sidelong, she had the air of someone waiting their turn at the principal’s office.

When the door finally opened to let him in, he asked, “What did she do this time?” He stepped around Bran to enter the office.

Bran’s mouth pressed flat in an irritated line, while Charles smirked in the corner. He was the one who answered: “Something about chocolate Easter bunnies.”

“She poisoned a group of boys at school,” Bran snapped, closing the door a little too roughly behind Adam.

“Really?” That seemed a bit extreme for the young girl, whose reputation for pranks were mostly harmless, if effective.

“She injected several chocolate Easter bunnies with ipecac,” Charles explained. “And then warned the boys not to steal them, or ‘they would pay.’ They, of course, did not listen. Apparently the boys had been in the habit of stealing the younger kids’ candy for a while.”

Adam laughed despite himself.

“She wants for discipline,” Bran said with a frown.

“Mercy has plenty of discipline,” Charles answered. “It’s the focus of it, that’s the problem. Her interests are too narrow and she has an overdeveloped sense of justice.”

“And her foster father can’t do anything?” asked Adam.

Charles smirked. “If Mercy were a wolf, I wouldn’t be surprised if she outranked him. Any good she does is out of love for Bryan and his mate, not because of fear or intimidation.”

That was, Adam realized, the principle by which Mercy lived her life. It was the driving force of all she did for her family and friends—the pack she forged for herself, not with magic ties but by fierce loyalty and reckless love.

:::

It has been months since she recovered from her devastating injuries. Injuries that Samuel said at first would be the end of her. Her survival is nothing short of a miracle and, Adam suspects, a bit of Coyote’s magic.

Now night holds new terrors for him. He lays in bed at night just listening to the steady beating of his mate’s fragile, mortal heart. Dreading the day when it would inevitably stop.

:::

Mercy was twenty-three when he next saw her in the middle of a Washington desert. Alone in the world but still causing trouble. The first order of business for his newly arrived pack was eliminating the rogue wolves who were harassing her. Saved without so much as a thank you.

Was it coincidence or conspiracy that brought her to the Tri-Cities when Bran had ordered Adam to move his pack north from New Mexico? Coincidence on her part probably, but definitely not Bran’s, whose machinations were wide reaching and infamous.

That Adam bought the property behind her trailer was pure, ornery spite on his part.

She had marched up to him on the first day of construction and stuck a finger in his chest. “Tell Bran that I don’t need a babysitter,” she told him, eyes flashing. “I’ve done fine for eight years without his help—I’m done with wolves.”

“Good to know,” he answered, because he knew that response would drive her crazy, and turned back toward the construction of his pack house. He imagined her making faces at the back of his head and smiled.

:::

He kisses a line down her body, pausing at the shiny-pink of each new scar. Scars she earned in defense of his pack—in defense of him.

And he knows his love is killing her.

Oh god, would her life be better without him? Yes, the fear—the monster—inside him says. Yessss. We will kill herrrrr.

Panic like bile rises in his throat, and he gulps it down. Beneath him Mercy tenses, sensing his change of mood. He murmurs quietly, nuzzling her, lulling her back into softness underneath him. His lovely Mercy. His mate, for who he would willingly lay down his soul, let alone his body.

Whom he would kill for. Without question.

This. This will be his goodbye, then.

He presses a kiss to her inner knee, to her neck, and then presses into her, drawing a sigh from her lips. With his own he continues his careful ministrations, whispering a benediction against every mark on her skin that dares to be there because of him.

:::

His touch is a disease. His touch is a curse.

He can’t bear lying next to her and not touching her, so he doesn’t. He stays late in his office. He sleeps in the spare guest room. It’s killing him, but every day she’s alive, and it’s worth it.

It’s killing him that she wanders the house with those empty eyes, a line of concern between her brows, the hurt and confusion that clearly marks her face.

But at least she is alive. And soon, it will be over.

:::

Adam’s favorite memory of Mercy—the one he thinks of before he puts the gun to his head—is of her in the wedding dress too fancy for the church reception that his pack and daughter put together. She’s dancing with Jesse, at the heart of the people he loved most in the world, swaying to a country song blasting from the church’s ancient speaker system. And she turns to him and smiles.

He can see it as clear as if it were right in front of him. There was so much love in her face then. How different are those faces, the one from his memory and the one Mercy wears at this moment, when she finally sees him for the monster he is.

But she is not disgusted and horrified, as he feared she would be. She is furious. She throws a barrage of words against him, her unfettered anger like a battering ram.

In the years Adam had known and loved Mercy, he has become intimately acquainted with her many moods. Sneaky, playful, worried, content. They were as familiar to him as the feel of Mercy’s calloused hands in his.

Her white hot rage was something entirely new. And through clenched teeth she seethes a truth so utterly profound, that in that moment it shatters the madness that grips him. He lowers the gun in his hand.

Three simple words they had spoken to each other again and again. Whispered in passion and in play. Promised—sworn.

“You are mine.”

:::

He believes her. And for now, so does the monster.

You are mine.

You are mine.

You are mine.

He follows her home, to bed. And though he can’t make love to her like he wants, he worships her body with oil and hands and mouth.

It isn’t until she is completely sated and asleep when the monster rips through his body again. A monster that he now realizes is the ugly marriage of his own fear and self loathing, and Elizaveta’s death curse.

But instead of hurting his mate like Adam fears, the monster scrabbles out from beneath the covers and huddles in the corner of the room. It sits there watching his mate, the covers rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing.

Within a few minutes, the even breaths stutter and stop. “Adam?” she calls, voice rough with sleep.

It’s the monster that growls in response, and Adam waits. It didn’t work, he thinks. The monster is still here. Will you finally leave me like you’re supposed to?

And still he remembers her promises: You are mine. You are mine. You are mine.

“For fuck’s sake,” she says sounding annoyed. “Get back to bed. I’m cold.”

Oh, my Mercy.

After a moment, the monster cautiously approaches the bed, and it creaks under the sudden weight. It wraps itself around her, tucking her head under its chin. She draws up the covers over them both, and they settle to sleep.

For the first time in a long time Adam prays. Let this be enough. This love. Let me be enough to keep her safe.

If God is kind and he is lucky, maybe it will be.

Maybe the monster will love her, too.

[blindbatalex]

an instalment in the carraville royalty au, courtesy of the raisin anon! (usual cws for referenced past character death and discussions of war)

Gary finds him in the garden, secluded in between rosebushes and neatly trimmed hedges, sitting on the bench dead centre in front of a fountain with two faceless soldiers as its centrepiece. The water flows from beneath their feet and continues downwards into three different levels before it ends up in a pond, where goldfish are swimming around, happily ignorant to the misery the man staring at them is feeling.

As far as hiding spots go, it’s a rather poor one, but Gary doubts Jamie sits in front of the fountain specifically commissioned to honour their dead loved ones in order to hide. More likely, Jamie knows he would be left alone.

A pang of guilt hits him for his reaction to learning the truth of David’s death if this is what it did to his husband. He needed to get out, needed to clear his head in peace, but he hadn’t been quite in his right mind when he rode out alone to the stronghold several days’ ride away to visit David’s crypt. Or when he continued on to the estuary, to the place one of the last bloody battles of the war had been fought. Where Jamie had plunged his sword through David’s middle.

He didn’t know what he hoped he would get from the excursion. Perhaps a sense of closure, perhaps he half expected David’s ghost to pop up somewhere along the way, perhaps he just had a desperate need to do something , and riding to his late husband’s place of death was the only thing he could think of. What he got instead was his heart screaming at him to go home, to see Jamie, to face this pain, like all others, head on together.

And so go home he did.

Jamie’s face looks gaunt and drawn from what he can see, his shoulders hunched and his fingers are clutching tightly at his tunic, in what Gary suspects is an attempt at stopping them from shaking. He looks, almost like he did the first few weeks after the wedding, when his guard was down and feelings raw, coming to the realization that this was to be for the rest of his life. The lost, empty look in his eyes did not suit him, and Gary despised of often it used to make an appearance. He finds himself now hating it more than ever.

The gravel crunches underneath his feet as walks towards him, and Jamie’s head shoots up to see who dares intrude on his miserable solitude, a command to leave him be ready almost even before he can register who it is.

“Hi, James,” he says, not entirely sure what to expect. A few days ago, Jamie would’ve been searching for forgiveness. What he is now Gary does not know. After disappearing for days on end without much of a word neither here nor there, he would not deem a cold shoulder entirely unfair.

“Thought you might be here”, he continues on and takes a few steps closer to the bench where Jamie’s sitting.

Jamie keeps looking at him with wide eyes, bloodshot and tired, almost like he expects Gary to be a mirage soon to disappear into thin air.

“You’re back”, he croaks out eventually, his voice hoarse from what might be days of being unused. It most likely is.

“Yeah”

Gary sits down beside him, keeping a careful distance, and stares at the two figures in the middle of the fountain. It was one of the first things they had worked together and agreed on, this little private memorial of their late husbands. It was a symbol of their old lives, their old selves, but somewhere along the way, Gary had come to appreciate it as the beginning of their lives together, and that from even the most broken and bruised beings, beautiful things could learn to grow.

“Where d’you go?” Jamie asks. Gary looks at him, but Jamie’s not meeting his eyes, rather looking at his fingertips and willing them to stop shaking. Gary reaches out without realizing it and takes Jamie’s hands between his own and keeps them still.

“To the crypt, and then to the West Bank,” he says but chooses not to elaborate. He can explain his travel route later and he doesn’t need Jamie to know how many tears he’d shed over the past few days anyway.

“James, listen. I am sorry for leaving as I did. I needed to clear my head, but I shouldn’t have left you here unknowing for such a long time. That wasn’t fair of me,” he begins. It’s easier, apologizing for leaving, rather than mentioning the very reason it. Hurts less. He's not normally one to run away from what he does not want to face, because they tend to catch up anyway. But this, this he would put in a chest and bury ten feet into the ground if he could, gone and forgotten and never to be seen again.

After the wedding, when everything seemed so bleak, unknowing and unintended they had coaxed each other out of the numbness and indifference to the evils of the world, learned to see the flowers and feel the sun again together. If wanting to suppress any knowledge of David's death and go back to that for just a moment was cowardice then a coward he would be, even if he knows it is an impossible dream.

He tries to catch Jamie’s eyes, but they keep averting his own, looking anywhere and everywhere but Gary’s face.

“S’all right, I knew you’d be back soon enough,”Jamie says.

“You did ?”

“Part of the treaty, no? Our marriage is vital for keeping the peace. Your sense of duty is too strong to leave, no matter the circumstances” He says it like it’s practised, like it’s a reasoning he’s been telling himself ever since Gary rode out, a cold truth no one could argue with.

For all the laughter, all the smiles and jokes and joy. For all the happiness they, against the odds, have shared since their wedding day, Jamie had stripped it all back, to the baseline of it all, to the one reason they are set to be companions for the rest of their lives. Commitment to a cause, not a person. Honouring a treaty, not a holy institution.

Duty, not love.

Jamie heaves a sigh and keeps going.

“I am sorry you ended up here, Gary. You could’ve been happy, hadn’t it been for me.”

Gary doesn’t know what to say. It's not the way he up and left with no word that has made Jamie miserable. Apologising for it's not what's going to make it better. He thinks about the ten obelisks out on the moor by the mountains that separate their kingdoms, the names carved into the stone in memory of the soldiers who gave their lives to the war. How many of those names are there because Gary shot an arrow through their hearts or commanded his troops to fire. How many children in the villages died of famine because the grain went to feed his men. How many had become widowers, orphans and alone because of him and his decisions.

He hadn’t been the one to deliver the killing blow to Jamie’s Stevie. But he had sent arrows through a number of throats non-the-less. Red and black-feathered, gold heads dipped in Devil’s Venom. There were those out there who mourned lives he had taken.

“I killed people in the war too,” he says, eventually.

There are other words he can say, words that could make it better, make Jamie see it’s not only about duty anymore, but he doesn’t have them. Not yet. Not for a while. They are there, somewhere inside him. Floating around in his heart and his head and his stomach and bones. But he doesn’t know how to piece them together and speak them into existence.

His grip is firm around Jamie’s hands, the only kind of comfort he can manage, and he can feel Jamie gripping tightly back. He looks at them, sees the hands that killed David, sees the hands that hold him through his nightmares. Wants to be angry at him for giving him so much pain, while he knows Jamie is the only one now who can help him chase that pain away. Wishes he could run away but knows he’d only want to return back as soon as he’s past the gates.

He tries to remember what his mother had told him when he was little and came home with scraped elbows and tears in his eyes. It will heal, my lad. Her smile was always as warm as the sun. Give it time and it will heal.

In the years since, he’d learn that it sometimes takes more than time, and sometimes that’s not enough either. But he lets his mother’s words wash over him as he did as a small lad, wills them to be true like they used to always be.

We will heal, he decides and pretends it’s that easy. He looks at Jamie, his hunched shoulders and empty eyes, knows they can fight their way through this as well.

Give us time, and we will heal.

[kareofbears]

plainly in truth, chapter 4/5

“Without you around, it’s sorta like stuff is just kinda…bleh.”

—

Or: hiding, confiding, and misguiding.

read on ao3 or below the cut

Niijima Makoto doesn’t know what she’s doing.

It’s rare, but it happens. Sometimes she doesn’t understand the material in university. Sometimes the trains close down before she can catch the last one. Sometimes she has a breakdown because what does it mean that the system that got her father killed is the same one that she’s working so hard to get into.

But there’s always a way to find a solution—ask the professor after lecture. Call Sae and, as humiliating as it was, ask for a ride home. Convince herself that maybe she’s what the system needed in order to get real change. (She’s not quite there yet.)

She doesn’t know what she’s doing with Ryuji, and the internal tug-of-war is almost getting too much for her.

Makoto can help him; how many students has she worked with to help get them back on their feet? But each of those students she had tutored wanted help—she didn’t need to convince them to focus on school. How do you convince someone to get academic help? Duct tape them to a chair and show them a PowerPoint about how their life can fall apart if they don’t take this seriously? Then she’d be blatantly ignoring his mental struggle, and be no better than the adults who want to push kids through a meat grinder that’s the education system and turn them into mindless workers, existing solely to earn them profit.

Then she can leave him alone. That’s what he wants, anyway, and it’s by far the simplest option.

However, if she leaves him alone, would that mean that she’s still the same person who let Shujin students sell themselves to Kaneshiro? Convinced that they can handle it on their own, but only letting their debts pile higher and higher on themselves until they get crushed?

Sudden laughter and shouting from behind pulls Makoto back to reality. They were all in a heated game of Tycoon, and it sounds like Akira’s been on a winning streak for the past half hour.

She grips the steering wheel tighter, forcing herself to focus on the road and not the whirlwind of thoughts. The highway is nearly empty, despite the sun being high in the sky, not a single cloud blocking its rays. They’re on their way to Okinawa, and it’s her turn to drive.

Makoto may not know what she’s doing, but she can at least do this.

—

Okumura Haru has always had a bit of a guilt complex.

It started with refusing to give her hand to an abusive man for her also abusive father’s business, and it had only escalated even further once she realized that it’s technically her fault that her father had been killed; that one in particular had been crippling. Not only because he died due to her poor decision making, but it was another reason why the Thieves had fallen for Shido’s trap last year.

She respects herself enough now to understand that most of it is misplaced, but it doesn’t erase any of the guilt she still carries today. Far from it—that guilt has only grown to be bigger, looming over her as if it were ready to consume every inch of her body and spit out a bag of bones.

This situation, though, she can’t help but feel that her guilt isn’t quite as misplaced as she likes to convince herself it is.

They were all having lunch at the ferry’s restaurant; it’s small, given how little people want to go all the way out to Okinawa, but it’s still selling ludicrously overpriced coffee and pastries. Nobody seems to mind, though. All of them were sharing one cheese omelette, each with a plastic fork in hand, tapping them against each other to get the best piece and assert dominance like animals at a watering hole.

A way to soothe guilt is to somehow find a way to remedy the situation. Employees of Big Bang Burger have been unionized, her father is now remembered for the man he was rather than the man he became, Sugimura has long since been a problem (how he stopped being a problem, she legally cannot speak about), and Shido isn’t even in the public’s conscious anymore.

But for Ryuji, there is no way to soothe that guilt. Not in a way that matters.

It’s not just because Haru had essentially been the reason why too many people know his secret, but because the secret should have never happened in the first place. She’s his senpai, she was supposed to be the one looking out for him. Ryuji was struggling, mentally and academically, and she hadn’t realized it until it was far too late. He had been there for her, ready to knock Sugimura’s teeth into his throat, but she couldn’t have done the same for him when it truly mattered.

How do you soothe that guilt? Buy out the entire school? Forge his grades? More cram books? That’s ridiculous.

There’s no way to soothe that guilt, she realizes, because the only real way to do that was to turn back time.

—

Kitagawa Yusuke understands pride better than most people.

Without a cent to his name for most of his life, pride was all he had. Pride of being the pupil of someone great, pride of turning money away in the name of art. Being able to withstand enormous pressure and stick to his guns has always been one of his strongest abilities.

They’re in the Okinawa jail, tearing through Shadows and screaming Sophia’s name, over and over again until all of their throats are torn raw. He calls for Goemon, and ice crawls over the narrow corridors of the facility like ants covering every inch of a buffet. They’re all strong, because they have to be, but the Shadows here are cunning; fast and magic-infused, drunk on the strange, thick air that’s bled into every inch of cement in this building.

But pride can be an unforgiving catalyst that can change you from the inside out, like a parasite hijacking your brain stem and compels you to bow down to it. He had refused to see the truth, turned a blind eye to the evils of his sensei, and it made him into a lesser version of himself. It had made him weaker.

A crack of lightning strikes, emanating light so bright that he instinctively raises a hand to block it out. When it dims, any smell of the cold, dry air is gone—in its place is the distinct scent of ozone wafting around him, and a light buzz that settles atop his skin like a second layer. The hair on his nape stands, but Yusuke’s positive it didn’t come from the electricity still buzzing from the ashes of the Shadows.

Ryuji had obliterated all of their foes with one, clean strike.

—

Takamaki Ann can tell that something’s off.

Her toes are buried deep in hot sand, taking refuge under their big umbrella. The sun is just about setting over the horizon, casting an orange glow on her skin, and she idly hopes that she had put on enough sunscreen. They’ve tired themselves out for the most part; some were taking naps on beach towels, some had retired back to the RV where air conditioning awaits them.

Only Akira and Ryuji were left, standing where the sand meets the tide, water lapping at their ankles. She couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but she recognized the look on Akira’s face—with his glasses hanging from his button up, his eyes sparkled brighter than the ocean does, not quite smiling but his lips are curled up as if unable to completely restrain itself. It’s the look he reserves for Ryuji.

She digs her feet deeper into the sand, enjoying the way it tickles her calves. Ann’s been thinking about this whole thing in her head ever since she found out the truth, and something just isn’t adding up.

As absolutely insane as it all is, if she closes one eye, tilts her head, and slams her head against a wall, she can sort of, kind of, maybe understand where he’s coming from. She’s known him too long not to. The whole actively lying to his friends thing is still unforgivable, but the need to hide it? Understandable. She barely scraped by second-year herself with a prayer and English-speaking parents, and even then her grades are nothing to write home about.

Ann could barely believe that Ryuji really thought that Akira would leave him over something as stupid as flunking school, but even that she can understand, too. Everyday, she wants to be a better person for Shiho, and everyday, she goes to bed thinking that she didn’t try hard enough. Ann gets it. Love screws with your brain, swirls it up until you can barely stand up straight, and definitely messes with your perception of yourself. Ridiculous, crazy, but still somewhat coherent.

There’s still one piece in this whole puzzle that hasn’t clicked yet, and it’s been bugging her ever since that night in the cafe.

As perceptive as he is, as smart and observant and unstoppable as he is, as kind and knowledgeable as he is, as much as he adores Ryuji to the moon and back—

Why hasn’t Akira said anything yet?

—

Sakura Futaba knows that something’s off.

As the navigator, she sees everything she needs to make sure her team makes it out of every battle alive and victorious. Necronomicon can see stuff that no one else can, can predict two, three, four moves before it can happen. She eats stats for breakfast and spits out results by second breakfast. She knows her team’s moveset like the back of her hand and then some. Futaba takes this seriously, because if she doesn’t, someone’s not walking out alive.

The best part is that she’s good at this. So good that the eternal worrywart, Joker himself, can still walk out of the Metaverse with a head of thick, black hair.

But something’s been off. She felt it in her bones and that feeling only gets more prominent with every passing Jail—no, not even Jail. With every battle, that feeling only gets stronger in her gut.

When it started is still a mystery to her, but she started picking up on it in Sapporo. Sapporo. Her mom told her never to pray, but by god she’s hoping that it started in Sapporo, because this—this thing, is too big to have missed.

Futaba isn’t sure what it is yet, but she has no idea what’s happening with Ryuji.

To be more specific, she has no idea what’s happening with Captain Kidd, but that’s basically the same thing; Personas are the extension of the user, I am thou, et cetera. The weirdest part is, she knows something’s off, but she doesn’t know if it’s necessarily a problem.

It’s as if Ryuji’s been hitting the gym while they weren’t looking, or giving Kidd a stern talking to. His attacks, which used to be around the same baseline as the rest of the team, is nearly outputting double the amount of damage than the rest of them. His hits are buffed to the wazoo on a level she’s never seen before in any other Persona user, even Akira.

She’s considered bringing it up with him dozens of times. The two of them have to be honest with each other, not because they love and respect each other or any of that bullcrap—it’s because it’s the only way anything can ever function in the team. Between the navigator and the leader, if they ever hide anything from the other, no matter how small, things would never run smoothly. Or worse: it’ll crash and burn.

And then Ryuji comes along and makes them all take a blood oath to never, ever tell Akira a really big secret.

Technically, she doesn’t see an issue with it. It’s more of an unspoken rule than any kind of signed contract, and it’s mostly about Metaverse stuff instead of real world problems. She’s not eagerly telling Akira about her private Pixiv account or anything. But it’s not impossible to think that Ryuji being strong enough to be wearing ten Gilded Vests stacked on top of each other is somehow connected to his very real, very heart-affecting situation. If she really thought it was a problem, she’d tell Akira right away. It’s better to have Ryuji hate her than to have him dead.

But when she sees Akira’s face flash with relief in Akane’s Jail when Ryuji all but annihilates a mega-super-high level Shadow, one that Akira’s been stressing about the entire time since they’ve been here despite him trying his best to act cool about it because he has to be, it’s kinda hard to consider this to be a problem at all.

—

Between Konoe’s attacks and relentless bolts of ions getting shot up every few seconds, the static is so thick in the air that their hairs are all frayed and heading skywards.

The blast from Konoe’s mech, once a symbol of their triumph and had pulled no small amount of whoops and cheers from their throats, is only the first stage of their fated battle. They hadn’t planned for an extra phase, and the only reason they were able to escape was that steam from the busted metal and machinery had given them a few seconds of cover.

All of them are huddled behind a wall, outlined with neon blue that only served to blend them in with the futuristic technicholar that is the Osaka Jail.

“We’re clear,” Makoto announces, voice low as she returns from peeking around the corner. “No chance he knows our location.”

“Thank you Queen,” Akira says, mask pushed far up his head, clear eyes rapidly checking over each of his teammates, nodding. “Good work out there with the mech, now let’s figure this one out. What do we know?”

“Not a lot,” Futaba’s goggles reflect data as her fingers dance over the screen. “If we assumed that his weaknesses would be the same as his mech, then it would be lightning and nuclear.”

“Only if we assume that his physical form reflects his robotic form,” Yusuke points out. “What are the odds that that’s the case?”

Morgana taps his paw on the ground, deep in thought. “High, I’d say. Remember, he didn’t even think anyone could actually get into his Jail. He was worried enough to give himself two forms, but I doubt he’d go much deeper than that in terms of protection.”

“Look, my math might be a little off,” Ryuji starts. “But it’s literally a ten-on-one, right? I vote we kick his ass from the get go.”

Akira grips his arm. “Don’t. It might be a ten-on-one, but I don’t want to be walking out of here with only nine or less. We take this slow, like we always do.”

“...Fine.”

“What I’m worried about is that big sword of his,” Ann says grimly. “It looks like one hit from that thing I can kiss my entire torso goodbye.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Eyes flickering to Futaba, Akira asks, “Possible defenses?”

“I’m not seeing anything special from it other than it’s huge and sharp and could kill us if he really wanted to, which, he does. So it looks like it’s physical, unless he has something up his sleeve.”

“Which he probably does, because that’s just how things usually go for us,” Ann sighs.

“We’ll go with what we know.” Akira gets on his feet, taking another peek, black coattails swishing around his ankles. With blood-red hands he pulls his mask back down, and they all straighten up. His voice is barely above a mutter, but they all catch every word he says. “Panther, how’s your energy?”

“Nearly full,” she answers.

“Use Concentrate on Queen and Skull on their call, double their magical attack whenever you can. I know it takes awhile to reuse when you’re using it for anyone but yourself, but try your best. Ryuji, how you holding up?”

“Like everything’s zero gravity, leader.”

“Then I want you to do the same with Charge for Fox, Noir, and yourself. Don’t overdo it though—only do it on my call.”

“Got it.”

“Sophie, Morgana: healing duty. Especially for those of you who drain your health like an open tap. Noir, try to get a vantage point and use Milady’s arsenal. Catching Konoe off guard can be what we need. Oracle, watch our backs. Everyone else, on standby. Are we all clear?”

With a nod, Akira takes a deep breath. “Then let’s get this show on the road.”

He takes the first step, knowing full well that ten more are right behind him.

The minute Konoe spots where they were hiding, he takes a slow pace towards them, confident in his own abilities. He swings his lightsaber around him with ease, footsteps heavy and sure.

They take his lethargy to their advantage. “Split!” Akira calls, and immediately they head to where they need to be. “Let’s take this nice and—”

In a split second, the unhurried pace that Konoe was taking dissipates and he dashes forward, a blur to their eyes, heading straight for Ann, who just barely dodges out of the way.

“What the hell?!”

“He’s fucking fast now!”

“This guy’s speed just cranked up!” Futaba yells. “If he could do that without me even realizing it, then who knows—”

“Stay sharp, we know what we’re doing.”

“How on earth are you still so calm, Joker?!”

“Because I believe in all of you.” Dashing left, he brushes his mask. “Neko Shogun, help me out.” A black cat with eyes bigger than his hand materializes from the monochrome mask, and they all suddenly feel lighter on their feet, ready to dodge anything that comes their way. “Queen, Skull.”

“Roger that!”

Makoto scales one of the neon walls, grip strength insurmountable, and runs across the wires that are tied from each platform, boots barely touching the cord, before jumping down. “Johanna!”

An explosion, or something more akin to a nuclear bomb getting set off mere meters in front of them, occurs where Makoto lands, hitting Konoe head-on.

He staggers back, obviously shaken but he recovers quickly. Lightsaber buzzing red, he’s about to strike at her when she hops on the back of Johanna, engine revving. “Lucky us, he’s weak to nuclear.”

Ryuji hops on his feet, hyping himself up. “Not all of us have cars for a quick getaway,” he snarks, before he’s gone, sprinting so fast that he’s nearly a blur to anyone looking his way. Racing behind a wall, he gets the jump on Konoe. “Come on out, Captain!”

A storm brews even without a single cloud over them as ozone reeks and lightning strikes, the deafening sound of thunder makes their ears ring.

“Holy crap,” Futaba breathes.

“Is he weak?” he asks.

“Uh,” Ann says. Konoe uses his lightsaber as a makeshift cane to get himself on his feet, shaking his head aggressively. “Yeah, I’d say he’s weak to it.”

“Comms are set,” Futaba announces. “Noir, can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Oracle,” a bright voice chirps in their ears. “Joker, it’s an easy shot.”

“Take it.”

“With your help, Milady.”

The unmistakable sound of a gunshot rings out, and their heads swivel to see if it hit, but there’s no one there.

“What the...?” Ann wildly spins around, eyes widening. “Sophie—!”

Without turning her head back, Sophia instinctively ducks sideways, bits of red locks falling to the ground as Konoe’s lightsaber slices through the edges of her hair, and again when it grazes past her head, and another when it slices through the metal flooring like it was butter.

Panic grips her. “Pithos!” Sophia shrieks, voice high with fear. Blinding light shines from her hands, but Konoe walks into it like it was nothing.

Yusuke grips his katana, and silent as a gust of wind on a winter’s night, cuts through the air in front of him to deliver a myriad of slashes over Konoe. It does little to him, but it’s jarring enough that Sophia can escape where she was cornered.

“He’s very speedy,” Sophia says shakily. “Thank you, Fox.”

He nods, touching his mask in preparation. “That speed is nothing to jest about.”

“And we can’t do anything about it by just standing here! Makoto, back me up here.” Ann throws her mask in the air. “Carmen!”

“Find me an opening, and I’ll handle the rest,” Haru’s voice crackles.

“She’s right.” Akira touches his mask as it burns bright with the strength of dozens, maybe even hundreds of Personas. “She needs cover, and we need the element of surprise. Fox, Morgana.”

“Not a word more.”

“You got it!”

Ann takes a leaf from Makoto’s book, using her whip to grapple herself onto a ledge, running to take the high point behind Konoe, grazing Haru’s shoulder on the way there.

Konoe turns, but before he can take a counter measure, Akira calls out: “King Frost.”

At the same time, Yusuke says, voice loud and clear: “Goemon!”

Together, pillars of ice, meters and meters high surround Konoe, high enough that he can’t see anything past a few feet. But that height comes with a price; they can only make it so thick, and the lightsaber didn’t hesitate to crush it into bits.

“Panther, we don’t have too much time.” Already, sweat begins to pool and roll down Akira’s skin, using up his magic rapidly. “Are you in position?”

“Just—” she hops, heels clicking rapidly against the floor. “—About! Ten seconds!”

“We can hold it. Sophia, stay close on standby.”

“Understood!”

Motorcycle wheels screech next to Ryuji, and he doesn’t hesitate to hop on the back before they’re off again, leaving tire marks where they skirted off. “I swear to god, you play the racing games in the arcade. How the hell else would you get so good at this?”

“Would you shut up?” Makoto snaps.

“Roger that.”

“I’m in position!” Ann announces. She’s almost directly on top of the ice pillar. “On your signal.”

Gritting his teeth, Akira wipes the sweat away. “Hold.”

Yusuke swivels his head to him, knees shaking. “I can hold for as long as you need me to, but I might not be as much use afterwards.”

“It’s fine.” His eyes narrow at Konoe, still tearing through their ice blockade as the pile of shards only gets higher and higher. “Just a little bit longer. Sophia, use the biggest, most pinpoint bless move you have on my word.”

“Yes,” she responds, before hesitating. “He’s immune to it, I’m afraid.”

“I know.” Even Akira sounds breathless, his footing becoming unsteady.

“Joker, you don’t have much left,” Futaba warns. “You better hope this ends things, or we’re gonna have a real big problem on our hands.”

Once the shards of ice have piled high enough that it would surpass Konoe’s height twice over, and despite his hands beginning to turn blue, Akira's grin is wide. “Three—”

Yusuke’s vision begins to blur, but he refuses to relinquish Goemon.

“Two—”

Haru rearranges her finger on the trigger, palms drenched in sweat but they don’t shake. Not anymore.

“One—”

Ann takes a few steps back, sucking in a breath before sprinting forward, jumping straight over the open-chasm of ice and death beneath her.

“Now!”

Carmen releases a blaze of flame intense enough to encompass an entire neighborhood and then some, taking the shards and bits of ice that was piled high on top of each other and turning it into a cloud of fog and hot mist, shooting straight up and turning the visibility of the whole area to zero.

Yusuke crumbles to his knees as Ann tucks and rolls onto the floor, hissing as she feels her ankle twist into something nasty. “Shit!”

Akira staggers back, gripping his head like it hurts for him to stand, but that doesn’t stop him from yelling out: “Sophia!”

“Makougan!”

Like a lighthouse in the middle of a storm, there shines a beam of light so bright, so concentrated into one area, that they all know exactly where to aim their fire.

It all comes tumbling down, a perfectly set-up domino trap; Haru pulls trigger after trigger, bullet shells flying, ignoring the way her shoulder is inching further and further from where it’s supposed to be by taking the brunt of the recoil. Ryuji hops off the bike, crossing his arms in front of him calling two, three, four bolts as Makoto calls another nuclear blast.

From inside the whirlpool of thick clouds, where the fog is most dense, a figure sways, coughing and lurching forwards and back, trying desperately to escape.

“Oh no you don’t! Zorro!”

Wind, so thick you can almost see it, swirls around most of the mist, locking it in and dragging everyone else’s attacks right in the center.

Futaba’s clacking can be heard even now. “He’s losing health fast! Eighty percent, seventy percent, sixty—”

The ground trembles ominously.

“What in the world…?” Yusuke pants from the ground, elbows barely able to keep his torso up.

It happens again, stronger this time.

“Fifty, forty—” she continues, voice small and desperate. “Thirty! Twenty!”

Akira presses his palm against the ground, eyes closed before snapping open. Despite his exhaustion, he compels himself to stand, arms outstretched defensively. “Guard!”

They do so, and a streak of pure light flickers from the inside, before rapidly getting larger and larger until it turns into a scintillating sphere that grew and pulsed, eating up everything in its wake and blowing away the captivating fog. Try as they might, there’s nothing they can do to stand up against a Megidolaon.

Bruised and battered, Konoe stands tall as the Phantom Thieves can do nothing but look up from the ground, energy and options all but dried up until neither was left.

—

“Stop, I can walk, let me up—”

“Panther, stop struggling, your ankle is already too injured to—”

“Fuck! Oracle, does he know where we are?”

“Not yet; looks like that vanish ball Joker threw out gave us some cover but it’ll last for a way shorter time considering he blew through our plan in less than—”

“Whoa, Fox, you’re not looking good.”

“I’m afraid I can’t keep going, everyone. Goemon has reached his limit, but I don’t necessarily need him to keep fighting. Judging by my vision, however, my accuracy might be much lower than usual.”

“Man, shut up and stay down.”

“Sophia? Can you hear us?”

“Yes, but—ow!”

“Okay, stop moving, you’re only going to make it worse.”

“Joker, we still have plenty of items that we’ve accumulated from previous Jails. We don’t have much time before he can find us again, but if we put our heads together—”

“Are you talking about the scraps of grilled corn and the three life stones we have left? It would be suicide. We have to go in, guns blazing. It’s the only way it can work.”

“You’re talking about suicide, Mona, and the ‘guns blazing’ strategy you’re talking about would be literally lead to us serving our heads on a silver platter.”

“So what’s your plan, Queen? I’m all ears, I’m serious.”

“G-guys, stop fighting! We’ve barely got enough time as is. Just let me scan—”

“We’re pulling back.”

All eyes turn to Akira, posture straight despite the sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead. It’s obvious how he was barely able to stand.

Ryuji takes a step forward. “Are you crazy?”

"More than half of us are running on fumes, and half of those people are injured to the point where they can barely keep going. Our plan was shattered like it was nothing, he has a super move that’s so powerful that it tears through our defenses like tissue paper. We’re retreating.”

“Like hell we are! Do you know what’s gonna happen if we leave?”

“We heal our injuries, we get more items, we prepare better this time, and we come up with a better plan.”

“And that gives that bastard—” he jerks his thumb behind him. “The exact same advantage.”

“And what advantage do we have?” Akira’s voice is calm but they all feel the edge to it. “Who can even fight?”

“I can,” Morgana answers quietly. “He takes wind like concrete, though.”

“So can I. However, I can’t do as much as I normally can.” Haru rolls her shoulder, wincing. “I may have dislocated my shoulder earlier.”

“And me, obviously,” Ryuji finishes. “That’s nearly an entire team. We even have support and a distance shooter, and Futaba’s still in this too, so—”

“No.”

“What?”

“I said no,” he says, hard. “Don’t be stubborn about this. You know damn well why we can’t.”

Akira turns on his heel, only the slightest wobble in his movements. “Let’s move out. We only have thirty seconds left before the vanish ball wears off.”

“We’re not leaving.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Is it because you’re not on the team?”

A hush falls on them, and for a second, everyone forgets that they were even in the middle of a battle.

Akira glances back, hair covering his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Ryuji takes another step forward, chin tilted up. “That you don’t think that we can handle this without you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it really? When was that last time you weren’t on the A team, Joker? Does anyone remember?” He glances at the rest of them. “Anyone? No? Yeah, I figured.”

He stares at him. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?”

“I just don’t like that you’re implying that I can’t do shit for myself.”

“Ryuji…” Ann tries quietly.

“Yourself?” He faces him, expression blank. “I thought this was about the team.”

“And I’m part of the team, ain’t I?”

“You’re not dragging the rest of them into your petty, nonsensical argument, Skull,” Akira goes toe-to-toe with him, neither one blinking. “That’s final.”

“You know it would be dumb as shit to give that guy even more time to prepare. It’s like Shido—he was the toughest guy we went up against because he gave himself a billion counter measures since he knew we were coming. Konoe barely knew jack but he handed our asses to us. We finish this now or we don’t finish this at all.”

“I’d rather lose the battle than lose my friends,” he hisses. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“You’re too fucking blind to see that this is more than just us, leader,” Ryuji spits the word. “I can do it—no, I will do it.”

Akira grabs the bandana around his neck. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” he says through gritted teeth. “But you’re not going anywhere near Konoe.”

But it’s useless, and they both know it—Akira’s far too drained and Ryuji’s far too strong for it to be much more than an empty threat.

Ryuji wraps his fingers around his wrist. “I’ll prove to you that I can fucking do this,” his grip is tight, before forcibly peeling Akira’s grasp from him. “Believe in me. I’m strong, Akira.”

“Don’t do this.” Any anger from his words dissipates, and desperation takes its place. “I’m commanding you, as the leader of the Phantom Thieves of Hearts—do not do this.”

With a wide grin and lightning behind his eyes, Ryuji’s gone, and Akira’s hand is grasping thin air.

“Fuck,” he clutches at his head, body shaking with exertion. “Fuck.”

“Oh my god,” Makoto breathes. “He’s going to fight Konoe alone.”

“Over my dead body,” Akira touches his mask. “Come out, Yoshits—” Before he can finish, a gutteral sound from deep in his throat cuts him off, and he crashes ungracefully on the ground. “God dammit.”

Makoto shakes herself out of her stupor, taking a deep breath. “Alright, we can’t leave Skull. We’ll work with what we have.” Instinctively, she looks to Akira for advice, but his eyes are glazed over. Whether or not it’s from exhaustion or shock from what happened, she doesn’t know. “Noir, range attack. Shoot down the broken limbs from the mech, pray it still has nuclear running through its pipes. Mona, you’ll be on the support. Noir is already down in health, and Lord knows Skull’s going to need it. I’m down energy wise, but I have a good visual from above.” Eyes sliding sideways. “Oracle?”

“Comms are set up, I’m scanning for weaknesses, and Skull’s almost there,” she replies instantly. “If you’re going to join him, it’s now or never.”

“Alright.” Makoto swallows. “Everyone else, stay back. You two—go.” Morgana and Noir dart out.

“Thank you,” Akira says quietly. “I was just…out of it.”

“You don’t have to explain. That was…” she trails off when he looks up at her. His gaze in the Metaverse is sharp, always sharp, but now they’re dull. From knives to pebbles.

“Why did he do this?” he whispers. “What did I do wrong?”

The floor begins to rumble again, and they all lean over the edge to watch the battle playout.

“Everyone’s in position,” Yusuke narrates with a frown. “I don’t doubt Skull’s skill, but even at our full power, Konoe couldn’t be beaten.”

“He’s there,” Makoto says, and Akira watches, perfectly still. “He’s about to hit first.”

Ann leans forward, as they all did, at how Ryuji calls Kidd, voice ringing so loud they can hear it from where they sat on top of a wall. “Can he really do it?”

“Well,” Futaba heaves a deep sigh. “He’s right that this is probably our best shot, considering that we already got Konoe down to twenty percent of his health.”

Captain Kidd materializes, and his cannon is leaning back, glowing with power, and Konoe takes a step sideways, about to dodge.

“But Ryuji isn’t the same fighter that he was before.”

Instead of shooting forward, the cannon is swiftly raised skyward and thunder cracks before lightning strikes Konoe, followed by Ryuji lifting his pipe and slamming it straight into his skull and dodging just as another Megidolaon grows where he stood.

All of them stare, wide-eyed, at the spectacle before them like it was a sporting match; a back and forth happens, where Konoe would use his immense speed and power to try and get the leg up on Ryuji, but he would only hit thin air as he dodges and parries, shifting and ducking with a finesse they’ve never seen before, calling up Kidd and using electricity so potent that they feel can its static. Konoe grips his saber and swings and swings, triple-attack rolled into one but everytime he tries he only gets cut off when Ryuji slams his hand into the ground and calls dozens of wildly waving purple hands, each of them clawing at Konoe mercilessly.

“I knew he was stronger than he was before,” Makoto’s eyes are wide with wonder. “But it's like I don’t even recognize him.”

Ions and plasma strike as lightning meets saber, causing a violent cascade of sparks to fly frantically around the two of them. Bullets ring out whenever Konoe takes a step back, only to send him flying as a mini nuclear blast explodes behind him; Haru’s aim is impeccable.

This dance plays out for a long time, with Ryuji calling earth-shaking attacks and dancing around Megidolaons while Haru finds weak spots.

“Has he grown even faster?” Yusuke wonders aloud.

Futaba is struggling to watch all the data, attention straying to watch the fight. “He’s shaved off another ten percent off his health!”

“He’s incredible,” Ann says, awe-struck. “Isn’t he, Joker? He’s totally kicking his ass, pretty much by himself.”

“There’s something wrong.”

She peels her eyes away from below to stare at him, perplexed. “Things couldn’t be any better.”

Akira’s eyes are trained on Ryuji, on the way he’s limboing, countering every single attack rather than guarding. “I’ve seen his style since the very first day he got his Persona, and I’ve never seen him dodge so fluently. So desperately,” he says, eyes narrowed. “Something changed. And I didn’t notice.”

“Guys, am I crazy,” Morgana’s voice crackles in their ear. “Or is he really, really good at dodging attacks? I’ve only healed Noir this entire time, and she’s not even down there.”

“I just think he’s being cautious,” Haru replies, cocking her gun before continuing her assault. “Oracle? Report, please.”

“Five percent left,” they all hear the grin in her voice. “He’s actually going to do it.”

“Panther.” Ann blinks at Akira. “Help me up.”

She does, pushing his shoulders up until he’s sitting straight. “Needed a better view of him being a badass?” she teases.

Instead of answering, his gaze focuses, irises turning into a bright shade of blue.

Third eye, she registers with surprise. “We already know his stats.”

“I don’t care about Konoe’s,” his brow furrows slightly. “I care about his.”

“Two percent!” Futaba calls gleefully.

Suddenly, air catches in Akira’s throat. “What?” Ann startles.

“His endurance,” his voice shakes so intensely that she almost can’t understand what he’s saying. “His endurance.”

“What? What does that mean? Joker?” He tries pushing himself on his feet, crumbling and spewing obscenities when he can’t. “What are you doing? There’s nothing you can do, and Mona’s already got the healing taken care of.”

“One percent!”

The look in Akira’s eye is wild, and he’s paler than she’s ever seen him—whiter than when he came back from the interrogation room, and it’s enough to make her stomach drop all the way to the ground. “By the time they heal him, it’ll be too late.”

Everyone cheers and they both turn their attention back to the battle below them, where Ryuji summons one last bolt at Konoe, and finally, it’s enough to take him down.

Ryuji turns his back to Konoe, arms raised in triumph and drenched in sweat, immense pride clear on his expression.

It all happens in slow motion.

Akira jumps down, ignoring the protests from above, limping and scrambling towards Ryuji. Behind him, Konoe tries for one last, desperate attempt to win by swinging his saber weakly at Ryuji’s ankles, grazing his flesh ever so slightly.

“No!” Akira cries out.

Despite the cut being as shallow as a paper cut and as wide as a bee’s sting, Ryuji crumples to the ground, all life seeped out of him like he was struck through the heart.

[xxkellsvixen19xx]

Sweet Blasphemy Andy Biersack X Reader

Word Count: 1,467

Warning: Discussion on self harm & depression, religion (God mentioned), swearing, suicidal thoughts

Lyrics Used: Sweet Blasphemy by Black Veil Brides

Scars.

She had an abundance.

Her wrists, her thighs, her hips, her sides.

A scar here, a newer cut there, look around you'll see them everywhere.

Some from a blade, some from shards of glass, some just purely accidents.

Should she cover them? Let them show? This is an answer she truly doesn't know.

She isn't ashamed, but certainly not proud.

Her cuts have now all healed and scars started to fade. 

She's ok.

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

The grass spreading across the plain

In one year withers, flourishes again

Burned by prairie fire doesn’t go to waste

By a spring wind blowing with new life is graced.

"My love for you is deeper than your cuts, deeper than everything else." He whispered softly pulling her close.

"Y/N?" She heard Andy's voice and looked up. She was about to wipe her tears away when he interrupted her pulling her into a hug. 

Andy grabbed her hand holding it under the table his thumb rubbing softly over the back of her hand. 

She looked straight up into his face and saw something she had never seen before…. acceptance. 

Just as she was about to cry she felt a pair of arms around her pulling her close. Looking up to see Andy's face she couldn't stop her tears from falling. She started sobbing softly and couldn't stop. She usually didn't show her weakness around others but something about him was different. He seemed trustworthy and she had this strange feeling in her stomach. 

"Y/N no matter what anyone says, I am here for you." Andy whispered lightly pulling out of the hug to stroke a strand of her hair behind her ear. 

𝖂𝖊 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖊 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖌

𝕿𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖌𝖙𝖍 𝖎𝖓 𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋 𝖜𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊

𝕾𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖈𝖆𝖓 𝖇𝖊

𝕴 𝖗𝖆𝖎𝖘𝖊 𝖒𝖞 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖌

𝕿𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝕴 𝖜𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖊𝖛𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖑𝖎𝖊

𝕴 𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖉𝖊

𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖐𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖘 𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖘𝖊𝖊

𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖎𝖘 𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖘𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙 𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖕𝖍𝖊𝖒𝖞

She slowly shook her head, her beautiful eyes were full of pain and sadness. But not the physical kind, but more the kind of pain that gets caused by words and will never fully heal. This was the exact reason why Andy told himself to protect her at all costs, he was her guardian angel. 

Her Good Samaritan is black-haired, blue-eyed, and drop dead gorgeous, the complete embodiment of her perfect man, but he’s more than what he seems. The strange familiarity in his eyes, his touch. 

Her knight in shining armor had arrived after all. She'd never dreamed her prince charming would turn out to be a guardian angel, but life was full of surprises.

The moment Andy saved her human life for the first time, a moment also drowned by tears and agony. He found it ironic even then that he had been alive for thirty years as a human, he had never felt this peculiar and distinct connection. 

I remember when Andy first saw the cuts along my wrist it wasn't easy trying to explain it honestly. When he asked me why this was the only way I felt I could explain it….

The sting of a cut would push me into reality. It evaporated the numbness I felt inside and helped me feel real and alive. 

It helped me smile and pretend that I was okay. Over time though The more I cut, the more tol­erance I had for it, so I had to cut deeper and more often.

At that point, I had a collection of what I referred to as tools, each tool for a different cut. I had three, five, and single blades. The three and five were mostly for use at home, but the single was my travel blade. It was more discrete because it was small­er, and I could do a quick cut in the bathroom stall. If I were re­ally desperate, I would cut right in class. When you have an ad­diction like cutting, it becomes more than a coping method; it becomes a lifestyle, a skill. Cutting was my skill and I had it down to a science.

Andy's POV…..

It can be hard to understand why someone you love might injure himself or herself on purpose.

Some people turn to this behavior when they have problems or painful feelings and haven't found another way to cope or get relief.

Most of the time, people who cut themselves don't talk about it or let others know they’re doing it. But sometimes they confide in a someone. Sometimes someone might find out in another way.

Y/N looked so sad she didn't realize that the pain seemed obvious but it was way more to my eyes than she even realized.

Though she did her best to not show emotion in front of people once saying it was a sign of weakness. But when she started sobbing there was no way she could control it. It killed me to see her so upset, I pulled her tightly to me hugging her close.

It took a little bit but she started to calm down, "Your heartbeat is soothing, I don't understand why but for some reason it is." She admitted to me after a long silence. 

Y/N POV…..

I didn't know or understand how but being with Andy brought me peace. I never would have thought a single person could make the pain go away but somehow this f*cked up universe managed to prove me wrong. 

This small act was enough to let you know that someone actually truly cared and to be honest it was all you really wanted was to be at peace instead of your soul constantly at war. 

Before now….. before Andy it hurt. There's not much left to smile at, not much left inside you that knows how to smile. The once warm space behind your ribs was cold and dry – a wrinkled chamber where all traces of a heart have been scraped out – and you wondered why you still bothered to stay alive more often than you cared to admit. 

You can't die , a voice echoes in your head, you've been cursed beyond your time; you life.

There aren't many lucky days in your life, but today is one of them. 

A rarity – lonely, candid flower on a mountaintop; glowing gemstone encased in rough, dead dirt – and you cradle it so close and so tight with all the fear of losing one blissful little moment.

Andy is beautiful. He always is, whether you see him in sweaty, jogging clothes or in a pristine, carefully picked out outfit. He's beautiful like this – washed out jeans and black leather jacket draped over slender shoulders clad in a black t shirt. The light shines in his eyes, it illuminates everything that surrounds him, putting the Sun to shame. It shines over all the shadows, warms all the bones in your body.

"If I could give you one thing in life, I would give you the ability to see yourself through my eyes, then you would realize how special you are to me." 

'Do you believe in God?" Your cousin asked one day what seemed ages ago. Given that she was a die hard religious holy roller her response was of no surprise to you. "I do I absolutely believe in God."

"I don't know exactly what I believe in but I believe there is something bigger than me out there." 

The depression seemed to just get worse one day Andy asked you "Do you want to talk about it?"

You shrugged "I don't see why talking about it would make it any better." 

"It won't make it better." He'd responded "but not everything is about making things better." He paused placing his hand over the top of yours. "Sometimes you need to get things off your chest, speak your truth into the universe. You won't get anything from it but sometimes some emotions are too much to keep inside. You carry a sort of a burden and it hurts you more in the long run." 

You feel two strong arms wrap themselves around you. The intoxicating smell of of deodorant or aftershave makes him smell so damn good. "I got you baby girl." His deep voice rumbles in your ear and a calmness washes over you. 

"I know your going through a lot and don't want to intrude I just want to tell you that I'm here for you." Andy twirled one of his fingers around a single strand of your hair that had fallen in front of your face. There were times where words weren't necessary to exchange and that was just fine the simple act of just simply being around one another was enough really and all that you really needed.