#;; BUTCHER ;; self ; visage.

[h-a-unted]

Mandatory Butchie gif because look at how Butcher stares at Hughie, I'm—! That man is down bad crying at the gym.

[brightblessed-aa]

relaxation for roi?

[h-a-unted]

@dollhidden Kimiko and Butcher at the movies...

[hydrus101]

It’s so fascinating to me about how much of Malevolent centers around bad or misguided fathers.

We spend ample amounts of time with Arthur’s grief and his faults, his fear of fatherhood, his failings of Faroe and the ensuing spiral afterwards. We hear of Bella’s strict upbringing, of Daniel’s controlling nature, the desire to shape his daughter into what he expected her to be, and even admitting to Arthur’s face that he intended to mold him as well, into what he thought his daughter’s husband should be. We learn of Larson’s betrayals, the sacrifices of his children: the monsters he made of those he should’ve loved, all in the pursuit of power and legacy. There’s an argument to be made even, of fragments and reflections and daughter and sons, that the King - that initial version of him now dead in all respects - was a sort of father, with John and Yellow as his residuals, his sons, his heirs, in a way. Finding their own identities now, free from the shadow of a predecessor, free to chose their own destinies, wether that is to separate themselves entirely, to scream defiantly of humanity and hope and self, or to try and reshape the visage of that dead malevolent god in desperate pursuit of love that wasn’t given, driven by a hate that was shared. What other analogy so seamlessly fits with the relationship between Arthur and Yellow than that of a neglectful father? The one who was supposed to be patient, be caring, be kind, the one who was supposed to teach this new being, this new child, about what life could be like? What love and kindness it could hold? But Arthur was too unsteady then. Too unstable to give Yellow the upbringing that he deserved. His nature was shared with John, and we’ve seen the depths of love he’s embraced. Yellow was simply nurtured wrong, encouraged down that spiral by a foster father who embraced and even venerated his rage. And similarly, in the basement in New York, we are reminded of nature and nurture, of animals and babes. Briefly, quick as a glance, we learn of the Butcher’s father, both a seething livewire and a subtle undercurrent in his motivations, manifested, perhaps, in his tumultuous relationship with failure, his self inflicted violence. Roland and Amanda receive less of the spotlight, but the foundations of everything are built upon their relationship. And now, with the Unclean, we know more of Arthur’s own father—who’s fate is known and the same as his mother’s—and his envy towards his friend, his childish jealousy and vindictive actions, of which he now condemns, having learned better, having known better. Every aspect of the narrative is seeped in fatherhood, in parenting, in children. Malam says as much by the fire: “They are our betters, our futures, our learned mistakes.” Malevolent is, at its core, about parents and children and hope.

And now, Arthur and John are on the run from a mother, on a mission given to them by a father, who’s daughter is largely a mystery, or perhaps, more familiar than we might think.

[orqheuss]

Stamped on these lifeless things

(Human!Alastor meets Demon!Alastor - A character study)

Summary:

Its lips curled, revealing gum in a daunting sneer. “How could I be anyone else?” Clenching Alastor’s hand again, it pulled him closer until they were nearly touching noses. Its breath smelled like carnage. He was helpless under its gaze, stuck staring into its eyes as they shifted into what looked like radio dials. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw its antlers growing again. “I’m you.” *** With his final moments quickly drawing near, something approaches Alastor that has him questioning everything.

Word count: 3.9k

Tags: Blood, Gore, Discussions of murder, Discussions of abuse (child and spousal), Mentions of cannibalism, Religious themes, Character death, Morally grey characters, (possible) hallucinations, Death by animal

A/N: Based on a TikTok I saw by @domdrawsanimation about Human Alastor meeting his demon self.

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley

The dogs were coming for him. 

He could hear their constant howls, snarling teeth nipping at the wind whistling through the trees and at the skin of his ankles as he ran faster than he had ever run before. Tree branches whipped against his face, neck, arms, any inch of skin they could reach, dripping his blood against the cold, unforgiving forest floor like he had done to so many before under his knife. The rush of the water to his right laughed at his panic, jovially wishing for his demise after all the horror it had seen. The willow trees mourned for the bodies that had been piled against their roots. It was only fair that he would die in the place where he felt that he truly lived, deep within the forest he deemed his personal hunting ground of all things living. A selfish creature in all aspects of his life, even in the choice of souls taken. Ridding the world of what he saw as filth was well and good until he found solace in the act of bloodshed. Until he felt the warmth of his first victim under his hands as he squeezed the life from another. Until he saw the face of his father in the eyes of his dead. Selflessness only went so far; it did not condone brutality in the name of righteousness. 

He believed himself something reverent before this night— untouchable by the unseen forces of the universe. Vermillion chested like a cardinal against the first snow of winter, and canines sharp like the ridges on his blade. Not a soul dared walk the streets at night, lest they fall victim to the Bayou Butcher. Little did the people of New Orleans know, the Butcher only hunted the most vile beasts— too hideous for even the wilds of nature to swallow. 

Monsters who hurt for money.

Monsters who hurt for power. 

Monsters who hurt for fun. 

It could be construed that he would fall under the latter category— the hunt was exhilarating, and the flesh between his teeth more bewitching than like anything before. He took joy in their pleas for mercy; pleas that they had heard many times before from the mouths of their loved ones. Loved ones who walked around town with makeup caked on their faces, hiding the evidence from the world like they should be ashamed of the behavior. Like they were at fault for all this wretched chaos. It was pleasure turning in his gut at night, the thought of warm ichor pouring from between his fingertips like a soothing balm— aloe against his scorched and blistered hand after his father held it over a burner. It was personal for him. Personal in all ways something could be deemed personal. 

He believed himself holy. Sacred. Divine. At his knife fell multitudes of souls, undeserving of mercy far past their last breath and deep into the putrid hereafter. They did not get a heaven. If it was up to him, they would not get a hell, either. They would float, stagnant, undeserving of pity, in the darkest pit of the metaphysical. 

Too devilish for heaven. 

Too cruel for hell. 

Too important for purgatory. 

A secret fourth thing of his own creation. 

His high horse carried him up and down the streets, its skeleton legs strutting against the cobblestone paths and puffs of hedonistic smoke cascading from its barren skull, for he was death incarnate. Holy sacraments overflowing with his name grew inside of his chest and bloomed out of his ribs like the thorny spires of a bramble bush, its bittersweet fruit growing in the cavity where his mother carved out his heart and took it to her grave. 

He didn’t need a heart anyway. What was love to a god? 

What was a god to a murderer?

What was a murderer to a man? 

What was a man to a god?

Now, that was the question under all of this— these lifeless things at his feet— the steps to his savage throne. 

What, truly, was the life of a man to the whim of a god? 

But, of course, he was no more a god than a raindrop was a flood. In the end, he was hardly even a man, just a soul with something to prove to no one else but himself, paving a path to his own downfall. The path had to end eventually. 

It ended in a clearing of trees. 

His feet left skid marks in the once untouched earth as he stopped, breaths panting heavily from his chest and hands resting on his knees. His lungs heaved for air, somehow gaining none of it even when surrounded by the purest form of oxygen. It was only a matter of time before the dogs caught up to him— the stench of blood heady and thick on his clothes. Where he once found a sick comfort in the copper was now nothing but regret. 

It was only fair that the tragic hero of this sick fairytale had his moment of revelation near the end of the story. 

In this moment of clarity, he chastised himself for being so careless. It was newly spring— a new hunting season for those who did not fear the bayou. Curse him for believing he would still be safe within the trees while staring directly at their flowering leaves. Of course there would be others in his woods; he did not truly own them, after all. Public ground attracts the public, and while the Bayou Butcher made his claim on the land, that did not stop the fearless from traversing the haunted landscape. He racked his brain for a solution, anything that would get him away from the metaphorical pit he was edging closer to and closer to the solace of his home. There was nothing in his brain besides the desire to flee, and the hope of survival. His breaths were shaky when he finally stood from his laurels, the coolness of the night nearly turning it to vapors before his eyes. If he could see it, that is. His glasses had long ago fallen from his face, leaving the world around him nothing but a hazy blur of greens and the blackness of true night. He couldn’t go back for them, even if there was a chance that they were still intact. It didn’t matter, anyway. He was trapped at the moment— nothing around him but empty air and the brush of trees. No sights to be seen before him. No warmth to be felt against his chilled skin. No weapon to his name. No way to defend himself against a force stronger than his will to live. 

And how he wanted to live. 

He was not a religious man, no matter how much he pretended he was for his mothers sake. But, for the first time in a while, he considered prayer. 

Alastor.

The wind whispered his name, the syllables like ice against the back of his neck. He whipped his head around, head nearly tumbling from his shoulders at the owlish-ness of the behavior, eyes wide and searching for the source of the voice. Finding nothing around, he focused again on thinking of a way out of the situation he placed himself in. 

“Alastor!” 

It was hissed this time— a snake in the tall grass of his backyard. This was not the wind, there was no mistaking it. Someone knew his name. Someone was speaking to him. Someone saw what he had done.

Fear clouded his better judgment, releasing his voice from the confines of where it had been lodged under his quaking jaw. “Who’s there?” 

A shiver inducing chuckle seemed to fill the space around him, drowning out any and all sounds other than the sickeningly malicious voice. “Take a guess.” 

Petrifying terror filled his veins like never before. Was it his time? Was this a divine intervention? “God?” 

The leaves shook for him as another laugh was released into the air. “Oh, no. He doesn’t make house calls.” The mysterious voice paused. Alastor could hear its smile everywhere. “Not for sinners like you, at least.” 

Anger festered in his gut at the teasing lilt. It was a struggle to not shout into the night. “What do you want from me?” 

The voice got louder now— closer. Radio static blended with each word, and the hairs on his neck stood at attention. “Everything,” it said. “And also nothing.” 

Alastor growled, hackles raised like an animal cornered. “What are you playing at? Why are you here?” 

“Ah, that’s the word. ‘Playing.’” It came from his right this time. He flung his neck in the direction, ignoring the sting it caused in his muscles. There was nothing but darkness among the thick trunks of the trees. 

Then, the voice came from his left. His neck cracked against the velocity of his movement. “Playing is often associated with games. Would you say we’re playing a game?” 

Alastor’s anger grew stronger, fire burning in his blind eyes. “No, this isn’t a game! Tell me who you are!” 

He could hear a quick swishing through the leaves as the mystery person ran through the thicket. They— it— moved at inhuman speeds. No dog could run that fast; no bird could fly at that speed. The smell of fear-drenched sweat permeated the copse. He remembered something that he had read in a book once, long before he decided to try his hand at hunting humans. Animals can smell fear. Even though this was definitely not an animal, it was worth every penny to try his damndest and seem strong— resolute. Nothing could truly frighten him. At least, that’s how he tried to look on the outside; there were other emotional tells than his body language. 

The thing seemed to go even faster now, laughing at the panic shimmering in Alastor’s eyes— mocking him for his desire to know who, or what, he was dealing with. Its terrible, scattered cackle was coming from all directions. This couldn’t be a human, there was no possible way. But, if it wasn’t human, then what was it? 

No, Alastor said to himself. This has to be human. There’s no other possible answer. 

Now was not the time to lose his sanity. 

He tried to hold onto logic for as long as it would allow, his nails digging into the solid base of fact and truth before it could be ripped away from his clutches.

But, there was no logical explanation for this. Logic was not his friend anymore. 

“No, I suppose there isn’t time for a game right now.” 

It sounded like it was coming from directly in front of him. Or behind him. Or to his left, or his right. It was everywhere. It was nowhere. It was somehow all of the above. 

“They’re close now, you know. It would be best to run.” 

Alastor didn’t need to be told twice. With all the strength left in his boneless legs, he bounded for the outskirts of the circle, intent on getting away from whatever the hell was with him. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t good. He was not one to believe in anything spiritual before, besides a small dabble into voodoo on occasion, but if he made it out of here alive tonight he would hold a new respect for everything of the sort. 

Too bad he wasn’t getting out of there alive. 

As soon as he crossed the treeline, an imaginary force pushed him back into the clearing. Alastor landed hard on his back, sending a new tremor of pain through his body. He hissed at the spasm that shocked up his spine. 

The voice laughed again, getting more deranged by the minute. 

Terror bubbled in his stomach when he realized that it was beginning to sound familiar. 

He stood from the ground, pushing all of his weight onto the fronts of his feet in case he got another moment to run. As of now, he was truly cornered. Something shimmered along his path of escape, the material giving the black night a starry quality. Whatever this being was, it had some form of magic, and it was toying with him. 

Alastor summoned every ounce of bravado he had left in his trembling body, determined to remain brave and undaunted until the very end. He was the Bayou Butcher. He didn’t get scared. Gods did not fear gods. 

But, something whispered in his mind. You are not a  g o d.

Shoulders squared, he shouted into the night. “Enough games! Tell me who you are before I gut you like a fish.” 

A screech of feedback assaulted his ears. He pressed his hands desperately to the sides of his head, gritting his teeth at the pain spiking through his brain. Wind whipped at his face, pushing his fringe into his already semi-blind eyes and stinging the cuts lining his cheeks. Before him, a shadow emerged from the darkness of the forest, its form nothing more than a trick of the light but still tall and imposing. It was taller than a redwood, the silhouette of a person taking shape before his very eyes. Antlers stretched from what Alastor assumed was its head, each piece of blackened ivory reminding him of the mangled tree branch outside his childhood bedroom window. Long claws grew from its hands, each sharp and pointed perfectly for slaughter. The most horrible thing was its mouth. Wide and stretched across its face in a smile, teeth bared and serrated— like taking damascus steel to a whetstone. Alarm bells rang frantically in his head. Horror cowered in his eyes. It loomed closer to Alastor, towering over his shaking form. 

This thing was a nightmare, and he was in its domain. 

Then, as if nothing more than an illusion, it shrunk. 

In front of Alastor now, instead of the colossus demon that once was there, was now a form quite close to his own height. Everything about it was the same besides the size. It still stood quite close to him— if they both reached out a hand they would touch fingertips. It was lanky in shape, thin arms and legs bracketed by a slim waist and wide shoulders. Its hands, if they could be called hands, were clasped behind his back, its spine straight and taut with tension. Somehow, the smile it was sporting was much more menacing at this size. 

It chuckled darkly, reaching a hand outwards and presenting it like a handshake. “Shake my hand, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.” 

It was a terrible decision— the farthest thing from wise than Alastor had been in quite some time. But, my God, he was scared. It was such an encompassing feeling, like spiders crawling across his skin, scratching at his scars until they reopened and biting at his skin until it was red and blistered. He could feel the cold touch of his father closing in on his neck, ready to squeeze the life from his tiny body before doing the same to his mother in the other room. He hadn’t been older than twelve when he committed his first murder. Memories flashed across his mind like a moving picture show, and if he had the strength to push them away he would do it in a heartbeat. 

His hand was clasped in the shadow’s before he realized what he had done. 

The thing squeezed tight to him, holding on like it was the last thing it would ever do before cackling once more into the night. Alastor struggled against its hold, but all of his efforts were futile. It was not budging. Color began to bleed through its form, starting from the large, red ears atop its head and moving downwards quickly. Everything about it was red and black. Red eyes with red pupils. Red and black hair. Red suit, not much unlike his own. Red nails digging into the skin of his hand and refusing to let go. Its voice began to take on a more static quality, the frequency buzzing in the air and filling Alastor’s ears to the point of flinching. It grated on all of his nerves. The more that was revealed of the thing before him, the more he realized that it was a man. The beings eyes were trained on his own, staring him down like a predator hunting the best possible game. The demon, because that’s what it was, he realized, drank in his obvious fear like the richest wine money can buy. 

Its voice was no longer warbled when it finally spoke, a transatlantic accent heavy in its words. “Hello, Alastor. Pleasure to be finally meeting you, quite the pleasure.” 

Alastor stared into the red abyss of its eyes, refusing to blink lest it bite off his head with its ravenous yellow teeth. “What are you? Who are you?” 

It tutted, squeezing his hand tighter in its vice grip. “Oh, come now, Alastor. Surely you’ve realized who I am by now! I remember being so much more observant at this age.” 

The air around him screeched to a halt. 

No. 

No. 

All of the blood in Alastor’s body fled from his head and pooled in his feet, the limbs feeling like lead had been injected directly into his bloodstream. His mouth had the distinct taste of bile and dread. He wanted to hurl himself to the ground, let the earth swallow him whole and never let him dig his way back to the surface. He wanted to hunch over and expel everything from his stomach until he was nothing but bone and skin and ligaments. He wanted to do anything to get his damn body to MOVE. Everything in him prayed to the Fates that what was hinted at wasn’t true. This couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be. 

Alas, the Fates had never been kind to him before; why would they start now?

Anguish clouded over his expression, a plea dripping from his lips like the moon bled across the night sky. “Please, no…” 

The demon stretched his smile ruefully, each point on its elongated teeth catching on what light remained above. “Yes.” 

Its lips curled, revealing gum in a daunting sneer. “How could I be anyone else?” 

Clenching Alastor’s hand again, it pulled him closer until they were nearly touching noses. Its breath smelled like carnage. He was helpless under its gaze, stuck staring into its eyes as they shifted into what looked like radio dials. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw its antlers growing again. 

“I’m you.” 

It finally released him, then, shoving him into the dirt and glaring down at him with malice in its eyes. Blood began to drip from the corner of its stretched lips. Alastor could do nothing but stare. 

“I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully.” It said, wiping its hand against the front of its blazer before tucking both behind his back again. Its ears twitched atop its head. 

“I am you. You are me. This is what lives inside of you— what you will become quite soon—”

“No—”

“DO NOT—” It moved with that inhuman speed again, leaning down until it was eye level with him and grabbing his jaw in its claws. “Interrupt me.” It snarled— animalistic— feral. 

“I don’t remember being such a sniveling welp. Accept the truth, Alastor. I am as much of you as you are of you— we are two sides to the same, sadistic coin. The sooner you accept this fact, the sooner you can achieve your full potential in the afterlife.” His smile somehow became more ferocious. “And you will achieve it. I am the best you will ever be. Your puny murders on this plain are nothing compared to what I have done in the depths of hell. People will fear your name like never before, and you will relish in it.”

It released Alastor roughly, standing back to its full height and leering down at him. 

“I have come only to give you a taste for what’s to come. This was for my enjoyment, not as a warning. Do not get this twisted. My reasons are my own; you will come to realize that soon enough. Even still, this was quite enjoyable, I assure you.” 

Alastor attempted to find his voice again, his words leaking out feebly and choppy with fright. “You— you aren’t real. You can’t be real.” 

It chuckled to itself, looking down at him with something almost akin to pity. “Real or not real, you are seeing me now, you have seen me before, and you will see me again.” 

Flashes of red hair and yellowed teeth scream across his memory— things that his mother told him were just nightmares— things that hid in his closet or under his bed. He shivered. It has been with him for quite some time. 

A thin microphone appeared in the demon’s hand seemingly out of thin air, and with a swish of the stick green magic began to buzz around its form. It smiled down at him, one last time, and for the first time Alastor realized that its grin actually met its eyes for once. True, demented happiness buzzed in the air with its residual radio static. 

“That’s all the time I have, I’m afraid. I will be seeing you very soon, Alastor.” It paused, glee dancing in its eyes. “Or, more accurately, you’ll be seeing me.” 

With its final words, the demon vanished once again into a mass of shadow. Its form breathed through the air, bringing back the soft spring wind and the sound of cicadas chirping through the night. Even the trees seemed relieved to have the demon gone, like nature sighed with relief after being trapped for so long. Everything seemed to be back in balance at last. 

Alastor released the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

He could only revel in his own relief for a moment before the sound of a twig snapping drew his attention to something moving in front of him. Where the demon was once standing was now the hazy image of a prowling dog, haunches raised and ready to attack. An aching dread curled around his ribs at the sight. His heart leapt into his throat. The animal's teeth were bared at him, eyes narrowed and twitching with each step closer. The smallest pink hue could be seen against its teeth— flesh, as Alastor quickly came to realize. Fear squeezed at his throat once again, and his mind ran wild. 

Please no, it can’t end like this.

I’ll do better. I’ll be better. 

God don’t let me die like this. 

I don’t want to die.

Mama, help me.

I’m so scared, mama. 

And then the dog leaped.

Like what you read? Here's more!

[dojimakaichou]

@stingslikeabee continuation of x.

★. ―

Daigo sucked in a breath when Melissa reached for the hand he had respectfully withdrawn. It shook faintly as she brought it to her cheek. At first contact with the witch's skin, he drew it away slightly ― as if to suggest that he still didn't believe this wasn't a mistake or in anticipation that she would flinch away. Melissa remained steadfast, however, and inevitably Daigo's palm settled back. He admired the cool temperature of her flesh.

Gently, the creature's fingers explored the side of her face. His thumb briefly traced the edge of her nose and then ghosted down over her lips. Daigo slowly mapped out the details of Melissa's features, and he realized as he did that his initial greeting stood firm. She was indeed beautiful. The large, coarse hand set ever so lightly on the witch moved toward the base of her skull next, exploring her lengthy, silken hair. Its texture seemed to pique Daigo's curiosity : he ran several strands through his digits, marveling at how thick and lush it was. He could see that it was dark.

While Daigo learned about his strange visitor's appearance, his own face seemed to soften. The harsh lines in it eased, and he even took a half - step toward her. His ears picked up her breathing, which was notably calm in his presence ; the smell of her perfume came to his nose. He was fine to simply take her in for a moment, allow each of his senses to investigate her, and listen to what she said.

Daigo tiled his head thoughtfully at the mention of other humans and humans with gifts. He thought he saw them from time to time : when he plucked at the webs in the earth to find his bearings, occasionally a person's appearance would come back to him with almost forceful strength . . . and they were different. Like the butcher who was kind enough to sell him suspicious quantities of raw meat regularly, whose smile was full of too many teeth. Daigo discovered these last few years that this was another of his abilities ― that he could see beings on the earth for what they truly were even when no one else could. He taught himself not to react to it, but it was because of this that Melissa's insight didn't startle him as much as it once may have. Daigo wondered what the witch would look like to him, were they both to have their feet firmly planted on old and rich black soil.

( He possessed no way of knowing then, of course, that she would be the most beautiful thing he ever saw. )

Melissa's explanation, though, made Daigo freeze. His hand cupped her face, fingertips twined in her hair and the heel of his palm at the edge of her jaw. The creature could tell that Melissa believed what she said. Her conviction was plain, as was the depth of emotion behind every word. These statements were not paltry by any means ; they were real, defining truths that her very life was anchored to.

' I AM FAR FROM A MIRACLE, ' Daigo argued, stare downcast. ' AT BEST, I AM AN ABOMINATION. ONE OF THREE. I APPRECIATE YOUR VISIONS, MELISSA, BUT . . . I AM NOT WORTH IT. ' He repeated the same sentiment. That self - loathing was protective, and Daigo held to it firmly.

The creature pulled his hand away from her visage. Their conversation made him feel anxious and afraid, like an animal trapped in a corner. Daigo forgot that Melissa might be able to feel this with him, forgot that his other fingers were around hers. He had such a fearsome urge to itch. What he really was wanted to escape this body desperately. It churned up his insides and threatened to crawl out of his throat to the point that he raised his claws and dug them into the flesh of his neck. Without thinking about his audience, Daigo raked them downward with a whimper, hoping to peel away this ill - fitting body. The result was a ghastly mess. As the creature removed his sharp weaponry, his healing factor took over ; the torn ribbons of skin knitted itself back together. All that was left was the smear of fresh blood that he wiped onto the front of his garments.

With a last pang of resentment, Daigo completely separated from Melissa. He snaked a hand under the edge of his shirt to scratch fruitlessly, clicking softly. It was clear, no matter what he said, that he was not healthy : an overly - agitated spider with too little nourishment and no way to properly molt in an environment that didn't suit it. Couldn't suit it.

[h-a-unted]

@dollhidden cause Kimiko lmao

the boys + textposts 60/?      

[sonicasura]

Cursed Generator Links P1

First of three posts involving the 14 Links I pulled from the generator, 5 per post with the last having a custom Link. These are mainly headcanons with a few summaries to them. Key features in appearance, things they like and a bit of their abilities. Once I get a drawing done, I'll add a link to the corresponding one. Let's get started!

Hero of Stitch 'Patches'

Hyrule's chosen hero from the Downfall Timeline after Legend who dies before his battle against Ganon. Using a mix of magic and special thread called 'Ambisilk', Patches was brought back to life as a living patchwork chimera.

Mostly humanoid in appearance with a few out of place parts either belonging to monsters or different people. Ex: Goron stone hide, Lynel horn, and mismatched eyes.

Hates his hero title as he doesn't really think himself a 'great hero.' Prefers to be called Patches because he ain't Link. The hero died and his body was butchered to make him.

Likes shining objects, animals and collecting stuff. Moves similar to Miss Fortune from Skullgirls, meaning he can manipulate his body in unbelievable ways that are fatal for everyone else. Crafting materials like parts are needed for Patches to heal.

Hero of Blade 'Augus'

Hyrule's hero from Twilight's timeline albeit his placement is unknown. Originally a vessel for a demigod of Gluttony to takeover through a ritual using his beloved blade 'Wailing Dark'. It fails as the hero manages to escape with both sword and jumbled memories.

Hair turned snow white, red markings cover most of his body and half his arms are plated in a growing gold carapace due to the ritual. Split personalities: Link the shy dork that likes sewing and flower picking.

Augus, a lover of alcohol and fighting who will drink anyone under the table alongside tossing Gorons like stones in wrestling. If this personality is in control then his eyes will be pure white.

Can only be hurt if struck by magic and enchanted weapons as Blade's body is invulnerable to normal blows. Able to channel gluttony into pure energy for all sorts of mixed combat.

Hero of Stage 'Phantom'

A college theatre professor who became trapped in a forbidden script book called Necro of the Opera. Placed into the role of the Phantom Hero heavily altering his body so he could face the evil within each play world.

Face disfigured similar to DC's Jonah Hex because of his Phantom role. Wears a porcelain mask that looks eerily like the FD mask to cover said disfigurement. Wiry bulky frame thanks to his role than his normal skinny self.

Assassin type fighter with a knack for detective based work and can talk to the dead when needing information. Link is actually a nickname as his real name Shawn but he can't reveal it due to his role's restriction.

Collector especially if it involves books or any type of manuscript. Likes learning different languages and dabbles in fencing a few times. Hates prophecies.

Hero of Ink 'Ichor'

The star character of a modern era rubberhose children's cartoon akin to Kirby (without the eldritchness). Ichor was forcibly brought to life in an experiment called Project Lifelike, run by TriceCorp. Manages to escape the lab and seek an identity of his own.

Has two different form. One looks like a rubberhose version of Link's Awakening Remake and the other a twisted gnarly Fierce Deity/Ben Drowned visage. This is due to him being the first experiment with a 'human' design.

Happy to help those who really need him against the entire world philosophy. Will proudly give the middle finger to someone who shoves the 'Fate of the World' schtick on him like with the Chain. EX: You sure your so called Goddess doesn't want to show her precious toys off in every era?

Follows the Laws of Cartoon Physics, both it's strengths and weaknesses. Can hide himself in paper to even skin as long as the material can hold ink. Advanced Ink Manipulation in twisted form.

The Hero of Death 'Charon'

A game designer who becomes the heir to Death's seat by accident. This begins with him helping spirits find peace until forces very unhappy with this arrangement try to take his 'inheritance'.

Looks like a younger Time but his iris has become silver due to his magical inheritance. Can take any form that is a depiction of the Death God in some way, even media as his true form hasn't been awakened. Prefers Persona 3's Thanatos as his set appearance.

Actually has no issue helping the deceased even if some spirits' forms are heavily mangled. Just hates being forced to fight. Has a grandson-grandparent relationship with Death themselves especially since the god genuinely cares about his interests or concerns.

Can commune with the dead, traverse the Spirit World and ask for assistance from various spirits. Knows when someone is gonna die alongside being able to change that fate via a special method called "Death's Game". A challenge where the results are determined by different games of chance or skill.

That's it for now! Until next time folks, I'll see back in Hyrule. Before I go, have this Jonah Hex reference for Phantom and P3 Thanatos reference for Charon.

[brooklynislandgirl]

The puzzled look on Beth's face causes an incredulous smile to draw itself across Dr. Strange's chiseled features, driving deep grooves around his cheeks and eyes. Of any student he's ever had, only Beth would ask that.

"Because you're incredibly capable, of course. Borderline savant. Anybody would be proud to have you as their student, and probably Nic West, most of all. " He glances down at the document in his hand. "Now, granted, he doesn't like being upstaged, especially by a student, and he and I have what you could charitably describe as an... acrimonious relationship... aaaand it's just a cold hard fact that his last three mentees haven't exactly been success stories. But if I'm completely honest, the man's far more willing to attend the butcher shop we call an ER than I am. He's seen and dealt with issues I haven't. The more well-rounded your knowledge base is, the better off you'll be. Even I have to admit that much."

He lets the written inquiry fall to his desktop with a pursing of his lips, then flickers his gaze back up to her. She does a good job of trying to hide her displeasure; what he sees is a quick downcast of her own eyes towards her toes, a clasping of her hands together in front of her. She was almost too quick for him to catch it, but there'd been a fleeting instant there where he'd seen the stricken, doe-eyed expression.

He knows that look well by now. When half her face seems to be occupied by her eyes, like she can't open them widely enough to capture the world around her. It's a feature he understands perhaps a little too well, even if he hasn't lived her specific life. It's the gaze of a person of extraordinary privilege, whose experience with trauma are quiet, too convenient to notice, and might require the entirety of their largesse to compensate the army of therapists they would require.

Except the money could go to better things than the petty selfishness of self-rehabilitation.

Stephen saves his petty selfishness for other pursuits.

He drives those troughs into his visage again to offer her a smile of reassurance. "Okay, okay. That's obviously a no-go. I'll let him know you belong to me."

Lost Sparks || Accepting

A quiet conversation held in an office in the aery reaches of the hospital, though he has a much smaller, much more cramped one on the university campus as well. The walls are honey-combed with book shelves: some contain tomes of the latest techniques ~not the least of which were ones that he pioneered, invented whilst held in the embrace of his own brilliance~ and others held wisdom passed down more than decades, ages past. Some hold awards and certificates. His desk takes up a good portion of one quarter of the room and its top is littered with files, envelopes, charts, a sleek laptop, a desk phone. There's chairs she could have easily sat in. A small couch that is sometimes the only bed he sleeps in for days and even then only a couple hours at a time. Some people might dismiss him as some playboy-hot shot Doctor, the kinds that they portray on steamy night time dramas but those people don't know the real Stephen Strange. He bleeds himself dry to preform every day miracles. There isn't any other medical doctor who has even half his skill, the Admiral included. And no other man's opinion holds as much sway with her as his does. She's spent months now trying to prove that her dedication is absolute. That she is willing to learn and adapt and be moulded to suit any real or imagined need he might have so that she could continue to learn under him. He'd never given any indication that she'd displeased him, that she'd let him down or failed something he'd asked or assigned to her so catastrophically that there was no chance to make it right. Anyone in her place could understand then why she'd spent all of the day before in searing shock, unable to process the simple language typed onto the page indicating that she would be stripped away from his mentoring and be placed under the tutelage of Nicodemus West. She could blame the tears which refused to slide down her cheeks blurring the words together. She could tell her roomate that Haole isn't her native language. She could make up any number of excuses for why she'd received the letter. Instead, she'd come here first thing in the morning. Hadn't bothered with office hours. Hadn't made an appointment. Barged in like Horatio Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar, and set the letter and a perfectly made cup of coffee: quad espresso, single origin, pour-over, 200-degree temperature, steamed milk, one pump hazelnut, two pumps vanilla, cinnamon sprinkle. So softly she might have been drownt out by the beating of her heart and the tick of his watch telling time, she'd demanded to know why he was sending her away. She'd not expected the answer she got. But neither had she ever forgotten. Perhaps especially now when Stephen stands on the opposite side of the barrier she'd cast only moments before; a thick blister of raw magick shot through threads of spiritual mana which provides a double-lock against the demon hovering over her. It isn't that the Sorcerer Supreme can't fight his own battles. Quite the opposite, in some ways he can out fight her on many fronts. But this creature has particular wants and Beth cannot say for certain that Stephen would have walked away from this unscathed. The demon has courted the Sanctum night after night. Infiltrated dreams with false promises and bargains requiring only desire existing. Those very tender young souls and a couple of the yearning elder ones were easy to collect as leverage. It turns and leers at Stephen, mocking laughter rattling around inside of her head and likely his too. It wants him to watch. It wants to sup on his anger and misery, savouring the anticipation. Thick, noxious saliva drips down its fangs as it swings its head back toward her. It bathes her in foul breath and Beth looks literally a little green around the gills. "You should go now, Stephen. I got dis."

[revunant]

DAG TUMP (just trying to fix my tags)

┆lore.

┆something dead that seems to be alive. - canon

┆something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead. - musing

┆visuals.

┆interests.

┆soundtrack.

┆open.

┆entries.

┆visage.

┆wardrobe.

┆queue.

┆art.

┆fodder.

┆ic.

┆ooc.

┆answered.

┆anonymous.

┆dash game.

┆interaction call.

┆promo.

┆self promo.

┆commentary.

POINTS OF INTEREST┆bloody ground.

POINTS OF INTEREST┆the chasm.

POINTS OF INTEREST┆gilgamesh & environs.

SHIPPING┆so what do i do with this? 

PIETER┆in my best behaviour​‚ i am just like him.

TEDDY┆no grave can hold my body down​‚ i’ll crawl home.

V┆mad to see intimacy spoiled by your sense of doom.

GUEST┆pieter.

GUEST┆yaris.

GUEST┆mercedes.

GUEST┆kielbasa.

GUEST┆margot.

GUEST┆azari.

GUEST┆peyton.

┆the dragon.

VERSE┆pathetic sopping wet beast. - horse

VERSE┆lonely architect at the foot of my bed. - warden

VERSE┆you will not go astray. - gw2

VERSE┆brow laid with thorn.

VERSE┆a trail of burnt things.

VERSE┆furthest from myself​‚ when i feel i’ve been replaced. - sigma

VERSE┆you who stood so proud once​‚ i can taste your fear. - alpha

VERSE┆first abandon kindness​‚ you need to learn to hate. - vespa

VERSE┆you were always to be a dagger. - b

VERSE┆hungry for blood but sick of the taste. - butcher

VERSE┆no cost too great. - havik

VERSE┆nameless bodies, unremembered rooms. - mutton

VERSE┆arm and iron conquer heart and soul.

[baarra]

What little unwrung vestiges of yourself remain,   have en-graved themselves,   readily devoted,   for you to follow them here:   the elsewhere beyond elsewheres.     Beneath fibrous snow and dry-bud soil,   rasping late-spring rosaries   –   greened woodland choruses,   like wet snouts following fresh-bitten leaves   –   among fat-mouthed worms and nerve-haired roots.     Far from the pockets of your thick,   crimson marrow,   this shouldn’t be within your reach.     And yet.     Night after night,   you listen for the five,   six,   seven,   eight knuckle-knocks that will reflect on the commune’s glass-window.     Butcher-boned truths.     Husked and salty.     You are a brother,   and a son,   and an uncle,   and a spectral host of your grandfather’s tree-blood.     They would exhume his final ragged breath from your corpse,   yet it would remain nameless.     You are an afterthought,   living borrowed years and watching undue sunsets.     Insouciant time,   and your printless finger-pads.     That twin’s mute beats fade,   regardless,   into the restless creaks of your surrounding bed-fellows.     What horrors can lurk in human skin?     You’ve slept in bunks above and beneath those over- and under-grown boars.     Counted their half-drunken snores.     Gutless men:   un-calloused hands and pudgy sternum.     You watched,   and they cowered.     Under a mere look,   they shuck eye contact.     Spared a breath   –   or two,   or three   –   too many for a single shot.     A crude haunting.     There are pigs to cull,   but they must live as yours.     Yours,   before they are their own.

This is different.     Their fear is absent and,   thus,   exposes its tendons in another way.     Despite its appearance,   it is not you,   nor your blood,   nor your bone.     It’s not even a perfect reflection.     Its hums are wrong,   sibilant and tenor-ed,   yearning for you and your blood-sap.

Calmed lungs and a honed scope.     The mark’s lapse comforts you,   like a wintered,   empty city street.     Clear of human touch.     You realise quickly,   in this herded troop,   that tranquility won’t persist.     Their rhythms peak and plummet without curve.     Brown-bricked blizzard,   leading closer to your childhood apartment block,   and cutting hair-pores into your brow.     You would see a snow-hedged park bench.     The accordion elevator gate would squeak,   but nothing would shift you from the ground floor to the eleventh.     A light-bulb wouldn’t flicker.     After a week,   you wouldn’t huff when you climb the stairwell.     The girl’s tone doesn’t help,   sinking you further into the pattering remnants of memory.     Bent over the couch-back,   a parent on either side of your head.     Elbows digging into the sagging cushions.     Those creases would be there today.     Yours.     They’re yours.     YOU ARE CULPABLE.     You default to yourself.     To the twitch-less black stare,   heavy on the eye-lids.     Liquor-laden air.     It doesn’t pinch his nostrils.     Nick lets her voice clatter at his feet.     Over everything she keeps,   her fingerprints are wanton,   bellowing into a self-ascribed abyss,   heedless in their need to exist.     Upon something real like carved bark,   not something rhythmic like a heartbeat.     Tangible to your body but not your hands.     Your reedy,   needy hands.

He doesn’t rise to the bait.     He needs her,   after all,   for the daily bountiful hunt.     No matter how addled she desires to become.     YOU ARE CULPABLE.     There is only one reason he would search for her.     She should know.     YOU ARE CULPABLE.     Another step forward,   and he hovers above her space.     Their shoulders are parallel.     A long cornered-stare at her souring visage.     Slapped lips.     ‘   How much did you have to drink?   ’     His voice lowers in question.     Palpable disinterest,   suspended in their air of shared exhales.     The miasma therein of hurt begetting hurt begetting hurt.     You know the patter of her better than a simple,   imitated reflection in the night.     Where you and her crest like ancient lunettes,   sculpted by knowing hands.     Divined seams.     Raw and bloodless.     A bough that peels its skin back,   to reveal its fingers that brush against bugs and human hair.     His tone holds no inflection.     ‘   Don’t lie.     The oxen and the elk will know.   ’     By taste,   they would know,   before sight or scent.     As he did,   when sniffing her out.     The frantic heart of a wombed child.     You know her,   and she cools you.     He slides the bar-stool away with his thigh.     His elbows press into the wood.     ‘   And that’s all that matters.     Isn’t it?   ’

𝑯𝑼𝑴𝑨𝑵 𝑩𝑬𝑯𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑶𝑹.

Arriving at THE BAR ⟳ ˚ ╱ written for @baarra !

𝗙𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗚𝗨𝗘 𝗦𝗘𝗘𝗣𝗦 𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗢 𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗞𝗜𝗡, fine as spider silk, threading itself into the CRACKS of her being — scratching, itching, weaving webs of unrest. Perhaps it’s the weight of constant vigilance, the endless question of how much worse it can get. She digs a knuckle into her eye socket, a futile attempt to unearth the splinter of unease buried deep within. Her body sinks against the bar like sand giving way beneath rain. First, her elbow presses sharp and defiant, but it crumbles, folding into the leaden weight of her forearms, wrists slack and forgotten. Her mouth wilts, lips bitten raw like blood-tipped petals, but they carry the acrid taste of something smoky — RUINOUS and unrelenting, a wildfire licking at the edges of everything she holds together. Shadows stretch around her like old acquaintances, sluggish in their embrace, steeped in the haze of liquor and languor.

And then he arrives, SHATTERING the stillness ⸺⸺

He is all precision, a wolf in the hunt, his movements deliberate and sharp. Where she burns and rises again, he prowls, steady and sure, searing her with his gaze. His steps cuts through the air, it needles her already frayed nerves. She squints at him, the furrow in her brow deepening, irritation flickering like a match struck in a storm. Her defenses bristle, spines rising instinctively, ready for a fight she doesn’t want but can’t refuse.

They’ve danced this dance before — glimpses of something akin to transparency shared in dim-lit corners, fragments of lives before this hell traded like scars. Even in those moments, she’s felt his quiet judgment, or perhaps her own diffidence reflected back at her, sharper than his words. Today, she has no patience for their tired games or the barbed wit that masks their truths; good versus evil, if they are so DIFFERENT considering how they've killed and continue to now with the same trained, zeroed-in frequency. He's an interesting figure, no doubt — unique in his thoughts but that's not what bothers her. What does burrow beneath her skin is his UNCANNY gift for giving breath and shape to his thoughts, carving them into the air with a conviction that leaves her unmoored. His words are mirrors she cannot avoid, casting her uncertainties, pressing against the moral code she’s clung to like a lifeline for the last decade. It unsettles her, the way he makes her question the foundation she’s built herself upon, each word a chisel against the stone of her certainty.

It also piques her curiosity more than she likes to admit.

Her breath comes shallow, the remnants of last night’s hangover lingering like a bitter memory. She watches Nick as she does everything else in this grim place — intently, with the sharp focus of the hunter she is. That they both are. Her boot taps against the floor, a rhythmic drumbeat of annoyance, each thud matching the pulse in her temple as she ponders at his next move.

She’s worn thin by the theater of it all ( the masks they wear, the pretense of normalcy in a town that has none; expectations press down like an iron shroud, the fear of missteps tightening its grip, choking the air from her lungs ). She ACHES for the clarity of her past life: the precision of orders barked and dealt with, the surety of an enemy she understood in her sights. But here, in the shapeless pandemonium, there is no such clarity, only an endless, gnawing uncertainty that scrapes at her soul.

She's the first to break the silence: ❛ Jesus Christ, is there anywhere in this fuckin' place where a girl can have some privacy? ❜

[h-a-unted]

What if I roll the stone away? They're gonna crucify me anyway

[joannasteez]

"𝙞𝙢 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪" - 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙚

eventual mother’s milk x reader

if this doesn’t get posted now, no one will probably ever see this… hopefully posting it will give me the push to continue, finish and maybe even add more to it than I already have…

‘The Reserve' is an illusion, a vanity shaped dream for the self proclaimed movers and shakers. For those who believe themselves to be more illustrious than their bathroom-in-kitchen apartments allow. But even a partial step into 'The Reserve' would clue in even the naivest of individuals of otherwise, that such claimed glory is really just some poor desperate bastards attempt at a pseudo heaven on earth. 'The Reserve' is ugly, its sunny gold pillars rusted to a seedy brown reeking of greed and low cunning.

And God…

…The walls, old lavish embroidery marred and greyed by nasty streaks of some indiscernible substance. The air is thick as well, but that shouldn't be a surprise, strengthened every minute it seemed by some nose curling pungency. Sweat, alcohol, and the dry crusted salty tears of some long ago killed ambition. The only thing 'The Reserve' is good for is its symbolism, sitting so uncomfortably at the edge of Downtown Brooklyn, it's weak and feeble visage living in the shadow of the city's sacred Vought Tower. Its an unwritten thing, wholly for the sake of sugarcoating ego, a communal experience even, for the drunk regulars and D to Z listing super-abled to stand together in a pathetic formation of reverence from their lowly place to watch The Homelander take to the skies.

You hate 'The Reserve' but you also work at 'The Reserve' because it pays well enough as a side hustle and mixing drinks is great tension relief from a nine to five that consist of talking through the life shattering trauma of being a collateral damage survivor with adolescent youth.

It's quite the shitty silver-lining, having to constantly entertain and serve, pouring into the anger and failure of dozens of overgrown children who lack all charm and the means to be even slightly personable. Who, in the eyes of all that is commercially holy and capitalistic, were just never profitable enough. They were not the proclaimed gods among men they were poisoned and promised to be. They just couldn't fucking hack it. But at least you made enough to cover a months worth of groceries in one night and a steadily growing record collection.

"A double of tha' cheap russian shite you lot water down so much yeah".

Its push and pull, the harsh tugging outward motion of an ocean current , a very visceral spine tingling nagging of something creepy and bitter like disgust or malcontent even. Before the inevitable, gentler pull in of intrigue. Billy Butcher is something of an unstoppable force, a train wreck of anger and charisma swaddled in a harsh cockney accent and even harsher words and deeds. Everything about him is war, all blood and destruction. The cracking of bones and the splitting of deep, and what you thought untouchable, nerve. He's horrible, but then again 'The Reserve' attracts all the ugliness of the city, even when that ugliness is owned by a not so ugly face.

"If it's so shit, why do you always drink it?"

He's smirking that smirk that makes your well crafted, personable, customer service nature quell, shrivel and nearly die. Nothing good ever came of smirks like those, lopsided and daring.  "I don't know, something about the little bird who serves it to me. She just makes it all the more delicious".

The most you can muster at the moment is an eye roll, opting to address the rest of the very dangerous bunch. A more genuine smile appearing, warm and delighted.

"Frenchie, always a pleasure, even when you're giving Travis Bickle".

He smiles, amused at the reference. "The pleasure is all mine mon amie".

And then with the excitement of a newly unsheltered child, a woman, cute as a button really, waves your way with dainty but red raw battered knuckles. 'A supe', instinct tells you, but as you smile, waving back with matching enthusiasm, you come to the conclusion that you may be wrong. That the light in her eyes, the unmitigated eagerness of the moment, is far too bright for any super abled person to have so intrinsically.

You'd must've forgotten how odd this bunch truly were, not having seen them for some time, especially now coming to rest a bit of a scrutinizing gaze on the next one.

He's tall and lanky with a forced relaxed disposition about him. He's used to this, places like this, like 'The Reserve', but still the tiniest inconvenience could make his own patience stretch beyond wear and snap. Split and break, and now he's back to where he hates to be, helpless. He reminds you of the kids in the support group, the older ones, still scarred and scared but trying desperately to show otherwise. God its the way he fidgets just the slightest, like he's in his own body but with new skin, trying hard to get comfortable.

"And you must be Butchers newest exploit, please blink twice if you need help", you say.

You're joking, really you are, but you're not. It's something like second nature to dote a bit over the younger ones.

"I- .... ", he's unsure of just how serious you may actually be and its no fault of his own, you've practiced quite the serious face, one of motherly concern that seems to make him repel more than anything. Interesting. "Oh, you're not joking- I", he tries again.

Butcher pats his back. "Thats alright Hughie.... she's just takin the piss is all".

Hughie sighs. Exhausted already, but it's only midnight, and knowing butcher, the night hasn't even started yet. "Can I just get a beer?", he asks, seeming resigned now to whatever will come from now till the end of the night.

"And something sweet for mon coeur please",  Frenchie adds.

You crack Hughie's beer open, sliding it to him before pouring out Butcher's double, but you're not so ready to give him his drink.  Wary of what even a little dose could do for his destructive nature. "No bullshit tonight, I mean it Butcher", and he's rolling his eyes, like he isn't responsible for generally wreaking havoc wherever he goes. "Last time you were here I had a patron get sent to the ER for head trauma".

His warm fingers slip over your unsure ones, taking hold of the slender glass to knock back the liquid with nothing short of delight. Sarcasm dripping cooly once he's done. "I'll behave mum, I swear".

You take his promise with a grain of salt, opting instead to ignore the beginnings of a new nagging feeling by mixing the sweet citrusy cocktail Frenchie had asked for. This creeping thing though, at the base of your nape felt less like mild disgust and more like an un-quelled curiosity. Eyes darting every so often to the lowly lit entrance before they scattered, with an eager quickness that was rather embarrassing, to the other corners of the establishment. If Butcher and Frenchie were present, and generally tamed from mischief, then he wasn't too far behind right? A balmy rush unfurled its way from your gut to the tips of your ears at the anticipation alone, and you'd be lying if you'd tried to convince yourself you didn't know why. He just had that way about him, and it forcefully lulled you in, a bit straight laced air to him but the sensibility was all there, and not to mention the man was fine as hell-

"He's outside taking a call".

Cleaning cocktail glasses has become a point of interest as you feel The Frenchman's sweet clever eyes nail you to where you stand.

"I don't know what you mean".

He scoffs. "Please, you're not the only one with eyes and good observation skills mon amie".

And he's right, it wouldn't take a genius to realize the very apparent attraction you have for a certain member of the infamous group, but whether he notices it or not is the real issue. You don't have much time to truly mull it over though because he's swaggering through the entrance and up to the bar to meet 'the boys' in a matter of seconds. Those seconds being the duration of time in which you short circuit before pulling it together and crafting the greatest nuanced expression possible. A little nonchalance, followed by well placed hints of allure did the trick in most cases. It made most men hesitate, and Marvin wasn't an exception.

You're cleaning the glasses still with a little less impatience and a little more fluidity. Grace. Eyes traveling up and down the distance of his physique, or of what you can see at least. "Can I get you anything?"

It's appropriate for the moment, but theirs a slight inflection to suggest otherwise.

He clears his throat feeling the burdening gaze of his friends, Butcher and Frenchie specifically, their looks of knowing, and squares away the beginning of a thrumming in his blood.

He looks to Hughie's bottle and gestures toward it. "I'll have what the kid is having".

It stings, and it takes a bit more than usual for him to shake it off. When you hand off the beer without another glance, slipping away to take care of another patron, something in his gut tightens. A bristling of bitter smoldering heat, and Marvin knows what it is, in the safety of his own quiet thoughts he's felt it more times than he can stand to admit. Like that one instance, a rare but vivid moment in his memory, Butcher had said something racy but your usual disgust wasn't there. You'd actually laughed and got all cheesy when Billy slapped on that shit eating grin. It was the same feeling now as it was then, and it was green and ugly, making his jaw tick but its there all the same.

Its only the seriousness of the mission that gets him out of it, that and the beer and he's back to thinking of other things.

Leave it to Frenchie though to reel him right back in.

"So", he starts, "When are you going to take that gigantic stick out of your ass and talk to her eh?"

"I don't know if you're too high off the ket to notice Frenchie but were on the job".

"Fuck you I'm sober". And he'd been sober for months, all the boys knew it, but what would his relationship with Marvin be if they didn't exchange some form of below the belt insult. Frenchie knew better than anyone what inner conflict felt like, how it wore so heavy on the shoulder, in the face of such evident but leery romance. "Mmmm, but play makes working all the more fun no? How long will she give u the eyes before you finally indulge her?"

"I don't know what you're talkin' about".

'Found a little love and thinks he's fucking cupid', Marvin thought. Stealing a swift glance at the bar, at you.

It's Butchers turn then to be annoying, to deliver that shit eating grin he loves so much, the one that irks Marvin to no end, but now more than usual because Butcher's just as quick and discerning as Frenchie. "Frenchies right M, come off it and shag the girl already before she starts givin' another bloke bedroom eyes".

Everyones just so damn rife with suggestions. MM turns to Hughie, whose babysitting his beer rather attentively, as if to avoid the conversation.

"Anything you wanna add? Since everyone thinks their Dr-fucking-Phil".

Hughie sputters a bit. "Uhh, no. What they said"

"Now", Butcher gathers them all, rightly satisfied with making MM uncomfortable. "Look alive boys, our targets are here".

[rodeo-boots]

Hello hello!!💖💖😊 hope you're doing alright and your day's going fine and smoothly over there, dear!😊🌺💐🌻🌹🌺💐🌻🌹

For writing requests, can I request a morbell story??☺ at the first of chapter 2 when gang is going to live in horseshoe overlook, Dutch sends Micah with Lenny to Strawberry and then something happens which ends with Micah in jail. But I want it to be 'Dutch sends Arthur with Micah to Strawberry' so! Just imagine what will happen😆👀. Boys probably end up in jail anyway but I think..maybe with Arthur, Micah would act different..?

Fluff is always welcome and I don't mind smut too at all! And I'm ok with any tags too like blood/gore, angst, different kinks or..

Love you and thank you soo soo much!💜💗💜

I'm sorry this took a hundred years, but I still hope you'll enjoy this!! I hope you've had some wonderful days yourself, Merry <33

Rating: T

Words: 2221

Warnings: one instance of a homophobic slur, off-screen murder

AO3

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Dutch and his plans. His great plans that had gotten them in this entire mess to begin with. Arthur couldn't believe him these days, could only watch in bafflement as his mentor spoke one ridiculous idea after the other; but this one took the cake.

Why have a safe operation for once, right? Why send Arthur and Lenny to scout ahead and make sure West Elizabeth wasn't all swarmed by Pinkertons when you could have Micah, the very man who had gotten them in this situation to begin with. The man who's judgement had led them astray and towards the butchered ferry job in Blackwater, who's fantastic information had killed several of their people – with no telling if Mac and Sean were still out there, somewhere.

Obviously, Arthur had objected the instant he's heard what he was supposed to do. He had tried to talk to Dutch, to explain that Micah would find a way to turn even the easiest scouting mission into a bloodbath. Really, he had tried everything to convince him otherwise, to send him alone, for Goodness sake, but to no avail. Dutch's mind was made, and so he let his two best men ride out, in pursuit of information or fortune or anything, Arthur hadn't cared to ask.

–

"Oh, don't soil your britches, princess," Micah held onto Baylock's reins with a loose grip, his grin lopsided where he glanced at Arthur from the corners of his eyes. Of course had he caught onto his less than ideal mood, ever the observant type as he was. "We'll be havin' fun at the end of the day, I promise." His voice was syrupy sweet, almost sickeningly so, though Arthur had stopped listening to him a long time ago either way, staring ahead and onto the road in an attempt to accept his current fate.

He answered the man with a grunt, not overly eager to amuse himself. If it was up to him, they'd be in and out of the settlement within an hour, would take a look around and go, without being noticed in the best of cases. Those seemed rare these days, though.

"Lighten up." Arthur flinched when the man tossed him a bottle, barely catching it in his hands, an irritated gaze meeting Micah's smirking visage. The booze in Arthur's hands certainly wasn't the best, moonshine with a questionable label, glinting copper under the sunlight. His eyebrows furrowed, but he kept the bottle either way.

Maybe it was just what he needed now, a welcome distraction from the day Micah had planned for them to enjoy. Arthur was certain he'd enjoy it all the more if he witnessed as little of it as possible.

He uncapped the bottle, squeezing his eyes shut as the liquor burned down his throat, tipping it back further before tossing it aside. The glass shattered at the side of the road, Micah's own likely joining the shards where they lay, the man already reaching for another drink from his bottomless saddlebags. "See? Much better already." And this time, Arthur couldn't help but return his grin.

Arthur had been unable to keep track of time, with Micah's unrelenting talk, the bottles he passed him along the way. Strawberry was drawing closer by the moment and he knew it, traffic higher with every further step. It seemed to be a busy town, workers passing them by without a glance, whistling as they did the tasks of the day. Oh, how Arthur wished he could lead a life like theirs at times.

"You up for a meal, Morgan?" Micah clambered off his horse, shooting him another bright expression, his lids appearing heavier by the liquor he had consumed already.

"Dying of starvation," Arthur mumbled, a little heavier and slower as he dismounted his mare, holding onto the saddle to keep himself from falling gracelessly. He seriously had to overthink his approach to the drink some time, not as used to booze as he had been in his better days, wiping at his brow now before trailing after Micah and towards the hotel.

Even though they were new in the area, Micah seemed to know his way around, greeting the man behind the counter like an old friend before ordering their meals. Arthur didn't understand how he was standing straight after drinking all the way here, he himself barely holding onto the back of a chair. Hopefully with something in his stomach, his head would stop spinning again.

"Now, Mr. Morgan–" Micah waved his arm around in a great gesture of chivalry, pulling a chair out for Arthur to take. "Will you take this seat, and sit down with me?"

He grunted, plopping down onto the hard wood. Maybe if he followed along without complaint, Micah would take mercy on him and spare him more of his bluster. A single look at his self-satisfied smirk was enough for him to tell that that wouldn't be the case, however.

Their plates had emptied at a rapid pace, Arthur scarfing his food down eagerly, enlivened by the taste and the sensation of something in his stomach – something more agreeable than the liquor. He was chewing his second to last bite by now, glancing over and towards Micah and his plate with a furrowed brow. "Y'ain't hungry?" He asked, swallowing before he rubbed at the corner of his mouth. "S'real good–"

Micah had his eyes set on something else already, waving at him to be quiet before turning with a secretive stare. "You up for a game?" He asked, his drunkenness slowly manifesting in the drag of his voice, though the glint in his eyes was prominent as always.

Arthur shrugged, placing the fork in his hands aside, his gaze following the other man's. Upon seeing what he was seeing, however, his cheeks heated up in a cherry red, Arthur averting his eyes all at once. "The hell you on about?" He grumbled in irritation, not looking back at the woman Micah had focused on. Or rather, her cleavage.

"I bet'chu, I can hit her right in between those beauties." The corners of his mouth quirked up further, Micah taking his own fork in hand to prepare it as a makeshift catapult.

"You finally lost it now?" But Arthur couldn't help watching, not moving to stop the man as he took aim, his tongue peeking out between pursed lips. One second the fork was still loaded with mashed potato, the next, Micah tossed his head back with a shattering laugh, a scandalized gasp from the other table indicating that he had hit his target dead on.

The woman stood all at once, forcefully enough to make her chair tumble to the ground, not letting herself be stopped by the man at her side as she marched out of the building. Her face had been colored by embarrassment, by disgust, and while Arthur had every intention to feel bad for her, he couldn't. Instead, he found himself laughing along with Micah, giggling like the drunken fool he was, having to hold onto the wooden table as to not keel over.

–

Micah was a man of many ideas; few of them good. He seemed keen on seeing how far they could go before being kicked out of the establishment, doing the most in making those around him uncomfortable to elicit a response, Arthur rising to the challenge by doing just the same.

"Y'know what I could do?" Micah whispered, leaning closer to him as though his words were confidential, the lopsided nature of his smirk indicating that they were truly meant for all to hear. "Could lay you out on this table." His hand wandered up Arthur's thigh from where it had formerly rested upon his knee. He hadn't even noticed that. "I could fuck you silly for all these fine folks to see," he smiled, satisfied with the blush spreading over Arthur's cheeks and the tips of his ears.

He pushed the hand off his leg, keeping hold of the other man's wrist. "If that's what you want, I might just lay you out instead," he grumbled, though the threat within his words was lost in the slur of his voice. "Punch you out, s'what I mean."

They stared at one another for a tense few moments, Arthur's grip remaining firm around Micah's wrist.

With a sputtering laugh, he had to let go, however, shaking his head and reaching up to rub his eyes. Micah was quick to follow along, cackling like a maniac in his own right, even if his own words hadn't been all empty.

"C'mon, let's get outta here." Micah pat his knee in encouragement, grunting when he pushed himself to his legs. "I'm bored," he added, his eyes glinting mischievously. Arthur didn't care for his oncoming plans now, either way, keen on leaving the hotel to spare himself of further embarrassment, uncertain as to what he might've done already.

The past minutes, or hours, weren't as prominent in his brain as he would've liked, the influence of the drink undeniable in his every action. He didn't pass the bar-man another look, following after Micah as he ducked through the door, squinting when his eyes were met with darkness instead of the sun he had expected.

"How late's it?" He slurred, glancing at Micah in uncertainty, not at all remembering when or if Dutch would expect them back at camp.

Micah tugged him down the stairs, the grip he had on his sleeve almost desperately hard. "Don't worry your pretty little head," he cooed, glancing back at Arthur with an almost alluring gaze, pulling him closer to offer him some more stability. "We got all the time we need." But Micah's eyes were no longer trained to his. Instead, he had focused on his lips, licking his own almost nervously.

"I always meant to tell you, Arthur–" his hold started to feel a lot more like an embrace, Arthur swallowing lightly as he watched the emotions pass over the other man's face. He was much too drunk to make sense of them, releasing a tense chuckle when Micah didn't continue.

"Meant to tell me what?" He eventually asked, his own arms slowly smoothing around the other man's frame. From this angle, he almost looked good, less crazed than what Arthur usually saw of him, more like the person he kept hidden from plain view in front of everyone else.

He didn't receive an answer, blinking in bafflement when Micah leaned in to press his lips against his own.

Arthur stood frozen for a couple moments, unsure if this was yet another game of his, another attempt to make the people around them uneasy like they had succeeded in doing before.

Micah didn't pull away with a smirk at his lips, however, in fact, he didn't pull away at all, deepening the kiss instead. He tilted his head, moving his lips so uncharacteristically sweet against Arthur's own that he had no choice but to melt.

His hands pulled the man closer, their bodies flush, chests pressing against one another. It was like a lover's embrace, like the last thing Arthur had ever expected to share, least of all with Micah Bell. Here and now, it felt more than just right, though.

He pulled away with a soft exhale, brushing a strand of hair out of the other man's eyes, his motions gentle. "What was that all about?" He asked, though his tone wasn't teasing. If anything, he wanted to know if he understood correctly, wanted to be certain that Micah had enjoyed this kiss for more reasons than his drunkenness; the question of a possible repetition already sitting on the tip of his tongue.

Before he could formulate any of his thoughts, however, another voice broke the tranquility around them.

"If that ain't van der Linde's very special queens," the man slurred himself, the Irish accent still clear in his tone of voice. "This is O'Driscoll territory, we ain't wanna see the likes of you perverts 'round here." Arthur had heard worse in his life, not expecting anything better from the likes of Colm's boys. But a look into Micah's eyes was enough to tell, that he wasn't about to let this slide.

He loosened his hold on Arthur, turning to the man slowly, his stare narrowed at the O'Driscoll. "Run that by me one more time?" His voice was low, the shyness from before wiped clear away now that he was facing the person who had seemingly ruined their moment.

Without Micah's assistance in standing, Arthur plopped down to the muddy ground, staring at the man's back until the spinning of his head became too much. He laid back, letting Micah handle this on his own, smiling dumbly at the distant thought of him protecting his honor.

The shots were faint, just like the voices drawing closer once they had pierced the silence, once they likely had pierced the O'Driscoll's skull just as much.

Arthur felt Micah's presence by his side again, the man dropping down next to him, tossing his weapons aside mindlessly. "Guess that marks the end'a our night," he chimed, his voice drowning out the calls of the sheriff, the law cautiously surrounding them. "I told you we'd have fun, though," Micah spoke up again, chuckling at this small success of the day.

[visage-of-hell]

The grip Visage held upon the handle of her blade and Lute's wrist both tightened as a feral snarl creased her muzzle with teeth bared and a deep growl rasping from her. It was taking every shred of self-control not to slit her throat right there and then. But she didn't want this over quite so soon, oh no ... Visage intended to draw this out for as long as possible. To savor every last moment of it. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Yeah ... after you butchered the only woman I ever loved. Someone who was a better person than you could ever hope to be." For a long painful moment, it was like she was there all over again. The reek of demon blood filling the air, screams echoing across the city, the feeling of blood-soaked earth beneath her knees as she was held down helplessly ... powerless to stop what was coming next. Even now, she could still see Dhallia's wild terrified eyes brimming with tears. "Vizzy, no! Please do--urgh!" And then nothing but deafening silence ... before the thud of her severed head striking the ground. To that very day, she still had no idea what her beloved was trying to say in her final moments. 'Please don't fight?' 'Please don't look?' She had no idea. In the end, she had done both, so it hardly mattered anymore. Her face burned hot as a familiar sting prickled at her eyes, moisture blurring her vision as that blade pressed more meaningfully against Lute's throat. She could end it right there and then. It would be over... ...And Dhallia would still be gone. Nothing would change. That single sobering thought was enough to sour the taste of revenge beyond all hope of enjoyment. All that would come of this was further incentive for the next Extermination to arrive sooner. She stared down at the Exorcist through an angry haze of tears as she struggled against a seemingly impossible choice--mercy or retribution.

Starter for @dangert1ts: With the last of her establishment's patrons settling their tabs for the night and departing, Visage could finally shake loose the heavy facade of the cool confident club owner and sink back into herself for the remainder of the evening. Tomorrow, she would have to don that mask anew, but for now? This was her night, to do with as she pleased. Bidding her girls goodnight, she left her staff to finish closing up before exchanging her suave formal wear for the grungy street leathers to which she was more accustomed. As she slipped out from the back alley exit of the club, the lupine woman slowly made her way down the street. Few would feel safe walking around freely in such a seedy part of the Pentagram, but her 'privileged' position had only emboldened her since her rise to power. Let anyone try and start some shit--it would make her night. It wasn't good for business to drink where she worked, especially after closing, so she got it into her mind that it was high time to find herself a watering hole that didn't close and cut loose for awhile. Or, at least ... that was the plan. But the brief wafting of an all-too-familiar scent caressed her nose as she passed a stranger along the sidewalk, forcing her to halt dead in her tracks. "No fuckin' way..." The words were muttered between clenched teeth in a voice scarcely above a whisper, becoming buried in a low deep growl that rumbled in her narrow chest. There was no mistaking it. She had committed the scent of that woman to memory from the very moment of their ill-fated 'meeting' ... and her nose had never been wrong before. Her previous plans now abandoned, she made up her mind to trail this suspicious 'stranger' so she could confirm or deny her growing suspicions. For the moment, she kept a cautious distance so as not to rouse the other's attention. Though her time as a bounty hunter was over, the skills required for that line of work were as keen as ever. She'd played this game before.

[wreckofawriter]

Kid

Pairing: Oliver Wood x Reader

Word Count: 3,600

Warnings: None, swearing

Summary: Being the kid of Puddlemore United means that all the team mates see you as one, and in Oliver's case that means the girl he fell in love with does too

A/n: Ok in love this idea, but I'm pretty sure I butchered it. Any way reader is like 22, Oliver is 19 and reader moved from America to play for Puddlemore.

Oliver could feel his heart racing far too fast for comfort. His face was flushed with excitement and nerves. He could see his breath in the air and feel the chilled wind fill his lungs as he puffed in and out. 

And then he could see her. The quaffle was stuck under her arm as she ducked around a streak of blue. She was going to make it to him. 

His senses heightened a stern look of concentration finding a home on his features. She was close now. But he knew what was going to happen. She had done it twice already. She was much better at shooting right than left. She would make to shoot left, lastsecond changing her course.

So he did the same, jerking left before racing towards the other hoop. He could see you out of the corner of his eye awaiting for his pass. 

She did just as predicted. Oliver moved left before speeding to the right hoop hitting the quaffle with his broom towards you. You caught it easily sending him a grateful smile before darting the other way. 

Oliver watched you go in amazement, a small smile finding his lips as he watched you dodge the other team with ease. A slight sigh escaped his lips the world around you falling away. 

"Wood!" Willams shouted bringing the boys attention back. "Keep your head in the game! We can't afford to lose." 

You didn't.

Puddlemore United was now in the Britsh and Irish league finals. Oliver had reached the ground before you and you had flown straight into him tackling him to the ground with a hug. 

"Yes Oli!" You shouted as the crowd around you cheered, "You're amazing!" 

Oliver's face was set aflame by your touch, his heart beating so quickly he though it might fall from his chest. 

"Amazing Kid!" You laughed before standing to go congratulate the others. 

The nickname you used stabbed through him like a shard of glass and he felt his heart sink in attempts to avoid it.

He stood up brushing off his uniform and grabbing his broom as he watched you jump on to the back of Benjy with a sharp pain of envy. 

"At least their the same age." He mumbled to himself their win suddenly meaning nothing as the overwhelming reality of his desperate love life became obvious. 

"You know your only three years apart." 

Oliver jumped turning beside him to see Jocelid Wadcock, their seeker, beside him. 

The boy scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably attempting to avoid her persistent eye contact, "I'm sorry who are you talking about?"

Jocelid rolled her eyes smiling, "We all know you have a thing for y/l/n." 

Oliver felt his face heat up again, "W-what?" He swallowed harshly. 

"Please Wood, it's so obvious that the fans even picked up on it, and their denser than bricks." 

Oliver dropped his act in sudden fear "Does she know?!" Panic edged from his voice in an uncomfortable wave as the pair slowly made their way back to the changing room. 

"No, no, of course not." Jocelid laughed, "Y/n may be one of the smartest girls I've ever known, but she's even more dense than the fans, especially with feelings." 

"Thank Merlin." The Keeper breathed out in relief.

"Just tell her soon, she wouldn't believe any of us." 

"Ok- wait. What?!" 

Jocelid laughed before speeding up and  leaving Oliver behind. 

"I'm telling you this is a great idea." You huffed, "it's been so long since we've had a break." 

"Y/n you know if you go anywhere there are going to be fanboys following you around like lost puppies." Your manager Deverill explained. 

"What if we go to a muggle bar?" You questioned hopefully.

The manager sighed. You had been pestering him about a celebration since before you had even won, and you were very prisitant. 

"Please?" You widen your eyes, pouting your lips and raising your eyebrows. 

Oliver who had been behind Deverill choked on his water at the adorable pout that had taken you visage. 

Deverill sighed, "Fine." 

You squealed loudly leaping into a hug. 

"But." 

Your excitement stopped just as quickly as it started. 

"Oliver can't drink." 

"What?! We could just pretend he's 21, a simple flick of the wand an-" 

"Uh-uh." Deverill shook his head, "I can not have the golden boy of our team getting caught drinking under age." 

"But-" 

"Its okay y/n." Oliver cut in, "I don't need to drink anyway, I've got you to entertain me." 

"You sure Oli?" You asked.

"I'm sure." He grinned back encouragingly.

"You're the best Kid." You smiled standing on your toes and ruffling his hair. 

Oliver felt his heart clench at the everlasting nickname, casting his eyes downward to avoid your gaze. 

You didn't seem to notice, bouncing away to spread the good news.

Oliver was the third to arrive. He didn't know why, but an overwhelming sense of nerves flowed through him like a river through its bed. 

The truth was you had never really hung out outside of quidditch related events. No one on the team had. So the idea of just going to a bar with you seemed nerve wracking. 

He sat down at a booth already occupied by Willams and Jocelid. He made small talk mostly talking about past matches or upcoming ones. Soon others arrived and Oliver occupied himself by glancing nervously at the door. 

Jocelid who was seated beside him glanced at his bouncing leg and bit back a smirk. "You okay Wood?" 

"Um what? Oh yeah I'm fine." He lied eyes turning quickly towards the doors as he heard them open. 

"Ahhh." Jocelid sighed, "I understand now. Your nervous to see y/n." 

"What- I'm- No-" He tried to formulate a sentence, but the words wouldn't fall into place as they normally would. He bit his tongue angrily, pausing before taking a breath and attempting to cool his cheeks which seemed to have been light aflame. "Why does she call me Kid?" He finally managed.

Just then the door swung open and your giggle graced his ears. 

Jocelid smiled, "Because you let her." And with that she stood to greet you. 

Oliver huffed turning to face you. His breath caught in his throat when his eyes locked with your deep y/e/c eyes. 

You were adorned in a simple peach dress who's loose skirt fell just above your knees, a denim jacket on your shoulders as you stood an extra 3 inches off the ground because of your matching wedges. 

"Hey Kid!" You yelled across the small room bouncing just as easily over to him in your heeled shoes as you would in sneakers. 

Jocelid glanced at him silently begging him to say something. 

"H-hey." He stumbled lightly over his words, blushing as you ruffled his hair. 

"Look!" You exclaimed, "I don't have to stand on my toes to do this anymore, I should wear these all the time."

Oliver was sure, if you touched his cheeks you would have burnt your finger. His heart was erratic and he couldn't breathe properly. It was like your intoxicating scent had caused him an allergic response.

"Wow Oli, your hair is so soft." You mumbled quietly, completely intrigued by the smooth texture of his brown locks. 

Oliver almost fainted, he attempted to open his mouth to thank you but found his lips had been glued shut by some unknown force. 

Your eyes dropped from his head to his to his soft brown eyes. Your piercing gaze froze the poor boy and he gasped quietly as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. 

Y/e/c started into brown for just a moment too long and Oliver fought the incredible urge to glance down at your lips. He lost. His eyes flicked downwards, a peach lipstick stained your lips, which bore a small smile, they looked so smooth, so soft, so kissable. His mind clouded with thoughts of how they would feel, on his own, how they would feel grazing his skin. 

He tore his eyes back upward to meet your own, which seemed to hold a new emotion he was much less accustomed to. He flushed brightly still unable to tear his gaze from yours. 

"Partner up people they've got a pool table!" Benjy bellowed from the other room and you both suddenly realized you weren't alone in the world. 

You squealed one excitement, suddenly back to your usual hyperactive self. "Awesome! Oli, you can be my partner." 

"What the hell is a pool doing in a bar?" He asked, attempting to move on from the moment you had shared as easily as you had seemed to.

"No silly, a pool table." You giggled snatching Oliver's hand and dragging towards a second warmly lit room. "Its a game, you'll like it." 

"Oh." He mumbled feeling quite stupid. 

Oliver was unsurprisingly amazing at pool. He had never even touch a pool cue before yet once you showed him how to do it. He was unstoppable. 

"What the hell Oliver." Adams huffed half impressed half aggravated as the keeper sunk his fourth ball in a row. 

You on the other hand, who had worked through three martinez and was working on a fourth, screeched with joy. Jumping from the table you were seated on stumbling. 

Oliver cursed dropping his cue and rushing towards you catching you before you hit the ground. 

You were unfazed by the close call and instead wrapped your arms around his neck snuggling in as close to him as possible. "Your amazing Kid!" You yelled into his chest. 

"This tournament is a bust" Adam's complained, "Wood and America are unstoppable, even when one of them is piss drunk." 

"I am not piss drunk!" You exclaimed pushing Oliver away from you as if to prove it. Unfortunately you tripped again swearing, "I'll just take off my shoes." You slurred bending down to do so. 

A series of whistles and calls came from the bar as you did so. Oliver gave the men who sat there a confused glance before tracing their eyes which now lay on your half exposed ass. 

"Fuck y/n!" He cursed scrambling over to you and turning you around, "How about you sit down on the booth and I'll take off your shoes?" He offered turning his head to glare at the men sitting at the bar. 

Some just rolled their eyes, one flipped him off. Oliver's anger strengthened, he lead you over to the booth. 

"I can do it Kid." You mumbled. 

Oliver felt his hair stand on end as you let the nickname he hated so much slip past your lips. Jocelids words echoed in his head. Because you let her. It's not like he handed youhis nickname along with his heart, they just seemed to go hand and hand, "Its fine it's faster if I do it." He sighed as he slipped off your wedges. 

"That's what she said." You giggled.

Oliver smiled softly helping you back to your feet. "You good?" He asked. 

"Great." You laughed, bouncing away from him. 

"Hey!" Willams yelled excitedly, "What if we had America and Kid play each other?" 

There was a chorus of agreements throughout the small room. 

"Don't call me that" Oliver huffed. 

"Why not U.S over their gets to?" He smirked. 

"You see he's not in love with you though." Adams cut in. 

"I am not-" he sighed deeply, "Whatever, it's not very fair, y/n's smashed." 

"So she's kicking our asses." Jocelid chimed. 

"Yeah your not scared of me are you Oli?" You questioned suddenly appearing beside him. 

"Alright fine, just don't get mad when it's a short game." He shrugged. Grabbing his cue from the ground and heading to the table. 

"I do intend it to be short." You smirked. 

"Alright love birds let's stop with the pathetic attempt of trash talk and get to the game." Benjy cut in handing you your cue as Oliver reset the table. 

Behind you you could hear arrangement of bets being made, "I need a coffee." You murmured. 

"On it." Jocelid spoke, "I've got 20 gallons on you y/n/n I don't intend to lose." 

"Twenty!" Oliver shouted from across the table. 

"Oh yeah Kid. You haven't seen this girl play yet, she's gonna wipe the floor with you." 

"Don't call me-" 

"Yeah, yeah I know." She scoffed before darting out the door. 

"You wanna break?" You offered attempting to clear your head. 

"Sure." Oliver shrugged again. He bent over the table and you almost choked as a strange realization hit you. Oliver was hot. You had always known he was cute, but now as his blue button up shirt stretched over his muscular shoulders you began to take in the reality of his physical form. 

Of course being pretty drunk you didn't keep this to yourself, "Damn Kid when'd you get hot?" 

Your words processed through Oliver's brain just as he shot and he was in such shook his grip slipped and the break couldn't even qualify as such. 

Oliver couldn't have cared less about the game anymore, "W-what did you just say?" 

"Nothin' your just hot." 

Flames erupted onto the boys cheeks as you shrugged. 

"My turn!" You gasped excitedly moving on completely from your conversation.  

Oliver stayed where he stood staring at the spot which you had occupied moments before, trying to calm his heart which was racing uncontrollably.

"Don't let the girl get in your head!" Willams shouted from the booth. 

Oliver snapped back to reality shaking his head lightly and switching his gaze back to you. 

You bent over the table carefully closing one eye and setting up your shot. Oliver tried not to be distracted by the way the tip of your tongue poked from between your lips, or the way the short dress you were wearing revealed your upper thighs as you bent to align your shot.

The clink of the cue hitting the other balls brought him back and he watched as two stripes fell onto their place. 

You sat back up smirking. "That's how it's done." 

Oliver smiled looking down, "It's your shot again." He chuckled.

"Oh right!" You exclaimed before walking back around the table. 

It went back and forth for a while, you still ahead two balls, Oliver caught up quick but once you go some coffee in you you managed to keep a lead. 

You still weren't yourself though. You found yourself watching Oliver with a close interest. You found yourself wondering what he looks like without that button up on. It didn't help when you passed closely by him and you suddenly caught a whiff of his cologne. Alcohol was nothing next to the intoxicating scent he emitted. You suddenly found yourself edging towards him. You shook your head as another crude thoughts filled your brain. 

"I have got to stop drinking." You mumbled.

The game ended as intense as pool gets. Both of you were down to nothing but the eight ball. You had lost your lead when Oliver had "fallen" (pushed by Willams) onto you right before the shot. You were given another one but you couldn't seem to focus. 

You swore watching where the cue landed, it was a ridiculous shot and you growled in frustration. You contemplated your best move before sighing and muttering a defeated, "Fuck it." Under your breath. 

You lined up your shot, biting your lip and shooting. The 8 bounced off of the felt across from it and thunked lightly into the bottom right corner. 

You cheered Jocelid laughed running and hugging you as Willams cursed. You pulled from your hug and turned towards Oliver. 

He suddenly looked so different, not like a kid, but a man. He was smiling slightly. "Good game y/n." He spoke sticking out his hand. 

"Good game Kid." You responded, taking his hand in yours. 

You almost jumped at the electricity that seemed to transfer from the touch. Oliver looked unfazed.

You expected the strange feeling to wear off, they would be gone and a hangover would replace them, but that wasn't the case. You had gone to practice that day with a headache and a fluttering feeling in your stomach. Practice helped clear your mind as you focused on nothing but the quaffle. 

After practice was a different story. You landed easily on the ground, a breath of air releasing you as your feet came in contact with the ground. You had decided to take an extra hour to work on maneuvers, considering your last game you had had some pretty close calls with bludgers. 

You walked into the locker rooms expecting it to be empty, but your eyes went wide when you say it wasn't. 

Your broom clattered to the floor, a hot rush climbing to your cheeks. Your heart thumped loudly rattling your ribcage as wings took flight in your stomach, making you want to vomit. 

Oliver stood in front of you bright red, his hair dripping as a white towel was wrapped around his waist. You traced his chest, slamming your eyes shut once you realised what you were doing. 

"Oh Merlin, I-Im so sorry, I was just, and I thought it was empty, so sorry again Kid." The nickname left your lips feeling funny, like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.

Oliver's expression of embarrassment seemed to be captured lightly by frustration. 

"Why do you call me that?" He asked.

You tilted your head in confusion attempting to keep your eyes at his own.

"Kid. Why do you call me Kid?" He repeated.

"Umm I," you paused unsure of your answer, "You're younger than me, it's just a nickname." 

"I'm only three years younger than you." He had taken a step towards you and now it was becoming far more difficult to keep your eyes above his neck. "I'm not just some kid." 

"I know Oli," You blushed eyes flicking down then up quickly.

Oliver groaned through his teeth, "I don't think that you have ever called me by name either." Frustration had oberwhenemed his embarrassment and it was as if he had forgotten the emotion entirely. How come you couldn't just see him as a person? Why were you so insistent that he was a kid?  Was he truly that juvenile?

You weren't sure what to say, Oliver had now come closer to you and you quickly realized that his infatuaing scent was not cologne but his shampoo. And now his hair damp freshly washed, he smelled of it so strongly your head spun. You stumbled for a sentence, but you seemed to choke miserably on your own hot embarrassment. Finally you scenes, "I didn't m-mean to make you seem weak or childish in front of the team, it was just a nickname." 

Oliver chuckled biting his lower lip, "I don't care what they think." He explained 

"Then?-" 

"Because I care what you think." He whispered. 

You resisted the urge to shudder, your stomach was doing flips and you weren't sure if you wanted to run straight at the keeper or far away from him. 

"What is it going to take to change the way you think of me? He asked, his voice was deep and husky. He was now so close you could have reached out and touched him. Your heart was either beating so fast, its beats were inaudible or had stopped completely.

"What's it going to take?" 

Apparently that was all it took. You couldn't handle it anymore, whether he meant to or not he was driving you completely insane. You were sure your mind would have melted if you had been held under that tension for even a moment longer. You took as step forward grabbing the nape of his neck and slamming his lips onto yours. 

Fireworks didn't explode, fire didn't rage, sparks didn't fly. Quite the opposite happened. All of that tension and frustration was suddenly released and the world went still. 

Nothing existed but you and him, your hands tracing down his bare chest as you bit lightly on his lip. He moaned and you took it as an opportunity to slide your tongue between his lips. His taste was overwhelming, mint and sweat mixed making you crave more. His hands closed around your waist tightly, his heart finally beating at a normal speed as you stood in his arms. 

You pulled apart gasping for air, your lips swollen. A light blush took your features and Oliver couldn't help but feel his heart soar at the sight.

Now as frustration drained from his body as blood would from a wound, embarrassment found its place. He suddenly became very aware of his lack of clothing, and you hand which still rested lightly on his chest felt white hot. 

His own cheeks flushed brightly taking a step back and scratching the back of his neck, "I ummm, uhh, I'm sorry, I didn't-" His search for a sentence was cut short as you lightly placed your hand on his arm. 

"You know your kinda stupid right?" You giggled. 

Oliver felt a fresh wave of red coat his cheek in a wave of heat. 

"I kissed you dumbass, what do you have to apologize for?" 

"Umm, I just-" Oliver suddenly felt trapped, you had kissed him? Why couldn't he seem to process that? 

"Well are you gonna kiss me this time or  do I have to do it again?" You smirked. 

Oliver couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his face as he leaned forward and reconnected your lips. 

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