#‘you’ve got some issue with ME it’s pretty clear’ ‘you faced a monster on your very first day. you LUCKY punk. but newbie you’re gonna pay’

[applecidersstuff]

Yes!! I’ve just been thinking about this yesterday, and Clarrise is not even a bully, she’s just mad that Percy got to fight a famous monster right after getting to camp and win.

She’s under so much pressure that when she hears that some 12 yo killed the Minotaur she’s immediately mad at him because she feels like he would overshadow her. One of the reasons why Percy manages to beat her in TLT is because she never attacks him with her full power, because it’s not her intention to kill or scar Percy, she just wants to show her superiority to him.

I also like that unlike the fandom, Percy sees that Clarrise doesn’t mean him any harm she just wants to be seen as the strongest and the best at camp, so she puts on the mask.

I like the idea that Clarrise befriends Drew after she becomes counselor because she sees herself in Drew and sees that under the grief over Silena and the pressure she puts on herself Drew is just a child.

And maybe after the battle of Manhattan Clarrise stops praising her dad as much and gets closer to people. Maybe she tries to create a relationship with some of her brothers.

I could go on about her and how badly she was misinterpreted by everyone in the fandom for days.

Edit: and don’t even get me started on how she would react if she met Frank. Because he got everything she had ever wanted, without doing anything she did. Their dad gave him quest personally, when she got a quest by herself he told her one of her brothers should’ve done it instead. He gave him HER weapon and called it a ‘man’s weapon’.

Frank saw him about 10 times during the course of Hoo that lasted a month, and got ‘I’m proud of you’ less than two weeks after meeting him. Clarrise saw him maybe 3 times in the span of 12 years she was at camp, did everything he asked, faced her half brothers who tormented her, went on a quest and listened to him calling her unworthy, took a toll on her mental health because of all this and only got ‘I’m proud of you’ after she went through the most horrible day of her life, lost her only friend and almost all the people she knew since she was a child, faced the drakon and realized that she had survived the battle of manhattan, and that no one was going to kill her, and that she was completely alone.

Crying in the club because I was just reminded of Clarisse La Rue and how she has one of the most heartbreaking stories in the PJO series. We meet her as the stereotypical bully character, but by book two we already start to see that her entire persona is just a flimsy mask to cover up how scared she really is. She’s surrounded by people, but by the end of the day, she feels completely alone, desperately trying to prove herself to a God who treats her like she's nothing. We get a glimpse of her true character when Chris Rodriguez returns, but it's only when she's holding the broken body of her only real friend that we fully see how exhausted she truly is. Her entire journey is realizing she’s worthy of love without having to fight for it and that she doesn’t need to hurt others to get noticed. She’s a messy character, but I love her so much.

[stephstars08]

Monster ~ Chapter Three

Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: Adult Language, Mention of Death, Angst, Fluff, Past Trauma, Anger Issues, Mention of Murder, Murderous Rage, Dark Themes, and Possible Grammar Errors.

Word Count: 2,032

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! So sorry for the late post! I’ve been so busy today so I totally forgot to post till now! SORRY, HOPE YOU ENJOY!

It was the next night, and it was a little pasted midnight when Y/N finished her shift at the diner. Lately she’s been having the closing shift. As she was walking home it started to rain which made her curse. She put up her hood that was attached to the zip up jacket she was wearing.

Before Y/N could walk past this one alley way she hit the brakes when she heard yelling coming from it. She was going to turn around and take another way, but she let her curiosity get the best of her. She peaked her head into the alleyway to see a man wearing a red helmet that hid his face, blue jeans, a gray under armor shirt with a brown leather jacket over top it. Y/N could see a red symbol on the masked man’s shirt but since he was holding a smaller guy by the shirt up against the wet brick wall, she couldn’t see what the symbol was.

“I should be blowing out your fucking brains for disobeying my orders!” The masked man hissed as he pushed the drug dealer further into the wall if that was even possible. “I’m sorry boss. I promise it won’t happen again!” The drug dealer sad in a frightened tone. “You’re damn fucking right about that!” The mask man snapped throwing the drug dealer down onto the cold and wet ground.

“Because if you do sell drugs to another kid.” The masked man started to say as he grabbed the drug dealer's hair with his gloved hand. He pulled the drug dealers head up, so he was looking at him. “I will haunt your fucking ass down and kill you!” The masked man told him which made a shiver go down the drug dealer's spine. “Do I make myself clear?” The masked man hissed with warning in his voice. “Yes sir!” The drug dealer answered with some pain in his tone because of the tight grip on his hair. “Good!” The masked man hissed letting go of the drug dealer's hair which earned a sigh of relief from the shaky drug dealer. “Now get the fuck out of here!” The masked man ordered in a strict tone.

The drug dealer quickly got up into his feet and ran out of the alley way taking Y/N by surprise. She tried to get out of the way, but she wasn’t fast enough since the drug dealer knocked into her knocking her onto her ass on the cold and wet cement sidewalk. “Hey.” She heard someone say. When she looked up, she saw a gloved hand offering to help her up. She noticed that the hand belonged to the masked man. She finally was able to see the symbol on his shirt. She put her hand in his and let him help her up off the ground.

 “You’re the Red Hood.” Y/N said letting go of his hand. “Surprised you’ve heard about me.” Red Hood said. He went to walk away but she called him back. “You were pretty rough with that drug dealer.” Y/N said to him. “It’s the only way those prices of shits will learn.” Red Hood told her in a stern tone. “You should get home. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be out here this late.” Red Hood told her walking back into the alley way. She watched him use the fire escape connected to one of the buildings to get to the roof top. Y/N’s heart fluttered when he called her pretty.

 She let out a little sigh and made her way back down the sidewalk. Even though he was out of her sight, she wasn’t out of his sight. He followed her from the roof tops to make sure she makes it back to her apartment building safely.

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

It was the next night and Y/N again was working a late shift at the diner, but she was working with Jennifer which made her feel better since Jennifer is her only other friend besides Jason in this town. It was a little after ten o clock at night, so not many costumers were in the diner.

Y/N was wiping up the counter when Jennifer walked up to her with a tray of empty saltshakers. “So?” Jennifer asked her in a curious tone putting the tray down on the counter. “Huh?” Y/N asked in confusion as she stopped wiping the counter and looked over at Jennifer. “How are things going between you and Jason!” Jennifer asked her. “Oh, um okay I guess.” Y/N answered with a shrug. “Just, okay?” Jennifer asked with a frown. “I mean we’ve texted, but I don’t know he just seems busy since it takes him awhile to answer back.” Y/N explain to her. “Does he have a job?” Jennifer asked her. “I think so, when we caught up the other night, he didn’t talk much about himself.” Y/N told her. “Don’t worry Y/N, he probably has a job and is just busy with it.” Jennifer reassured her as she grabbed the big container of salt from under the counter. “Yeah.” Y/N said in a soft tone and went back to wiping down the counter.

 Silent went between the girls since Y/N was cleaning the counter and Jennifer was refilling the saltshakers. When Y/N finished wiping down the whole counter she put away all of the cleaning products.

“Hey Jen.” Y/N said breaking the silence. “Hm.” Jennifer hummed as finished filling up the last saltshaker. “You’ve heard of the new vigilante named Red Hood, right?” Y/N asked her in a curious tone. “Uh yeah! He’s been all over the news.” Jennifer told her putting container of salt back under the counter. “What do you think about him?” Y/N asked her. “I think he’s good I mean he’s actually doing something about these dumbass drug dealers.” Jennifer told her putting the lid back onto the saltshaker. “Also, the suit he wears is so badass. I bet he’s got a good body under it.” Jennifer said in a flustered tone putting the saltshaker back down on the tray.

 “Right um well I ran into him last night when I was walking home.” Y/N said looking down at the floor ignoring Jennifer’s last comment. “You did? What is he like?” Jennifer asked in a surprised tone as her eyes went wide. “I don’t know I mean it was only a thirty second conversation.” Y/N said with a shrug. “This is going to sound strange, but I feel like I know him.” Y/N added looking back up at her friend. “I don’t know Y/N, he seems like a loner.” Jennifer told her picking up the tray of saltshakers and walking away.

Y/N let out a heavy sigh since she knows he seems familiar to her, but she can’t disagree with what Jennifer just said.

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

The past couple of days Jason has been gathering information about the Joker. He was in his bedroom taping a bunch of newspaper articles about the Joker and his many crimes onto the wall. He doesn’t give a shit if Bruce gets pissed about him going after that clown. If Batman won’t stop the fucking madness, Red Hood will stop it.

As Jason went through the different newspapers, he came across one that immediately made his blood boil. In bold black letters it read ‘JOKER KILLS ROBIN’. Jason let out a growl as he ripped up the article into shreds. He thought ripping the article up would calm him down, but it didn’t.

Every time he thinks back to that night, he hears these voices in his head telling him to kill the Joker. He feels like when he hears those voices, he’s losing control of himself, but he eventually gains control back. However, he doesn’t know how long he’s going to be able to stay in control.

He heard his phone ring on his bed which made the voices stop. He walked over to his bed, picked up the phone and answered the call without looking at the caller ID. “What!” Jason snapped into the phone. “Jason.” He heard that familiar sweet voice which made him quickly cool down. “Y/N, um hey. Sorry for snapping.” Jason apologized as he ran his other hand through his hair. “It’s okay.” He heard her tell him in a reassuring tone. “Is this a bad time?” He heard her ask. “No, of course not.” Jason reassured her. “Are you sure? I can call you some time tomorrow.” He heard Y/N asked her with concern in her voice. “Y/N, I promise I’m fine. Just been a stressful day.” Jason said into the phone. “Yeah, I know that feeling.” He heard her say with a sigh.

 “What’s been going on with you? Sorry I haven’t been texting back much.” Jason said. “Don’t worry about it.” She reassured him. “I was calling to see when you are free to hang out.” He heard her say which made his heart flutter in his chest. “Oh, um when are you free?” He asked into the phone trying to keep his nerves under control. “Im free Friday night. You can meet me at my apartment.” He heard her say which made his lips curve into a small smile. “Sounds perfect.” Jason said into the phone.

“I get off at six thirty so does seven sound good?” He heard her asked in a curious tone. “Sounds good.” Jason agreed into the phone. “Great! I’ll see you Friday!” He heard her say. He could hear the excitement in her voice. “I’ll see you Friday.” Jason said to her.

Fingers crossed that nothing Joker related happens Friday night.

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

It was finally Friday night and right when the clock stuck six thirty Y/N clocked out of work. She was in the back room grabbing her purse and keys from her locker. She’s so excited to get out of these nasty clothes and get ready for her night out with Jason.

Right before she could walk out, she heard someone call her name. When she turned around, she saw it was Jennifer. “Hey Jen.” Y/N said. “Hey, are you doing anything tonight? A couple of the other waitresses and I are going to go see a movie and they were wondering if you wanted to tag along with us?” Jennifer said with curiousness in her voice. “I would but I have plans with Jason tonight.” Y/N told her which made Jennifer’s lips curve into a smirk. “Ooo, is this a date?” Jennifer asked her. “No, it’s just two friends hanging out like old times.” Y/N told her with a stern look in her eyes. “Okay, have fun.” Jennifer said with a wink which made Y/N roll her eyes. She said her goodbye to Jennifer and made her way out of the diner.

It was almost eight and Jason still hasn’t shown up to Y/N’s apartment. Y/N was sitting in her living room when saw her phone light up on the coffee because of a phone call. It was Jason so she picked it up and answered the call.

“You’re not coming.” Y/N said into the phone before he could say anything. “I’m so sorry Y/N.” He heard her say in a sad tone. “Something came up that I thought would only take a couple of hours but turns out it’s going to take me all night.” He explained to her. “It’s okay Jason. Don’t worry about it, shit happens.” Y/N reassured him.

 “I promise I’ll make it up to you.” She heard him say which made her smile. “I’m free Sunday if you are.” Y/N suggested to him. “I’ll pick you up Sunday night at eight.” She heard him tell her. “That’s good for me.” Y/N said trying to hide her excitement but failed since she heard him let out a light laugh. “I’ll see you Sunday, Y/N.” She heard him say which made her heart skip a beat.

After they said their goodbyes, she ended the call and decided to call Jennifer seeing if her and the girls are already seeing the movie. It’s been weeks since she’s had a Friday night off, so she knew she has to take advantage of it.

🏷️ @calicocat45 @deimks @k0m0rixminttea @greeniegreengreen

[mrpenguinpants]

Razor:  Jealous HCs

Hey anon!! As much frustration I hold for crippling oblivious couples, I also love the trope so much. Plus I adore Razor. Even though I try to not call Razor a dog, I still google “jealous dog traits”. Also, I found out both Hanniejji and I secretly HCs Bennet is friends with Razor and Fischl. If genshin won’t give me character interactions then I’ll write it myself.

---

Semi Part 1: General HCs

Semi Part 2: Pre-Relationship HCs

Semi Part 3: Cuddle HCs

[Masterlist]

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[taglist]  <- if you want to be added, please read this first.

 @mikeysbike @unionwitch @musekala @sunnshiii @stanzastic @akaasea @xoneaboveallx @adoring-ghost @asheseiler @childelover @dilucsz @dai-tsukki-desu @thicmitten @nonniechan @htnicayh @genshins1mpact @morthecreator @ aanne2601 @hanniejji​

Razor:  Jealous HCs

Bennet and Fischl are both foaming at the mouth at how deeply in love you BOTH are and yet you’re both equally blind. Fischl wants to grab you by the shoulders and yell at you that Razor returns your feelings and you need to stop doing whatever it is you’re doing. A sad Razor looks like a kicked puppy and even she can’t handle it. But Razor absolutely refuses for anyone to confess for him because he believes that you might just genuinely be uninterested in him. Plus, it wouldn’t feel right if he couldn’t confess himself. It’s his first love, this is important to him.

Bennet thinks it’s really sweet that his friend is in love. Even if he does get a bit pouty that whenever he get’s hurt, Razor will ask if he’s alright and leave it at that. But if you accidently trip Razor is already at your side and fussing over you. Bennet uses this as physical proof that yes, your feelings are returned and this man is in love with you, but you always brush it off as Razor’s nature to be caring. He’s smiling patiently on the outside but on the inside he has his hands in his hair and he’s screaming.

God forbid anything upsets you. Razor hasn’t been around other humans long enough to pick up on most social cues but he does have a good sense of smell. If you’re happy then the wind smells like sweet flowers. If you’re upset then it smells like mint. While Razor usually keeps himself in check and is somewhat indifferent, the second he catches any signs of distress from you he’s on high alert. Until you tell him what’s been bothering you - a group of hilichurls stole your bag of snapdragon flowers - he’s going to be on guard and stressed out. He’s already throwing his claymore over his shoulder to go and fight the monsters that tried to upset you. Wow, what a good friend you say to Fischl. Fischl is ready to punt you off a cliff.  

Razor tries his best to show that he likes you by bringing the things you need and looking like such a proud pup. He looks at you with such hopeful eyes that it takes you a second to register what he’s asking before you feel your own heart rate speed up and pound into your ears. You flush pink before you move to embrace him and ruffle his hair as praise as he nuzzles into your shoulder affectionally. You assume his affectious actions are apart of his wolf nature and how they act so you try not to read too deep into things. Even if Razor seems a bit too happy to be hugging you and receiving pets. Or the fact he doesn’t let anyone else pet him...

Bennet tries his best to help his friend out by giving Razor some advice but considering Bennet himself hasn’t been in a relationship yet, it’s all practical. Telling Razor that he’s seen couples bring each other flowers as a sign of affection, maybe Razor could find some plants to bring you? It ends horribly when he offers you a wolfhook and you just stare at him. He says that these are his feelings towards you but you’re just...so confused?? Wolfhooks have thorns so does that mean he thinks you’re clingy? Isn’t that a bad thing? Are you annoying to him?? But wolfhooks also symbolize wolves so is he saying you’re like family to him??? You’re internally screaming while debating if you just got family-zoned or if Razor is trying to subtly tell you that he doesn’t like you.

Just because Razor is, somehow, unsure if you actually like him or not. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t get incredibly jealous and possessive at any unknown presence. He’s still a bit wary of the City due to all the conflicting smells and noises but he can’t help but look so sad when you have to run errands and you can’t visit him. But when you mention that a really nice knight gifted you a flower does Razor see red. He gave you a flower?? Shouldn’t you be happy with his? Why do you need another one when you have his? Is his gift not good enough? Is this your way of saying you’re interested in someone else? This poor boy is on the verge of either running off to go sulk or find the man that gave you this flower, which up until his knowledge - courtesy of Bennet - is a sign of courting, and absolutely destroy him to prove he’s the better partner.

He tries to keep it under wraps since he's been told that while in the City, he needs to exercise restrain and understand that if he enters. He's expected to at least respect the laws and people. But this poor wolf is so feral over this new development and this new smell that's been clinging onto you that whatever worries and isolation issues Razor felt about the city flies out the window as his protective instincts kick into overdrive. He sees other people and even pets as a rival for your attention and love. He just wants to scoop you up and growl at everything as a message to say “this is mine, go get your own”.

Even when the both of you are far away from the city, Razor’s continued mood seems to hang heavy over both your heads. You’re not sure what exactly caused Razor to be on high alert. He’s snapping and growling at everything little thing that comes close, even a butterfly!

You abruptly stop walking to Razor’s surprise as you whip around and frown at him. He can feel a chill run up his spine as he stands perfectly straight as you study him before you hold your palm out and looked at him expectantly. He looks at your hand with a small spark of perked attention before his nose twitches and he goes back to sulking. You’re still waiting for him as he shuffles a bit, his hair that resembled a wolf ear is twitching, before he whines and trots over and places his chin on your palm. He’s looking up at you with the most kicked puppy expression and you don’t even know what you did but you feel like the worse person in all of Teyvat.

“Razor...what’s gotten into you?” you ask gently as you rub circles into his cheek as he nuzzles into your palm. He seems really conflicted as his eyes dart away from your face and he almost looks guilty. He just whines and turns and buries his face into your warm palm. You’ve never really seen him like that before as you awkwardly try and comfort him. Until the same flower slips out of your pocket and you hear something primal growl out of Razor. His teeth are pulled back and he snarls at the flower as his pupils dilate. You quickly get between him and the poor flower before Razor tries to do anything.

“Seriously Razor, what’s gotten into you?” you asked concerned. He quickly shifts his attention to you as he pounces and knocks you over. You left off a soft noise as the wind get’s knocked out of you but you peep when his hands cage you from above. Razor’s red eyes bore into yours and you’re suddenly thinking the air is getting too hot. 

“Do you like Razor?” he asks, tilting his head in a cute pout. It makes you internally coo before you quickly snap out of it. Stay focused! 

“Of course I do! Remember we talked about this?” you say as you remember back to your previous interactions but this only seems to frustrate Razor more.

“No. Not that like. More...” Razor struggles with his words as he tries to piece together the right string of sounds to try and convey what he’s feeling. He seems so conflicted that it breaks your heart a bit. So you reach up and gently rub behind his ear as he closes his eyes and relaxes. He breathes in deeply as his eyes open and his pupils return to normal, but vastly determined.

“Together. Always. Just...us,” Razor says softly as he looks at you hopefully. There’s a small pink dust to his cheeks as his fang digs into his lip in nervousness. You’re not sure why but your heart absolutely sky rockets at it and you can feel your face flush pink.

“Um, yes?” you nod along, you think you’re understanding what he’s trying to say. Maybe he was just upset you were spending so much time in the City and away from him that he felt your friendship was neglected? That would make you really upset. But the way he phrases his words makes you believe that perhaps...

Before you can think more on it. Razor’s face breaks into a grin that nearly blinds you from the pure affection that sprouts from it. He’s already hugging you harder as he starts rubbing his nose and cheek against your neck. Making soft and happy sounds as he nuzzles you. He’s never done that before but you assume he’s just so happy. You breath a sigh of relief that it appears that your message to him was clear enough.

Yeah of course, friends always, you think

Lupical. Partner. Mate, Razor thinks.

---

whistling as I pretend I don’t see your stares. Yeah ik but it’s ok. This is a sorta semi series. We’ll build upon it. But Xiao content is next lol. I’m taking inspiration from this. I mean, when I don’t feel like shit 😷

I’ve been listening to [  Softy - Dear Moon ]. This isn’t the usual kind of music I listen to but it came on shuffle and this is now my mental breakdown song.

Quick edit: Turns out this is an ost from “My Mister”. I’ve never been into kdramas (I think I’ve only seen goblin, she was pretty, and Hwarang) but the cover picture looks so upsetting? My friend is really into tgcf and I believe that had a live action as well. 

[robininthelabyrinth]

for the prompts: NMJ/JC - Everyone with a functioning brain cell can see that JC just needs someone to tell him he’s doing a good job. And if WWX isn’t stepping up? Well, NMJ definitely will. (Preferably smut and/or fluff) Thank you! ❤️

Compliments - ao3

It started in anger, out of spite.

Traditionally, the world took this to be a bad thing, but in all honesty the vast majority of projects in the Nie sect were started that way – they inherited fiery tempers and spiteful personalities from their ancestors along with their saber cultivation traditions – and it didn’t always turn out badly. There were any number of buildings, techniques, or technological innovations in the Unclean Realm that had started life as a furious fuck you to someone and only turned into something worthwhile about halfway through, once the person involved had calmed down enough to think about what they were doing, realize they were already committed, and then shrug and carry on forward because there was no point in stopping a charge midway.

What Nie Mingjue meant was: there was precedent.

He liked to think it started with Jiang Fengmian, but if Nie Mingjue was being honest with himself, it started back in the Unclean Realm when Nie Huaisang had told him, quite casually over dinner, that he thought that the female cultivator in his class was very pretty and that he’d be happy to marry her.

“Uh,” Nie Mingjue had said, very intelligently. “Huaisang, you’re seven.”

Nie Huaisang had not seen the problem. Instead, he explained very forthrightly that it was only right that he start thinking early on about his marriage, as getting married and having children would be his great contribution to the sect on account of being useless good-for-nothing unfit for anything else –

“Wait,” Nie Mingjue said. “Who told you that?!”

Nie Huaisang claimed he had deduced it.

Nie Mingjue claimed that Nie Huaisang was full of bullshit, and also that he wasn’t good-for-nothing even if he wasn’t good at saber, and anyway even if he was a total good-for-nothing he was still Nie Mingjue’s good-for-nothing and no one had better say a single damn word against him or Nie Mingjue would bite them.

“I meant stab them!” he explained, far too late; Nie Huaisang was already rolling around laughing to the point of tears. “I have a saber. I can stab people! I’m actually very scary, you know!”

Nie Huaisang hadn’t believed him one bit and had carried on, seemingly at peace and forgetting everything, but Nie Mingjue had gone seeking advice from all of his elders and counselors and the more dependable senior disciples of his sect, abruptly terrified that he was permanently damaging Nie Huaisang by raising him the wrong way or something. Didn’t children need encouragement at that age? Weren’t they all young and tender peaches liable to be bruised at the slightest glance or young sprouts that needed to be sheltered from the harsh wind lest they grow up crooked?

Everyone assured him that children were hardier than they appeared, flexible and capable of bouncing back from just about anything. He'd pressed, though, pointing out that even the most flexible wood would eventually form a crack in the face of a vicious hurricane, and in the end they'd admitted that it was better to avoid applying too much pressure at too young an age, that a child squeezed too hard or not hard enough might develop neuroses that would hinder them in the future.

They mostly tried not to look at him when they said that, presumably thinking to themselves that Nie Mingjue was little more than a child himself and had already been subject to the worst pressures possible, which would undoubtedly result in who knows what future issues, but he hadn’t paid that part any mind. As far as he was concerned, his life was already a loss – he had sworn to take revenge for his father, to make that ancient monster Wen Ruohan pay with his life for what he had done and furthermore he'd sworn to pay back the blood debt in full before any of that burden passed to Nie Huaisang.

Letting Nie Huaisang grow up happy – that was what mattered.

Letting him be insulted when Nie Mingjue wasn’t looking played no part in that plan. If Nie Huaisang were going to be insulted, let it be by outsiders who he wouldn’t need to care about! Within their Nie sect, at minimum, he should be doted upon and honored, or else those responsible would have to explain themselves to Nie Mingjue.

Those dark thoughts still lingering in his mind, he had gone to the Lotus Pier for a discussion conference, and that, perhaps, was where it really started.

Rumor had already made the entire cultivation world aware that Jiang Fengmian had found the orphaned son of Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze, and that he had taken him into his home as his ward, allowing him to become a Jiang sect disciple – treating him almost as one of the family, even. That much was known, so it didn’t come as much of a surprise when Jiang Fengmian proudly introduced him or even more proudly showed him off, praising him to the high heavens.

What did come as a surprise was how little he praised his own son standing beside him, despite them being only a few days apart in age. It was as if Jiang Fengmian had simply forgotten that such a creature existed, much less that he had himself contributed to its spawning, and the constant looks of hope – invariably crushed – the child sent him made it clear that the present situation had been going on for some time.

Fuck you, Nie Mingjue thought, seeing red, seeing instead Nie Huaisang in his failed saber classes, struggling so desperately to keep up with the rest even though his body wouldn’t allow for it, being told he was useless and a good-for-nothing and fit for nothing but marriage. Fuck you, Jiang Fengmian.

He couldn’t say that, of course.

So instead he said, “Excellent stance,” to the child, who'd received the courtesy name Wanyin but seemed to be universally called Jiang Cheng. “Do you know the others in the set?”

Jiang Cheng, staring at him, very slowly nodded, and demonstrated them.

“Absolutely perfect,” Nie Mingjue said loudly, drawing attention to himself with his over-loud voice that everyone would automatically forgive on account on him being both a Nie and a young man. “You can see how hard you’ve worked at it, and it has paid off handsomely. You are very lucky in your son, Sect Leader Jiang.”

“…thank you,” Jiang Fengmian said, a little bemused at being interrupted. He’d been talking yet again about Wei Wuxian’s brilliance at picking up the sword again after years of living on the streets without practice, even though at the moment the smiling boy's admittedly impressive skills were still largely wild and undisciplined.

Nie Mingjue nodded, and said: “When exactly did you say the opening festivities would be starting?”

Jiang Fengmian had clearly forgotten about that in his enthusiasm, so he quickly hurried back to the actual subject at hand and the discussion conference was started in earnest.

It was almost enough to allow Nie Mingjue to forget the matter and put it behind him.

Or, it would have been, if only Jiang Fengmian hadn’t continued to insert praise for Wei Wuxian at every possible instance – it was as if he were the man’s first-born son, rather than another person’s child.

Irritated beyond belief, Nie Mingjue started complimenting Jiang Cheng every time Jiang Fengmian said something nice about Wei Wuxian, and he made sure to keep his compliments accurate: he was a hard worker, dedicated and sincere, thoughtful, clever, not overly arrogant…

“Wei Wuxian came up with his own ideas for a sword style already,” Jiang Fengmian claimed at one point. “You can see him on the training ground now, practicing it – take a look!”

Nie Mingjue picked up a stone and flicked it over with his fingers, making Wei Wuxian jump half a chi into the air and nearly fall on his ass.

“Weak foundation, and he over-commits,” he analyzed dryly, because it was true, and because no one else was saying it. He didn't make it any harsher than it had to be: he had nothing against the boy himself, of course; it was only that he knew from experience that it was much easier to be the one being complimented than the one not. “He’s got his head so high in the clouds that his feet are barely touching the ground – the weakest fierce corpse would knock him flat as a pancake with a childish style like that. He’d be better off sticking with orthodox or he’ll end up in real trouble one day.”

“Sect Leader Nie, really,” Jiang Fengmian said disapprovingly. “He’s only nine.”

“Old enough to pick up bad habits,” Nie Mingjue retorted. “Your son’s the same age and he’s as steady as a rock. If Jiang Cheng keeps going as he is, he’ll have a strong enough base to outlast the fiercest storm.”

“A rock has no imagination,” Jiang Fengmian said, and was he actually arguing that his son was inferior? Out loud, in front of outsiders? Did the man have no shame? “Mingjue, you’re young, but you must know that my Jiang sect prizes freedom and creativity as the highest virtue –”

“Would you rather build a house using a firework or a foundation stone?” Nie Mingjue asked, doing his best not to outwardly bristle at the condescendingly intimate use of his name by someone who might be technically his elder but legally his equal. “Tell me, Fengmian, does your Jiang sect’s acclaimed ‘freedom’ only allow for people to be as fluid as the river and not as steady as the earth?”

Jiang Fengmian faltered, clearly not knowing how to answer that.

Nie Mingjue raised his hands in a sarcastic salute: “As the leader of a sect whose style is based on a grounded foundation, I would be very happy if you would educate me in your wisdom. No doubt my peers would benefit as well.”

Perhaps it was at that point that Jiang Fengmian realized that his words could be misinterpreted as an insult to all the sects whose styles were less free-flowing than the Jiang – just about all of them except for maybe the Lan and their subsidiary sects, given their preference for techniques modeled on the wind over the water – and moreover that this was a discussion conference, where every word was political, and that a great deal of people were glaring balefully at him. He hastily moved the conversation onwards, and left the subject of his sons for another day.

Later that evening, Madame Yu came over to where Nie Mingjue was nursing a bowl of very fine wine that he didn’t especially feel like consuming. Before he could start worrying about the Purple Spider’s intentions, she said, voice stiff, “Your words regarding my son are too kind. His skills are still inferior; he has a great deal of progress yet to be made.”

“He’s only nine,” Nie Mingjue said, feeling mortified that she’d noticed his little temper tantrum, which he had belatedly realized was probably extremely obvious. “Anyway, I wasn't lying. He has a good foundation; he’ll be a fearsome cultivator one day, there’s no doubt. I only said what I saw.”

“You didn’t comment about Wei Wuxian,” she said. “You must have noticed his genius.”

“Geniuses don’t need to be praised overmuch,” Nie Mingjue said. He himself had been termed a genius by his teachers, and he’d hated every single moment of it – couldn’t he just be good at things without having people fall all over themselves to compliment him? He’d enjoyed it at the start, but after a while it had started to wear on him; he was expected to be a genius in all things, and being simply ordinary was suddenly seen as failing. “It’s the ones that have to work hard that do, or else they’ll be discouraged…comparing someone to another person’s child works as a spur to a certain extent, but after a while it loses its potency as a tool.”

Your husband is a fucking idiot, he didn’t say. It’s his own son! How could he speak like that about him? Shouldn’t he be holding him in his palms like a gentle flame, protecting him from the wind and rain? How can he bear to scold his son when he hasn't shown that the scolding is meant for his benefit?

“Perhaps,” Madame Yu said, but it was clear on her face that she wasn’t about to start taking parenting advice from a half-grown sprout like Nie Mingjue. “Nevertheless, your words were kind.”

She swept away after that, much to his relief. He shook his head and daydreamed about a magic tool that would make this whole nightmarish experience go by that much quicker.

In the end, it went by at the same speed it always did. It could have ended there, but Nie Mingjue kept up the habit of blatantly complimenting Jiang Cheng in future sect conferences as well, if only because it clearly irritated Jiang Fengmian – less because Nie Mingjue was praising his son and more because it was so obviously meant as an indirect critique of Jiang Fengmian’s skills as a parent or sect leader, and moreover it reminded all the other sects of that unfortunate interchange and made them less inclined to listen to him – and of course, because, well, once you’ve started a charge, you had to finish it even if you came to your senses about halfway through.

He made sure to keep it proportionate, of course, since there was nothing worse than false praise. He didn’t really mean anything by it, other than the half-formed thought that someone ought to be doing it – that the boy should know that someone looked at him and Wei Wuxian and remembered to praise him first. Nie Mingjue praised Wei Wuxian too, of course, since the boy often deserved it; it was only that he made a particular point not to forget about Jiang Cheng, either.

(He also made sure the other sect leaders saw how well the technique could be used to fluster Jiang Fengmian, an intrusion into his personal life that could be masked in perfect politeness, and several of them picked up the same tact, though less consistently than Nie Mingjue – Sect Leaders Jin and Wen, naturally, always looking for a weakness, but interestingly enough also Lan Qiren, who was normally above such petty maneuvers. Possibly he was actually just complimenting Jiang Cheng because he sincerely approved of him.)

He didn’t think much of it.

Nie Mingjue didn’t think much of it during the other discussion conferences, or when he came to the Cloud Recesses to pick up Nie Huaisang, who had – amazingly – actually managed to pass this time, although the expression on Lan Qiren’s face suggested the pass might have more to do with the other sect leader’s desire to never see Nie Huaisang haunt his classroom ever again.

“You know what, don’t tell me. Tell me….hm…how did Jiang Wanyin do?” Nie Mingjue asked, hand over his eyes as if it could forestall the headache. “He’s a bright boy, and knows how to put his mind to something when he wants. Tell me about him instead, it’ll be less depressing.”

“He’s very bright,” Lan Qiren agreed. “Very thoughtful, and very thorough. He sometimes errs towards conservatism out of fear of giving the wrong answer, but that’s just a matter of confidence; his thinking is very good. He’s very clear-sighted as long as the matter is logical, rather than emotional.”

“No surprise,” Nie Mingjue grunted. “He’ll be a sect leader worthy of respect, in his time.”

When he’s rid of that father of his dragging him down, he thought ungraciously, and he saw Lan Qiren bob his head in a sharp nod of unspoken agreement.

“All right,” he said. “I’m adequately fortified now. Tell me about Huaisang.”

Lan Qiren gave him a look of profound sympathy.

It wasn’t until much later, during the Sunshot Campaign, that it was first called to his attention – by Jiang Cheng himself, oddly enough.

“Why do you keep doing that?” he hissed, having stayed behind after one of their meetings.

Nie Mingjue blinked at him. “Doing – what?”

“You – you said – about me…!”

Nie Mingjue tried to recall what he’d said during the meeting just now. “That you – were doing an excellent job while facing much higher level of obstacles than everyone else?” he hazarded, because he had said something like that. “Or was it the bit about how if any of them had needed to rebuild their sect and fight at the same time, we’d all be doomed because they couldn’t multitask for shit?”

Yeah, it was probably that one.

“I didn’t mean any offense by referencing what happened to your sect,” he said, hoping to explain. “It was only –”

“I didn’t take offense,” Jiang Cheng mumbled. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but – it happened, everyone knows that it happened, not talking about it isn’t going to make it not have happened. That’s not what I meant…why do you keep saying such nice things about me?”

Nie Mingjue blinked at him. “Because they’re true?”

Jiang Cheng’s cheeks flushed red. “You’ve always said nice things about me. Ever since I was a little kid – every time you saw me, at the discussion conferences, or the Cloud Recesses, or even in your letters to my father…”

He had in fact done that.

“I just want to know why. Is it – my father’s not around, you can’t be doing it just to piss him off, even though I know that was part of it. Why me?”

Nie Mingjue coughed a little, having not realized that Jiang Cheng had noticed. Or possibly even overheard, in regards to the Cloud Recesses. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of the other person’s child,” he said, and Jiang Cheng nodded his head sharply, clearly thinking of Wei Wuxian. “You’re Huaisang’s.”

“Me?” Jiang Cheng seemed unduly vulnerable when he asked. “You compare him – to me?”

“It’s amazing he tolerated you at the Cloud Recesses,” Nie Mingjue said with a sigh. In fact, his brother had all but declared war on Jiang Cheng in absentia on account of all Nie Mingjue’s comments, only for his first letter home from the Cloud Recesses that year to be I see why you like him! He’s cute! A perfect match for you! because he’d apparently decided that Nie Mingjue had a crush on the boy.

Which he certainly hadn’t – at least not when he’d been that age, anyway. Jiang Cheng had grown up to embody every single one of the compliments Nie Mingjue had paid him when he’d been younger, especially with the maturity and natural aura of command that came to him after his personal tragedy.

“But why…you knew Wei Wuxian about as well as you knew me.”

Nie Mingjue snorted. “And that would have helped Huaisang how, exactly? If I wanted to compare him with someone who picked things up the first time they saw it, I wouldn’t need to go outside the Nie sect for that – I was also considered a genius when I was young. It’s no failing to be born without a vast and unending natural talent; Huaisang’s issue has always been his unwillingness to put in the effort.”

Jiang Cheng stared at him.

“Anyway, your father was so blinded by his adoration for Wei Wuxian that he overlooked your merits, which are different but no less impressive,” Nie Mingjue added. “As someone who was trying to figure out how to raise a child, it irritated me; I thought someone ought to make it clear to you that you were seen.”

“Yes,” Jiang Cheng said, his voice strangely hoarse. “Yes, you – you succeeded.”

He paused for a moment, meeting Nie Mingjue’s eyes intently, and then abruptly said, “I’ll be leaving,” and dashed out.

Nie Mingjue wasn’t entirely sure if that meant he should stop or not. Jiang Cheng had said he wasn’t offended…anyway, it was a fixed habit by now. He’d been doing it for over half his life! He couldn’t stop that easily! It would be like trying to stop his temper, or a charge – there was nothing for it.

Jiang Cheng would just have to live with a few compliments.

“Wow, you’re an idiot,” Nie Huaisang said when he told him about the incident, months later while he was lying in bed, recovering from the disaster that had been the end of the war. “I’ll fix this.”

“Fix what?”

“I’m going to tell him you’re dying,” Nie Huaisang decided.

“You’re going to do what?!”

“Stay in bed, da-ge! Doctor’s orders!”

The Nie sect chief doctor was an extremely terrifying person. Nie Mingjue stayed in bed.

Some time later, Jiang Cheng stormed in, face pale.

“Huaisang’s a rotten liar and I’m going to be fine,” Nie Mingjue said at once.

Jiang Cheng stopped mid-storm, and abruptly deflated. “Really?”

“Really. I would’ve stopped him, but I’m stuck in bed for the moment.”

Jiang Cheng took a seat next to him. “That sounds serious. You shouldn’t underestimate war wounds, especially given your sect’s tendency towards qi deviations...”

“Compassionate as well,” Nie Mingjue teased. “I’ll have to add that to the rotation of compliments.”

Jiang Cheng flushed red. “You’re…planning on continuing?”

“For the rest of my life, however short it might be,” Nie Mingjue said, because he was an honest person, even when it was inconvenient. He was going to explain about the habit, and the concept of stopping mid-charge, but he didn’t manage to start before Jiang Cheng grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up into a kiss.

After that, he figured that maybe explaining that part of it wasn’t necessary. He might be slow on the uptake, but he wasn’t actually stupid.

[iamreddit]

Run away (Venti)

So this is based off of @pandoraw27 Self Aware AU in which the characters are aware they are in a game and are yandere for the player. I highly suggest checking their page out, they respond to a lot of asks and it’s great. This is also planned to be a little series, if it goes well at least, where the premise is roughly the same, but the reader/player runs to a different character. If you want to have a specific character be next or have it written feel free to let me know! I’m not used to writing in second person so sorry if it’s not up to par.

Warnings!: Yandere behavior, kidnapping, mild mentions of blood

To say that you were a little freaked out would be a horrendous understatement. But being transported into a video game world and basically held hostage by one of the game's characters would do that to anyone. Albedo was nice, mostly. He was still the mostly emotionless man you meet while playing the game, but he was still nice, if a little obsessed.

Another understatement. Albedo himself admitted as much himself, though it was clear he played it down. Even with all his emotional issues it was painfully clear how much he was obsessed, and he wasn’t the only one either. Albedo has let it slip that there were others who were aware, others who were just as obsessed and not as kind, caring, merciful as him.

You waited for him to head out to get some materials for his newest experiment. You had been with him in Dragonspine for about a week now, and you’ve had enough. So what if the other characters were just as bad as him? If you were going to be trapped with an obsessive, self proclaimed boyfriend, you may as well choose your own poison right?

At least fifteen minutes went by before you decided it was safe to make your move. And so, you set off into the cold of the mountain.

If you remembered correctly, you could probably make it to the statue of the seven before Albedo knew you were gone, and with any luck you could run past any monsters and not run into the alchemist. After that it would just take some luck.

The first problem was the bridge. There weren’t any extra gliders, not that you knew how to use one, which meant that you had to either climb, or run and hope to clear the gap.

Climbing was the choice you made, cautiously grasping for hand and foot holds as you made your way across the gap. The air was cold but the rock made your hands even colder, making it even harder to hold on.

Just as you were about to grab the wood of the broken bridge, your foot slipped on a patch of ice. In a panic you quickly grab the bridge just before you fell, accidentally cutting your hand on a rock.

You manage to pull yourself onto the bridge and lay on your back to catch your breath. Your right hand is cut pretty badly, an almost straight line that runs along your palm is bleeding pretty badly, but you’ll live. For the moment it doesn’t hurt, and you can find something to bandage it later.

Now comes the hardest part: getting by those hilichurls. You know it’s a direct path to the statue if you stay going right, but there’s a small group of hilichurls along the path.

You stand near the teleport point to warm up a bit, watching the hilichurls dance. Then you run. It took you a while to cross the gap, and even more time to catch your breath. There was no telling when Albedo would be back and he could cross this distance much faster than you.

And you wouldn’t get a second chance.

You manage to dodge some of their attacks and outrun most of them, but an arrow got lodged into your left side and a blast of ice from the mage hit your right arm, but you kept running.

As you ran they eventually lost interest, and you stumbled your way up the spiral walkway to the statue.

It was cold.

So, so cold.

The fire seelkie warmed you a little before you walked over to the statue. You hoped you were right about this.

You turned your back and collapsed down on the foot of the statue, using it to support your back as you caught your breath.

It was only a second or so before you felt a warm breeze. When you opened your eyes you were greeted with the sight of a very concerned Venti. He rushed over to you, the statue lighting up as your wounds healed. It felt nice, not unlike the breeze Venti brought with him when he arrived.

“(Y/N), what are you doing here? How-Why-“ Venti was at a loss for words. It took him a second to remember that Albedo conducted his experiments here, then everything made sense.

Your first thought was ‘He knows my name?’, but of course he did. Albedo said others were self aware, and Albedo knew your name too, after all.

Venti was about to talk again when the both of you heard someone running. You both turn and you saw Albedo pause for a second, shocked to see Venti, before the wind obscured your vision.

When the wind dissipated you found yourself at the base of Venessa’s tree. Venti looked visibly shaken before his expression darkened into something you’d never seen on his face before.

“Did he hurt you?” Rage. It was rage.

“No, I just ran into some hilichurls.” That made his expression soften a little, but not by much.

“But he just let you wander the mountain alone? Even if there weren’t monsters, you could still freeze to death!”

“Well, I kinda didn’t ask for permission,” and you explained how you got there, and how your last week had been. He sat beside you and listened closely, you decided not to bring up the lack of personal space he gave you.

“Wait wait wait. So you’re saying you decided to just, pick someone to stick with and try to avoid all the others?” Venti cut you off as you tried to explain why you ran.

“I know it sounds stupid, but there’s no way I can fight. Everyone has magic and their visions, and years of experience and I’ve barely thrown a punch. Someone is going to catch me, and I doubt that I’m going to become some great escape artist. So, why not pick my poison, right?” You turn to look him in the eyes, his face very close to yours.

“And you picked me?” Venti leaned a little closer, eyes wide as he was ecstatic to realize you had chosen him. Well of course you had, he was your favorite after all, right?

“Well I hope you realize,” he leaned over more, causing you to lean back to make space, but he just kept leaning. He stopped when his nose was touching your cheek, his bright eyes stared into yours.

“That I’m never letting you go.”

Again, I’m not used to writing in second person, so I hope this isn’t too bad. Hope you enjoyed it!

[tommyspeakycap]

request for jack grealish one where he’s really upset over something and you’re there with him to comfort him, lots of physical contact being his love language and you being the only person he likes touching his hair ?

Comfort

You knew from the very second he walked through the door that annoyed would be an incredibly generous word to describe the emotions running through the Brummie boys head. You grimace to yourself, shoulder raising closer to your ears at the sound of the brand new front door slamming heavily behind him with a curse at the fact he couldn't get his shoes kicked off just right the first time he attempted it in the foyer.

The first game was a loss and just about all he'd gotten for the past few days was hate, stress, hate and some more fucking stress. He was exhausted. From Mykonos to Birmingham to get a bag full of clothes so he could meet Villa in London before eventually travelling to Manchester, his sleep schedule has been completely messed up and even when he did have bursts of time where he should have been sleeping, he had been laying awake scrolling through countless tweets criticising his every single move. Add to that the fact his body was exhausted from international duty and that he had wanted nothing more than to curl up by your side and let his worries melt away like he had last gotten to do nearly three whole months ago.

He doesn't know you're here. To the very best of Jack's knowledge, you were still home in Birmingham and he would probably have to broach the conversation of whether or not you'll be joining him up anytime soon, if ever. He lets out a frustrated grunt, but you know Jack better than anyone else and there's the thick sheen of his heart aching tears existing beneath his frustration.

"Hey baby."

His head snaps around to land his eyes on you the second your sweet voice meets his buzzing ears. The echos of Etihad still burn a bit of his hearing away for now, but he knows it'll return to normal by the end of the night. The tears that had previously been kept on his lash line, pushed back by his will not to breakdown for fear he might not be able to stop if he starts are now past the last line of defence, streaming over his cheeks as he crossed the floor at a pace that would send his fife rating into surefire question.

Your body makes an involuntary 'oof' as he crashes against you, his arms so tight around your body as he stops you from stumbling back with the force of his incoming hug. You don't think he's ever actually held you that tightly before, never with such dire necessity, with such urgency for you to be as close to him as he could get you.

The hair that's been allowed to fall loose from the band he'd earlier had it tied back in tickles the back of your neck as it dangles over the exposed skin. He mumbles something almost incoherent about how much he's missed you into your neck, pepping chaste kisses where his lips have landed against you in this hug. You wished you could enjoy that, but the dampening that has begun to occur over the shoulder that his head is above reminds you of the pain he must be in.

Leaving your childhood club is one thing, but leaving it when everybody else seems to think he's a monster for it is a whole different kind of agony. There were just too many emotions for people to see the kind of things Jack had given for the club and the huge opportunity he had left them with his legacy and with the money they copped for his record breaking sale.

"It's okay, Jacky." You coo, tightening your arms around you as he attempts one tighter squeeze to force the tears back into him. It's a futile attempt, his arms loosening but never dropping away from you as he squeezes his eyes shut and lets those sobs shake his body. "I got you, baby. I've got you."

There was such a mix of emotions running through him that made him feel like the world had just pushed him to the ground and taken the perfect opportunity to give his body a good kicking. First final for England in 55 years, then they lost in a penalty shootout he didn't even get to be a part of after a game he barely got to play in. Then a holiday he couldn't take with you because of work commitments and a sudden coworker needed sooner maternity leave meaning your holiday was completely eliminated. As if those things didn't dampen his spirit, all that transfer business had gone down and it was finally all hitting him.

His exhaustion had caught up, an inevitable burn out that could be messed only by the presence of you in his life. Some of this tears that stream down his cheeks and pool on the grey material of your t-shirt are ones of joy and relief for finally having you back in his arms again for the first time in far too long of a time. Jack vows he will never ever spend that amount of time without you again. Never will he let so much time pass before he gets to hold you, kiss you and tell you face to face how much he truly loves every single thing about you.

"You're my rockstar, you know." You announce, seemingly out of the blue ones his body wracking sobs had died to smaller sniffled and period tears streaking down onto you. "I've literally never been prouder of anyone in my life ever. Not only did you fucking smash the euros, but then you stayed so sweet and so amicable during such a difficult process. You handled everything so well, J. I'm so proud or you and I'm so, so happy for you." You promise, pushing him back so you can take his blotchy, tear streaked face in your head. The expanse of that face is coved in your kisses, pecked all over the surface until he's giggling like the Jack that you know so well, his laugh the most contagious sound you've ever been lucky enough to get to hear on a daily basis. "And I'm so lucky that you let me share this journey with you." You finish, landing your lips softly and perfectly onto his with a warmth and love he had been desperately missing out on for those last vital few weeks of his break.

"S' our journey," Jack mumbles in response against your lips, pulling back every so slightly so he can get a proper good look at the face he had missed so much in person. Your cute quirked eyebrows and confusion tainted eyes make him smile before he elaborates. "Not my journey, it's our journey together. All of this, just the two of us."

His words make your heart sore, flying up onto the space above you in pure glee. You had to admit there was a mild element of fear wondering if he would want you here or if he'd maybe be wanting fresh start, but that was certainly not the case for Jack.

"I love you," he says as you feel him tuck you right back into his chest with a content hum. "I love you too, but you need a wash."

Jack's laughter bellows loudly from his chest beneath your ear at your lightly playful and yet very truthful statement.

"I ran you a bubble bath for you. Bathroom's huuuuge." Your eyes are full of wonder like he thought they might be when he would get the opportunity to bring you out to his temporary Manchester abode. This is you would both stay until he could find a house to place some money down on so he can truly start to settle out the fact he's going to have the next six years of his life here in this area with this club. It makes him more than happy, being here. But something that tickles him in thought as he follows you up the stairs is that he'll get to experience all of this newness with you. You’ll get to explore the new area together, find nee places, making it home together. You had both known Soulihull like the back of your hand, now you could find new places to just be together. He can go house hunting with you. He'll let you drag him through the houses he probably wouldn't otherwise look so much into, talking about what room could be which and silly little things he wouldn't even have noticed.

He could pick a house with you that would have enough room to start a family in together within the next year or so, like you had been hoping to do depending on what the club and transfer season had brought. This brought stability, a team that would function well without a reliance on him if there were some things he had to sit out in order to build this family.

It had been, unbeknownst to you, such a pivotal part of discussions with the Manchester City agents. Jack made it clear he was looking for stability and trophies. He had done so much for Villa and now it was time for him to invest energy in bigger fights with bigger clubs that don't face relegation so constantly. He made it clear to the managers also that the was looking to be in the business of starting a family sometime soon. He was welcomed with open arms still. A club who wanted him desperately and would probably have caved to many more demands from him, not having a fraction of an issue with negotiated paternity pay and leave.

He couldn't wait to find a house and settle down here with you for the foreseeable future, even if things didn't look exactly as he thought they might've looked when you first got together as merely young adults.

"What's going on in that pretty head of yours, eh?" You ask softly, running your fingers gently through his tangled and sweaty hair as he stands there in the middle of the large bathroom. Jack shrugs. There's so much in there today, not really like usual where he could sort through those thoughts and keep his head clear for every day and every game he faces.

"Just stressed," he huffs, allowing you to help him out of the brand new away strip he had been given at the beginning of the day today for his first first game with the new team.

His muscles are achy and tight, body still stiff from the cold that the rain had battered into his limbs as you easily hook off his boxers and tug them down his legs so he can step over the bathtub into the perfect temperature bubble filled water that makes him heave out a heavy sigh of relief the second it meets his skin.

"Talk to me, baby?"

And talk to you he did after he sat down in that bath with you.

He leaned back against you, allowing you to lather shampoo into the hair he trusted very few people with multiple times to massage the ache out of his skull from the previous days tension headaches. He talks about all those messages from so many unhappy people, some even City fans who didn't even want to entertain the idea of him being there. He talks about his worry of sitting on the bench season after season, telling you he was hoping to god those tweets wouldn't be further from the truth. He confided in you some of his greatest pains; the concept that he'd let his Villa teammates down and maybe even made his family unhappy despite the fact they had given him nothing but their full support and unsurprising pride just like everybody else in his immediate circle.

You massage muscle relaxing soap into all of the muscles in his body as he just talks, letting the weight of the world off of his shoulders to dissipate like the steam in the air from the bath. Only once he has everything off his chest and the waters gone cold do you both leave the bathroom, wrapped in towels then into pyjamas where he wraps you up in his arms like he's been desperate to do since the moment he touched off for International duty months ago, and he talks again.

This time, he talks to you instead of just talking out every worry and fear he's ever had.

Jack uses probably the most amount of words he's ever used in such sensible succession in order to paint you a perfect mental picture of a house just outside the city with a huge garden, fenced in for dogs and kids with a pool and enough room for all three of those future kids to have their own room, even though they'll share at first just for fun. He paints a picture of you at his games with two sons and a daughter, his name on each shirt along your back. The kids will call Foden uncle Phil and they’ll love him just like you both do. They'll get to play with the teams kids on the pitch after the games no matter how tired the guys are even if they've been thrashed in a loss. He depicts the kind of life you had both wanted for so long, somehow always deterred by something until right this moment, the time feeling like it had rolled perfectly into place for both of you.

And Jack tells you about how you'll poke fun at him when he starts to get those salt and pepper strands of hair and he'll love you no matter how you look. Your kids will learn what love is from their parents, they'll pick it up and they'll emulate it in their own lives sometime in the future. They'll stamp out hate with the hearts full of love that you will both allow those kids to grow into.

You both fall asleep together that night, wrapped in each others arms drifting off into dreams of kids that don't exist yet in a house you haven't even looked for with a future that each of you wants nothing more than to grab onto with both hands.

Jack's heart hurts for the changes he's made this week. He doubts the pain will ever fully leave him and he hopes that one day his club will welcome him back to end his career on a high note with them. However, until then the pain will be dulled by the prospect of his new future here.

One he can't wait to get stuck right into.

[misnomera]

On racial stereotyping of the Haans in TMA...

Right so as someone who is ethnically Chinese I have NO FUCKING clue how I didn’t notice this more distinctly in my initial binge of tma (going too fast and not paying closer attention to character names and descriptions, probably) but the Haan family storyline is, all horror elements aside, pretty fucked up in terms of racial representation re: stereotyping. This got long as hell, but please please please take a moment to read through if you’ve got time for it. thanks.

To start off, the Haans are one of the few characters in tma with an explicitly specified race and ethnicity—Chinese—and pretty much the only explicitly Chinese characters in tma, other than the mostly unimportant librarian (Zhang Xiaoling) from Beijing. But like, Haan isn’t even a properly Chinese surname, at least not in the way that it’s spelled in canon (it should be Han, one a. A quick google search tells me that Haan as a surname has...Dutch origins??).

Of course, that could be chalked up to shoddy anglicization processes within family histories, which certainly isn’t uncommon with immigrant families, so I’m not going to dwell on names too much (although I also find it interesting that John Haan’s name is so specifically and weirdly anglicized that he changed his own surname?? Hun Yung to John Haan is a very big leap of a name change and frankly not very believable. ANYWAY, this is not that important. I don’t expect Jonny, a white Englishman, to come up with perfectly unquestionable non-Cho-Chang-like Chinese names, though it certainly would be nice. Moving on).

What really bothers me about the Haans is how they almost exclusively and explicitly play into negative Chinese immigrant stereotypes. I don’t even feel like I need to say it because it’s like...it’s literally Right There, folks. John Haan (in ep 72) owns and operates a sketchy takeout restaurant. They’re all avatars of the Flesh—and John Haan is Specifically horrific and terrifying because he cooked his wife’s human meat and fed it to his unknowing customers. Does that remind you of any stereotypes which accuse Chinese people of consuming societally unacceptable and ethically questionable things like dog/cat/bat meat (which, if it’s not already crystal fucking clear, we don’t. do that.), which in turn characterize us as horrible unfeeling monsters? John Haan’s characterization feeds (haha, badum tss) directly into this harmful stereotype that have caused very real pain for Chinese people and East Asians in general. 

And Jonny does nothing to address that from within his writing (and not out of it either). And, speaking on a more meta level, Jonny could’ve easily had these flesh avatars be individuals of any race (like, what’s Jared Hopworth’s ethnicity? Do we know? No? Well then). Conversely, he could’ve easily, easily had a Chinese person be an avatar of any other entity. So why did he have to chose specifically the Flesh?

(This is a rhetorical question. You know why. Racial stereotyping and invoking a fear of the other in an attempt to enhance horror, babey~)

On Tom Haan’s side, Jonny seems weirdly intent on having other characters repeatedly comment on his accent (or rather, lack thereof) in relation to his race. Think about how, in ep 30 (killing floor), the fact that Tom Haan had spoken a line to the statement giver in “perfect English” was an emphasized beat in that statement, and a beat that was supposed to be “chilling” and meant to signify to us that something was, quote-unquote, “not right” with Tom Haan. Implicitly, that’s saying that it was unexpected, not “normal”, and in this case even eerie, for someone who looks Chinese to have spoken in fluid, unbroken English. Mind you, the line itself was perfectly scary on its own (“you cannot stop the slaughter by closing the door”), so why did Jonny feel the need to note the accent in which it was spoken in? Why did Jonny HAVE to have that statement giver note, that he initially “wasn’t even sure how much English [Haan] spoke”? 

This happens again in episode 72 with a Chinese man (and again, his ethnicity is Explicitly Noted) who we assume is also Tom Haan. This one is rather ironically funny and kind of painfully self aware, because the statement giver expresses surprise at Haan’s “crisp RP accent” and then immediately “felt bad about making the assumption that he couldn’t speak English,” and subsequently admitted that thought was “low-key racist.” Like, from a writing perspective, this entire passage is roundabout, pointless, and says absolutely nothing helpful to enhance the horror genre experience for listeners (instead it just sounded like some sort of half-assed excuse so Jonny or other listeners could say “look! We’ve addressed the racism!” You didn’t. It just made me vaguely uncomfortable). And again, having other people comment on our accents/lack thereof while assuming we are foreign is a Very Real microaggression that east asians face on the daily. If Jonny needed some filler sentences for pacing he could’ve written about Literally anything else. So why point out, yet again, that the crazy murderous man was foreign and Chinese? 

At this point, you might say, right, but yknow, it was just that the statement givers were kind of racist! It happens! Yeah sure, ok, that’s a passable in-universe explanation for descriptions of Tom Haan (though not John Haan, mind you), but the statement givers are fake made up people, and statement’s still written by Jonny, who absolutely has all the power to write overt discrimination out of his stories. And he does! Think about just how many minor (and major!!) characters are so, so carefully written as completely aracial, and do not have their ethnicity implicated at all in whatever horrors they may or may not be committing. Think about how many lgbtq+ characters have given statements, and have been in statements, without having faced direct forms of discrimination, or portrayed as embodying blatant stereotypes in their stories (though lgbtq+ rep in tma certainly has their own issues that I won’t go into here). Jonny can clearly write characters this way, and he can do it well. So why, why, am I being constantly, repeatedly reminded in-text of the fact that the Haans are East Asian, that they’re from China, that they’re Chinese immigrants, that they’re second-generation British Chinese or whatever the fuck, and that they’re also horrifying conduits for blood, gore, and general fucked-up-ness? It’s absolutely not something that is Needed for the stories to be an effective piece of horror; the only thing it does is perpetuate incredibly harmful and hurtful stereotypes.

And listen, I love tma to bits. It’s taken over my blog. I’ve really loved my interactions with the fandom. And I am consistently blown away by Jonny’s writing and how well he’s able to weave foreshadowing and plot into an incredibly complex collection of stories. But I absolutely Cannot stop thinking about the Haans because it’s just. It’s such a blatant display of racial stereotyping in writing. And I’ve certainly seen a few voices talking about it here and there, and I don’t know if I’m just not looking in the right places, but it certainly feels like something that is just straight up not on the radar for a lot of tma fans. And I’m disappointed about that. 

Just, I don’t know. Take a look at those episodes again and do some of your own thinking about why these characters had to be specifically Chinese (answer: they didn’t.). And in general, PLEASE for the love of god turn a critical eye on character portrayals and descriptions whenever they are assigned specific races/ethnicities (Some examples that come to mind are Jude Perry, Annabelle Cane, and Diego Molina), because similar issues, to an extent, extend beyond the Haans, though I haven’t covered them here. 

You shouldn’t need a POC to do point out these problems for you when they’re so glaringly There. But for those of you who really didn’t know, hope this was informative in some way. I’m tired, man. If some of the only significant Chinese characters you write are violent cannibalistic men with a perverted relationship with meat, just don’t do it. Please don’t do it. 

EDIT: Since the making of this post Jonny has acknowledged and apologized for these portrayals on his twitter and in the Rusty Quill Operations Update, which went up September 2020. A long time coming, but better late than never. This of course doesn’t necessarily negate the harm done by Jonny’s writing, and doesn’t make me much less angry about it, but is appreciated nonetheless. For more on this topic there’s a lot of productive discussions happening in my “#tma crit” tag and in the notes of this post

[slenbee]

Sunshine | B.B x Reader

Summary: You’ve known him for almost all of your life, and now that you’ve got a chance to finally meet him, will you risk it all to prove it to yourself that he’s real? The answer is yes. (I suck at summaries, this i what you’re getting. lol)

Pairing: Merman!Bucky x Reader

Warnings: 18+ ONLY - This content is NSFW. It contains monster!bucky, flirting, touching, and oral(f). Word count: 1991

Notes: A gift for @dirtychocolatechai​ <3 THIS IS MY FIRST TIME EVER WRITING SOMETHING LIKE THIS SO PLEASE BE GENTLE @u@;; haha.... <3 Love you friendo. Comments and reblogs appreciated! You can find this on Ao3 too!

Your mother had told you time and time again to find the right man. 

To settle down and have a few children and a happy home to boot.

But no one had ever said anything about falling in love with a merman.

Few would call you lucky.

Some would call you crazy. 

Others? Well they would call you down right mad.

The first time you met him was when you were young, playing down by the bay. 

You were skipping rocks across the water at your favorite spot when you noticed the splashing of water nearby. 

Curious as ever you went to investigate, and by the time you came back? 

All of the rocks you’d skipped had been returned. 

Neatly placed in a pile on one of the wet stones at the water's edge.

Eventually you started covering your eyes after skipping each rock, counting to thirty before lowering your hands.

The rock would be there, right in front of you.

Right where you knew it would be.

-----

As you grew older, you grew bolder.

After gathering a basket of flowers or herbs you’d go down to the bay to sit at the water’s edge where the water lapped at your ankles and the fish would nibble at your toes.

You would see movement in the deeper waters, the peak of a fin or a flash of color that filled you with excitement.

The water would churn nearby and the tiny fish would disappear. 

Other times you’d catch movement out of the corner of your eye, and sometimes you’d even hear a voice chuckling with amusement, sourceless and unseen.

Then, one day, he started bringing you presents and leaving them nearby.

Pretty little things. 

Like pearls or smooth, polished glass, and sometimes even carved stones.

You kept each one, of course. 

Tucked away in a little box that you hid under your bed.

-----

One sunny day you found a trail of gifts waiting for you.

Each little gift was a colorful stone that led you towards the cave at the end of the bay.

Any sane person would have seen it as a trap, but you? 

You knew better than any of them what waited for you at the end.

And so you followed. Picking up and pocketing the stones, your bare feet carrying you across the smooth stones by the waters edge until you reached the mouth of the cave.

Sunlight peeked through a large crack in the ceiling, casting the pool of water inside in a warm and oh so inviting glow.

The gifts ended at the mouth of the cave and yet you carried on, water reaching your ankles and then your knees as you made your way deeper and deeper inside.

Staying close to the edge of the cave you pulled yourself up on a rock that rested in the shallows, allowing you to sit with only what was below your waist submerged. 

You waited with baited breath, every splash and drip of water making your stomach flutter and your toes curl.

Then, a dark shadow moved in front of you beneath the water, growing and stretching until--

“O-oh..!”

A head of dark hair breached the water in front of you, followed by sculpted shoulders and a torso that would make even Adonis jealous. His left arm was more monstrous than the rest of him, bearing claws that could easily rend your flesh with just a flick of a finger.

Your eyes wandered lower, only to find glittering scales and a magnificent tail that disappeared into the depths of the water below.

“My eyes are up here.” He mused, his voice rough from a clear lack of use.

With every breath his chest expanded, the gills on either side of his ribs fluttering.

“You’re- you’re really-- ” Your voice trails off, eyes wide with excitement and disbelief.

“A merman?” He flashed you a smile that would rival the cheshire cats. 

“Real.” You finally say, your shoulders sagging as a bubble of laughter escaped. “I thought I was crazy. But you’re really real!”

Webbed hands came to rest on the stone at either side of your hips, the sharp nails of his left hand scratching into the stone with just the slightest bit of pressure.

You reached out with hesitation, hands hovering just shy of touching his face.

To your surprise he leaned closer, cheek nuzzling into your palm while his right hand lifted to cup your left.

“Do you have a name?” You ask, watching as he closed his eyes and purred at your touch.

“Bucky.” Dark lashes fluttered, his steel blue eyes flicking upward to greet your own. “You?”

“Y/N.” You say with a gentle sigh through your nose, your expression softening as he continues to nuzzle into your hand, the left brought to his lips where he kissed along your knuckles and wrist, nose brushing along your skin as if to scent you.

“You smell like sunshine.” He comments, tongue flicking out and dragging across your fluttering pulse. 

Pink tinted your cheeks, your smile turning shy as you pulled your hand away.

Bucky lets you go without issue, but he shifted closer a moment later, invading your personal space. 

Water dripped from his hair and fell upon your dress, the sudden chill against your chest making your nipples hard.

Leaning in he sniffed at your hair and then your neck, eventually making his way down to your shoulder. Following an unseen path his nose brushes across the front of your dress, lips grazing the spot just above your heart. "Heh.. You’re so small, I could just gobble you right up.”

A sudden spike of excitement and fear had you jumping, your heart leaping to your throat. “A-are you saying you’re going to eat me?”

The mer pulled back and looked up at you as if you’d gone and smacked him, brows pitched high with startled shock before it bled away into smug amusement. “Eat you?” He repeated, pulling himself up and between your thighs, putting you both at eye level. 

Leaning in he spoke lowly, his lips brushing yours. “Never.” 

A chuckle escaped Bucky at your flustered look as he pulled away and gave you a wink. “Well, not unless you want me to.”

Sinking back into the pool he breathed in a fresh lung full of water, his expression dropping to one of shock and awe before it evolved into a look of straight up hunger.

He remained submerged up to his shoulders in front of you, watching as you quickly closed your thighs, fingers digging into the hem of your dress where his eyes were currently glued.

“Oh… Oh Y/N…” Bucky let out a shaky breath, his tail giving a flick that brought him back into your personal bubble. With his head at level with your stomach he brought his hands up to brush across the outside of your knees. 

When he spoke, his voice was practically a purr. “You do want me to eat you, don't you." 

His hands dared to wander up towards the outside of your thighs, so close yet so far away.

Wetting his lips, he looked up at you with lust blown eyes. "I can smell you."

Feeling your cheeks burn you looked away, the heat steadily building between your thighs. 

The telltale prick of his nails sent a shiver down your spine, your thoughts wandering to darker places.

All it would take is a flick of his claws or a bite of his teeth and you’d be done for.

And that’s what excites you. 

The danger of it all, and yet here he was, being so, so gentle with you.

As if drawn closer by an unseen force the mer lowered himself back between your thighs, head dropping to nuzzle against your stomach. "I have to know. I have to know if you taste like Sunshine…"

When he looked up at you with pleading eyes you felt your stomach flutter and your breath hitch.

"Will you let me find out?"

Biting at your lower lip you gave a nod, a hand sliding into his hair as he sank beneath the water and into the apex of your thighs.

Pushing your dress out of the way Bucky looked up at you, needing to see the look on your face before he looked down, drinking in the sight of your bare sex. The water tasted of arousal, filling his lungs and captivating his senses. 

It was like a single drop of blood in the water, and now the sharks were circling.

A soft stream of bubbles tickled across your inner thigh, his shoulders wedging your legs further apart so that he could better fit between them.

His arms scooped under your legs, fingers digging into your dress at your hips when he pulled you closer to the edge. Warm lips danced across your inner thighs, the scruff of his facial hair causing your muscles to twitch and jump on their own.

Bucky took his time, teasing you with kisses to your thighs and the gentle nibble of his teeth, breathing you in and savoring the sweet arousal that was waiting for him.

You pet a hand through his wet hair, a low moan of pleasure leaving your lips when he finally moved in close enough to brush his nose across your folds. His lips followed, peppering you with kisses that sent the butterflies in your stomach aflutter. 

Growing bolder he flicked out his tongue, tasting the warmth of your skin and the sweetness that tainted the water. You heard him moan, the hot, slick brush of his tongue pushing past your folds.

A single lick against your clit and you gasped at the new sensation, thighs clenching around his head while your hand tightened in his hair. One lick became two, and two became three as he took your reaction as a positive reinforcement to continue.

Pressing in even closer he sealed his mouth around your sex, licking and sucking as if he were a parched man given his first taste of water.

That sinful length of his tongue danced across your sensitive bundle of nerves, lavishing it in quick little licks only for him to stop a moment later. Sliding lower he teased and prodded at your entrance, lapping up your moisture before slipping inside.

Bucky flickered and swirled his long tongue inside you, licking and scooping out your honey before delving back in to seek out more.

“A-ah~ Buh-Bucky-” You gasp with a moan, voice echoing off the walls of the cave as you hang on to his hair and the nearby stones for dear life.

This man could drag you under the water and have his way with you five days til Sunday and it would still be so very worth it.

Heat pooled low behind your navel, inner walls fluttering around his tongue as he ate you out like a man possessed, his nose brushing against your button with every hungry movement he made.

Just as you were nearing that unseen peak of pleasure Bucky let out a deep, throaty growl, the sound reverberating through his tongue and into your sex, tipping you over the edge without warning.

You tipped your head back and keened with pleasure, inner walls twitching and fluttering around his tongue as he scooped out your cream and licked up your juices.

Breathless and near shaking you sit back against the wall of the cave, thighs shaking.

Bucky pulled himself back and rose up to gaze up at you, looking every bit the cat who’d gotten the cream as he nuzzled against your thigh.

After a moment of catching your breath you open your eyes and look down at him, your toes curling at the sensation of his clawed fingers grazing across the outside of your thigh.

“I was right.” He eventually says, rising out of the water to brush a chaste kiss across your lips.

“You do taste like sunshine.”

[doctorstethoscope]

The Right Chapter Nine || Aaron Hotchner x Fem Reader

Hello and happy Tuesday besties! ICYMI, I posted a bit of smutty goodness for all of you 18+ folks here. If you’d like to be added to my general Hotch fic taglist please let me know! 

Read previous chapters of this fic here! 

contains: canon-typical discussion of violence, food mention, therapy, cuddling. 

wc: 2k

When you woke up the next morning, there were flowers in a vase on your bedside table. You’re smiling before you’ve even wiped the sleep away from your eyes, grabbing the sticky note that was stuck to the vase. 

“Would’ve sent these to your desk, but figured that wouldn’t go unnoticed by a team of behavior experts. Hope they made you smile anyways. -AH

An expert on behavior and he was only hoping that he could make you smile, you laughed to yourself, rolling out of bed and finding Aaron in the kitchen with a mug of coffee, packing Jack’s lunch. 

“When did you find the time to do that, Hotchner? Don’t you ever sleep?” You asked, and he looked up at you, breaking out in a smile. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He shrugs, looking back down to his carrot slices as you cross the kitchen in pursuit of a cup of coffee. He places the knife down and tugs you closer to him by the palm of your hand so he can drop a kiss to the top of your head. It makes you feel warm all over. You hear the insistent smacking of small feet on hardwood and step away from Aaron in an instant, not wanting to be caught by Jack. 

“Morning bud,” Aaron calls across the kitchen. Jack responds with a yawn, which makes you giggle. He smiles at you. 

“Are you gonna have to go catch bad guys again?” He asks. “I missed you and dad.” 

“Oh little man, we missed you too! We probably won’t get called away today but I can’t say for sure. If dad and I come home tonight, do you want to have a special movie night so we can all spend some time together?” 

Jack nods ferociously, and practically starts buzzing with excitement. “Can we watch monsters inc?” 

“Oh, that’s one of my favorites!” 

“Dad?” Jack looked to his father for confirmation. 

“Of course, bud. But you’d better eat all of these carrots I’m packing in your lunch if you want a treat.” Aaron smiled at Jack, who agreed easily. “Come on, we don’t want to miss the bus.” He said, ushering Jack out the door with a Danimals and an orange while you finished getting ready. You were struck for a moment by how easily you had slid into the Hotchner boys’ morning routines, and you realized that you would miss it once you found your own place. But it was for the best-- you hoped that you and Aaron would be serious enough to consider living together, but you didn’t want to force it too early in the relationship and cause problems. 

When Aaron comes back, you’re dressed and ready to head off to work. He grabs his briefcase and suit jacket off of one of the chairs at the kitchen table. 

“D’you eat?” He asked as he pulled his jacket over his arms.

“I had coffee. I’m not a big breakfast person.” You tell him, surprised that he hasn’t already noticed this about you.

“Grab a fruit.” He tells you. 

“Did you eat?’ You ask him, and the tips of his ears turn pink. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, Hotchner. Why don’t you grab a fruit.” You teased, tossing him an orange from the bowl and tucking a banana into your purse as you stepped out the door, with Aaron locking up behind you. He wrapped his free arm around your waist as the two of you walked to the car.

“I have something to tell you, and you’re going to be mad at me.” Aaron confesses about halfway through your drive to work. 

“Ah, so that’s what the flowers were about.” You said facetiously. 

“No, the flowers were from your boyfriend, this news is from your boss.” He clarifies. 

“Oh?” You asked, needing him to explain more. 

“You’ve got a psych eval this morning.” He confesses and you groan. 

“Ugh, Hotch, really?” 

“Even if we could ignore what happened with Josh-- which, for the record, you shouldn’t-- you were held hostage by an unsub.”

“For like, twenty minutes!” You interrupted him. 

“It’s bureau policy, dear. There’s nothing I can do about it.” 

“And you can’t just say that you gave me the psych eval and I passed?” 

“No,” he tells you, sighing. “For us to be together, we need to keep everything above board. Hopefully no one starts on a warpath when we decide we’re ready to share this, but if they do, I don’t want to give them any reason to undermine your professional credibility by arguing I gave you special treatment.” 

You’re a little bit stunned by Aaron’s use of “when” rather than “if.” It’s not in a bad way, of course-- it’s actually, really, really good, to hear that he’s just as in it as you are, even if you hadn’t expressed it very well yet. The idea that he’s already thinking about the future-- even if it is your professional future, not exactly a white-picket-fence kind of future-- gives you butterflies. You realize you’ve waited too long to respond when Aaron speaks up again. 

“I understand if that’s a lot for you to take on, or if that makes you rethink things. I wouldn’t hold it against you if you decided this wasn’t worth the potential professional issues.” He adds nervously, clearing his throat. You reach over and put a hand on his thigh. 

“I think you’re worth the risk,” you smile at him, and watch him release a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

 “Thanks for coming in,” Laura, one of the FBI’s resident psychologists said as you settled into the couch in her office. You err on the side of politeness and decide not to point out that you didn’t really have a choice. 

“Not a problem,” you smiled at her. 

“So how are you feeling?” She asked. 

“I’m good. I’m happy to be back at work, and to get my field clearance back. I’ve missed it.” You tell her.

“That’s right, you’d been removed from the field for a head injury.” She said, peering over your file. “Service related?” 

“No, I fell down a flight of stairs,” you lied, hoping she couldn’t read you as easily as Aaron could. 

“Hmm, so you travelled with the team even though you weren’t cleared for field work?” She asks, and you’re pretty sure you’re not imagining the judgement in her tone. 

“I didn’t go into the field. I stayed at the police station, in compliance to orders from my doctor and from Chief Hotchner. Unfortunately, the field came to me,” you attempted to make a joke. She didn’t laugh. 

“Was it not possible for your duties to be completed from Quantico?” 

“No, it wasn’t. The behavioral analysis unit works as a team-- we’re able to determine profiles as successfully as we do because we collaborate. My efforts, and the work of my team, would have been severely hindered if I had stayed behind.” You answer mechanically, trying, and most likely failing, to not sound defensive. “I fail to see how that’s relevant to my experience with Alec Gordon.” 

“I’m just trying to determine if you’re engaging in a pattern of self-endangering or careless behavior.” Laura answers honestly.

“I can assure you that my attitude regarding my work and the work of my team is anything but careless.” You bite back.

“You came back to work very quickly after your concussion.” She says, and it’s not a question, so you don’t take the bait. “Any particular reason for that?” 

“I felt ready to return, and Chief Hotchner was willing to accommodate my need to work partial days until I was fully recovered, so on the advice of my physician I returned to work on a modified schedule.” 

“Agent, I don’t need to tell you that withholding information in our session or on the forms you filled out prior to our appointment today, will only hurt you.” 

“With all due respect, I haven’t withheld anything and I resent the implication.” 

“Very well, agent. I will have a complete evaluation sent to your supervisor by the end of the business day.” 

“Thank you for your time,” you smiled, trying to make it look real. 

“The door is always open, agent.” 

“So, you kind of beat me to the punch this morning,” Aaron tells you as you’re walking out of the office together. 

“What are you talking about?” You asked.

“Well, the flowers were a part of my master plan to get you to agree to come to dinner with me tonight, but it seems you’ve made other arrangements with my son.” He smirks at you as you both climb into his SUV. 

“I guess now you know where you stand in the ranking of Hotchner boys.” You tease him. 

“It won’t get me ahead of Jack, I know, but will you let me take you out to dinner tomorrow night?” 

“Aaron,” you laughed. “You don’t need to take me out to dinner.” 

“Yes, I do.” He tells you.

“We already live together. You’re going to have dinner with me regardless of whether or not we eat it at a restaurant.” You tell him, gesturing to his place as he parked the car.

“Maybe so, but you’ve already decided that we won’t be living together much longer. I care about you, and I want to spend time with you, and I’d like to take you out to dinner.” He said, shifting to face you now that the car was stopped.

You rolled your eyes fondly, feeling yourself blush. “I’ll allow it.” 

“God, it’s like pulling teeth,” Aaron muttered sarcastically, breaking out into a grin as you laughed.

You both got out of the car and headed inside, where Jess and Jack were working on a puzzle at the kitchen table. 

“Dad!” Jack says, looking up to see his father and abandoning the puzzle, launching himself into his father’s arms. 

“Hey, buddy. Did you have a good day?”

“Yes, and I ate all my carrots so that I could have a special treat while we watch Monsters Inc.” 

“He’s been waiting to tell you that all afternoon,” Jess laughed, standing up from the table and crossing to you to give you a hug. When Haley died, you and Jess got a lot closer, through Jack. “It’s good to see you,” she says as she squeezes you. 

“You too.” You smile. “I’ve got to go change into my special movie night clothes,” you smirked, leaving Jess, Jack and Aaron in the kitchen.

“Jack, why don’t you go put on your pajamas, and we’ll start the movie in a little bit?” Aaron suggested, and Jack scampered off towards his room. 

“Do you plan on ever telling that girl how you feel about her, or are you just going to look at her like she hung the stars in the sky for the rest of your life?” Jess asks Aaron bluntly. 

“I can’t possibly be that obvious.” 

“Aren’t you literally a behavior expert?” 

“It’s being handled, Jess.” He assures her with a quick grin as you emerge from your room in soft flannel pants and a tank top. 

“Do you want to stay, Jess? We’re just gonna order a pizza and veg out.” 

“I wish I could. But you kids have fun.” She said, looking between you and Aaron. Jack comes running out of his room to give his aunt a kiss goodbye and you all settle on the couch. 

Jack inserts himself in the middle of you and Aaron on the couch, a slice of pizza on a paper plate in front of him with the promise of ice cream later on. Aaron’s arm rests across the back of the sofa and his hand plays gently with the hair at the nape of your neck. You tilt your head in his direction, pulling Jack into your lap so you can scoot closer as the movie plays on. Jack falls asleep before you can even get him his ice cream, and you take the opportunity to rest your head on Aaron’s shoulder, his arm wrapping around your shoulder and tracing comforting patterns into the skin of your upper arms until the credits roll.

[disturbedbydesign]

The Widow and the Wolf - Chapter 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x dark!exWidow!reader

Summary: After Natasha Romanoff took down the Red Room, the former Widows scattered to the wind. Raised to be a killing machine and released into the world with nothing and no one, you decided to use your newfound autonomy to take down the bad guys of your choosing. But now Natasha is riddled with guilt for leaving you on your own. She wants to recruit you, rehabilitate you, make you part of a team again. But the rest of the squad has reservations, and no one is more against you than Bucky Barnes.

Warnings: Graphic violence; Mentions of domestic violence, rape, pedophilia, human trafficking, child sex trafficking; eventual Dubcon (not Bucky); eventual smut; slow(ish) burn enemies-to-lovers. [More warnings will be added as necessary but these are the Big Bads.] 18+ only, no minors.

If you prefer to read on AO3, you can do so here.

Chapter Three

If you had a home, it would be Bucharest, even though you despise the place. It was the first place you went when you got free, because you know he’s here somewhere, conducting his evil machinations from the shadows, shielded by layer after layer of vile men across the globe doing his dirty work. There are plenty of men out there deserving of your particular brand of justice, but no one more so than the Viper. Sometimes you think that, if you can just find him and take him out, you might be able to move on—try to make a normal life for yourself, whatever that looks like. You don’t allow yourself to think about what will happen if you finally achieve your life’s goal and it’s still not enough for you.

You remember everything about the day you learned of the Viper’s existence. You were just 7 years old, one of many little girls packed into a shipping container. You had no idea how long you’d been in there or how long you would be in there. It smelled rancid, and there was never a moment of quiet. Most of the girls were screaming or crying, but a few (like you) were silent, just observing. You don’t know who sold you from your orphanage and shipped you off to Dreykov and you never will. What you do know is that you had no family to miss and no one to miss you, so you didn’t understand what the others were so upset about. From the very beginning, you adjusted to life as a Widow almost effortlessly, which is its own form of tragedy.

Others, though, they were stolen away from people who loved them. This seemed a foreign concept to you when you heard about it from the tiny, sobbing girl huddled next to you in the shipping container—the girl who told you about the Viper, the girl who would become your first and only friend until Dreykov took control of all of your minds. Once you were given the serum, your memories were locked up inside your own heads—none of you could have talked about your past lives even if you’d wanted to. Your words were not your own. You didn’t know what was real and what was planted there. Sometimes you still don’t, and nothing terrifies you more than that.

You have no idea how many little girls the Viper funneled to Dreykov over the years, but it was probably a decent amount. His real bread and butter had always been sex trafficking, and he’s still doing it—on an even larger scale if your intel is correct (which, of course, it is). But he won’t be operating for much longer, not now that you’re so close you can almost taste the venom. You were barely 8 years old when you decided you would kill him, and now you have your chance. You are so close, closer than you’ve ever been, but he keeps slithering out of your grasp. And so you’re in Bucharest, again, looking for answers, again. But you have other business, too—almost as important, if not more so.

You head to the safehouse on the outskirts of the city. The building doesn’t look like much on the outside, but you’ve made sure the inside is comfortable enough for the women and children who live there. The matron greets you at the door and you hand her this month’s envelope, which contains enough cash to feed everyone for the next two months, keep the lights and the water on, and some extra to fix the plumbing issues that have been plaguing the building since you bought it.

The building can house about 40 people comfortably—it’s not nearly enough, and you’re determined to create as many safe spaces as you can, but it’ll do for now. For now, you have to select your charges according to a very strict criteria: they are all women and children (and the children of women) who have been bought and sold by the Viper. Some of them escaped on their own; some of them had assistance from you and the very few people you trust in the city. But all of them have suffered, and all of them have information that you need. Individually, it’s not much, but the more women you talk to, the more pieces of the puzzle you have to work with.

Besides for the cash drop, today you’re here to see the newest resident: Irina, a 19-year-old beauty your Bucharest contacts had managed to snatch from one of the sex clubs. Irina was delivered to the Viper at 12, and her life since then has been an endless nightmare that you can’t think about for too long without feeling physically ill. She’s sitting by the window in the living room, cupping a steaming mug of tea, when you approach her. You walk towards her slowly, and when Irina looks over at you, there is recognition in her eyes even though you’ve never met.

“You’re the Widow,” she says.

“Not anymore,” you reply. “But if that’s what you’d like to call me, go ahead. May I sit?” She gestures to the seat opposite her and you settle in for a chat. “I’d like to ask you some questions, Irina. Is that ok?”

“The others told me you’d be coming.” She speaks softly, her voice hoarse from screaming or crying or both. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’ll never catch him, you know.”

“I disagree,” you say, “but I need more information.”

“Alright,” she agrees, “if you think it will help,” and you begin the gentlest of interrogations.

Irina tells you that for the first several years after she was taken, she hadn’t heard anyone mention the Viper. She thinks that a lot of the girls probably knew about him or came directly from him, but no one would talk about it because it was too dangerous or traumatizing (or both). Things were different at her last club, though. When you ask her how many of the girls at Delirium knew about him, she tells you that several of them had passed through him somewhere along their journey. One of them—one far too young to be working there—even admitted that she’d been with him only two months earlier.

Finally, after all this time, you’ve got a clear line from point A to point B. You feel it in your bones that Delirium holds the answers, that if you can just get in and poke around a bit, you’ll be able to find him. You take Irina’s hands in yours and thank her for her help, and then you hear it: heavy footsteps coming down the hall. No woman or child in the building weighs enough to make a sound like that, and no men are allowed on the premises. You know who it is before you see him.

*****

Bucky watches you enter the building from his position on the roof across the street. His contact had told him that there were whispers of a Widow safehouse at this address, though no one would dare set foot within 10 blocks of the place to find out. Bucky doesn’t believe the rumor, though. He knows you work alone, that you pride yourself on it. He assumes this is just one of many places where your targets meet their ends, and he knows enough about Bucharest to know that there are a lot of men in this city who fit your modus operandi.

Still, something is off. It’s not an empty building. There have been women and children coming and going all morning, and nearly all the apartments seem occupied. Why would you choose to do your dirty work in a place with so much activity, with so many innocents around? That seems not only impractical but beneath even you. He’s lost in these thoughts, checking each window with his binoculars, when he settles on a beautiful young girl staring out the window, looking desperately sad. She turns to look at someone he can’t see, and then he sees you emerge from the shadows and take a seat opposite her.

There’s a softness to your face—a gentle kindness—that knocks the wind out of him. Bucky can’t take his eyes off of you, analyzing your body language and facial expressions to try to figure out what the hell is going on. This is the last thing he expected to see, and he tells himself that this woman must be hiring you for a job—except the woman is nothing but a broken child and doesn’t look like someone who would be taking out a hit on somebody (and certainly not someone who could pay for one).

It’s unnerving, watching you this way, and Bucky is no longer sure that what he’s doing is right. There’s something about your interaction with this girl that makes him feel like a voyeur, witnessing an intimate moment that he should not be seeing but that fascinates him nonetheless. Still, he’s here, you’re his mission—albeit one he took upon himself—and he needs to finish it. By this time, Natasha and Steve are almost certainly on their way, and Bucky needs to get to you before they show up. He went rogue and committed to this plan; now he just has to execute it. He’ll deal with the consequences later.

Bucky makes his way across the street and around the back, where children’s toys litter the small yard of weeds and dirt. When he gets to the back door, he notices that it isn’t the usual ancient rusted lock that one finds on the old buildings in this neighborhood; it’s brand new tech. There’s a pretty decent security camera setup around the building, too.

What the hell is this place?

Bucky has two choices: he can rip the door off the hinges, or he can scale the building and climb in the open window on the top floor. You’re going to be homicidally pissed either way, so he might as well not destroy any property—you may be a monster, but the other tenants here look like civilians, and he doesn’t want to sacrifice their security in his quest to bring you in.

Bucky makes it into the building and weaves his way through the hallways. Along the way, he runs into a few women, and each one of them freezes when they see him. They are shocked and deathly afraid—a look he knows far too well—and they scurry back to their apartments and lock the doors. With his hair cut short, baseball cap pulled down, and leather jacket and glove hiding his prosthetic, it doesn’t seem possible that all of these women would immediately recognize him as the Winter Soldier. That’s what it feels like to him, though, and it’s a gut-punch sensation he does not like at all.

When he gets to the sitting room, the girl you are with has the same look of terror, and for a moment, so do you. But you snap back to yourself quickly—having gone from soft to terrified to hostile within a span of about 15 seconds. Before he can react, you stomp towards him, grab him by the jacket, and hiss, “Not here.”

Bucky hears you speak to the girl in Romanian, “Don’t be afraid, Irina. He’s a friend,” although he knows you think him anything but.

The second you get him into the hallway, you’ve got your knife to his throat. Even with your cold blade nicking his skin, Bucky fights the impulse to disarm you. He doesn’t want to fight you. He knows that he’s intruded on something here, though he doesn’t know what, and he actually feels guilty. He could break you in half if he wanted to, but he lets you pin him to the wall—lets you feel like you’re in control.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you growl.

“You know why I’m here,” Bucky replies, but he doesn’t know—not really, not anymore. “What is this place?”

“It’s somewhere safe,” you say, “or it was until you showed up. No boys allowed, Soldat. Time to go.”

You catch him off guard when you flip him around and throw him through the nearest door, and before he can regain his balance, you kick him straight through the window and into the yard two storeys below. The fall is nothing to Bucky, and he knows that you know that, but it certainly made a statement. He looks up at the broken window he’d just crashed through and sees you peering out with a satisfied smile on your face.

Bucky calls up to you, “I just want to talk.”

“Bullshit,” you snap.

“I mean it,” he says, and he actually does. “You can pick the place.”

He watches as you consider his offer, weighing your options—you obviously don’t trust him, but it’s clear that the sanctity of this location is important to you. Now that he’s violated it, you can’t just let him wander off. You agree to meet with him that evening—in public, at a club in Old Town.

“Come alone, Soldat,” you call down to him, “and if you tell anyone about this place, I’ll throw you out a higher window.”

Bucky tries to hide his tiny smile but he knows you see it, just like he sees the little quirk of your lip just before you disappear. He hoists himself off the ground and brushes himself off. When he turns to leave, he sees a little girl holding hands with her mother. He has no idea how long they’ve been standing there, but the girl is pointing and giggling at him.

The little girl asks, “What happened to him, mama?”

“The Widow’s bite,” she replies.

*****

“He’s not going to hurt her, Natasha,” Steve says as he prepares the Quinjet for landing.

“She might not give him a choice,” she replies, strapping herself in. “What the hell was he thinking coming here alone?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “There’s something about this girl that’s really gotten under his skin.”

Natasha looks at Steve, asking the question with her eyes she wouldn’t dare say aloud, and he picks up what she’s putting out.

“He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore. All of that programming… it’s gone. You know that. He’s just Bucky now.”

Natasha nods in agreement, but a part of her still has questions—not whether the deprogramming worked, she knows that it did, and she trusts Bucky with her life. No, Natasha’s concern is what is going on inside Bucky’s head. He was doing well, he was adjusting, he was finally ok, but the existence of you seems to have triggered something in him that the words never had. The words made him cold and empty and ready to comply, but you—you make him think, and Natasha knows how dangerous it can be to dwell too much on things you’ve left in the past.

When Steve and Natasha arrive at Bucky’s old apartment, it’s empty, but there are small signs of life—the indent of a head on the pillow on the floor in the corner, an apple core just starting to brown. He’s been there, and recently. Natasha and Steve don’t know who he would still have contact with in Bucharest, so they are left with nothing to go on. Bucky knows how to cover his tracks, and he left them just enough crumbs to get them to Bucharest but not enough that they could find him when they got there.

“He wants us to trust him,” Steve says, “to wait for him to bring her back here.”

“I can’t just sit around waiting for something to happen, Steve. I have a really bad feeling about this.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” Steve asks.

Natasha sighs and looks out the window. “I have no idea,” she replies, and that’s when she sees it: a piece of graffiti spraypainted on the wall of a building down the street—a coiled snake ready to strike.

The memory hits Natasha like a freight train. She knows that symbol. She knows what it means. She knows exactly who you’re looking for and it seems absurd to her now that she hadn’t thought of it before.

“Let me make a call,” she says. “I think I know why she’s here.”

[shes-a-gryffindor]

Hypothetically

Just a feel good one-shot, with a bit of Jily fluff and lots of Marauder banter.

As the air grew steadily warmer and the stress of exams seemed to melt away, the end of their schooling loomed ever nearer; until, as if all at once, the weeks had come and gone and they were sat in The Three Broomsticks, having a final drink as students of Hogwarts.

From a table in the middle of the crowded haze of the pub, Sirius Black’s voice could be heard over the raucous laughter of his friends… “No really, hear me out,“ he said, “she’s the type you can tell used to be sort of fit in her day.”

Lily choked on her drink mid-sip, Remus shook his head in amused exasperation and Peter was doubled over the table in a fit of giggles.

“I suppose McGonagall does fit the bill,” said James through his own laughter.

“Ah Prongs, a man after my own heart!” Exclaimed Sirius, clapping James’s back, “see... he gets it,” he added, looking smugly at the rest of them before taking a sip of his beer.

“Yeah, I get it,” said James, nodding earnestly, “Pads doesn’t mind ‘em stern and a little scary, do you Pads?” Then looking pointedly at the other three added, “ mummy issues,” causing Peter, who’d only just recovered from his last bout of giggles, to dribble a mouthful of Butterbeer down his chin, sending them all into a fresh fit of laughter.

“Gits,” said Sirius, scowling half-heartedly at them before laughing in spite of himself and downing the last of his beer; setting his empty glass back down with a thud, Sirius smacked his lips. “Right,” he said, “anyone up for a stretch of the legs?”

“Yeah, let’s go,” said Lily, downing the last of her drink as well, “… looks like Slughorn’s requested another song from the band and I don’t fancy another round of karaoke, d’you?”

“Absolutely not,” agreed Remus, so with the scraping of chairs against stone and the clattering of sickles and knuts being left on the table, they weaved their way through the crowd of tables and out into the village of Hogsmeade.

Filing out one after another onto the cobbled street, they began walking aimlessly along the path towards the far end of the village. It was a gloriously warm day, the sky was scattered with only faint wisps of cloud and the sun beamed happily down onto the thatched cottages and bustling shops, picturesque as ever.

Sirius and Peter made a game of trying to step on the each other’s heels, dancing around one another and occasionally running ahead, Remus strolled casually behind them, hands in his pockets and Lily and James trailed along last, James with an arm hanging loosely around Lily’s shoulders, talking and laughing as they went.

“I’m going to miss it here you know,” mused Lily, as they passed by a group of younger students excitedly rummaging through their shopping.

“You won’t get a chance to miss it too much, we’ll still come here all the time,” James responded, smiling down at her.”

“Oh will we ?”

“Well, you didn’t think we’d be spending all our time at the Cokeworth pub, did you?” He teased.

“Hey!” Laughed Lily, elbowing him playfully, “Cokeworth has… it’s charm,” she said, sounding rather like she didn’t much believe it herself.

“The only charm Cokeworth has, is you love,” he responded.

“James,” she groaned through more laughter, “you got me, I’m dating you, please enough with the awful pickup lines.”

“Never.” He said, grinning that lone-dimpled grin she loved, before pulling her closer to swiftly kiss her through her smile.

“Keep up lovebirds!” Sirius yelled out to them.

The bustle of the village was now behind them and a wide, beaten grass track replaced the cobbled stone of the street. The cottages that lined either side of the track were becoming fewer and farther between and they seemed to be walking steadily downhill.

“Where are we actually going?” Asked Lily.

“We’re going, Evans, to a rather special little spot,” Sirius told her, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Special?” She said questioningly; James’s lips were now also tugging at the corners.

“Here we go,” sighed Remus.

“Well, if you must know,” Sirius began, “I happened upon this particular spot whilst looking for a bit of… privacy,” an insolent grin now spread across his face, “brought many a sexual conquest here in our day, eh Prongs?” He finished, winking at Lily.

“Right… so just each-other then,” she responded before James could interject.

Sirius pushed her playfully into James, his bark-like laughter drowning out the others.

They continued much in the same fashion until finally, they reached a low, cobbled wall lined with coarse, unkempt grass; walking along it until they came to a very old, very splintered stile. Sirius stepped over the first few rungs before leaping over to the other side and the others followed suit.

It was easy to see why privacy had been the main selling point of this particular spot; the wall was alarmingly eroded, with chunks of stone jutting out it looked on the verge of collapse. The thick, thorny brambles that flanked either side of them created somewhat of an alley, opening up to a desolate clearing that stretched out of their line of sight, eventually turning up into hilly mountains.

“Charming,” said Lily, her cheery tone dripping with sarcasm.

Sirius, obviously unaffected by her assessment, simply winked at her. “Make yourselves at home,” he said before slumping down onto the grass to lean against the decrepit wall.

Peter sat on the lowest rung of the stile while the others slumped down next to him, joining Sirius on the grass. Lily sat with her legs crossed over James’s and Remus on her other side sat next to Sirius, who was wrestling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

“Should we be worried? You’re not planning on snogging us all are you?” Asked Remus with mock concern.

“This,” Sirius began, flipping open the packet, “is why we’re here,” and he pulled out what looked like a cigarette with its top twisted off.

“Where’d you get that!?” Asked Peter.

“You know I have a certain talent for sniffing these things out Wormy,” he responded.

Peter and James chortled, “Wow,” said Lily, “that is some James tier humour, Black,” making Remus laugh now too. James looked at her with feigned offence.

“Put it away before it’s confiscated Padfoot,” he told Sirius, smirking and nodding in Lily’s direction.

“Pfft” scoffed Lily, and with a mischievous grin, snatched the joint from between Sirius’s fingers.

“Lighter, Black,” she demanded, holding out her hand.

Sirius obliged, tossing it to her.

Pressing the joint between her lips before lighting it, she took an exaggeratedly long drag. All four boys stared at her incredulously. Removing it from her lips, she held her breath momentarily, winking at Sirius before turning to blow the smoke at James.

Sirius whooped and snatched the joint back from her, before taking a drag himself.

James was still staring, a little dumbstruck, at Lily, “Merlin you’re sexy,” he told her.

“Oh please don’t ruin smoking for me” groaned Sirius, handing the joint to Remus.

“You’ve already ruined it for me,” mumbled Remus with the joint now between his lips, “for all I know you’ve shagged some poor bird in this exact spot,” he said, gesturing to the patch of grass on which he was sitting.

“Nah, not there,” responded Sirius in earnest, waving a hand dismissively, “I have there though,” he added, gesturing with his thumb to where Peter was sitting.

“Ergh!” Peter jumped away from where he was sitting to slump against the wall next to a laughing James.

“Don’t be such a prude Wormy,” said Sirius, grinning lazily.

“Can we talk about anything else,” said Lily, trying to stifle her own laughter.

“Please,” agreed Remus.

“All right then… I’ve got a hypothetical question,” said James, blowing smoke out the corner of his mouth, “say, hypothetically, there’s no war… you have your pick of anything after Hogwarts, and, hypothetically, Auror is off the table… what are you doing?”

There was a moment of silence before Lily asked, “is this hypothetical?” The boys hooted with laughter. The effects of the smoke having kicked in, everything was much funnier in their bleary state.

“Go on then,” chuckled James, taking another drag and passing the joint to Peter.

There was another moment of silence as they all considered it; then, with a stony look on his face Remus spoke first, “pretty sure... war or not, I’d have about as many options as I do now,” he said despondently, absentmindedly ripping clumps of grass from the ground.

Sirius and James exchanged a grimace, Lily however, smiled ruefully at Remus; squeezing his hand in her own, she rested her head on his shoulder, “come on Moony… hypothetically,” she said, pouting comically up at him in her best impression of James. James thought his heart might explode with love for her.

Remus smiled stoically back down at her, “well…” he sighed, allowing himself a moment of self-indulgence, more to appease the group than anything else “… I suppose I’ve always found my dad’s job interesting, Boggarts at least are fascinating…perhaps something like that.”

“You’re braver than I am Moony,” said Sirius, clapping him on the back, “couldn’t pay me enough to go looking for one of them fucking things,” he added with an exaggerated shudder.

“Can’t face a Boggart, but you’ll go running ‘round with a Werewolf once a month,” he responded sarcastically.

Sirius rolled his eyes, “you fold your underwear and you won’t eat a meal without tucking a little napkin into your collar…yeah Moony, you’re a real monster,” he jeered, before continuing, “I reckon I’d fancy something like The Three Broomsticks, like old Rosmerta… y’know a pub, open my own...”

“I can see that,” said Lily, picturing in her mind’s eye a too-charismatic-for-his-own-good Sirius getting into all sorts of trouble in his own pub, “you’d be a right menace to society behind a bar though, with all that free alcohol,” she added.

“As opposed to the perfect angel he usually is,” sniggered James.

“Fair point,” she agreed, laughing.

Sirius appeared to still be musing over the idea, staring hazily into the distance he mumbled, “could call it Hair of The Dog or something…”

They roared with laughter, “that’s actually not bad,” spluttered James between coughs.

“And you Prongs? What are your hypothetical post-Hogwarts aspirations,” Remus asked.

“I’ll venture a wild guess… something quidditch related?” Said Lily, grinning at him.

“Reckon I’d be a shoo-in for the Cannons,” he answered, grinning cockily, “… or England for the cup,” he added.

“At least he’s modest,” said Lily, ruffling his hair the way he usually did himself.

“All right Head Girl, Slug Club protégée, potions extraordinaire… what’s life after Hogwarts look like for you then?” He teased, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

She weaved a hand through his at her shoulder and thought for a moment before answering, “a Healer perhaps, or a Mediwitch… think I’d be good at that,” she said conclusively.

“Very fitting” said James, smiling down at her, “although to be fair, you’d be good at anything you decided on,” he added.

Lily smiled warmly back at him before turning to Peter, who hadn’t yet given his answer. “What about you, Wormy?” She asked brightly.

Staring distractedly off into the distance, his eyes glassy and unfocused, Peter appeared to be deep in thought, “… We’re never coming back to school,” he said slowly, as if only just comprehending this fact.

They burst out laughing, jolting Peter back to the present, “caught on, have you?” said James, coherently as he could through his own hysteric laughter. Sirius was now howling, sprawled across the grass on his side, clutching his stomach.

When they’d finally managed to compose themselves, Peter was still looking ahead, his brow slightly furrowed, “I genuinely have no idea what I’d be doing…” he said quietly, more to himself than in response to the question, his eyes darting side to side as if he was beginning to panic a little.

“I think we’ve broken Wormtail,” laughed James.

“Blimey mate,” said Sirius, laughter edging back into his now voice too, “just as well a bunch of lunatics are trying to kill everyone then, or you’d have ended up polishing Prongs’s broom or something.”

Peter laughed half-heartedly along with them.

“Don’t listen to him Wormy,” said Lily, “he’s just jealous he doesn’t actually get to polish James’s broom …” she finished, using two fingers of each hand to draw imaginary quotation marks around the word 'broom', sending them into another bout of laughter.

They continued like this for a while, making jokes at each other’s expense and laughing much too hard at things they ordinarily wouldn’t find nearly as funny; the minutes ticking on until there was no reprieve from the very bright sun that had sunken a little lower in the sky, blaring down on them.

Groaning and grumbling about how hungry they were, they began the trek back to the castle. Lily and James trailing behind again, hand in hand.

“Many a sexual conquest, eh?” Said Lily, grinning lazily.

“I’d hardly call them conquests… Sirius was just winding you up,” responded James, pinching her nose playfully.

“hmm... Personally I’ve always found the spot near the shrieking shack to be much better,” she said, “much more privacy.”

James laughed, pulling her closer again, “is that where all that howling's coming from? Merlin Lily, what have I been doing wrong?”

“Not funny!” Remus yelled over his shoulder.

Lily threw her head back in laughter and let go of James’s hand, skipping ahead to link arms with Remus, “oh, come on Moony!” She said playfully.

Watching her for a moment, stumble and laugh, arm in arm with his friends... James thought he very much knew exactly what he’d like to do after school. With or without a war.

[beelspillowpet]

A Lesson in Love - A “Character Analysis” on Asmodeus

I had to come for the tracks, wigs, and weaves of bitches when Pomade dropped because I saw people talking shit about my boy. This was a milestone “project” or “reward” I guess?

I hit 400 followers today while I was out running errands!!! Thank you guys SO SO MUCH for the love and support! I can’t WAIT to produce more content for everyone!!!

Below the cut there WILL BE talk of season 3, as well as some talk of chapter 16. There’s a healthy amount of theorizing on his personality as well, I hope you don’t mind! This came out more like a plea to get people to change their minds about how Asmo really is, rather than a comprehensive essay of sorts. So here we go!

There’s something we apparently still need to talk about in this fanbase. The unrealistic idea of Asmodeus being a sex freak, and an unreliable person in general despite there being little proof of it. We need to set a few things straight about Asmo moving forward.

December 25th rolled around and Asmo’s audio drama and song were released. I take it everyone enjoyed both parts, as well as I did. My timeline both on twitter and tumblr were filled with Asmodeus content, as well as the other brothers and such. But I mostly got Asmo content. However, in peeks and cracks, if I looked hard enough, I still saw people who absolutely loathed Asmo or who were indifferent to him. Keep in mind; I think it’s okay. You don’t have to like everyone.

I’ve only joined the fanbase in September, but even I could tell some of these takes were old fashioned. I downloaded the game on October 17th, a very important anniversary for me, while I 

was still in bed in the morning. I blazed through the entire story of season 1 and now I am stuck in season 2, specifically in Chapter 24. I obviously don’t have every card of Asmodeus with his Devilgrams, but I have been analyzing his character over the past few days for this.

So needless to say, I have a considerable amount of information on him, as well as personal thoughts that may help some learn to love him. Or at the very least, from spreading a negative idea of him around as if it were true. Enough that should help clear his name, so to speak.

Let’s look at his title; Avatar of Lust. Now naturally the thoughts that come to your head are sex and other sexual bits. So I can understand how some people would come to the conclusion that he’s just a sex freak. But if you look under the surface of his title, like I’m sure you’ve had to for your own personal favorites (*cough* Lucifer, Belphie, and Satan ESPECIALLY) you would discover that Asmodeus is more than just about sex. In fact, sex takes up very little of his pass time, if you were to believe it!

In recent chapters, as I’ve been told, Asmodeus doesn’t really get around much anyways:

Granted, this was said while in Celestia, but I imagine not much has changed for him since his fall, as well as his brothers.

Not really comfortable being with just anyone, huh…? Sounds like someone who doesn’t have sex so warily often as you’d think!

Being lustful can come in many shapes and forms. It can be merely in appearance, which Asmo is not afraid of doing. He’s very comfortable about skinship and it’s very apparent in how he dresses and acts that he wants you to adore his body. To worship it! Maybe not sexually, but aesthetically! Being lustful can mean just thinking about sex or sexual scenarios often, which if you take a peek at Asmo’s chat’s either with you or his brothers, is very apparent too.

Personally, I believe that people would assume he is not good in a relationship because he would have a “cheating problem”. I don’t think Asmo is a monster, just like I don’t think any of the brothers are monsters. They may be demons (technically fallen angels) now but they used to be angels too. Their falling out with their Father doesn’t mean they’ve completely abandoned morality, it was a rebellion for Lilith’s right to live. Not for them to sin as they pleased. For all we know they might have been fine in Heaven otherwise! (with the exception of Lucifer.)

A monster knows right from wrong and chooses evil anyways. An ignorant person doesn’t know right from wrong. Asmodeus is not a monster, nor is he ignorant.

When Asmo genuinely loves you, I think he would take steps to calm down that side of him, if it were to exist. Lust is fairly limited, but it is a part of love to some extent. LOVE is vastly different. Love has many languages, and they aren’t all spoken either. For me, personally, I found that Lucifer’s love language can be either very direct, or roundabout so as to not let it go to your head, for an example. Asmo is just far more direct about his care for you.

I feel as though Asmo gets a lot of crap constantly for his presumed nature and because we don’t get to see much else of him at first, especially in season 1, his impression on us sort of stays. With most of the fanbase either somewhat new to the game or somewhere lost in the sea of the difficulty curve that is season 2, we can only assume based on what we’ve seen, and what others have headcanoned about him.

Let’s break and talk about Satan for a moment; this is going somewhere.

I’m led to believe that Satan can control his sin fairly well. He’s easy to get irritated, sure, but he isn’t as much of a walking ball of rage as I suspected. I would argue that, aside from Leviathan, Satan can handle his sin the best out of the brothers. But again, we’re forgetting about Asmo. The Avatar of “Lust”. Like I’ve shown before, he doesn’t really sleep around a lot, according to anon.

At worst, Asmo being flirty is through text and he’s not actively trying to sleep with you. It can be interpreted that way, but for me personally, it comes down to having a friend that is very up close and in your personal space.

(I myself am one of these types of people. Having ADHD, my social cues are always sort of off, and I’ve struggled with coping with it for years. With my best friend, we have seen each other naked countless times and have slept in the same bed as well. We were never romantic with each other. We were just very comfortable being close and personal with each other.)

I’d like to point out also that Asmo isn’t even there for most of season 1 too. Which can give you the idea that maybe he just was out sleeping around a lot, but to me he probably just went out partying a lot. You don’t get known that fast for sleeping around. Maybe in 5,000 years, sure, but I’d imagine being a party boy, as his Devilgram “Guided by Desire” suggests.

So the idea that Asmo isn’t in the house a lot because he’s out having sex all the time isn’t true is it? He’s probably just out partying, which can LEAD to sex with someone sure, but again, Asmo doesn’t feel comfortable doing that, now does he?

I feel like of all the boys, Asmo is the one who radiates with everyone else the most. Most people will never realize how surreal it is that Asmo is faking it until he makes it. He doesn’t always think he’s beautiful, or that he’s worth all the love he’s striving and straining to get. Something that is extremely relatable for a lot of people with self-worth issues. Asmo is just like that, but instead being sarcastic and self-deprecating, he simply works to make himself look as beautiful as possible, so that in his eyes, his beauty matches the affection he gets.

Which is why, when he falls in love with you, it’s strange. You are constantly telling him he’s nice and pretty, but you aren’t lusting after him. You’re just being nice. It may just be me, but when people are overly nice just for the sake of being nice, I’m very attracted to that. That is Asmo, to some extent. The fact that he reflects the insecurities and habits of others so clearly may make others uncomfortable, but that brutal honesty veiled behind insecurity is what a lot of people with self-image issues deal with.

Now for me to share my favorite personal idea for Asmo that completely changed how I saw him in season 1 onwards; Asmodeus is an empath. Now let me explain:

First, what is an Empath?

The term empath comes from empathy, which is the ability to understand the experiences and feelings of others outside of your own perspective. Seems simple, right? Everyone can do this to some extent. However, what makes you an empath is the fact that empaths genuinely feel the same pain as you do. So much so your experience becomes a very personal part of their own. They are capable of being able to feel other people’s emotions without them speaking, or even showing signs of it through their body language.

This would explain, for me personally, why there’s so little of him in season 1. The intensity of what goes on in the house, his sensitive soft-spoken mannerisms, the only time he truly gets mad is when he’s childishly arguing with Mammon? Asmo is afraid of true conflict, he’s afraid of violence and negative emotions. Let’s face it; everyone is indifferent or hates you at the start of the game.

While this changes fairly quickly, all the intense feelings come to a head in chapter 16. All those negative emotions swirling around, of course Asmo isn’t going to want to be in the house when it’s that intense. The attic didn’t just disappear completely, too. Belphie was still in the attic hating humans. That negative emotion could be affecting Asmo and he didn’t know why, so he could have been out of the house more.

Where Asmo can feel the emotions of others, it may mostly be the negative ones because they fill him with anxiety and panic if it persists. Which can be helpful in making him so urgent to want to make others smile and feel better, right?

Imagine being intimate with Asmodeus, and suddenly you aren’t in the mood for it anymore but don’t want to make things awkward. He could pick up on it in an instant and wouldn’t get mad because he understands how you feel completely.

Now to close this out about something that genuinely hurts me; Asmodeus is a narcissist.

I mean, the wiki says that he is, but personally? No, no he isn’t. Since when is loving yourself a bad thing? Sure he may go a bit far sometimes, but people with self-image issues need to go a little harder than the rest to make sure they're getting the love they need.

(Talking about myself AGAIN, but I do this a lot. At random, I will look up in my own mirror in front of my desk that I sit in front of all day and tell myself I am a cute bitch. I am VERY VERY cute and anyone would be lucky to have someone as drop dead gorgeous as myself. I say that a few times a day. In reality, I am very insecure about my looks. I do believe I’m cute, but sometimes it’s hard to say it. Which is why I force myself. Why wouldn’t Asmo do the same?)

Talking yourself up to be as beautiful as a sex god is no easy task, but Asmo isn’t the Avatar of “Lust” for no reason. When an insecure girl talks up her beauty, it’s her being strong and independent. When Asmo does it, its narcissism… it doesn’t really seem fair, now does it? Maybe he’s just an insecure person who needs to tell himself ALL THE TIME that he’s beautiful. That if he stares at his reflection long enough, he may see it too.

(Also, Simeon literally calls him out on being insecure. Insecure people tend to try and overcompensate where they feel they’re lacking.)

”Asmodeus is hinted to be insecure and seeking for love and attention. When Simeon was asked about what he thought of Asmodeus, he says that Asmodeus is still trying to fulfill the role of the angel he used to be; an angel that was adored and loved by many. Asmodeus laughs at Simeon's remark and brushes it off by saying that he is only jealous.” - A section from said Asmodeus Wiki.

People can choose to love or hate Asmo, obviously. Making things up about his character without having anything but speculation and having that dictate how he acts is plain silly. This entire “essay” if you can call it that, comes from the heart. I love Asmo as a character, and in the beginning he did make me uncomfortable, I didn’t like him that much. But I learned to look past that and figure out why he acts the way he does. Something didn’t sit right with me about him for a while, and it was that air of insecurity that I didn’t see at first.

All I can really ask for, is giving Asmo another chance as a character. He’s not as wild and wacky as Mammon, or as cool and sexy as Lucifer, or as edgy and precious as Belphie, but he matters in this story too. He fell from grace with his brothers for Lilith. Give him another chance, and let him show you that he is the Avatar of Love.

[sylverstorms]

Miss Fortune x Reader ----Salt-Crusted Heart

For an easier read, head to Ao3.

Another day. Another hunt for a fetter.

Feels like this is your life now, your present and your future. It feels like this war against the ever-spreading mist and Viego will never end. Your days as a trainee Sentinel, where the tough schedule of the Academy was your only problem, seem so far away now it’s like they belong in a dream. Like that was a different you.

And it was, wasn’t it.

That ‘you’ hadn’t ever slashed at anything other than a training dummy. Now you’re out here –with a very dysfunctional crew of lunatics— fighting mist monsters.

Said dysfunctional crew is, once again, arguing amongst themselves on which way you’re supposed to be headed next. Everyone’s got their own opinion and somehow it never matches with anyone else’s. You don’t even know how they manage that.

It takes a few light years for the majority to agree you’re heading to Bilgewater.

By the time you Wayfinder them there, you’re not surprised that all you see is darkness and sickly green mist. Half the world has gone to shit already and you’ve come to terms with that. More or less. Probably less.

“Wow.” you say as you take in the ghostly-looking town ahead of you and the armada of ships at the port below, blocking this side of the island off completely. Not that there’s a lot to block because the place is a ravaged hellhole anyway.

The environment has this wrecked, haunted vibe that would be super interesting to see in a movie with an apocalypse theme. Perhaps not so much on an actualapocalypse, though.

“Likin’ the view?” Graves asks, the corner of his lips sealed over his cigar.

“No, it was more of a ‘this is so much worse than I could have imagined’ type of wow.” you explain.

“It really is.” Riven agrees.

“Funny thing; the mist ain’t changed it all that much.” Graves laughs.

“Hey. Focus.” Lucian chastises. This guy, you’re convinced, is allergic to lightening the mood. He’s also not someone you dare say this to. “See that?” he points at the sea, to the massive ship there, towering over the rest.

You’re so focused on its fine craftsmanship and the little details you keep finding the longer your eye remains on it, you miss his point entirely, at first. Then you blink and look closer –at the thin, telltale trail of green-black smoke floating upwards from its deck.

There’s no mistaking it; a fetter is on that vessel.

“Now, listen up, everybody. Big Ol’ Graves is a legend around these parts, so my name will get us on that beauty. But. People here can be a bit… unfriendly towards new faces.” he begins. “Let’s not walk up there like an attack force and end up riddled with holes, ye?”

“Good idea.” you nod.

“Rookie, Graves, you’re heading up first.” Lucian motions with his chin.

“Bad idea.” you comment, but his skewering glare has you agreeing with the plan the same second.

“Signal if you need help.” Senna adds.

Graves only laughs heartily and grabs your uniform with his large hands, pulling you along. You know you won’t like what you hear when he leans down and whispers to you:

“We won’t have time to signal if they decide we’re not worth listening to but let’s not tell them that, Rook.”

“That’s… just what I needed to hear.” you grimace.

“Ha! Which means you’re goin’ up first. Chances are they won’t instantly shoot your pretty face off.”

“Wait… what about that ‘my name will get us up there, no trouble’?” you ask.

“Hah! That was just to impress Vayne, kiddo. My name is far more likely to get us killed in these parts.” he laughs but you don’t. “Did she look impressed?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, she didn’t, mate.” Nothing has ever moved Vayne other than when she kills monsters in a particularly violent way.

“Ah, shit. Maybe next time.”

Yeah, if there is a next time.

Your chances aren’t looking good as soon as you step onto that deck and every weapon imaginable is suddenly shifted to you.

…

Graves tells you to put your ‘social skills’ into good use. You are not aware that was one of your talents, so it’s probably more of his bullshit. Either way, death by a thousand bullets gives you a solid motivation to turn the charm on and talk.

“Gentlemen, I’m sure we can all come to an agreement here. No need for all that firepower.” you say, totally not sweating at all underneath your white jacket. “You have something that we need and I’m sure we can negotiate a profitable deal for everyone.”

Jackpot. Bounty hunters want money more than anything. And there is not a sweeter sound to their ears than the promise of wealth. Even if you’re just talking nonsense to save your ass.

“If I could just speak to the captain—”

“The captain is listening.” a commanding voice says from up ahead. Some of the crew members part to let her through…

And.

You see a vision in this nightmare.

The woman that walks forward stands out like fire over water, like stark color on Bilgewater’s salt-washed palette. Maybe it’s the vivid red of her flowing hair, stark against the gold-trimmed black of her hat, or the emerald green of her eyes, or the way she holds herself, a queen on this deck. Whatever the reason, you cannot tear your gaze off of her.

Tongue-tied at the moment, you let Graves do the talking. Big mistake.

The goddess’ visage darkens when she sees your company, who she addresses in a less than pleasant tone: “Look what washed in with the tide. Malcolm Goddamn Graves.” You wouldn’t want that glare directed at you, ever.

“Fortune? Ah, hells, naw.” he curses. “What are ya doin’ here? How did ya get a whole damn fleet a’ warships?”

“A lot has changed since we last met. Fools around here decided to challenge me for control over Bilgewater. I locked this place down until we can resolve this inconvenience.” she says, like cutting off half the freaking island is not a big issue.

The sound of her heels on the wooden floor is downright ominous as she approaches. Her eye scans you lightning-quick, then the entirety of her attention is on Graves. The very next second…

A blunderbuss pistol is pointing right to your face, same as his.

“Whoah.” you gasp.

“What’s Gankplank paying you?!” she demands.

“I ain’t workin’ for that bastard! I ain’t even on speakin’ terms with his orange-eatin’ ass! Ya know that!”

“What I know is you came onto my deck with fancy new equipment and a whole team of mercenaries at your back. You know, just in case you thought you were being subtle, in all that silver and white sticking out in Bilgewater like a sore thumb.” She has a point. “That getup isn’t cheap and there’s only one cretin around here with that kind of coin. Now tell me what he’s planning, of you’ll be smoking that cigar through a new hole.”

“Um –ma’am? He’s telling the truth.” You almost regret speaking up when her piercing stare lands on you. “And we’re not mercenaries. We’re Sentinels of Light.” you add.

“You put on a convincing performance, cutie.” she says.

In any other scenario, a goddess like that calling you cute would make you blush. But the gun still very much in your face makes it difficult to really register the word.

“Like you’ve never heard of the ‘Saltwater Scourge’, ‘Reaver King of the High Seas’… ‘Scum-sucking Hagfish Who Takes All You Ever Cared About’…”

Oh, okay. So, she’s got a screw loose as well.Not surprising considering the company you attract, lately.

“Nope. Kiddo’s right, Sarah. They’re Sentinels, alright.” the very familiar voice of your boss, which normally doesn’t make you happy to hear, has the opposite effect now. Lucian walks up behind you to save the day.

“Lucian?” she asks, finally lowering her weapons. “…this is your crew?”

“Yep. And I’d appreciate it if you kindly refrained from killing them. Need about every gun we can get.” he replies.

“Follow me.” she says. “It seems we have a lot to discuss.”

…

Captain Fortune does not drive an easy bargain.

From what you hear later, she’s given Lucian a real hard time with negotiations. And even now, she’s the one who holds all the cards.

If you are to defeat Viego and make it clear to Bilgewater it was her who made it possible, she is willing to trade with the fetter and even let you stay on her ship in the meantime. Otherwise, if she gets the feeling it’s him who gains ground and holds the power in this place, you’re basically screwed.

The others are uneasy. They’ve suggested multiple times you steal the fetter from Fortune and dash for your lives after. Thing is, with how close she keeps that relic, that plan is looking impossible.

Which brings you to where you are right now, all the Sentinels and Miss Fortune gathered around the same map, planning your next action.

“Yes, but if I help you get there, what’s in it for me?” she asks.

And really, you don’t have anything to offer her in return. Even Lucian looks to Senna for help. Who, in turn, looks at you.

Why do they keep doing that? What have you done to convince these people you are good at talking? Especially to women like the captain.

“How about the… moral reward of helping save people from these monsters?” you suggest.

Her green eyes –and holy shit are they green— look at you like she wants to both scoff and laugh sardonically. “Tell me that is a joke.”

“It –it really isn’t.” you reply.

She huffs. “Look. I’m sure you’re all nice people. But nice people here get their throats cut.” She motions with her hand. “The cutthroats get the spoils. That’s how it works. I only care about the spoils.” she states. “So, if you want things from me and my crew, you need to make it worth our time.”

Their time sure isn’t cheap.

You know you don’t have anything at Headquarters with the kind of value she’s looking for. Definitely no coin and no gold for her services. But. You’ve heard multiple times during classes that the materials the Sentinel outfits are weaved from are extremely durable and therefore, extremely desirable.

“Would you and your crew be interested in a wardrobe overhaul?” you ask. All eyes are on you, but hers are the most intense. “Every prestigious fleet has to look the part, no? Plus, these clothes…” you say, grabbing the nearest knife and dragging it across your sleeve. The fabric is not so much as scratched. “…are pretty cool.” you tell her.

Miss Fortune leans back in her captain’s chair with a pretty smile painted on her –very attractive— lips.

“Now you’re talking my language, cutie. I’m sure we can work something out.”

…

On one hand, you have Gwen sewing day and night –your fault, you feel bad for it— while the rest of you handle the fighting. On the other, you do have a ship taking you wherever you need and making your job of clearing the darkness ten times faster.

Even Lucian has given you a pat on the back for that one. That was certainly unexpected.

“We need Fortune to take us here.” Senna points on the map. “Rookie, you go tell her.”

You almost choke on your water. “Why me?” you ask.

“Because you’re finally making yourself useful.” Lucian replies. Ouch.

“I’ve been very useful from the start!” you argue. The others look amongst themselves. “Hey!”

“I mean… points for effort.” Diana comments.

“Moral support is useful, I agree.” Riven smirks at you.

‘Asshole’ you mouth, rising from your seat. Her grin only widens.

You send them a narrowed, unimpressed look over your shoulder on your way out. Some of the crew members that see you walking towards the captain’s cabin whistle your way. You’re sure there’s tons of colorful comments behind your back but you have bigger things to worry about.

Like… the way a certain redhead looks leaned back in her plush chair, a queen on her throne, toying with a gold coin that flips over her nimble fingers with effortless ease. Focus on the mission. The mission, I say. Oh, Gods…

“I love how they send you in to ask for extra.” she says. “So. Are you the silver tongue of the group?” There’s something in her little smirk and the way she says ‘tongue’ that gets to you, but that’s probably just your vivid imagination.

That and the months you’ve spent without any outlet for your stress other than fighting, on top of more fighting.

“No, the others are just that terrible at basic social interactions.” It’s the truth.

Fortune gives a small chuckle. “Let’s see how good you are, then, Sentinel.”

You pleadwith your hopeless lesbian brain not to fry on the spot. “We sort of need you to get us further than discussed. While hoping that… the scenic route will be its own reward?”

“Cute.”

“Does that mean you’ll do it?” you perk up.

“No.”

“I’ll send Lucian here next time so he can bore you to death until you agree.” You never claimed to be above blackmail.

“A bold statement.” she replies. “Tell you what. If you demolish a few of my enemies’ ships during your hunt for the mist things, then deal.”

Sentinels aren’t supposed to do that. And if you tell Lucian, that will be his exact answer. You can already hear his unpleasant voice in your head. However, you’ve already figured out the world doesn’t work by the Sentinel Code, so…

“Accidents do happen on the battlefield.” you say.

Sarah gives you that slow smile that makes a certain part of you feel hot under your outfit. “And don’t bring any of the others in here to negotiate. I’d rather look at your pretty face.”

Uh.

Um.

By the time you exit the cabin, all you can think is, what just happened?

…

Combat is a rush, sometimes. As is knowing you’re getting stronger and faster by the day. You still don’t hold a candle to the rest of your group, but you can finally say you’re helping them out.

Being further up in the enemy’s face, though, is also petrifying. You see a twisted reflection of yourself in every mist wraith’s dead eyes. There are nightmares that come hand-in-hand with the experience… and then there’s physical pain.

You’ve been hurt before. Their talons can slice through even your magic-reinforced outfits. Still, every time feels worse than the last. The laceration you’re currently sporting on your side is burning like the fires of hell.

You’re trying not to scream by the time Riven lowers you onto the deck. Your vision is blurred with sweat and the tears you’re fighting to keep at bay.

“What’s going on here?” you hear Fortune’s voice in your haze.

“Tell me you have a healer on board!” Riven shouts.

“And they can get here fast!” Senna adds.

You’re not sure how much time passes. It feels like light years until someone kneels beside you and starts working on your wound. The healing magic pulls and sears at you. Every muscle in your body is taut with the effort to keep still.

“Isn’t …a healing spell supposed to numb the pain, first?” Diana asks.

“Look, blondie, I’m no professional here, ye? Just picked up a few things from mah old man. If ya wanna criticize, come here and do it yourself.” he answers. And it’s …not the best feeling in the world to hear your healer say that.

“No offense. Just worried for our teammate.” Senna adds. At least one of your bosses cares about your wellbeing.

The other just benches you for the next mission.

…

Out of all the people you expected to come see you while you’re recovering, Sarah Fortune is the last who came to mind. You’re almost shocked mute when the captain comes to sit on the edge of your bed, graceful and fluid as ever. Gorgeous as ever, too, while you’re sure you look pale as a ghost, eyes sunken as a shipwreck.

“Hey, Rookie.” she greets.

“Ah, great. That nickname’s never gonna come off, is it.” you roll your blue eyes.

“How’s the battle scar?”

“I’m not bleeding all over your fancy deck anymore, at least.” you say. “Guess I should be glad for that.” Although you are a bit frustrated that the ‘healer’s’ hand was so shaky there’s a scar left there now, permanently, when it could have been avoided. “And that the dude wasn’t drunk bad enough to stitch my organs to my skin.”

“Yeah, luckily he was only a little drunk.” she nods.

“That makes total sense for a healer. Who, from what I know from four years at the Academy, should always be sober.” you cannot keep it in any longer.

“That’s… a tall order here.” Yes, of course, the place is far too shitty for that.

“I gathered.”

“Come, now. Don’t be upset about the scar.” You’re upset about the pain that could have been avoided if the damn guy just didn’t drink his ass off in the middle of the day. “…Want me to kiss it better?”

You’re so far up your mind –filled with thoughts of being a dead weight on the team on top of your dead classmates because of Viego— you don’t even hear her. Your head is pounding from the pressure the memory causes you, a killer mix with the effect of the painkillers you’ve been on, all evening.

“I’ll be fine, thanks.” you reply, your voice hoarse and alien to your own ears.

…

You and Fortune talk a bit more on the two days you’re out of commission.

You learn a few things about her, like the fact you have a common interest in psychology. Like the fact you shouldn’t ever ask about her past or her family, unless you want her to close up tighter than a clam, at the speed of lightning. In the meantime, if it feels like she may be throwing more smirks your way than when she talks to anyone else, you blame that on your wishful thinking.

That woman is way out of your league.

It is one in the night and everyone on the ship is either well asleep or completely passed out from booze. You wake up from a nightmare, then fully register the way the ship is swaying from the angry waves. The resulting nausea has you completely losing the desire to fall back into the land of dreams.

You thought you’d be the only one awake when you walked up to the deck, yet you quickly realize that’s not the case when the sound of heels approaches from behind. You already know it’s her. The night breeze does a wonderful job of carrying her perfume straight to your nose. As if she wasn’t already fatally attractive without it.

You keep your eyes on the waves, so dark blue they look black.

“Oh, this is a surprise. Such a romantic soul, admiring the sea in the dead of night.” she says. The slight –sexy as fuck— slur to her words must have something to do with the bottle of whiskey in her hand.

“Yeah, my thoughts are not that deep.” you chuckle. “More like ‘fuck this constant motion under my feet’.”

She gives a small, airy exhale that could pass as a laugh, leaning on the railing next to you. Kind of close, too. “Ah and here I thought Sentinels didn’t swear.” she says. “And that they don’t drink. Unless you care to prove me wrong there, too.”

She takes a swing of the bottle and passes it to you. The smart part of your brain tells you it is a bad, bad idea. The rest of you is seduced by the promise of the buzz and the challenge in her eyes.

Well. Since you’re not really getting anywhere closer to where her lips are in anything other than your very private fantasies, you think may just take the chance for an indirect kiss that’s presented.

The gulp you take from the bottle –you intended a sip but the fucking ship moves so much— burns a trail down your throat and past your insides. You almost cough. How heavy is this thing?

“Ahem. So.” you begin. “What’s keeping you out late?”

“I have great company.” At first you think she means you, then you realize it’s the bottle that’s lucky. Hah, fell right into that one. “And… my cabin is very cold tonight.”

It’s really chilly, yeah, but it’s not that bad, you think. Maybe the two of you are just used to different climates, though. “I’m… sorry to hear that.” you reply.

“Well. Guess I should head in or it will never warm up by itself.” she says.

You nod and bid her goodnight, turning your eyes back to the inky waves. But then you feel her weight softly crash into your back, ample chest pressing against you, one of her hands on your waist and the other on the railing next to yours for support. Her lips are right by your ear, so close you feel them brush against the shell as she says:

“Oops.”

Then she’s gone, taking her extremely sexy perfume with her, while your stomach drops to the sea and sinks right to the very bottom. It takes a few moments to realize you’re still holding the railing so tightly your fingers have gone white.

What the…

You go back to bed trying not to think about whatever that was.

The next day, you have no idea why she’s not speaking to you at all, or why she doesn’t even look at you when she addresses the Sentinels, none-too-pleased with your progress.

…

When one of the crewmates tell you the captain has summoned you, you do a double take and ask if she really means you. Fortune has been in a weird mood towards you since that night, to say the least.

You are mentally braced for the worst when you enter her cabin. You’re already tired from fighting mist wraiths all morning and you don’t think you can handle whatever it is that’s going on with her at the moment.

Scratch that. You’re sure you can’t when she gets up from her seat, walking almost in a circle around you, like a shark. You lean back against the wooden surface of her desk, waiting. Cautious.

“Have I not been clear enough, all these days?” she asks, as if wondering out loud.

“Um…. excuse me?” you question back. Has the mist gotten to her? It has been known to cause strange behavior after prolonged exposure.

She’s at the door now, facing you without really looking at you and it makes you feel trapped. Your one escape is blocked. “You’re not from around here, so I thought it was best not to be… Bilgewater-forward.” she says. “On the other hand, I don’t think I’ve been that subtle?”

“…I’m. I’m not…sure I follow.” you speak, quietly.

“Do you really have no idea or are you just trying to be polite?” She finally looks into your eyes.

You shake your head ‘no’.

She licks her lips. “What, was I supposed to give you a formal letter inviting you to my cabin for sex the other night?” Your jaw, you think, hits the floor and shatters. Your whole body shivers and goes rigid. “If you don’t want to, just say it so I won’t wait around for nothing.”

You… don’t know what words are at the moment. The ground has disappeared and you’re a falling mess. It is the worst case of freezing on the spot you’ve ever experienced.

“That’s not… that’s not… the case.” you manage to say.

“Good to know.” she nods, casually, then strides up to you and grabs the front of your high-collared Sentinel jacket, bringing you lip-to-lip. “Is this clear enough for you?” she breathes against you.

It’s more than clear enough when her plump lips seal over yours, tasting of sweet-flavored lipstick and alcohol and sea-salt. In fact, it is clear like a nuclear bomb going off on the back of your head.

The heat wave burns down your stomach violently and it only gets worse when she pushes her tongue into your mouth, licking over yours, her hips practically straddling you with how tightly fitted you stand. Every movement of her mouth or her body echoes all the way down yours.

It’s beyond anything you could have ever conjured in your head, having her angle your chin however she wants it while her hips slowly rock against you. It’s almost too hard and too fast and too good –and you get too close.

But then—

A knock comes on the door.

“Captain?” someone asks from the outside and it’s both a blessing and a dark curse.

Sarah tries to catch her breath, every exhale tickling your ear. “One moment.” she calls over her shoulder, sounding every bit the captain she is, as if the past minutes where you were literally dry humping each other didn’t happen.

She pulls back from you with a satisfied little smirk at how wrecked you no doubt look, pulling your outfit straight. Her thumb wipes off the smudge of her lipstick on the corner of your mouth, then she goes to a nearby mirror to reapply hers.

When she walks back over to you, your knees shake at just the sight of her. You don’t know how you’ll ever calm down from this. Safe to say she’s ruined every kiss you’ve ever had or will have.

“My bedroom will be open to you tonight. Consider this your formal letter, yes?” her long fingers brush over your jawline, as she stalks back to her seat.

“Come in.” she calls, poker face on, sounding bored.

You make your escape as tactical –and dignified— as possible and don’t look back until you’re practically off the ship.

…

To say you are distracted for the rest of the hours until night completely settles over Bilgewater is an understatement. Your head is in the clouds and you have no idea what’s going on around you. The whole world could catch fire and all you’ll be thinking about is Fortune, Fortune, Fortune…

“What’s got you so quiet tonight, little Sentinel?” Riven asks.

Only the best damn kiss of your entire life. Plus the fact you’re living a dream and you don’t want to wake up. “Maybe I’m just trying to imitate Vayne. From now on you’ll hear my voice only when we kill stuff.”

“Ha, ha.” Vayne comments in typical Vayne style from her seat, hunched over her weapon and making calibrations.

“All I’ll say is, be careful.” the Noxian lowers her voice a bit, the words kept between the two of you.

“Of what?” you play dumb.

“Just in general.”

You don’t know what Riven suspects but you can’t really bring yourself to care. You’ve been through a lot these past months. You deserve to feel something good once in a while. Your love life is none of their business unless it interferes with their business, which it won’t because you’re sure this won’t mean anything beyond Fortune’s bedroom.

You wait until everyone on the ship is asleep and take a liquid courage boost to sneak to the captain’s cabin.

…

One knock. That is all your knuckles manage, one contact with the door, until it swings open and a familiar hand grabs at the front of your outfit, pulling you in.

You’re pressed back against it as soon as it shuts, crimson lips hot on yours before you can even think to say anything. Gods, is she always so insistent?You could melt into a wet puddle on the floor from the way she presses into you alone. This woman knows exactly what she wants and how to take it.

Somewhere in the back of your head you hear the sound of a lock turning.

“Took you long enough.” she whispers when you break apart.

Once again, whatever you were about to say is cut off by her tugging on the high collar of your jacket. She either has a thing for it or for pulling you around in general, you think. No complains, whatever the case.

“Won’t you give me the tour around, first?” you ask, playing coy only thanks to the drink you’ve had. Otherwise, you’d be your usual self; a mess.

“Oh, sure.” she says as she shoves you into her bedroom, illuminated by a single candle. “Wardrobe, guns, bed.”

Well. It still feels like the best tour you’ve ever had when she walks you back until you’re falling on her very comfortable mattress, with her perched above you like a predator. She gives you a little smirk as she straddles your thigh and sits up, undoing the taut buttons on her shirt, painfully slow.

Oh… It would be very awkward if you died from a heart attack now, yet it feels like you’re on the verge of one.

“Nothing smart to say now, Sentinel?” The confidence comes with her looks, you’re sure. She knows she’s hot as fuck.

You shake your head, speechless, eyes travelling from her toned midriff to her perfect chest, to her hypnotic eyes and the sensual way her hair spills like a red waterfall across her shoulders. This is a dream, it’s not real life, but don’t wake me up ever…

Fortune leans back down, taking your chin in two fingers as she studies your flushed face. You don’t know what she’s looking for, but something in her visage softens a fraction.

“If it’s too much at any point, tell me.”

“If I can talk, I will.” you say, mesmerized by the way her eyes look under the dim light.

Your next liplock is a little less rushed than your previous ones. She takes her time exploring your mouth and you gradually get bolder with where you touch her, fingers grazing up her sides to her stomach, to the underside of her bra.

Her lips leave yours only to burn a trail down the corner of your mouth, across your jawline and to your neck. Deft fingers undo the clasps and pull down the zipper of your white jacket, guiding it past your shoulders without taking it completely off. She definitely has a thing for it. You’d comment on that, too, if you could think about anything other than how good she smells.

Clothes come off while she sucks on your neck, teeth pressing against you just shy of leaving marks. When both of you are down to your underwear and breathing heavy, her fingers caressing dangerously low on your waistline, her lips come near your ear.

“So… I want to make you beg, but I can’t help but feel like I’m already corrupting you a lot.”

Corrupt away. you want to tell her.

“Does that turn you on?” you whisper in her ear and feel her response with how her hips press down harder onto yours.

“Yes.” That breathless admission becomes your undoing.

You get lost in her lips after it and the sensation of her fingers on you –inyou— working you up towards what could be simultaneously your ruin and your salvation. You touch her in turn, filling the room with both your moans and gasps, until that glorious peak of white-hot pleasure where the whole world comes to a stop for a few moments.

There is a time limit to your time together, now and generally, you are aware. But you allow yourselves a few quiet moments together as you lay there with the excuse of catching your breath, even if you already have.

Tough game you’re playing here. The smarter part of your brain says. It’s all too easy to get addicted to having her atop you like this. The better the dream, the more bitter the wakeup.

When Fortune lifts herself off you to slide under her heavy covers, you register the chill of night. You dress almost sluggishly, your body so very exhausted from the activities of the whole day.

Kissing her goodnight is almost an urge you fight under control, not wanting to make her uncomfortable if this was all she wanted out of your dalliance.

“Well, my bunk is calling.” you turn around to tell her, trying not to blush when you see her with her elbow resting on her pillow, cheek cutely pressed on her fist, watching you like a languid cat.

“Hate to watch you leave but I love to watch you go.” she smirks at you.

You roll your eyes. “Goodnight, beautiful.”

…

It is after a long damn day of fighting that you get to finally sit down and enjoy a meal and drinks.

The crew was cold and distrustful towards you at first, but they seem to have opened up more over the course of weeks –especially today, after you secured them a chest filled with gold coins left behind by wealthy people who were running from the wraiths. From the corner of your eye, you subtly watch Sarah Fortune interact with her men, hoping it’s not obvious how badly into her you are.

“So…” Riven begins from the chair next to you and you know that’s not going to be good.

“What?” You face her, playing cool.

“I’m sure you don’t need me to say that she’s bad for you… but I will, anyway.” You give Riven a blank stare that absolutely doesn’t fool her. Shit.

“Like how do you even know.” You finally break.

“It wasn’t obvious since day one there was something there?” Yeah, maybe to everyone except you.

“Wait.” Hold on a second. “Does everyone know?”

“I think everyone except Diana has pretty much figured it out.” That certainly explains the looks Lucian has been giving you all day. Double shit.

“What? The thing between Fortune and Rookie, here?” Diana asks from behind you.

Triple—

“Scratch that. Everyone knows.” Riven tells you. “And we all agree. She’s bad for you.” You hate the emphasis on that. “As in the worst.”

“I getit, Riven, thank you.” You shake your hand in her face while the other covers yours.

“I mean I know ruthless, player redheads who can and will absolutely murder you without a second thought are, like, a kink of yours—”

You don’t think your face gets any redder than this. “What—” you nearly choke on air. “That –how do you figure that out? That’s not even true.”

“Dude. When Katarina Du Couteau was brought into our conversation you nearly gasped and fangirled for the next hour.”

“I just heard a lot about one of our biggest Demacian enemies and wanted to know if it was all true!” you defend yourself.

“You asked me if she’s as hot as rumor has it, not about her war achievements.” Riven laughs.

“And you didn’t answer! Well, is she or isn’t she?” you ask. For… scientific purposes.

“I’m not going to answer that!” Riven lifts her hands up.

“She is.” Graves says as he slides into the seat next to you, drink in hand.

“Thank you!” You pat him on the shoulder.

“We should totally have her join the Sentinels.” he adds.

“Hah!” A vein pops at Riven’s temple. “And the answer will be something along the lines of ‘bold of you to assume I give a single fuck about the world’.” comes the imitation.

“Whoa, that’s exactly how she sounds like.” Graves says.

You’re glad the conversation has shifted away from you, at least.

From the opposite side of the room, you feel a familiar pair of eyes on you, yet they’re averted the second you raise yours to meet them.

…

They may know about your one-time thing with Fortune and heavily scrutinize it, but they still send you in now that they need to ask for more from the captain. With that, your teammates lose every right to comment on what you do and don’t do with her.

“We’ll get you the coin from that ship –well, Graves will, since they already hate him—and you help us out here. Deal?” you ask her.

There. You can be a professional and negotiate terms with the most beautiful woman in the world, who you also happened to have had mindblowing sex with, without constantly looking at her lips.

“Deal, but…” she begins. “You’re sitting all the way over there… why?”

So much for keeping your mind out of the gutter. “Um.” You lick your lips, unsure of what to say, while she smirks slow, like the cat that got the canary.

“Come here.” A pat on her desk, right in front of her chair.

Against your better judgement, you walk around the furniture and lean there, really, really close to her, especially when she stands, towering over you in her heels. You can tell she likes it, too.

“Don’t look at me like that, we leave in ten minutes.” you say. It doesn’t even phase her.

Her fingers move to the zipper of your jacket and although you should stop her, you don’t. “Really?” she leans closer, closer still, until her tantalizing mouth is a hair’s breadth from yours.

“…really. Nine, now.” you waver.

“Guess we have to be fast, then.”

She lightly pushes you onto her desk and starts undoing your belt buckles. The thought of what you’re about to do alone could make you come on the spot. It’s not just the thought that’s threatening to do that, when you feel her cool fingers slide right where you need them.

“You’re going to ditch me for your little Sentinel friends, who don’t like me?” she asks in your ear.

Oh, Gods…

“Ah, I like you enough for all of us, Fortune.” your lips move against her jawline as you speak. A little further down and you can feel how quick her pulse is. You wouldn’t have guessed, with how composed she looks fingering you on her desk.

“Sarah.” she holds your chin with two fingers as she says it, like a secret between you. “Call me Sarah when you come.”

You do.

…

It becomes a nightly thing after that, your visits in her bedroom.

She’s insatiable and she makes everything bothering you go away for those precious hours. But. The more you see of her, you cannot help but feel like something’s very wrong with Sarah.

Underneath the visage of the ruthless captain, the queen who can just reach out and take anything she wants, you see… cracks. She doesn’t sleep well. She drinks. You’re pretty sure you’re another distraction –coping mechanism?— although it doesn’t bother you. She’s the same for you, isn’t she?

It’s not like you have feelings for her.

…Right?

No, no that would be terrible. You definitely don’t. You are allowed to love the way her fingers are running lazy circles on your thigh right now without any sort of complicated emotions involved.

“You should quit while you’re ahead.” she tells you, half muffled into her pillow, stark black against the red of her hair.

This or the Sentinel war? You wonder.

“You have little cuts everywhere. They don’t even have time to disappear before new ones open on top of them.” she moves the back of her pointer to the biggest visible line near your knee, then up your arm, until her hand rests on the crook of your neck. “Leave the others to deal with the mist. It’s not your problem.”

“The world’s problem is my problem. Guess where I lived and what region fell to Viego first.”

You refrain from telling her how many people close to you met his blade before that. How many of the classmates you ate and trained with for four years you had to see skewered by him, on his insane quest for his ‘love’. You don’t want to sour your time together with your burdens. Your pain, your nightmares, are your own to deal with.

“If you keep going you’ll fall to him first.” she counters. “You’ll die protecting one of those idiots in your group or some random civilian.”

“Thanks, Miss Fortune-teller.” you say, a tad irked at her blatant disregard for anyone who isn’t herself.

“I don’t have to be one to tell.” she gives you a sad smile. “It’s always the good ones that die. It’s always the monsters that win.”

You can’t help but wonder…

What made you this way?

…

You see now why emotions are considered a distraction on the battlefield. Even as you kill monsters, all you think about is her.

Come to think of it…

You’ve never seen her smile for real. What you’re looking for is a far cry from those smirks she throws around to bring people to their knees, or the sardonic ones she levels Lucian with. Even those she offers you behind closed doors have a shadow underneath them. It makes you wonder about what would make her happy enough to give a genuine smile.

When you happen across a shipwreck filled with valuables, you think this may be it. The Sentinels take what they need and agree to give the rest to Fortune to stay on her good graces.

Her whole ship lights up with the joy of riches. The crew is ecstatic. Laughter and cheers fill the deck.

And yet.

Her glee is pretend, just for the sake of her men. Her eyes are hollow.

When she eventually retreats to her cabin, you follow her and knock on her door. “It’s always open for you~” she calls from the inside, already in the company of a whiskey bottle.

You turn the key behind you, then lean forward with your hands on her desk, staring at her.

“Why this serious, sexy?” she asks. “Need me to help loosen you up a bit?”

“You need to part with the fetter, Sarah.” you state. “It affects you in ways you won’t notice or understand but it always does.”

“Ah, part with it so you and your crew of misfits can steal it from me? Hmm… no.” she chuckles.

“I care more about what it does to you than the fetter itself right now.” you try again. Only to fail again.

“That’s sweet, but I don’t trust you.” Talk about words being sharper than knives, sometimes. “Don’t take it personally; I don’t trust anyone.”

“What a joyful life this must be.” you bite back.

“Coin is joy for me, sweetheart.” she leans back in her plush chair, taking another swing from the bottle.

“You didn’t seem very happy to me, back there.”

She gives you a look and finally sets the whiskey down. “Come here. I’ll tell you a little secret about me.” she says, a tad more serious than before.

Cautiously, you step around the desk until you’re in front of her seat. Her hand shoots up like a bullet, then, taking hold of your jacket and dragging you down until the two of you are eye-level.

“You know what would really make me happy right now?” You feel her leg move up the inside of yours, deliciously slow, as she speaks… until she hooks her calf behind your knee and makes your weight fall onto it. “For you to shut up about fetters and concerns and go down on me.”

Fuck.

Deep down, to a small part of you not ruled by your hormones, you know using sex to avoid any sort of deeper conversation between you is unhealthy. You know an arrangement where there’s no trust is unhealthy.

Then again, the circumstances that brought you together are anything but healthy.

And what sort of pretty flower can burst forth, really, from a corrupted seed?

…

When you return from your mist-slaying, late in the evening, the crew is uneasy.

“Don’t bother the cap’n right now.” One of the men says. “She ain’t havin’ the best o’ days.”

You later find out that they had a run-in with an enemy fleet. That the Reaver King has resurfaced and is looking to claim Bilgewater for himself. Major shit is about to go down, the bounty hunters tell you and you do not want to be outsiders caught in the middle when it finally hits the fan.

You give Sarah her space until the need to check up on her becomes overwhelming.

One knock on the door. “Leave.” she hisses from within the office like a tensed cat. Another knock. “You have ten seconds before I put a bullet through your skull!”

“Can’t imagine I’ll be very attractive then.” you reply.

The door swings open; her eyes are the epitome of a raging storm. You’ve never seen her like this, so hateful and distressed… and it hurts to witness. “My ‘leave’ applies to everyone. You, included.”

“Cool.” you nod at her. Pause. “So… can I come in now?”

Sarah throws her hands up in exasperation, pivoting with an angry, whispered ‘whatever’. She paces across her cabin, an agitated lion one step away from pouncing. Her hands run through her fiery hair as though they cannot keep still.

“You need to leave Bilgewater asap and never come back.” You don’t know if she’s talking to you or thinking out loud. “You need to go. With or without the rest of them, I don’t care, just go!”

“What’s… gotten into you?” you dare ask.

“He’s back. He always comes back, no matter how many times I sink the bastard. It’s like he cannot die. He just won’t die!” her voice is raw with her rage. “You Sentinels fight the darkness but you don’t kill evil. Evil will still be here –rooted here— even if you win.”

You open your mouth but can’t find anything to say.

“I have to win my own war. I will be victorious no matter the cost, no matter the bloodshed.” Sarah goes on. “But I need to know that you won’t be here. Do you understand?!”

You just look at her, sad and frozen, trying to understand. There’s nothing you can say to ease what’s hurting her and nothing you can do. You’ve seen this wretched thing eat away at her every day since the moment you met. It’s too deeply engraved in her heart for you to hope to change it; and it has little to do with the fetter in her possession.

Sarah crosses the room in two large strides and grabs your biceps. She looks like she’s ready to throw you off her ship herself…

Until.

She pulls you into her arms, instead.

Tight, like she’s afraid you’ll be gone the moment she lets go, she holds you close. Her head is tucked into your shoulder, her nails press hard into your back. You slowly bring your hands up to encircle her waist in return.

“I’ve lost everything. He took everything from me. I won’t give him the chance to take you away, as well.” she says.

Oh. you think. She cares about you, after all.

If only that was a good thing for either of you.

…

You feel it, when the moment comes.

Maybe you’ve always felt it and just didn’t want to admit it.

When Sarah stands in front of Viego offering the lot of you up along with the fetter in exchange for his ruined power, you know the agony you feel, like a blade splitting you down the middle, is your own doing. There is nobody but yourself to blame for it. The others warned you. Your own instinct warned you.

You didn’t listen.

You wanted to trust her. Maybe even to love her.

But her hatred runs deeper than whatever measly thing you were to her.

As the mist shrouds Fortune and turns her red hair luminescent blonde, as it eats away at her colors until they’re all black and sickly green, until the eyes you knew turn cold and unfeeling, you feel something in you crack. Maybe it’s your faith. Maybe it’s your heart.

There’s a lesson to take from this, you’re sure, despite how your emotions choke you. Right now, though, you focus on avoiding her bullets and having your teammates’ backs in the rain of chaos that follows.

You end up deep in the water, bleeding, defeated. You and the other Sentinels have never been crushed by your losses, but it will take some time to pick up your pieces and continue onward until the end of your war.

You allow yourself one scream muffled in the dark sea.

When you swim to the shore and pull your body out of the mud, you are silent.

“Are you okay? I know that was harder for you than it was for us.” Riven lays a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m fine. I’ll let it hurt after we get Viego.”

For now, you can’t afford taking the pain of a broken heart with you on the battlefield.

Sarah. You later think. Now I understand why hurricanes are named after people.

[onecanonlife]

the wind that remakes

It's been ten years since the princes of the Antarctic Empire vanished. But the king's still offering a hefty reward for their return, and Tommy thinks it's about time he and Tubbo tried for it. No matter what they have to do.

It's time to pull off the con of the century.

(fic masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(next chapter)

(chapter word count: 5,474)

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

Chapter One: let the valleys awake (let them rattle and shake)

It starts like this: Tommy and Tubbo are looking for someone they could feasibly pass off as one of the Lost Princes of the Antarctic Empire, because the reward is a shit load of money and Tommy wants a piece of it. But they’re not having any luck, right up until they pass by a busker on the street corner and something in Tommy’s head just clicks, just says, yes, that one, he’s the one.

And, well. Tommy is a Big Man whose instincts are never wrong, so he nudges Tubbo and points. Tubbo’s nose scrunches up, but Tommy doesn’t give him time to object before he’s marching over, already preparing his dialogue. And as he gets closer, he’s more and more certain that he’s right about this; the guy has the right hair color, the right face structure, and he’s a performer to boot, and taken all together, it smells like a successful scam just waiting to be implemented.

The guy doesn’t look up when he comes over, so instead of talking to him, Tommy pulls out the rumpled picture that they’ve been using all day, one of the photos of Prince Wilbur that’s been circulating around the Empire for years now, in hopes that someone will see him and bring him home. Fat chance of that ever happening, of course, and King Philza must be a sucker for thinking it, but it makes his and Tubbo’s jobs easier, so he’s hardly going to complain about it. He holds the picture up, comparing the face of the prince to that of the street performer, and actually, the resemblance is kind of uncanny.

“Tubbo, my friend,” he says, “I think we’ve got him.”

Tubbo makes a noncommittal noise, but that finally gets the performer to look up from his guitar.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, and Tommy grins.

“Actually, we’re about to help you,” he says, and he sounds very grand and impressive, if he does say so himself. Which makes it all the more annoying when the guy looks him up and down like he’s worth the dirt on his shoes.

“Really,” he says, and his voice is dripping with so much sarcasm, Tommy’s surprised that it doesn’t manifest physically somehow.

“Yes, really,” he says. He refuses to be put off. This is the guy, he just knows it, the guy who’s going to make them so fucking rich that they’ll be able to swim in gold, or whatever it is rich people do with their money. “You’re one of the Lost Princes of the Antarctic Empire.”

The guy blinks. “Pretty sure I’m not,” he says.

“Pretty sure you are,” he returns. “See, look, we’ve got a photo of you and everything.” He shows the guy the photo, and the guy narrows his eyes. “Or at least, we’ve got a photo of Prince Wilbur, but it could be you, too. That’s a kid in this picture. No telling what he looks like now. Could look like you.”

“We’re inviting you in on our scam,” Tubbo puts in. “If you couldn’t tell. You interested?”

“Wait,” the guy says. “Wait. You’re telling me that you want to pretend that I’m a fucking prince so that you can get the reward money off the king? Something I’m sure no one has ever tried to do before. You don’t know me at all, and you don’t know if I can act worth a damn, you just think I look like the prince did when he was fourteen. But just to be clear, that’s what you’re proposing?”

He looks at Tubbo. Tubbo looks at him.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Tubbo says. “If it makes you feel better about it, we’re really, really good con artists.”

“You’re infants, is what you are,” the guy says. “How old are you, five?”

“We’re sixteen, fuck off,” Tommy snaps. “Look, do you want in or not? Pretty sure living in a cushy palace has got to be better than whatever you’ve got going on here.”

“Hm, let’s see, do I want to upend my entire life to try to trick a grieving father into thinking that I’m one of his long lost sons? Which, incidentally, is a plan that will probably not work and get us all thrown in prison for fraud,” the guy says.

“We’re going to try very hard not to get thrown into prison for fraud,” Tubbo is quick to say, but the guy doesn’t seem to be paying attention.

“Sure, let’s go,” the guy says. “Not like I’ve got much else to do. You two have names?”

“This is Tubbo,” Tommy says. “I’m Tommy.”

The guy raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, like Prince Tommy,” he says. “It’s a common name, so shut up about it.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” the guy says. “I mean, my name’s Will, so.”

He can’t stop himself from laughing, because that’s just too good. “Are you serious?” he demands, smiling widely. “You’re joking, your name is actually Will?”

Will shrugs. “It’s what I’ve always gone by, ever since I was a teenager. I can’t really remember any of my childhood, so who knows, maybe I actually am a prince.” He smiles in a way that makes it clear how much of a joke he thinks that is, and he stands and reaches for his guitar case. There’s not much money in it, despite the fact that from what Tommy heard of his playing, he’s pretty damn good.

Tubbo snorts.

And Tommy claps their newfound friend on the back.

“Will,” he says, “I think this is the beginning of an excellent partnership.” He grins broadly, the type of grin that always has Tubbo rolling his eyes and asking where the fire is, which is unfair, frankly. It’s not always a fire. Just sometimes, because arson can be fun, actually, and some people deserve to have their stuff burned down.

Will, to his delight and Tubbo’s obvious consternation, grins the same kind of grin right back at him.

-----

It starts like this: it is indeed the beginning of an excellent partnership.

Will fits in with them like he was born to the role, and Tommy will never admit how fast he’s gotten attached to the guy, but he is kind of very attached. Because Will is smart and funny, with a sense of wit that can have both him and Tubbo in stitches, and it’s also nice to have an adult around, a bit. Not that he and Tubbo need one; they’ve gotten along just fine without for years. But people don’t shoot them as many suspicious looks when they’re with Will, and it turns out that he’s a brilliant actor, too, charismatic and smooth and confident, and he has people eating right out of his hand while Tommy and Tubbo sneak around and pick their pockets. It’s a wonderful arrangement, and within a week or two, Tommy can barely remember what life was like without him there.

The main issue is travel.

It’s a long way from where they started to the Capitol, and they can’t always afford to travel in the protected caravans, the ones with hired guards against the mobs that swarm over the land at night. And they can’t always afford an inn to stay in, either, and that means spending several harrowing lengths of time cowering in a makeshift shelter, listening to zombies and skeletons and spiders just outside and praying that none of them find their hiding spot, because they’re all scrappy in a fight but they don’t have any real weapons on them. They hadn’t planned for this, really; he and Tubbo have never left the big cities before, and apparently, Will hasn’t either.

“We need a bodyguard,” he declares one day.

“Where are we supposed to get one of those?” Tubbo asks.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But we need one. I’m sick of mobs.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Will says. He’s setting up a busking spot, trying to get them a little more cash. Somehow, it never seems to be enough. “But I agree with Tubbo. Even if we can find someone to go with us, there’s payment to think about.”

“We don’t need payment,” he protests. “We’ve got a prince! A long lost prince! We’re about to be the richest men in the world! That’s payment, innit?”

Will rolls his eyes. Tubbo does too. They’ve been doing that lately, ganging up on him, which is terrible and unfair.

“Somehow, I don’t think that a good bodyguard will accept that kind of payment,” Tubbo says. “It’d basically be an IOU, right? That’s a terrible business practice.”

He scowls. Tubbo is right, of course, but he’s got his heart set on a bodyguard now. Someone who’s good at fighting—good at fighting mobs, specifically, because Tommy is a very good fighter, thank you very much, it’s just that the people he’s used to fighting are other street kids. For, like, food. Not monsters. Not things that can kill you in one blow, if you’re unlucky.

And then, like fate and providence are shining down on him, his eyes alight on a poster across the street. The poster advertises arena fighting. In this city. Fights daily.

He grabs Tubbo’s arm.

“That,” he says, pointing, “is where we find a bodyguard.”

Tubbo follows his gaze. “Maybe,” he says doubtfully, “but we’ll still need to pay them. How are we supposed to convince someone to come along? I bet they get paid more for fighting than we could ever offer them.”

“Tubbo,” he says, “we’re the greatest con artists in the world. We can think of something.”

Tubbo stares at him. And then grins.

Behind them, Will starts to play.

-----

It starts like this: Will manages to busk enough money to get them three tickets into the arena.

It hurts just a bit, spending their legitimately-earned cash on something like this. But five minutes after stepping through the gates, into the crush of people and the roar of the crowds, the scent of sweat and blood mingling with concessions and stale perfume, Tommy thinks that this might be one of the best things he’s ever gotten to do in his life.

Their seats aren’t great, but they can see alright. The day’s matches start with small fry, and those fights are so boring that he almost starts yawning, because these people are just bashing each other with swords. There’s no finesse to it, no real skill, and he really hopes that there are fighters here better than this, because if there aren’t, this has been a wasted trip. But slowly and surely, the fights get better, more engaging, more of a real show, and his interest returns.

And then, when they’ve been there for hours and the sun is starting to creep toward the horizon, they bring out the big guns.

The announcer calls out someone with the moniker of ‘The Blade,’ and the crowd goes wild. They, evidently, know who this is, and that fact alone is enough to put Tommy on the edge of his seat, because surely, this is who they want? The headliner, the number one, the main attraction? If the spectators like them this much, they must be good.

They step out into the arena, dust clouds puffing where their feet fall, and the crowd gets impossibly louder. It’s hard to make out details from this distance, but Tommy can see pink hair, tied back into a braid, and some kind of mask covering the upper part of their face. It looks a bit like a skull, like this person is actually wearing an actual skull on their face, and that is either extremely overkill or extremely badass, and Tommy can’t quite decide which.

And then, there’s the massive netherite sword they’re holding. Their namesake, Tommy assumes. It’s probably the biggest sword he’s ever seen, and this person is holding it like it weighs nothing at all.

Their opponent comes out, and even though they’re also armed to the teeth, they don’t look nearly as natural as the Blade does. They hold their axe out in front of them as if to ward off blows rather than make them, and they’ve got their shield lifted too high. The Blade, meanwhile, spins their sword—and how strong must they be, to wield such a huge weapon so naturally?—in casual circles, appearing for all the world like this is no more strenuous than a walk in the park.

The announcer shouts. The fight commences.

The Blade fights like it’s as natural as breathing, and Tommy can’t look away. Their style is a mixture of sheer brutality and uncanny grace, and it’s difficult to watch, sometimes, difficult to keep track of exactly what they’re doing; one moment, it will look as if their opponent is holding their own, and then the next, they will have that sword at that opponent’s throat. Or through it, sometimes. The Blade doesn’t seem to have any compunctions about killing.

Tommy loses track of how many matches they fight. Six, maybe, or seven. But they win all of them handily, and by the time the events are all over and people begin to file out of the arena, he’s practically shaking with excitement.

Tubbo beats him to the punch.

“So, it’s them, right?” he says. “We’re gonna try to get them?”

Tommy nods rapidly, unable to contain himself.

“We have to,” he says. “That was fucking—I don’t know what the hell that was, but it was fantastic!”

He glances over at Will, only to find that he’s still staring out into the arena, eyes slightly glazed. Tommy furrows his brow, waiting for him to say something, but when it becomes apparent that he’s not going to, he speaks up.

“Will? You agree?” he asks, and Will blinks, shudders a bit.

“Right,” he says, “yeah, no, sorry, I’m good. Yeah, if we’re actually going to do this, we should aim for the best.”

He still seems a bit out of it, a bit dazed, but he turns his head to meet Tommy’s eyes and smiles, and Tommy tucks his concerns away with the mental equivalent of a shrug. If Will says he’s good, that’s good enough for him.

“Alright,” he says, standing, cracking his knuckles dramatically. Tubbo rolls his eyes at the display, but he ignores him. “Let’s go get ourselves a Blade.”

-----

It starts like this: the key to sneaking in someplace is to look as though you belong there. That’s easier said than done, of course, especially for two ragged teens and a slightly less ragged young adult. But Tommy’s had a long time to figure things like this out, and so has Tubbo, and Will hasn’t done this very often but he always takes to acting out new roles as if he was born to them, so Tommy’s not particularly worried. They find a door marked for employees and slip in, and from there it’s just a matter of finding their way.

He’s got a story prepared in case they get stopped, something about being sent with a message, but no one gives them a second glance. He keeps his head held high, his stride purposeful but not too confident, and simple as that, he appears to be just like everyone else, age and clothing notwithstanding.

“Do they have rooms down here, do you think?” Tubbo mutters. “The fighters?”

“Maybe,” he replies. “Even if they don’t, I bet the Blade is still here. The fight didn’t end that long ago.”

There are a lot of rooms under the arena, a lot of hallways, a lot of space, and it’s a bit mazelike, really. Dark, too; they’ve got redstone-powered lighting, but it’s fritzy, the bulbs flickering and dim. The walls and floors are hard, dank stone, the kind that echoes loudly with every noise, and Tommy can’t help but wince when the sound of their passage bounces off of every surface.

“There’s lots of swords in there,” Tubbo says, peering into one of the rooms they pass. “Isn’t that the Blade’s?”

Tommy stops walking, stepping up next to Tubbo. The room is full of weapons and armor of all kinds, but sure enough, there’s a large sword sitting alone on a table, still flecked with dried blood. It’s even larger up close; Tommy’s not sure he could lift it without using two hands, much less fight with it, though it pains him to admit as much. The Blade is just that strong, apparently, though why he’d leave his prized weapon sitting here in a room of other weapons, out in the open where anyone could mess with it, Tommy has no idea. Unless the sword isn’t actually his, but that doesn’t make much sense, does it?

“Tommy, Tubbo,” Will hisses, the sound sharp in the otherwise empty corridor, and Tommy looks over. Will is standing in front of an iron door a little ways down, a door with a barred window in it. He’s got his eyes fixed on whatever’s on the other side, his expression somewhere between shock and anger, and Tommy exchanges glances with Tubbo.

“What?” he asks, coming over.

“Have a look,” Will whispers, moving aside so that he and Tubbo can see.

He immediately understands what has Will upset.

“Oh gods,” Tubbo says. “They’re prisoners.”

There are cages in this room. Dozens of them, built with black iron, though only a few are occupied. Tommy recognizes most of the people in them, all people who fought in the arena earlier, the best fighters, the ones that gave a good showing, that were actually interesting to watch. They’re all in cages, most of them sitting or lying down, none of them moving all that much. It’s a stark contrast to before, when they were all movement, all aggression. Now, they seem—listless is the best word to describe it. Purposeless. Like all the fight’s been sucked right out of them.

A few of them are in chains, even inside their cages. The Blade is one of those, manacles wrapped around their wrists and ankles, and a collar around their neck. It’s sick, is what it is, like they’re some sort of animal.

“Shit,” Tubbo says. “I thought the hardest part was gonna be trying to convince them to come. Now we’ve got to do a prison break?”

“This isn’t right,” Will mutters. “This isn’t—they’re being forced to fight?”

“Only one way to find out,” Tommy says, and reaches out to push the door open. For a second, it doesn’t budge, and he wonders if it’s locked, because wouldn’t that just be perfect? But then, there is give, and it swings inward with a squeal of rusted hinges. Beside him, Tubbo steps back to look up and down the hallway, but no one appears to shout at them or kill them for trespassing, so Tommy squares his shoulders and strides into the room, trying to keep looking like he belongs.

It doesn’t matter much. Just like the employees they passed, none of the fighters—the prisoners—seem interested at all. So Tommy walks through the room unimpeded until he’s right next to the Blade’s cage. The Blade is sitting on the ground, leaning against the bars, head bowed. They don’t look up.

So Tommy clears his throat.

“Hello,” he says, and congratulates himself on an excellent beginning.

Slowly, the Blade’s head rises, and Tommy can see two things: one, that what he thought might have been a skull mask back in the arena is definitely an entire real skull, holy shit, and two, that the Blade is a young man, far younger than he would have thought him to be. Maybe even younger than Will, who estimates his own age to be around the ballpark of twenty-four or twenty-five.

“Hallo,” the Blade says after a moment. Tommy almost laughs out loud, because the word is said so awkwardly, and more than a bit bewildered, as if the Blade can’t fathom why someone would be talking to him. Which is a bit sad, actually, so Tommy’s going to choose to believe that he’s confused by the presence of a teenager and not by the fact that anyone is there at all. Because the second would just be downright depressing.

“You’re the Blade, right?” Tommy checks.

“That’s what they call me,” the Blade agrees. “And you are?”

“We want to hire you,” Tubbo jumps in. “Or at least, we did. We weren’t really expecting you to be locked up or anything. We might need a new plan. But we wanted you to come with us and be our bodyguard.”

It’s difficult to tell exactly what the Blade’s expression is doing, considering that most of the top half of his face is hidden by the animal skull—is it a pig? Tommy’s pretty sure that it’s a pig, or a boar, or maybe even a hoglin, considering its size—but his eyes are visible, and he glances between both of them slowly, skeptically. Tommy bristles.

“And just what do a couple of ragamuffins need a bodyguard for?” the Blade drawls. “You skip school too many times?” He pauses. “Who do children fight these days? Other children? I can fight you some orphans if you want, I guess. I’m pretty good at that.”

Tommy blinks, his mouth working silently for a second. He wants to be indignant at being addressed like a kid, like he’s not even worthy of consideration, but that is superseded by his sheer bewilderment at the way the Blade talks, like he’d just casually enjoy the chance to rough up some orphans. He looks at Tubbo, and sees the exact same question reflected in his best friend’s face: Just what kind of guy have we started talking to?

This isn’t like Will, where he could tell immediately that he would be right for the job and for their team overall. The smart thing to do would probably be to give up and look elsewhere for someone to hire. And yet, Tommy finds himself intrigued. This is a very strange man, obviously, and he’s never been able to resist poking at strange things.

“No, no orphans,” he says, muttering a quick, “What the fuck?” under his breath for good measure. “We just need protection on the road. From mobs and such. We will literally break you out of here if you come with us.”

The Blade tilts his head.

“You could try,” he says. “I can’t say I’m enthusiastic about the idea.”

“You can’t possibly want to stay in here,” Tubbo says incredulously. The Blade shrugs.

“No,” he agrees, “but there’s not much of anythin’ for me out there, either. Everything about this place sucks, but at least I get to fight people. I like doin’ that. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I got out.”

And that—forget earlier, that is so, so incredibly sad. In both the pathetic way and in the actual terrible way.

“There’ll be plenty of mobs to fight on the road,” he says, grasping at straws now. He’s got a few ideas for how they could successfully orchestrate a prison break, but in order for that to happen, the Blade needs to be willing to go. “Loads of ‘em. And besides, we’re bringing Prince Wilbur back to the king, and there’ll be a great big reward for it. You’ll be rich enough to do whatever you want after that.”

“Like fight orphans,” Tubbo adds helpfully.

“Yeah, like fighting orphans. So c’mon, what do you say?”

The Blade has gone very, very still.

“You’re doing what?” he says, his tone completely flat. A shiver runs down Tommy’s spine, because that is not a good tone. That is a tone that promises violence, that promises bloodshed, that promises death, and he’s not sure how he knows that, but he’s sure of it, sure as he knows his own name, that he has somehow just said something to make this man very, very dangerous.

“Uh, we’ve found Prince Wilbur?” he says. “And we’re bringing him back to the Capitol so we can get the reward money? And that’s why we need—”

“Prince Wilbur is dead. All of the princes of the Antarctic Empire are dead.”

The way he says it shocks Tommy into silence, and he doesn’t know why. It’s hardly an outrageous thing to say; it’s the general consensus of the common folk, after all, that King Philza is clinging to false hope, that he is a decent man but also one to be pitied, for refusing to accept the loss of his sons. Hell, Tommy himself has never believed in the myths, in the stories that go something like, so-and-so saw one of the princes by the train tracks or so-and-so saw them on a cart crossing the border or shit like that. The princes were kids when the invasion happened and the Empire itself was almost lost; there’s probably no way that they survived being taken by the enemy, the invaders that crept out of the End.

But the way the Blade says it—

He’s so certain. Like there is absolutely no doubt in his mind. The princes are dead, and there’s not even room for argument, not room for so much as a rumor to the contrary. Tommy agrees with him, but even he can’t claim that level of surety.

“Uh,” Tubbo says. “I mean, obviously it’s a scam. We’re scamming the king. We don’t actually have the prince. But we’d still like a bodyguard.”

“No,” the Blade says, in that same voice, low and monotone and terrifying. “You should leave. I’ll have no part in this.”

“Oh come on,” Tommy says, regaining his voice. He doesn’t know what to do with the Blade’s convictions, but he knows how to talk his way out of a denial. “Look, why don’t you—where’s Will? Will?”

Will’s not standing at the cage with them. Somehow, he’s only just noticing this. He turns, and Will is lurking back by the door to the room, keeping to the shadows, shifting uneasily. Which, fine, he can do what he wants, except for right now, because the more adamantly the Blade turns them down, the more Tommy wants him to come along.

“Will,” he calls, and his voice reverberates through the room. A couple of the other prisoners lift their heads. “Come talk to this guy! Tell him he should come with us!”

Will approaches slowly, strangely hesitantly, stepping up on the other side of Tubbo.

“We are in the market for a bodyguard,” he says quietly. “We thought you fit the bill.” He pauses. “We can’t guarantee that any of this will work, of course, but I’m an excellent actor, and these two are literal children, but they’re not bad.”

“Aw, thanks,” Tubbo says.

“Watch who you’re calling a fucking child,” Tommy says.

“What?” the Blade says. “You’re—Wilbur?”

“Will,” Will corrects, “but yes, we’re passing me off as Prince Wilbur.”

“Passing you off,” the Blade repeats. Slowly, he rises to his feet for the first time, and wow, he’s tall.

“Kind of the definition of a scam,” Tommy says.

“A scam,” the Blade repeats again. “This is a scam.”

“We just told you this,” he says. “Are you a bit slow or what?”

“No, just tryin’ to understand,” the Blade says. “You’re tellin’ me right now that this is definitely a scam. And you are not actually Prince Wilbur of the Antarctic Empire.”

“That is what we’re telling you, yes,” Will says, and Tommy is glad that he does, because he’s pretty sure he’s lost the thread of the conversation. The Blade is a strange, strange man, and frankly, he’s not making any sense at all anymore.

“Okay,” the Blade says. “I’m in. Bust me out.”

Tommy blinks. And then blinks again.

“What, really?”

“Yeah, you’ve convinced me,” the Blade says.

“Literally how,” Tubbo states, but Tommy punches him on the arm to get him to shut up, because they don’t need him to think about it, don’t need him second-guessing his decision.

“Alright!” he whoops. “One jail break, coming right up!”

“Right,” the Blade says. “Who are you again?”

He’s already leaving the room. But he hears Tubbo say, “I’m Tubbo, and that’s Tommy,” and he hears the Blade’s strangled, “Heh?” in return, and that’s a bit weird, but he doesn’t pay it much mind. They’ve inducted a strange man into their little band, but that doesn’t matter much, as long as he’s as good with his sword against mobs as he is against people.

-----

It starts like this: a massive netherite sword, left unattended, works amazingly for cutting through iron.

A massive, enchanted netherite sword also works amazingly for setting things on fire.

It’s a mess after that, a blur and a rush of adrenaline, but they cut up all of the other cages and chains to give the other prisoners a chance to get out, and then they’re running, and the place is on fire behind them because for a labyrinth under an arena, there’s a surprising amount of wood around here. And there are people shouting at them, and a few people that try to attack, but the Blade mows them down and laughs, and there’s blood and lots of it, too, but in the moment it doesn’t seem to matter so much.

He’s got Tubbo by his side. Will at his back. The Blade close at hand. And in a way he can’t quite describe, it feels very right.

-----

It starts like this: Tommy doesn’t know where he comes from.

He sort of vaguely remembers things, sometimes. He thinks he had a family, once. If he strains himself, he can recall fuzzy impressions: someone holding him, safe and warm. Someone’s laugh. Someone singing. An overwhelming sense of being secure, of being protected, of being loved.

But if he strains himself, sometimes he remembers other things, too. Darkness, terror, screams. Fear and disorientation, and a voice, clear as day: “Take your brothers and go!”

He’s turned that piece of dialogue over and over in his mind so many times. It’s all he has, the only hint he has to go on. It’s a male voice, clearly an adult. He likes to think that it’s his father. Though maybe he shouldn’t hope for that; he doesn’t remember what happened, but he’s sure it was dangerous, and if that person was his father, he might be dead. Probably is, in fact. There’s a reason why he ended up in an orphanage, after all.

Those are his first clear memories, at that orphanage. They estimated him at about five or six, and he’s pretty sure they were right, so he really should have at least a few memories from before. But he doesn’t, and the woman who looked after him the most told him that he probably went through what she called a trau-ma-tic event. Because trau-ma-tic events, she said, sounding out the syllables just like that to make sure he understood, could sometimes make you forget things. And sometimes the memories come back, but sometimes they don’t.

She was always kind to him. They all were, at that orphanage. And then that orphanage got shut down and he got shipped off and never saw any of them again, because kindness is no way to run a business. Kindness doesn’t get you many places.

It was orphanage after orphanage after that. They always looked for excuses to get rid of him. He was a problem child, the particular kind that always gets pegged before their mouths even open. He’s never understood it. Something about the look in his eyes, maybe. Not that it matters; he got put in the same orphanage as Tubbo at twelve, and they ran away together and didn’t look back.

No point in crying over dropped diamonds. No point in longing for something he can’t have. Can’t remember.

But sometimes, he lets himself wonder what his life would be like, if he’d gotten to keep that first family he’s certain that he had. He wonders what they were like. His maybe-father. The brothers that he thinks might have been his. He wonders, and he wonders if it’s possible to miss people that he never really knew.

But none of that matters in the long run, not really. Because he’s got his Tubbo, who’s better than any brother he could possibly ask for. And now he’s got Will, who’s funny and charming and just as irritating as he always suspected an older brother would be, and he’s got the Blade, who’s strange and sarcastic and so skilled that it’s scary, honestly, and they’re on their way to scam a king, and there’s nowhere to go but up from here.

He looks around him, at his friends and he thinks, Yeah. Yeah, this is good.

[needtherapy]

The Necromancer’s Apprentice

Xue Yang has seen The Dark House and he’s heard the rumors that a zombie, a witch, and a necromancer live there. It’s stupid, obviously, but...well...maybe he’ll just sneak in one night and find out.

It’s better than doing nothing. It’s better than going back to the group home. It’s better than sleeping on the street.

Aka, three mildly feral twentysomethings are forcibly adopted by one (1) very feral thirteen-year-old Xue Yang.

Read on AO3

Many thanks to @coslyons for co-writing this with me (all the funniest parts belong to them) and @kevinkevinson for beta.

There is a Dark House in Ballard, and people say to avoid it.

It is probably not called the Dark House because evil lurks inside, although there is some debate about that. It is called the Dark House because it is black from threshold to cupola, from shutters to frames, and it looms on a block where whimsical shops of brick and steel are far more common. Unlike the thrift store and the record shop, the hiking outfitter and the vegan patissiere, no ivy reaches toward the roof of the Dark House. Unlike the local yarn store, no dogs sniff the Dark House’s gate, although at least two cats—also black, naturally—are always sitting on the porch.

It may not be fair to judge a house by its color, but the local legends are clear. If you step on the cracks in the sidewalk, the Dark House will steal your soul. The wrought iron gate of twining snakes comes alive under the light of the full moon to snap at unwary joggers. Children who walk alone after dark get eaten, and the yard is full of bones that wail songs of their murders.

Xue Yang sits on a bench, across the street, eating ice cream and admiring the house. He wonders about the sanity of people who mow the lawn and trim the roses, yet painted their pretty little house black, until it occurs to him that he could just go inside and find out.

He waits until dark, not to stay hidden, but because it’s a more terrible idea, and Xue Yang always gives himself permission to do more terrible things whenever he gets the chance. The high iron fence buzzes with a strange kind of energy that crackles in his palms, so Xue Yang wraps his hands tightly in his flannel shirt as he climbs over. His mother always said he was a practical boy, back when she was still around to say things.

Xue Yang lands in the backyard with a quiet thump onto thin and scraggly grass. The center of the yard is dark under the watery moonlight, with the dirt churned up and loose, and for the first time, a tiny twinge of warning pings in the back of his mind.

He ignores it.

With a flick of his wrist, he summons his knife, a long black switchblade that is seven kinds of illegal and which he loves more than anything else he has ever had, not that there is much competition. With nimble and practiced hands, he slides the knife between the door and the frame, twisting just right when he reaches the lock. With a grin of triumph, he turns the handle, shaped like a gaping mouth, and opens the door.

In the center of the room, there is a long sort of table that seems somehow to pull all the darkness of the room toward it. The shadows gather most thickly around a large, human-shaped lump laid out stiffly on top of it. Xue Yang reaches out to poke it and feels something unexpectedly warm give slightly under his finger.

The shadowy lump on the table sits upright with a sudden jerk.

The shadowy lump on the table sits upright with a sudden jerk.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Xue Yang shrieks.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” the shadowy lump shrieks back.

“Why the fuck is everyone yelling?” a voice says, and the room is suddenly filled with light.

The shadowy lump rips off the sheet and turns into a guy in his early twenties with a scraggly little beard and wicked bedhead. The voice belongs to a grumpy-looking woman wearing a fluffy pink bathrobe. She squints at him in the oppressive brightness, glaring for a long moment before apparently deciding to deal with the man on the table first.  

“Wei Wuxian, I’ve told you a thousand times that the workshop is not a place for sleeping.”

“Technically—” the man begins, before being abruptly cut off by the woman.

“If the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘yes, Wen Qing,’ then I don’t care. Go to bed.” She rounds on Xue Yang and he takes a tiny, involuntary step back. “You. What are you doing here?”

Before Xue Yang can answer, another guy—this one with long hair, killer tats, and a dedication to the goth look Xue Yang has to admire—runs in with a baseball bat held in his hands like a club.

“Jiejie! Is there something wrong?”

The woman—Wen Qing, she’d said—pinches the bridge of her nose and says, “It’s fine, A-Ning. I’m just trying to figure out what this little hooliganthinks he’s doing breaking into my house and tripping all of my wards while I’m trying to fucking sleep .”

Xue Yang is now convinced that what he’s broken into is some kind of madhouse, and he pastes a charming smile on his face, the one he uses when fists are clenched and the smell of alcohol burns in his nose. The smile whispers words like “anger issues” and “prone to destruction,” and it’s usually weapon enough, but he holds his knife a little tighter too, just in case.

The woman snaps around like she’s felt his fingers grip the handle of the blade and holds out her hand. “Give it to me.”

No. He will not. His chin tips dangerously, his smile grows icy spikes.

Her eyes narrow. “I could just take it.”

They face off for a minute, the tension almost palpable. Actually, Xue Yang thinks, it’s not tension after all. There’s something else in the air. It reminds him of the buzzing fence, and he doesn’t like the way it confuses him.

“Ah, Wen-jie, let him keep her. Can’t you tell? The kid is scared, they’re both scared, and it’s not like he can hurt us.”

Xue Yang is offended. He is not scared, but he’s relieved that Wei Wuxian spoke up all the same, because even though Wen Qing purses her lips and looks annoyed, she drops her hand.

“Fine.” She crosses her arms again. “Wei Wuxian, make sure our little guest leaves. I’m resetting the wards in five minutes and going back to sleep.”

“Yeah, sure.” Wei Wuxian grins and shoots finger guns at Wen Qing. “Sleep well and dream of me.”

Wen Qing rolls her eyes. “Yes, because I love having nightmares.”

“Oh shoo.” Wei Wuxian flicks his hand at the goth man and Wen Qing. “To bed with you both. I can handle it.”

Their footsteps creak on the wooden floors as they walk further into the house. Xue Yang and Wei Wuxian wait in silence until the footsteps quiet, and then Wei Wuxian turns to Xue Yang. The grin he’d been wearing drops off his face and he looks serious, his eyes shaded and dark.

“Look kid, you should know better than to piss off powerful witches. It tends to be bad for the health.” The side of his mouth just barely tilts upwards, more wry than mirthful, and he looks old now. Old and grey and tired. “So, we’ll just call this a learning experience, and you’ll never come here again, right?”

Xue Yang snorts. “Are you kidding? If you’ve got real magic why the fuck would I leave now?”

“Toddlers shouldn’t swear.”

“I’m almost fourteen, fuck you very much.”

“Ah yes, I am now so convinced you are an adult.” Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes. “It’s two in the morning. You want to go home and go to bed. There’s nothing here for you to be curious about at all.”

Something sibilant and musical weaves its way through the words, and Xue Yang has his hand on the door knob before he fights off the slithering compulsion.

Holy fuck that was cool.

“Nah, I think I’ll stay,” he says, sauntering back casually, pausing to look at a weird painting of a monster facing off with an axe-wielding guy in front of a lighthouse. He feels a very strong sense of camaraderie with it right now.

Wei Wuxian sighs. “Sure, maybe you’ve got a little gift. But you’re a kid. Don’t you have parents who are going to, you know, notice you’re missing?”

Xue Yang stares him in the eyes, willing himself not to flinch. Something tells him this is a chance he’s never going to have again, a chance that requires honesty.

“No.” Xue Yang lifts his chin stubbornly. “I don’t.”

Wei Wuxian stares back, and Xue Yang gets the feeling that he sees all the years and all the disappointments that fit into that no. He doesn’t care. No one gives you what you want unless you take it.

This standoff lasts forever, or maybe it’s only a few seconds.

“She’s going to kill me,” Wei Wuxian mutters, and a little louder, “You can sleep on the couch tonight, but I’m locking you in the room and if you touch anything, I will turn you into a mannequin.”

He turns to leave, but looks back with a frown. “Wen Qing builds beautiful, elegant wards that you’ll never feel, never even notice if she doesn’t want you to. Mine will hurt. Don’t. Touch. Anything.”

Xue Yang decides, in the principle of magnanimity, to agree. “Whatever.”

Wei Wuxian shakes his head and points a finger at Xue Yang. “Go to sleep, kiddo.”

The words hold Xue Yang’s hand and lead him to the couch, make him lay down, and within minutes, he is asleep.

He opens his eyes to piercing sunlight and a pale face inches from his.

“What the fuck!” he yelps, instinctively grabbing for his knife and snapping it open.

“Mr. Wei, he’s awake and noisy,” the face says, and Xue Yang focuses on its features.

It’s the goth guy. His arms have full-sleeve tattoos, matching patterns of stark black geometric lines and circles, but his neck has weird black veins tattooed on it. His eyes, which are still way too close to Xue Yang’s, are so dark they’re practically black.

“Where’s the witch?” Xue Yang asks, sufficiently recovered to be an asshole.

“Boiling children,” Wei Wuxian retorts. He’s leaning over the table and taking notes in a tattered book, poking something with a tiny screwdriver. “It’s the only reason we let you stay.”

“Really?” Xue Yang can’t decide if that’s cool or terrifying.

“He’s always like that in the morning,” Goth Guy says conspiratorially. “By ten, he’s pretty nice again.”

“I’m never nice,” Wei Wuxian grumbles. “A-Ning, can you take our miscreant home, please? The last thing I need is cops knocking on The House door asking if we’re kidnapping children. Again.” “Okay, Mr. Wei.”

Xue Yang panics. He can’t go back there. Not since they found him alone with the fire. He knows what they’ll do, and he can’t go back. He won’t . He ducks under Goth Guy’s arm and has his knife angled under Wei Wuxian’s chin before he’s even processed the motor function commands “get up” and “don’t let him send you away.”

“No! You have to…” He scrambles though thoughts, desperate ideas, each one crazier than the last before he hits on words that work themselves loose from his mouth. “You said I had a gift, you have to teach me to use it.”

Wei Wuxian frowns, but instead of being afraid or angry, he tips his head and whistles, two notes that almost sound like a name. To his great shock and horror, Xue Yang’s knife vibrates in his hand, and his fingers snap open like a broken trap, dropping the knife onto Wei Wuxian’s waiting palm. He carefully folds the blade back into the handle.

“Jiangzai,” he says, almost affectionately.

It doesn’t mean anything, but then it does , and it hits Xue Yang so hard he collapses to the ground. The knife has a name, and he knows it’s right as soon as Wei Wuxian says it. Xue Yang’s heart pounds, and he hates it. He hates this motherfucker who just took his knife away and he hates the Goth Guy who is helping him back to his feet. He doesn’t want to stay anymore, and he shakes off Goth Guy, wishing he could throw his kindness on the floor and stomp on it.

Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes. “Okay, maybe you have a little bit more than a little bit of a gift. But you still can’t stay, and I’m not teaching you anything.”

Xue Yang snatches his knife— his Jiangzai—out of Wei Wuxian’s hand and stomps to the door. “Fine. Fuck you.”

He gets as far as yanking the door open and slamming it against the wall before he realizes that there is a person in the way, and she doesn’t look inclined to move.

“Here you go, kiddo,” she says, handing him a bag. “I bought you some clean clothes and a toothbrush. A-Ning will show you where the bathroom is. Come back down for breakfast when you’ve changed.”

This is somehow more terrifying than when she was yelling at him. Yelling he understands. Now she’s just being...creepy. He stares at her belligerently, and she sighs.

“Listen, you little shit,” she says, bending over to look him dead in the eye. She doesn’t have to bend very far, he realizes. She’s actually tiny, even though she seems as big as the Fremont troll. “You will either go willingly with A-Ning, who is very nice, or you can test my patience and get buried in the yard with all the rest of the naughty children who break into my house. Your choice.”

Yeah, that’s more solid ground.

“Fine.” He grabs the bag from her and waves at the Goth Guy. “Lead the way, A-Ning .” He means it to be an insult, but Goth Guy just grins.

Xue Yang hears Wei Wuxian ask, “Wen Qing, what the fuck,” before Goth Guy herds him up the wide staircase, and he doesn’t hear any more of her answer than, “A-Xian, I can’t let him leave. You don’t understand, I did a location…”

This close to the Goth Guy, Xue Yang decides to acknowledge that the pale translucence of his skin is probably not makeup.

“I’m Wen Ning, by the way. I doubt Mr. Wei or jiejie introduced me,” Goth Guy—Wen Ning—says in a casual tone.

“So are you actually dead or what?” he asks Wen Ning, and Wen Ning grins.

“Or what,” he answers enigmatically, and gently shoves Xue Yang in a bathroom with pink tiles and a claw-foot tub.

Once he’s bathed and changed, Xue Yang heads back downstairs. Breakfast is bacon, eggs, and toast, and he doesn’t even pretend it isn’t the best food he’s eaten in a week. It is, in fact, the first food he hasn’t stolen in a week, and that alone is a novelty.

He’s halfway done with his food when Wei Wuxian, who hasn’t touched a bit of his and looks as sullen as an orange, says, “I have been informed that there is some arcane rule about teaching a gift you discover, and my...how did you put it, dear Wen Qing? My immortal soul and earthly being will be in danger if I don’t capitulate to the inevitable?”

He glares at Wen Qing, and she smiles sweetly at him.

“Whatever,” Xue Yang says around a mouthful of eggs. “Are you going to eat that?”

Wei Wuxian passes him the plate of food, and Xue Yang closes his eyes in bliss. Food is amazing.

“There are conditions—don’t look at me like that, Wen-jie. I agreed, okay? I get to set conditions. First of all, you do whatever I tell you. If I tell you to sell turnips on the street corner, you better sell some goddamn turnips. Second, you don’t touch anything unless I say it’s okay. A lot of this stuff,” he waves his hand around the white and yellow room, which looks surprisingly cheerful for a kitchen in a black house, “is priceless and dangerous, so…”

Wen Qing clears her throat and glares at Wei Wuxian.

“Uh...don’t touch anything.” Wei Wuxian finishes, snaking a piece of bacon from Xue Yang’s plate and shoving it into his mouth before disappearing back into his workroom.

Wen Qing rolls her eyes. “I promise he’ll actually teach you stuff once he pulls his head—” She visibly checks herself. “Once he stops being an idiot. More bacon?”

The rest is on AO3

[joonie-beanie]

Post Workout Snack

Pairing: Belphegor + Beelzebub x Reader

Word Count: 4,770

Preview: Belphegor gets jealous over your obvious love-making with Beel. (A sequel to THIS - so you should go read it if you haven’t)

"Y/N just admitted that she likes me too, so...If you promise that we can share, I’ll let you have a snack, Beel.”

** Please note that this is a cross-posting **

This chapter was originally posted on 2/26/20 as a part of my “Devil Doms” series on AO3.

Recap:

You’ve just replanted yourself on his bed when the door clicks open. Your gaze turns up, expecting to see Beel standing there with mountain of food in his arms, but instead you find…Belphegor.

He’s frowning at you, suspicion in his gaze. His eyes rake around the room, pupils narrowed.

“You’re wearing Beel’s shirt,” he finally says.

“My clothes were dirty,” you counter. Belphie cocks an eyebrow—a grin tugging at his lips.

“Okay. Then explain the hickies on your neck, and why the room currently reeks of sex.”

At that…you can only turn red, and Belphegor sighs. He opens his mouth, as if to complain, but then pauses. His eyes widen, gaze raking over you once more.

“…you fit him?”

And now, you really think you might die of embarrassment.

“I…,” you struggle to respond, not even sure what’s appropriate to say. It’s obvious you can’t lie to Belphegor about what had happened between you and Beel. There’s too much evidence left behind.

Heat spreading across your skin once more, you hide your face behind your palms, sighing deeply. You hear Belphie laugh—the sound teasing more than anything. Footfalls thump against the wooden floor, and you pause—peeking through your fingers.

Belphegor is already at your side—grinning down at you.

“You know,” he says, and you squeal as he suddenly presses his hand against your chest, shoving you down onto Beel’s bed. His fingers scoot up to your neck—pressing against your jaw and forcing your head to the side.

“It’s pretty rude of you two to have fun in our room and not invite me.”

His tongue presses against the fresh red marks on your neck—dragging across the sensitive skin—and a whine leaves your lips, your body instinctively writhing beneath him.

“B-Belphie?”

Arousal blossoms in your gut once more—your thighs squeezing together. Internally, you curse. First you spill your feelings for Beel and receive the best dick you’ve ever had in your life, but now Belphie too?? You know that he’s a little shit who loves to tease but…is he really upset that you and Beel had done something without him? You hadn’t expected him to be so bold like this…

“And apparently you can fit my monster of a brother, so I shouldn’t be an issue, right?” he breathes, his teeth nipping at your ear. You release a shaky breath, your hands moving to press against his chest, and he relents slightly. His purple eyes fall on you—flustered, and embarrassed—but he can tell by the quick rise and fall of your chest and the way your nipples are hard against Beel’s shirt that you’re horny yet again.

“Don’t you like me too?” he asks, a pout on his face as he moves his hands to settle against your chest. His palms cup the outside of your breasts, squishing them together—the pads of his thumbs rubbing across your nipples. You twitch at the sensation, your eyes locking with his. Despite the frown on his lips, you can see the playful sparkle in his eyes.

“I-I do like you, Belphie, I p-promise—,” with each of your words, he continues flicking his thumbs against the sensitive buds—his fingers massaging and squeezing your soft breasts—and your words begin to catch in your throat.

“As much as you like Beel?” he questions, his hands reaching down and slipping beneath Beel’s shirt. You flush even redder, eyes trailing on the space between your bodies as he pushes the shirt above your chest. You hadn’t bothered to put back on your underwear after Beel had left, and Belphie immediately realizes that fact as well.

Shameless, he regains his grip on your breast with one hand—the other sinking between your thighs and pressing between your folds. You jump as his fingers touch your clit—the bundle of nerves still sensitive from earlier. His digits quickly become slick with your arousal, and he glances up at you once more.

“Would you get this wet for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe almost immediately. Your eyes are blown wide once again—heart thrumming in your chest and arousal swirling in your gut. Belphie laughs at the sight, leaning down to meet you.

“Good,” he says, and then his lips find yours. You moan into the kiss, your arms lifting to wrap around him. His tongue pushes into your mouth—swallowing your quiet gasps and whines.

It’s clear to you that Belphie is intent on making up for missed experiences—for, as well as the twins get along, he’s upset that Beel didn’t share you.

“Mmm,” you groan when he gives your breast a rough squeeze, and you feel Belphie’s hand begin to move back towards your womanhood when all of the sudden he pauses. The Avatar of Sloth sits back, his eyes glancing over his shoulder towards the door. Then, he looks back at you—smiling.

You raise your eyebrows.

“Wha--?”

Before you even get a chance to finish, Belphie has grabbed your wrist. He tugs you up into a seated position, and you squeal at the unexpected action—trying to watch him as he positions himself behind you. You feel his hard-on press against your ass—his arms looping around your thighs and forcing your legs open.

“Belphie,” you whine, your legs attempting to press closed, but he doesn’t allow you. His mouth finds your neck, giving one of the already sore hickies a poignant suck, and you shiver in his hold.

“Be good and spread your pussy for me,” he says, tone serious, and you shake your head—the idea far too embarrassing. He sighs—fingernails curling into your thighs and his teeth nipping at your throat.

“You trust me, don’t you? Do it.”

You hesitate for a moment, but decide to listen. Slowly, you move a hand between your legs—your fingers making a V and revealing your womanhood. It’s slick with your own wetness—a mixture of cum and arousal leaking from your needy hole.

Belphie reaffirms his grip on you—forcing your thighs even farther apart, and just as you’re about to ask once more why exactly he has commanded you to do something so lewd, the door handle twists. Your heart jumps into your throat, legs straining against his hold, but of course Belphie doesn’t allow you to budge. His lips press at your neck, gaze steady on the doorway as Beel finally appears.

He’s got a mountain of snacks held in his arms—his cheeks already packed to the brim with food.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice muffled. He hasn’t noticed your predicament yet—his foot kicking backwards to close the door. “I got some snacks for us.”

He steps forward—intending to head to his side of the room—and finally his gaze falls upon his bed. Immediately Beel’s eyes go wide, and he harshly swallows the food in his mouth. He says nothing, the shock clear on his face as his eyes rake your body—lingering on your pussy. It’s pink and used from your session early—Beel’s seed still lingering inside of you—and the Demon of Gluttony feels his cock begin to get hard once more.

“I see you two had some fun while I was gone,” Belphie speaks up, catching his brothers’ attention. Beel’s eyes shift to Belphegor—the younger demon running his tongue against the love bites Beel had gifted you, and once again causing you to shiver. A look of guilt washes over Beelzebub.

“Belphie…”

Said demon locks eyes with his brother—giving your ear a nip. A small whine bubbles up in your throat.

“You know I don’t like being left out,” Belphegor says seriously, frowning. Beel steps forward, clearly torn on what to say, but his gaze never leaves you. Despite his conflicting emotions, he can’t seem to tear himself from the sight of your shining pussy, and Belphegor can’t blame him.

“I…I’m sorry Belphie, it just happened. You know how I feel about Y/N…”

“I know,” the younger demon responds. He grinds his hips against your back, and you gasp, feeling his cock against your spine. “And you know how I feel about her too.”

For a second, you swear you can almost see Beel’s heart break. He cares about his brother more than anything in this world, and you know he would never do anything to purposely hurt Belphegor.

You’re just about to open your mouth and defend the sixth oldest when Belphie continues.

“But…Y/N just admitted that she likes me too, so…,” his fingers brush against your thigh as he moves his grip to your pussy—his hand joining your own and forcing you to spread your lips even father. As you flush in embarrassment, he grins up at his brother.

“If you promise that we can share, I’ll let you have a snack.”

Beel licks his lips, the food in his arms slowly falling to the ground as he forgets about the snacks he had intended to eat. Belphie laughs in your ear, kissing your neck softly as Beel begins making his way towards the bed.

“You can handle the both of us at once, right?” he teases, his hands leaving your legs as Beel crawls onto the mattress. The Avatar of Gluttony grabs you by your hips—dragging you down the messy sheets until your pussy is aligned with his mouth. You gasp, your hands moving to cling against Belphegor’s legs as Beel flattens his tongue between your folds.

Immediately, he’s eating you out like a starved man—his tongue pressing into you, gathering up your arousal and even the remnants of his own. Luckily, the realization that your mingled tastes are melding on his tongue is a huge turn-on for Beel—a moan tearing from his throat as his cock strains against the bed.

For a moment, you can only focus on the feel of Beel’s mouth against your womanhood—sucking and licking you into a state of complete bliss—but a movement beneath you forces you to remember the two of you aren’t alone.

Thanks to Beel dragging you from your previous position, your head had landed on Belphie’s lap. And as much fun as it was having your skull crushing his dick against his leg…Belphie desires something a little more…pleasurable.

So, Belphegor lifts your head and scoots to the side of the mattress. He presses to his feet, shoving his sweats down his thighs, and your mouth waters at the sight of his cock. While he’s not nearly as big as Beel, he’s still above average, and at this point you’re pretty convinced that all of the brothers are likely the same. (Whether it’s because they’re demons, or because they’re simply blessed, you’re not sure).

“C’mon,” he says, canting his hips forward. You huff, dragging your top half towards him as Beel holds your lower half in place—his lips sealing around your clit and sucking. Your breath leaves your lungs, arms shaking beneath you, and Belphie prods his length against your cheek—his pre-cum smearing against your skin.

“You’re impatient,” you comment, eyes glancing up at him as you reach over—grabbing his cock with your hand. You trail your tongue along the underside of his shaft, and Belphie’s fingers lace through your hair.

“Beel already had his fun,” he says, half lidded gaze watching you as your tongue sneaks out to swirl against the head of his dick. “Now it’s my turn.”

With that, he drags your head forward and shoves his dick into your mouth. Your eyes go wide—tears wetting your lashes as you gag around him.

“Eyes on me,” he commands quietly, one of his hands moving to cup your cheek. He guides you along his length—his grip on your hair loosening ever so slightly.

“I guess I was wrong in assuming you could deepthroat since you managed to take Beel,” he says with a quiet laugh, your gazes locking. “I’ll try not to make you gag too much.”

A tiny grin tugs at his lips as he says it, and you know from his phrasing that he doesn’t intend on being totally nice.

“Mmph--!” you cry, the sound vibrating against Belphie’s cock as Beel’s teeth sink into your thigh. While Belphie had been busy making you choke on his dick, Beel had moved away from your pussy—his tongue and lips dragging against the supple skin of your thigh.

“Mm…you taste…so good,” he breathes, tongue lapping over the fresh bite mark. Your hips instinctively wiggle in his hold, missing the feeling of friction on your pussy, but Beel doesn’t seem to notice. He continues nipping at your thighs—coloring them red with love bites. All the while, Belphie continues to guide you along his member—your eyes struggling to stay on his as you suck him.

Admitted, the prolonged eye contact only serves in making you wetter—the walls of your pussy clenching around nothing as you work. You whine around him, hand moving to press against his hip. You squeeze, a begging look in your eye, but Belphie only laughs.

“What? You want more? Fine. Beel,” he calls, and the mattress shifts.

“Dresser,” the youngest speaks, his eyes still not straying from you. A second later, Beel’s touch leaves you. You lift your head, attempting to see what he’s going to get at Belphie’s command, but the Avatar of Sloth tugs at your hair, reminding you of where your eyes should be. Immediately your gazes reconnect, and Belphie fucks his hips forward, forcing you to gag on his cock.

Your eyes roll back momentarily, tears pooling on your lower lashes, and Belphie soothes his thumb against your cheek.

“You’re doing so well,” he tells you, and you whine once more—aching to be touched. You’re already weak following your earlier round with Beel, and you’re not sure how much of their teasing you can take. As much as you want to be good for him, and do as he asks without complaint, your body is craving something greater.

On the other end of the room, you hear a drawer open, and close. Footfalls near the bed, and after a moment the mattress dips—marking Beel’s return. He settles back between your legs, and you hear a bottle clicking open. However, with your lips still suctioned around Belphie’s length—spit beginning to drip down your chin—you don’t have much of a brain to think on it.

That is…until you feel something prodding at your ass.

You gasp around Belphegor, his dick beginning to slip from your mouth as you turn to look at Beel, but once again the youngest demon reaffirms his grip on your hair, tugging you back.

“It’s fine. You’re fine,” he tells you softly, the head of his cock resting against your lips as you take a much-needed breather. You tense as you feel Beel slip two of his long digits inside of you—assisted by the bottle of lube he had retrieved. The feeling is foreign, but not completely unwelcome.

Unused to the intrusion, your ass clenches around him, and Beel leans back in—his tongue lapping against your pussy as he begins to slowly work you open.

“Good?” Belphie questions, and you nod, opening your mouth and sticking your tongue out. Arousal burns bright in his eyes at your submission, his cock twitching against you.

“Good girl,” he speaks, an edge to his voice as he enters your mouth once more. You mindlessly maintain eye contact, allowing Belphie to use your mouth as he pleases, and he does. He picks up the pace—dragging his cock against your tongue as he ventures deeper, causing you to choke more frequently. Each time he does, Beel feels your pussy and ass contract around him—your arousal coating his tongue.

With the multiple sensations assaulting you, your brain becomes distracted from the fingers stretching your ass open, which works well in Beel’s favor. Within a short amount of time, he’s able to slip a third digit in—a moan leaving your lips rather than a cry.

Currently, all you feel is a need for more, and your body will take it in any form it can get.

“Touch me,” you beg when Belphie pauses to allow you to breathe. He obliges without issue, reaching down to grab Beel’s shirt. He tugs it over your head—his hands moving to settle on your tits—and when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, a moan leaves you. Your hips grind against Beel’s face, sucking his fingers dipper into your ass, and the redhead curses.

His dick feels like it might explode soon—neglected of his own volition as he focuses on you instead. However, his self-control likely won’t last for much longer.

“Belphie,” he speaks, throat tight. The younger brother meets his desperate gaze—Beel’s tongue darting out to wet his lips. Belphegor understands his brother’s predicament—especially as he forces his way into your mouth yet again. It’s beginning to become a struggle for himself—to not take advantage of you and spill his seed down your throat.

“One more,” the Avatar of Sloth tells him, and Beel nods, his hand giving your thigh a gentle squeeze. A moment later, you gasp around Belphie’s cock, tensing against the sheets as Beel inserts a fourth and final finger into your ass.

“Relax,” Belphie says softly, his hands moving to cup your cheeks. He allows you to catch your breath, but doesn’t pull his length from your mouth. At the same time, Beel laps his tongue against your clit, trying to drown out any pain with pleasure in an attempt to get you to relax.

“Let us know when it stops hurting,” Beel speaks, his digits slowly pumping in and out of you. Despite wanting to listen, your hips continue to jolt as his fingers move, and Belphie sighs. Reaching down, he gives one of your tits a squeeze—languidly rolling your nipple between his fingers. Carefully, he also matches Beel’s pace—his cock shallowly fucking into your mouth.

“Relax,” he tells you again, and you take a deep breath—finally managing to do so. Beel senses the change almost instantly, his tongue pressing between your walls. His fingers work at your ass a bit faster, and soon enough you’re once again grinding against him—only feeling pleasure.

The two brothers share a look, nodding.

“Hah—,” you breathe hotly as Belphie pulls his length from your mouth. In the same beat, Beel wraps his free hand around your back and pulls you into a seated position. You press your hands against his chest, blinking in surprise, but waste no time leaning up to kiss him.

Beel’s eyes widen, but he’s quick to reciprocate—his hand moving to grip your hair as he deepens the kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“Hey, don’t forget about me.”

You feel a hand on your wrist, and all of the sudden you’re being tugged from Beel. His fingers slip from inside of you, and you whine at the loss—but Belphegor swallows the sound.

“Face me,” he commands in between kisses, and you shift your body so your chests are pressed together. Belphie hums contently against your lips, and you feel his hand reach between your bodies. A second later, he’s gripping your hips—angling them forward as his cock presses at your entrance.

“Fuck,” you breathe, his length sinking inside of you. Your head rolls back, fingers gripping at his shoulders as you finally gain the much-needed stretch of a cock between your walls. Belphie laughs, dragging you into another kiss, and you feel another pair of hands settle on your waist—something hard pressing on the curve of your ass.

Your eyes go wide.

“W-Wait--,” you say, pushing away from Belphie. “I don’t know if—”

“We won’t hurt you, Y/N. We promise,” Beel whispers against your neck, making you shiver. Belphie’s hand slides through your hair, settling on the back of your head. He leans forward to kiss you, drowning out any of your worries with his lips. At the same time, Beel presses soft kisses to your neck, his cock pressing at your anus.

With Belphie’s cock already stuffing your pussy, your ass is not nearly as easy to penetrate as it had been before, but with both boys doing their best to make you relax—Beel finally manages to slip the first few inches of his length inside of you. Almost instantly you’re crying out—spine going tense as your fingernails dig into Belphie’s shoulders.

“Fuck,” he hisses—your pussy clenching around him in response to the intrusion of your other hole. Beel doesn’t seem to be faring any better, his eyebrow knit tightly on his forehead.

They need you to loosen up or the fun will end without ever really beginning.

“You’re doing so well,” Beel tells you, pressing light kisses behind your ear and against your jaw. Belphie joins in, massaging your scalp with his fingers as he connects your lips once more.

“We want to make you feel good, Y/N,” Belphie reassures, and you nod against him, taking a deep breath in through your nose.

“I know,” you say, and then meet his eyes, blushing. “And I…like this. A lot.”

Belphegor grins. “I figured you would if you were so willingly taking dick like Beel’s. You’re a little size queen, aren’t you? Like being stuffed?”

You open your mouth to respond, but a cry comes out instead—Beel’s cock pressing even farther inside of you. Your body shakes—overwhelmed with how full you are—and Beel breathes heavily behind you.

“Just a little bit more, Y/N. Can you handle it?”

You lean forward, resting your head against Belphie’s shoulder, and nod. Biting his lip, Beel grabs your hips and with one final push bottoms out inside of you. Immediately there are tears in your eyes—your mind going fuzzy. Your body feels like it’s on fire—every nerve ending screaming as you attempt to adjust to the girth of them both. The fact that you’ve managed to take them fully inside of you turns you on in a way words can’t describe, and honestly, it feels like your brain is short-circuiting.

“Mmm, you feel so good,” Beel moans, his arms wrapping around you. His big hands settle against your tits, giving the flesh a soft squeeze, and you whine. Belphie glances over at you—feeling your quick breaths fanning against his skin—and frowns.

He’s just about to ask if you’re alright when your voice enters the space around them.

“Move,” you say, and the two brothers pause.

“Are you sure?” Belphie asks, although his heart thrums with anticipation. You nod, sitting back and holding his face between your palms. Your cheeks are pink, eyes blown wide, and lips swollen from all the kissing (and dick-sucking).

You’re really starting to look like a tired, fucked out cock slut.

“Move.”

And they do—not willing to wait a second longer.

Beel moves first—dragging his dick out until only the tip is left inside of you, and then shoving it back in. As he fills you, Belphegor pulls back—the drag of their cocks inside of you alternating like clockwork. The sensation has your breath hitching, embarrassing sounds slipping past your lips as you hug yourself to Belphegor—burying your face against his neck.

Your entire body shakes—overwhelmed with pleasure. You feel as if you’re seconds away from snapping—pushed to your limits thanks to the two youngest brothers.

“Don’t hide,” Beel pants, upset at not being able to see you. Reaching forward, he grabs your shoulder and guides you back against his chest. Your eyes find his—unfocused—brain struggling to keep up with all the different feelings—and Beel swallows, his dick twitching inside of you.

“Hold onto me,” he says, guiding one of your arms to his neck, and you do as you’re told. Your arms wrap around his neck—spine curving and ass pressing down against his dick as he penetrates you. And honestly, Belphie isn’t mad at Beel’s command, because now he’s able to see all of you—your sweat-sheened skin, the bounce of your breasts, and even the way his cock disappears within you—shining with your arousal.

“Fuck,” he curses to himself, his hands finding your waist as Beel’s own hands find purchase on your breasts. He gropes the sensitive mounds as he fucks you, reveling in the way you’re unable to hold your sounds back any longer. At every thrust of his or Belphie’s dick, you’re crying out—moaning, gasping, and whining.

“Hah, I wanna cum,” Belphie breathes, biting his lip. “You feel so good, Y/N…”

“I’m—ah—getting close too,” Beel admits, his tongue dragging against your neck. Your fingers knot in his orange hair, and you fight to find your words as your body and brain melt under their assault.

“C-Clit,” you manage to say, barely able to get the word out before another cry is falling from your lips. The two brothers share a look, and almost immediately Belphie is reaching down—his fingers slipping between your sopping folds and locating the sensitive bud. As soon as he touches it—two of his digits rubbing quick circles against the bundle of nerves, any preservations you had left are ripped away.

You sob, holding onto Beel for dear life as the two demons reach their breaking point. They forget about their previous give-and-take rhythm, fucking up into you in tandem, and tears roll down your cheeks. The heat in your belly reaches a new level of intensity, every part of you on fire, and then…the calm before the storm washes over you.

For a brief moment, everything dies down—your eyelashes flutter shut, every inch of your body relaxing—and then everything snaps.

“Fu-ck!” you cry, voice catching in your throat as you come undone. You go slack, arms falling from around Beel, and he wraps an arm around your chest—holding you up as your body rides out the pleasure. Your pussy and ass clench around their cocks—gripping them so strongly that it’s nearly impossible to move—and Belphie curses.

“Shit.” With one last thrust inside of you, he finds his release. Beel isn’t far behind. The Avatar of Gluttony breathes shakily, grinding his hips against your ass once, twice, and again, before he too finds his bliss.

Together, the twins empty themselves inside of you—the three of you leaning against each other for support as exhaustion begins to set in. Then, once the two demons have caught their breath, they slowly move from inside of you. Beel holds you steady—dried tear tracks staining your cheeks as your body shakes with aftershocks.

Belphie pulls out first, scooting back and reaching out to take you from Beel. You whine as you’re passed off, your arms tiredly moving to hug Belphie as Beel grabs your waist—slowly removing his length from your ass. Almost instantly their cum is dripping down your legs, your holes squeezing around nothing as you readjust to the feeling of not being stuffed with cock.

“Hey,” Beel speaks, his palm finding your cheek as Belphie helps lower you to the mattress. You crack an eye open, glancing up at him. Beel frowns. “Are you okay?”

“Very,” you respond, smiling a little. You lean into his touch. “I’m just…really tired.”

“Makes sense,” Belphie laughs, running his hand through your hair. Your eyes shift between them, but you don’t move. You don’t think you can—everything feels like jelly.

“C’mon,” Beel says, and his arms wrap around you. A second later, you’re lifted from his mattress. He turns and pads towards Belphie’s half of the room, the younger demon walking alongside you, and when Belphegor sees your questioning stare, he explains.

“Beel’s bed is…dirty. Mine is not.”

“Ah,” you respond, and Beel leans over, setting you on top of Belphie’s purple sheets. Immediately you curl up, your head settling on the pillows and your eyes closing. Exhaustion washes over you, and the brothers watch as you quickly descend towards slumber.

“Maybe we should clean her up…,” Belphie suggests, and Beel nods. The two move to head towards the bathroom, but your voice stops them.

“No. Stay,” you pout, reaching out. Like a puppy, Beel immediately returns to your side. Belphie frowns at you.

“We were just gonna—”

“I don’t care. Stay. Please,” you whisper, tone pleading. You feel vulnerable after such an intense experience, and desperately want them to stay close to you.

Belphegor breathes a laugh. “Fine.”

With that, the brothers join you in bed—Beel spooning you from the back while Belphie holds you from the front. Their warmth immediately soaks into your bones, and you sigh—content.

“If I can’t walk tomorrow, you two are going to have to explain to the others why that is.”

Belphegor snorts. “We’ll just keep you in our room all day.”

“I’ll bring you food to eat,” Beel chimes in, his lips pressing against the crown of your head, and you laugh.

“Alright—just don’t fuck me so passionately if you get horny tomorrow, okay? I need to walk at some point.”

The two are quiet.

“Guys?”

“…no promises,” they chorus, and you roll your eyes.

Oh, just what have you gotten yourself into?