#The tattoo you see is not intended as a tattoo but rather as a skin carving

[piccogirl]

Ma'ardan Manes

[evil-lovergirl]

req. by melxiqz on wattpad .  .  . can i get a uh... dazai x gn reader reader....nsfw...reader has spine... tattoo..

!    short nsfw drabble . . . dazai osamu . . . >> includes thigh-fucking [char. giving], begging [char. giving], hickeys [char. giving], dazai is very touch-starved, he really likes your tattoo, like he licks it and shit, he's just a wet cat </3, reader sleeps shirtless and pantless (still wearing shorts/boxers),n dazai is sleeping nude, lowercase intended >> sorry thigh-fucking was literally the only way i could think of where he sees your tattoo. also "laurel" refers to the poisonous laurel flower. i was a little tired of dazai calling reader belladonna every story and the laurel flower is really pretty

"it's late, 'samu." he hears you attempt to reason with him as he presses his chest against your back, his slender hands already pressing against your chest.

"pleasee? jus' for a little bit, jus' tonight.." he whines as he presses his bulge against your legs, dick already hard and weeping pathetically as he pressed his cheek against your back.

"just for tonight," you relent eventually, knowing that you'd both do this another night again anyway. he lets out a happy sound before one of his hands fall from your chest and down to your thigh as he carefully slips his cock between your thighs, letting out a quiet huff as he slowly begins to move. 

he keeps his eyes shut for a moment before he looks at the back of your head, then his gaze traces down to your tattoo. his eyes traces each inch of the ink-stained skin on your back, hand on your thigh tightening as he speed his thrusts up a bit more.

 his mouth lets out another moan or two before he latched onto your shoulder blade with it, teeth gently pressing against your skin before your hand moved to gently swat him off. "don't do that. i can't hear you, then."

he huffs as he lets go before a whine interrupts him, your hand having retreated and gently prodded at his tip between your thighs with each of his thrusts. his fingers are basically clawing at you, even though his nails were much too short and blunt to reach your skin, anyway. he pants, tounge lolling out like a dog before he glanced back at the tattoo.

deciding that, in his fuzzy mind, licking your inked skin was the second best thing he could do if he couldn't suck, he dragged his tounge across your tattoo with whines escaping hing him as his thrusts between your thighs grew faster yet sloppier, mewling whenever the palm of your hand met the sensitive tip of his dick.

"i love you, i lov-e y-youu, soo muc-- ah, ah..!- so much," he whines out, repeating the words like a broken record on repeat, nearing his climax as his fingers dragged across your chest pathetically and his hand tightened and shook against your thigh, leaving behind red marks in their wake.

"i love you too, osamu. won't you cum for me?" and that's what sends him over the edge, loud mix of a mewl and a moan escaping him as he came all over your thighs and the bedsheets, head buried in your back.

"looks like you had fun," you mused as your hand moved away from his spent tip before gently intertwining with his hand on your chest still, but now much weaker.

"i love you, my laurel," he mumbled softly, chest rising and falling as he breathed heavily before kissing your back rather gently.

"i love you too, 'samu. go to sleep, unless you wanna clean up now?"

"noooo..."

[special-agent-sass]

Brighter Future

Warnings: Smut, Dominant Gibbs.

I wanted to try something new so I wrote this in the typical third-person POV but focusing on Gibbs’ thoughts rather than the reader’s. I don’t know how to feel about it.. read it, tell me what ya think haha. I tried my best.

Gibbs slammed the basement door behind him, his jaw clenched in frustration. That damn woman was going to be the death of him. When he'd seen Y/N leave the bar with some pretty boy, laughing and flirting, his gut had twisted into knots. He knew it was irrational - she wasn't his to claim - but that did nothing to temper the surge of jealousy burning through him.

Taking a deep breath, Gibbs tried to rein in his emotions as he started sanding the latest addition to his boat. It was a lost cause, though. No matter how hard he focused on the rhythmic strokes, his mind kept drifting back to her.

Y/N Y/L/N. The beautiful, stubborn, reckless thorn in his side. From the moment she'd joined his team two years ago, Gibbs had been drawn to her like a moth to a flame. With her leather jacket, tattooed skin, those damn tight jeans and devil-may-care attitude, she was everything he never knew he wanted.

They clashed constantly, her recklessness grating against his rigid control. But underneath the arguments simmered an attraction that left them both flustered and on-edge. He'd catch her gazing at him when she thought he wasn't looking, green eyes dark with longing. It took every ounce of restraint not to pin her against the wall and kiss that smart mouth of hers until neither of them could breathe.

Gibbs switched to a finer grit sandpaper, losing himself in the methodical motions. This was useless. She consumed his thoughts whether he liked it or not. He remembered the first time he saw her - long dark hair spilling over a muscular back, tight jeans accentuating every curve. When she'd turned and met his gaze, Gibbs felt a spark of electricity jolt through him. No one had affected him like that in a long time.

From that moment on, she was always there, challenging him, pushing his buttons. He lived for their clashes, the passion simmering between them. But he had to be careful. Dating a co-worker never ended well, and she was too young for the likes of him anyway.

So Gibbs had resigned himself to longing from afar, sure she would never share his inappropriate feelings. Seeing her with that young punk at the bar, Gibbs' restraint shattered like glass. The thought of her going home with someone else sent him into a possessive rage he didn't recognize.

Gibbs looked up when he heard his front door open. Speak of the devil. Y/N hesitated at the top of the stairs, uncertainty clouding her features. His heart stuttered as their eyes met. God she was beautiful, even with her lip caught between her teeth and uncharacteristic vulnerability lurking in her gaze.

Setting the sandpaper down, Gibbs turned to face her. "Shouldn't you be out with your boyfriend?" He winced as the words came out harsher than he intended.

Y/N didn't seem offended, though. Slowly descending the stairs, she said "He's not my boyfriend. Just an old friend from high school."

Gibbs watched her approach, the sway of her hips hypnotic. His mouth went dry when she stopped mere inches away, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.

"I didn't go home with him. I realized there was somewhere else I wanted to be instead."

Gibbs' pulse roared in his ears as her meaning sank in. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and caressed her cheek, thrilling when she leaned into his touch. Her skin was so soft under his calloused fingers and he ached to explore every inch of her.

"Y/N..." he started, but she placed a delicate finger over his lips.

"I'm tired of dancing around this, Jethro. I want you. I've wanted you from the moment I saw you."

That was all the permission Gibbs needed. With a groan he threaded his fingers through her hair and claimed her mouth in a searing kiss. She melted against him instantly, nails scraping down his back as she kissed him back fiercely. It was better than any fantasy - the taste of her, the feel of her supple body aligning with his.

Gibbs maneuvered them until Y/N was pinned between him and the workbench. His hands drifted down to grip her ass, pulling her tight against him as he dominated the kiss, taking everything she offered. When they finally broke for air, he took in her kiss-swollen lips and darkened gaze. She was a vision.

"I need you. Now," Y/N panted, and Gibbs heartily agreed. He made quick work of her shirt, groaning at the expanse of tattooed skin revealed. Dropping hot, open-mouthed kisses along her neck, he deftly unhooked her bra and palmed her breasts. Y/N moaned loudly when he bit down on the skin below her jaw, the sound shooting straight to his groin.

He deftly unbuttoned her jeans. His hand slipped inside, finding her hot and wet for him already. Y/N cried out as he stroked her. Her head fell back, exposing the graceful column of her throat. he ducked down to kiss and nip his way up to her ear.

"Tell me you're mine," Gibbs growled.

"Yes, all yours," she panted.

Gibbs withdrew his hand, ignoring her noise of protest as he stripped her jeans off. He bent her over the table.

"You've been teasing me for months in these tight jeans," Gibbs said gruffly, caressing her ass. He gave her a sharp smack and she yelped. "Now you're going to get what you deserve."

He intended to take his time worshipping every inch of her, but Y/N was having none of it. She looked over her shoulder at him with lustful eyes and begged "please, just take me!"

Well, who was he to deny such a polite request?

He freed myself from his own jeans. With one powerful thrust he was buried inside her tight heat. Y/N cried out, pushing back against him. Gibbs set a relentless pace, all the desire he’d bottled up spilling out.

"Harder!" she gasped. He obliged, gripping her hips bruisingly tight.

Gibbs could feel her getting close, inner muscles starting to flutter around him. He reached around to circle her clit and she shattered with a scream, her climax triggering his. He came hard, emptying himself deep inside her.

Later, they lay tangled together on a pile of blankets, her head pillowed on his chest. Idly trailing his fingers over her back, Gibbs pressed a kiss into her hair.

"What made you change your mind about us?" he asked.

Y/N tilted her face up to meet his gaze. "I saw the way you looked at me tonight. Like I was something precious. No one's ever looked at me like that before."

Gibbs' heart swelled and he pulled her close. "You are precious. And you're mine now."

She smiled softly. "Yours. As long as you'll have me."

"Forever then," he stated simply. Y/N's eyes shone at that and she snuggled into his embrace.

As Gibbs held the beautiful, reckless woman who had captured his heart, he sent up a silent thanks to whoever had brought her crashing into his life. With her by his side, the future seemed brighter than ever.

[kiame-sama]

The Hylian Zonai- (Yandere!Ganondorf x Fem!Hybrid!Reader) pt 3

Warnings; yandere, yandere relationship, yandere temper, yandere behavior, smart yandere, manipulation, manipulative behavior, platonic and romantic yanderes, NSFW mentioned and hinted at, brief nudity mentioned,

"Hylian"

"Zonai"

"Gerudo"

~~~~~~~~

"Remind me again where we are going?"

"I'm going to show you something I haven't shown anyone else. I haven't even told my father about it."

"And we have to be deep in the forest for this?"

"Yes. Otherwise someone else may see."

Ganondorf hummed as he followed the soft Princess deeper into the forest, wondering just what it was he needed to be shown. Soon the dense trees gave way to a clearing filled with wildflowers and a shallow stream on the far side. Despite being rather late at night, the clearing was illuminated by the moon and the fireflies blinking in the darkness. It was a lovely place, but the King had a feeling that it wasn't what you wanted to show him.

"Okay," the soft Hylian Zonai nodded, turning to face Ganondorf, "I promised to tell you why I pulled you here in the middle of the night, but I think It's better I show you."

Before he could question what it was she intended to show him, her dress fell from her figure with ease. Where he wanted to comment on the sudden bare body before him, his voice died in his throat due to sheer surprise and wonderment.

As the moonlight caressed (y/n)'s soft flesh, the various faint tattoos scrawling across her figure began to glow with a golden light. It seemed to shine from every mark along her body and even her third Zonai eye lit up as if empowered by the golden glow. The light danced across her skin and seemed to center right beneath her collarbone above the curves of her breasts. Glowing brighter than the tattoos sat an interesting symbol of three triangles stacked together to make another triangle, a certain power humming from it similar to that of the secret stones.

"Ever since I was young, when the moon was at full and shined upon me, these marks would glow. Like my father, I was born with my markings. Only recently have I noticed a certain strength and power from them. Father once spoke of an ancient power imbued within those who were chosen by the creators of this land. The harmony of courage, strength, and wisdom. The tri-force. Father has the symbol in many places about the castle, but the only place I have seen it outside of the castle is within my own flesh."

The little Princess smiled at the Gerudo King, his heart racing in his chest as he took in what she told him. If her words were true- and he could feel the sheer power emanating from her- then the very key to strengthening himself without the aid of a Secret Stone was standing before him. Her beautiful trusting (e/c) gaze held such a fondness to them and her affection towards him could not be clearer.

Why else would she reveal this secret to him?

Even as he gazed at the mark in wonder, he felt his eyes traveling ever so slightly lower. Part of him wished to act upon the carnal craving that pulled at his mind as he gazed upon the bare form of the sweet and trusting Princess. Here she stood before him with not a scrap of clothing covering her figure, on full display for his increasingly hungry gaze. If he didn't look away or cool himself down somehow, he would...

~~~~~~~~

Rauru could feel his nails digging into the stone before him as the guards continued to relay your sudden disappearance and lack of presence in the castle. The guards, Sonia, and Zelda were all searching the castle grounds, but none of them could find either you or Ganondorf. Truly, the stress about this whole endeavor was eating Rauru alive.

Why in Hyrule would you leave the safety of your home and his protection with no warning or note? The fact that both you and the dangerous Gerudo man disappeared at the same time did not sit well with Rauru. There were countless things that man could be doing to you- with or without your consent- and it truly unsettled the Zonai King.

When the first guard woke both Rauru and Sonia to inform them of your disappearance, he feared the worst. He sent several guards to search the castle grounds for you but he had a hunch that the Gerudo king was somehow instrumental in your disappearance. When neither you nor the Gerudo king were found, he began to worry you two may be together.

He knew he had to worry about how close you got to the king in the daytime, but he never expected the two of you to abscond so late at night. Perhaps the king simply took you and decided to return to the sands, but it wouldn't make sense that he abandoned several of his warriors as well. Perhaps you led the king away for some unknown end, but Rauru couldn't think of a single thing that could prompt such behavior from you.

With the both of you missing, he had no choice but to send out search parties to possibly locate the two of you. He dreaded the thought of what could be taking place under the cover of night.

"Beloved? They've scoured the nearby fields and have found nothing. I worry our dear daughter is hiding from us with the Gerudo king."

"Then it seems I must locate her myself... But..."

"Rauru?"

"I just... I worry what I may find when I do find her."

"My love, she is a young woman blossoming into an adult. She was bound to find love at some point."

"But why him? Why now?"

"Who else would she have gotten close to? We have been keeping our little one from taking her own path, but she was bound to find it eventually."

Sonia rest her hand gently atop Rauru's, trying to provide some comfort to her beloved King despite his obvious stress and displeasure. She knew that one day their lovely daughter would spread her wings and find her own way in life. Despite knowing this, she also knew Rauru was not ready to let their daughter go yet.

Zonai aged slowly and at a much more measured pace than the other races, but due to (y/n) not being a full Zonai she aged the way Sonia did. That was, up until she reached physical maturity. At physical maturity, she seemed to stop aging and instead had more mental maturing to do. Even still, she was technically an adult and was supposed to make adult choices. Still, Rauru saw (y/n) as a child and not as the adult she appeared to be.

"But what if I find them and they're intertwined, embracing in the moonlight? I couldn't possibly-"

"Rauru, if you find them intertwined, let them be. Our little girl must grow up at some point. I worry just as you do about her future, but that is not a path we can walk for her. That is a path she must walk herself. If she has found love, then good for her. I would rather she choose someone less violent, but that is still not a choice we can make for her."

Sonia smiled at Rauru, gently cupping his cheek with her hand. Of course, he knew she was right and that he was not allowed to make choices for his (y/n), but did she have to choose him of all people? Even though Rauru understood that is was not his choice, he still felt the need to keep the two away from one another to prevent his dear daughter's heart from being broken.

"Now," Sonia started, straightening Rauru's necklace, "go find our daughter and make sure she is safe. I don't want either of you coming home upset."

~~~~~~~~

Rauru walked among the trees, seeing the moon-dappled path stretching out before him as he walked the ancient trail. Granted, the forest was not far from the castle, but Rauru knew his daughter and had shown her this very path himself many moons ago. As he moved beneath the swaying trees, a faint sound on the wind carried itself to him.

"- stop it!"

Those few words and the familiar voice sent his heart into a frenzy, hastening his step and carrying him swiftly to the sound. He would easily bring himself to kill the Gerudo king regardless of how that would impact his standing if the man dared lay a hand on his precious daughter. And from the sounds of it, his sweet (y/n) would thank him for the intervention.

Right before he reached the clearing a certain sound stopped him in his tracks. It wasn't crying or a loud struggle, it was... Laughter?

He peeked through the treeline to see (Y/n) and Ganondorf- both fully clothed- in the stream, splashing the cold water at one another in what could only be described as completely innocent play. The man's hands were much larger than the little Princess' so he was winning their splash fight rather soundly. Still, the soft Princess hadn't given up yet and she was not playing fairly.

Through a mix of time-displacement and Ultra-hand, she was redirecting the water back to the Gerudo king. Both were laughing even as the icy touch of the water send shivers through them. Eventually, Ganondorf had managed to temporarily distract (y/n) long enough to lift her from the ground and dunk her in the deeper part of the stream.

"I yield! I yield!"

(Y/n) laughed even as she cried out her surrender shaking her soft Zonai ears free of the water, playfully shoving the larger man. They were both panting at this point as they let the water settle, standing far too closely together for Rauru's liking. Eventually, (y/n) was the one to move closer to the Gerudo king, her head tilted to one side in an almost curious expression. The king didn't fight as the little Hylian-Zonai pulled him down to her level, hands resting on either cheek. But as the distance between them began to close, Rauru felt compelled to act.

"Ahem."

The sudden clearing of his throat made (Y/n) quickly pull away, looking towards the sound with a mixture of surprise and irritation. That bit of surprise faded away almost instantly when she saw who it was that had intruded upon what was meant to be a private moment. Now her expression was one of complete irritation as she stared out at her father.

"Am I interrupting something?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, you are."

"Well, don't let my presence stop you then. Unless, you know you are doing something you shouldn't."

This caused a reaction he didn't expect from his little daughter, her form easily rising from the waters and her expression one of anger. Her lip curled back to show her teeth as she sneered in his direction, clearly upset at the intrusion from her father.

"Doing something I shouldn't? Like what? Fostering positive relations with our neighboring Kingdoms?"

"This is not fostering positive relations. This is canoodling with a violent monster!"

Those words caused a cascading reaction that neither Rauru nor Ganondorf had expected from the soft Hylian-Zonai. The sharp sound of a slap echoing in the clearing put a rather fine point on the anger of the little Princess towards her father. Her Zonai ears were flat against her head as she glared poisonously at him, her hand still in the raised position it ended in.

"How dare you? How dare you talk that way about the man I love? A monster? You are the monster."

Her angry tone broke with the hitch of a sob as tears filled her once trusting and affectionate eyes. Though she was soaked through with the cold water of the stream, she was still quite swift as she ran back towards the castle, tears staining their way down her delicate cheeks.

"Wait! (Y/n), wait, I said!"

Rauru attempted to call out, but his sweet daughter was already too far and too upset to hear him. Despite how he wanted to chase her, he was still near the demon of man who had entranced her in the first place. He turned to look at the afore mentioned man, surprised to see one of the most wicked grins on the man's face as he stared in triumph. His voice dripped in a mocking saccharine tone as he taunted the Zonai.

"This will certainly make her listen to you and not resent you at all. Absolutely. Well done, oh 'great king of Hyrule'."

"Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth, Ganondorf."

"Oh? (Y/n) seemed to enjoy this forked tongue of mine quite a bit."

"If you put your hands on her-"

"The only hands I have placed on Princess (Y/n) are the ones she's asked for. Can you say the same?"

Rauru could feel the rage in his chest as the sun-kissed king sauntered away back to the castle, leaving the Zonai King to his thoughts. Instead of getting his beloved (Y/n) to see what a monster Ganondorf was, Rauru instead turned her against him. The only way he could possibly heal the now deep rift between him and his daughter was to get Ganondorf to show his true colors to the world.

Hopefully that would be enough to make (Y/n) see.

[vampirememory]

Intuitive PAC | Who is your next lover?

Howdy! I had this one in the drafts for a little while! I think I intended to have more than three piles, but since it's been a while since I've started it, we are keeping it at three! Choose a pile and get some intuitive predictions on your next lover! This may or may not pertain to your future spouse, use discretion as needed.

♢ There are three piles to choose from. Pile one is the green bow, pile two is the pile of papers, and pile three is the green fan. Feel free to pick one or several piles.♢

Due to the fact there are only three piles, you may not have a message here. Take what resonates and leave the rest!

Pile 1 ♢ Green Bow

Someone shady/snake-y. Slithers like a snake, might walk very quietly and elegantly. Firm boundaries. Misunderstandings. The color blue (favorite color or blue eyes). Tattoo that wraps around the arm. Brilliant blue (lots of blue coming through). Snakebites. Elegant.

Masculine/Males: May be tall with darker features (brown/black hair; seeing curls) with possible blue eyes. Thin & agile. Wears a lot of black, somewhat mysterious and seductive.

Feminine/Females: long black/brown hair, red lips, somewhat of a devil's smile (whatever that means), player energy.

Both/All/Other: dark on the outside, but a softie on the inside. Still dark inside though, it just softens for you. Nice hands. Gold jewelry/a watch. Black & white layered tops, dark academia aesthetic, or old money aesthetic. Possibly wealthy or a very good thrifter.

Pile two ♢ Pile of Papers

Bright and cheerful; red, cherries. Kissable, huggable, adorable. Exit sign, might leave soon (out of town for a trip? For the summer?). Black pearls. Picnic blankets and caressing under a big oak tree, Summer vibes.

Masculine/Males: blonde, strawberry blonde. Boy next door vibes. Sweet and cute, very rosy and sweet. Buys you a lot of flowers, flannels are a closet staple with silver jewelry. Might have a silver or gold tooth, or possible missing teeth (punched out?)

Feminine/Females: shoulder length, poofy light brown hair, almost ginger. Friendly smile and appearance. Cute summer dresses and floral patterns. Brown sandals, crocs with lots of jibbits.

Both/All/Other: friendly vibes! Soft lovers. Happy to have you in their arms, treats you like a gift. May be clingy. Slightly tanned skin. Romantic softies. The relationship may not last long due to outside influences, but it'll be one to remember and one you'll look very fondly at (you may stay lifelong friends because the relationship simply wasn't meant to be; platonic but mistaken for romantic).

Pile three ♢ Green Fan

Heather? Heathen? Black tongs, barbecue or cookout, might meet them there. Plastic cups, drinking and a poolside. They might be a bit drunk when you meet them (liquid courage I heard). Crop top with possibly the American flag? With black mesh?

Masculine/Male: jock? Physically strong. Baseball caps & a large sneaker collection. Nice hands. Dark eyes, like the galaxy (heard that specifically).

Feminine/Female: darker colored makeup, dark under eyes, large eyes (very white & clear), long lashes.

Both/All/Other: doesn't take alcohol well, you might meet them while helping them to their car or something. If it doesn't resonate, you still might be helping them do something when they're struggling under some type of influence and not at their best (injury? Exhaustion?). Might be really embarrassed after this encounter, but fell for the way you care for them. Possibly Black or Hispanic, maybe foreign which is why they need help (possibly you speak their language? Or are incredibly patient?). May take a while for the relationship to start due to ego issues on their end (embarrassment), they really care about a good impression. Might be interested in business, politics, or international affairs.

I didn't get much appearance on this, I see that you might be focusing more on helping them rather than their appearance so you might not get a good look at them.

Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to check out my masterpost with more readings, or you can support me by purchasing a reading by clicking here. Thanks for the support, let me know which pile you picked and if it resonated or not :)!

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

the world (it burns through me)

Chapter 16: Sweetheart

Ao3 | 3.7k Words | Sweetheart's POV

Sweetheart thanks their lucky stars. Ben is sorry, for what it's worth. Quinn and Sweetheart share a dance. Colm picks up the phone. The 7-30 responds. It snows in Dahlia for the first time in ten years.

SPOILERS FOR THIS CHAPTER but I wanted to give a warning anyway: For those that don't recognize him immediately, Ben is Geordi's abusive ex in Redacted canon as well as the continuity of the FFAU. He's depicted in this chapter as one of Quinn's victims. This is not in an attempt to diminish, dismiss, or excuse his actions or the abuse he put Geordi through, but rather to explore the cycle of abuse and how victims can become abusers themselves. It's indicated that Quinn enjoys convincing his victims that they deserve their abuse, that they are just as bad as he is, and see them treat others the way that he treats him. I hope that this is received in the way it was intended rather than being considered dismissive of abuse victims.

TW: Discussions of past and current abuse, scars, past injury, blood and injury, mentions of firearms, taser, knife violence, fighting, mutilation, what could be considered torture, disturbing psychological and sexual themes, Quinn's bullshit.

You were really good at your job. That was the thought you kept repeating to yourself as the weeks ticked on, as December passed, as January raced by day by day and you were no closer to catching this fucking asshole than you had been when the case dropped into your lap. What was worse was you weren’t certain you’d be paid for all of this effort, and you weren’t certain you’d be comfortable with that even if it was offered. This was family being threatened, after all. 

So you toiled away two months of time with which you could have been earning money on dead end after dead end. 

You didn’t know much. What you did know wasn’t exactly helpful. 

Quinn had roots in Dahlia, at least more than he had in most other places. His name was on a few plastic surgeon’s patient lists in L.A., he had a tattoo artist in Oregon he frequented, and his credit card history spoke of visits to clubs in nearly every college town on the western seaboard. He didn’t own any property, but people he knew did. An old girlfriend here, a friend from boarding school there, and all of them seemed to welcome him in like he was a fugitive to be quartered and protected. 

He had a father. Mr. Fox was a wealthy man with a wealthy son. From what you could gather from his Wikipedia page and the about section of his company’s website, he was a touch eccentric, even when the category was billionaires. His company, Flux, was a health and wellness medical group that specialized in slowing the aging process. Mr. Fox himself had undergone countless procedures to slow his own aging, received regular blood transfusions from younger, healthier men, and, according to his pretentious YouTube channel, had a grueling morning routine that stretched into the late afternoon. Flux sold everything that promised to keep you young; vitamins, health foods, workout regimen, cryo chambers. 

For all of his efforts, you had to admit that Mr. Fox did not look his age of fifty-six. Mostly he looked… alien. His skin was waxy and plastic, his musculature (which he loved to show off by appearing in every interview and picture that he could shirtless) was sculpted and perfect. He looked like a fucking Ken doll. 

You weren’t surprised that a person like Quinn Fox came from extreme wealth. People who felt so entitled to what they wanted that they were willing to hurt and kill for it were often bred in an environment where they were never told ‘no.’ 

Mr. Fox didn’t answer your multiple emails inquiring about his son. When you came knocking on the doors of old friends and acquaintances, people shut down. Nobody knew him, nobody had heard the name, nobody had ever seen the man in the picture you shared. Nobody knew your firefighter either, even when their eyes flashed with fearful recognition. 

So you counted your lucky fucking stars when you found him. 

He was an old flame of Quinn’s, a fleeting interest of a few months that was discarded when a new toy came along. You ran into him while asking questions at one of Quinn’s old dives. As soon as he laid eyes on the picture you produced, you couldn’t mistake the look in his eyes for anything besides rage. 

It was barely four, but Ben offered you a drink anyway. He was the bartender at one of the clubs in college town, a dingy, too-small space tucked under a piercing shop. You cast a weary look over the darkened dance floor and cracked leather booths. You could picture Quinn here, huddled in a corner, flirting with college kids barely old enough to get in, waited on hand and foot. It made you shiver. 

“He’s a monster.” Ben growled, pouring himself a whiskey and you a club soda. You worried that you’d come home reeking of alcohol just from sitting at the bar. Ben was a big guy, tall too, and his nose was twisted in the same way Trouble’s was. You could see, if you squinted, a resemblance between them. Quinn’s compulsive need to prey on people who resembled them kept rearing its ugly head. “Drop it. You don’t wanna dance with him.” 

“He’s threatening my client.” You cocked your head as Ben tossed the whiskey back. “I intend to put him behind bars.” 

“His daddy will pay for him to get off.” Ben shrugged. He snagged a knife from behind the bar and started chopping limes, tossing the slices into a plastic container. Steady, consistent knife strokes. “It’s not worth your time.” 

“I’ll take it into consideration.” You bit out. “How do you know him?” Ben’s eyes flicked to yours, dark and discerning for a long moment. 

“He used to come here pretty often.” He shrugged. “He’s a good looking guy. I gave him a few free drinks, kept the bouncers off his case when he got too handsy with some of the drunk girls. He… appreciated my efforts.” 

“Sexual favors?” You asked, pulling your notepad from your pocket and scribbling out some of the details. Ben snorted. 

“Quinn don’t need sexual favors from anybody.” He said, face darkened. “What he wants, he takes. It just so happened that I wanted him too. We’ll call that serendipity.” 

“How long was your relationship?” You asked. Ben sighed sharply. 

“It wasn’t so much a relationship as…” he cocked his head to the side, choosing his words carefully. “Look, he’s… if he’s after your client or whatever, they probably deserve it. He doesn’t waste time on good people.” 

“What do you mean?” You pushed, leaning forward. 

“I mean that I’m not a nice guy.” Ben’s lips curled, flashed his teeth. “I mean that Quinn wouldn’t be into me if I was. He likes ugly people who do ugly things. Makes him feel just a bit better about what he does to us.” 

“What did he do to you?” You asked. 

Ben met your eye steadily for a long moment, as though he was waiting for a break in your curiosity, a sign of some sort that you wouldn’t be able to handle whatever it was he was going to show you. When he found none, he set down his knife and stepped back from the bar slightly, tugged the hem of his t-shirt out from his apron. He pulled it up just far enough to reveal his chest. You leaned forward as the raised lines of scars were exposed to the low light of the bar. 

At first, you thought the cuts were random, slashes here and there, intersecting to cause the most pain. Then, you noticed the pattern. 

They were all ‘Q’s, jagged and awkward, carved across Ben’s chest, the base of his throat, down his stomach. You swallowed and blinked away the memory of that ‘Q’ tattooed onto Trouble’s fucking face. 

Same purpose, different method. Pain and ownership, meeting two of his desires at the same time. 

“Can I take a picture of this?” 

Ben reluctantly played model for you, turning to the left and right so you could snap pictures with your phone camera. Once you were satisfied and he reiterated that he had no idea where Quinn was, Ben walked you out the back. He lead you through the kitchen, up a rickety flight of stairs, and out of a swinging door to a back alley just off the main road. You turned, crunching cigarette butts under your boots, and offered Ben as solid of a smile as you could muster. Bad person or not, nobody deserved to be treated the way that Quinn treated his victims. 

“I’m sorry.” Ben said as he held the back door open. There was no handle on the outside of it. “For what it’s worth.” You stared at him for a moment, as your body went tight and tense in your confusion. 

You knew what it felt like to be stabbed. You’d experienced it once before as a teenager when someone had hit your bike with their car and part of its frame had impaled itself in your thigh. You’d been more upset about the bike than the stabbing at that time, but the pain of it was distant and dulled from the adrenaline. You didn’t have that luxury this time. 

The knife tore into your stomach, not sharp enough to be an easy stab. It wasn’t long, maybe two or three inches, but it was certainly enough to zing pain up your spine as you bucked back into a broad, solid chest. An arm snaked around your middle, held your weight, as another pulled the knife out of your gut and wrapped firmly around your neck, tucking your throat into the crook of his elbow. He groaned, nose pressed into your hair, and laughed as you shook and smacked at him uselessly, tried desperately to get him the fuck off of you. 

It was Quinn. You didn’t need to look up to confirm it, but you did anyway, just in time to watch him run his tongue along the blade, his eyes rolling back as he swallowed. 

“Thank you, darling,” Quinn grinned at Ben as he flexed his arm around your throat, played with your airway like it was a stress ball. “Back inside, please.” 

Ben looked away from you, eyes on the ground, as he let the heavy door swing closed. There was no handle on the outside. You’d have to get out to the street to get help. 

“Now, Detective,” Quinn purred in your ear, “just what are we going to do with you?” 

“You don’t plan to kill me?” You ground out around the pressure on your windpipe. “Mark me up like your other victims?” 

“Oh, there’s an idea.” Quinn rocked back and forth, swayed you in an uncoordinated slow dance. Your stomach kept turning, but you didn’t know if that was disgust or internal bleeding. “But just how would you deliver my message if I did that?” 

Enough of this shit. You strained against his arm hard enough to swing your elbow back into his stomach. He doubled over, coughing, and his arms loosened around you enough that you could slip out. You spun, hand falling to your belt, and pulled out your taser. 

When you left the police academy, you knew that you didn’t want to carry a firearm. Just having one could put you in a lot of danger, and could put the people around you in even more danger. You weren’t likely to accidentally shoot someone, you were a very good shot, top of your class in marksmanship. But a lot could go wrong when dealing with assailants, especially if there were bystanders. You didn’t want to bring a firearm into the mix. You had to carry something, if not for your own peace of mind, then for Milo’s. You were no slouch at hand to hand combat, but you knew that relying on your fists was worse than bringing a knife to a gunfight. When you got your P.I. license, you bought a top of the line, police-grade taser gun. 

When you discharged your taser, it struck Quinn clear in the chest, and the wires attached to your weapon pulsed with a charge. Quinn grunted, stepped back in shock as the pain hit him.

But he didn’t collapse. His muscles didn’t convulse. His eyes snapped up to you, clear and bright, as he grinned. 

You turned your gun so you could see the switch on the side. You usually left it set to pulse mode, which delivered electric pulses and interrupted most people’s control of their muscle tension. Somehow, at the worst possible time it could have happened, you had set the gun to drive-stun, which encouraged compliance with pain. 

But Quinn was the sort of guy who liked pain. He reached up, snagged the wires with his bare hand, and tore the barbs out of his chest. 

“Fuck,” you breathed. You tossed your taser to the side. You didn’t have time to hesitate. You dashed towards him, ignored the tearing pain in your stomach, and rammed your fist up into his jaw. He was taller than you, probably stronger than you, but you could put up a hell of a fight when you needed to. 

It was less of a fight and more of a quick, dirty tussle. You were bleeding and had made your wound worse by moving. You put all you had in your first few strikes, but that wasn’t enough. Quinn took them like they were nothing. Compared to what somebody like Trouble could do, you imagined it probably felt like it too. 

Quinn took hit after hit, but gave them right back. You were already at a disadvantage, and one well placed hit to your gut had you on the ground. Your vision dotted with stars, your lips going numb as the blood loss started creeping up on you. 

That was it. Your back was flat on the concrete, your breath stuttering as you struggled to draw in enough air to satisfy your shaking body. Quinn grunted and spat on the ground next to you. He swung a leg over your middle and straddled your hips, pressing one hand over your mouth as he grinned down at you, teeth lined with blood. 

You struggled beneath him, but your body only had so much to give. Your movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, ineffective. Quinn batted away your attempts to hit him mindlessly, turning his knife in his hand. 

“Let’s leave our message, hmm?” 

You knew what it felt like for a knife to be dragged through your skin. You’d cut your hand while cooking before. But Quinn made an art out of it. He pulled the knife slowly, took his time, his blue eyes wide and drinking in every twist of your face, every sound that escaped you despite yourself. By the time he was done, his pale hands were covered in blood. You watched as he pressed his fingers into his mouth, sucking at them until the blood flecked away, left his skin stained between the lines of his tattoos. 

“You make such a wonderful little victim.” Quinn smiled down at you. “I’d keep you if I didn’t need you to tell them something.” His smile cracked impossibly wider. Too many teeth, lips spread too far. Your head was spinning. “You tell them that this mark is their fault. You tell them that it was supposed to be theirs, but they sent you after me. Tell them that the next time they send somebody else to do their dirty work, they won’t walk away from me.” His hand trailed up your chest until he could grip your jaw in his crushing hold. “Do you understand?” 

You stared up at him, eyes hazy, and spat in his fucking face. 

Quinn barked out a ragged laugh and wiped at his face, collecting your blood and saliva on his hand. He ran his tongue over his palm, groaning obscenely as he stared down at you through his lashes. 

You were going to be sick. 

“Feisty little thing.” Quinn moaned. “Next time, I’ll have to see what it takes to break you.” 

He stood, driving his boot into your side one last time as he began to walk away. You blinked hard as you watched him go, vision swimming and unsteady. 

Your phone was in your coat pocket. You wormed your numbing fingers along your body until they brushed the cold metal of it. 

You didn’t know why you called him. Really, you should have called 911, but back in November you’d made a promise. You didn’t make a habit of breaking them. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Colm’s voice rumbled through the receiver. You swallowed heavily and tried to figure out what you wanted to say. Help me. He’s getting away. I need an ambulance. Tell Milo… 

“Hey,” you managed, voice cracking. Your throat was so fucking dry. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Colm’s voice took on a panicked edge. “Where are you, kid? Are you okay?” You blinked up at the afternoon sky as it darkened with thick clouds. Something cold landed on your cheek. 

“It’s snowing.” You breathed. It hadn’t snowed in Dahlia in ten years. It had been a remarkably cold winter, after all. You wondered if there would be enough snow to stick. 

Colm responded, but his voice went weird in your ears, warping and buzzing. You closed your eyes. You were so fucking tired. 

When you woke up, there were hands on you. You jerked, groaned as the skin on your stomach tugged and screamed out in pain. There was a warm, calloused hand on your forehead, pushing your curls back from your face, and another bracing your side. You forced your eyes to open. 

It was Milo. You… you thought it was Milo. Your eyes wouldn’t focus, kept rolling to the back of your head as your eyelids fluttered. You huffed softly as his thumb traced over your brow to try and soothe you. 

“I know, kiddo, I hear ya.” It wasn’t Milo. His voice wasn’t quite right. It was rasped from years of smoke. Milo didn’t touch cigarettes. Just the smell of them made him gag. He said that he had reeked of them for weeks after moving out of his parent’s apartment since Colm smoked about a pack a day-

“Colm,” you gasped, throat ragged. Your hand flailed until you could grasp on to his sleeve. 

“I’m here,” he said softly, “I’m right here. There’s an ambulance coming, okay? You stay with me, you understand? My kid’ll kill me if I let you die.” 

“‘m cold.” You managed, shifting slightly on the freezing concrete. Colm bent further over you, blotting out the dull light from the sliver of sky visible between the buildings. Snowflakes landed in his curls, pooled around his face like waves. 

“I know, kid, hey, open your eyes. Keep those eyes on me.” He tapped your cheek hard enough to make your head spin, but it kept your eyes open. You watched as he took stock of your condition. Slowly, like he was afraid to really look, he pulled your coat back and gingerly peeled your blood-soaked shirt from your torn skin. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” He breathed. You watched as his eyes grew distant and his face went pale. Whatever Quinn had done to you, it made a veteran homicide detective go a bit green. 

You heard sirens in the distance and you were suddenly struck with the fear that it could be the 10-19 responding. You didn’t want Milo to see you, not until there was a doctor standing over you telling him you’d be okay. You didn’t want to scare him. 

The ambulance backed up into the alley, and two paramedics and a firefighter piled out. You recognized one of them, Bailey, as she hopped out of the back with a go bag on her shoulder. It was the 7-30 responding, then. 

The7-20 was the sister house to the 10-19. Their jurisdictions were nestled against each other on the southwest corner of Dahlia. The two houses had better response times and success rates than any other in the city. Friendly competition broke out between them every once in a while, who could put out the most fires, respond to the most calls, shave down their response times the most in a given stretch of time. David always insisted that steel sharpened steel, and the 7-30 was the only house in town that even began to meet the 10-19’s standards. 

“Colm,” the firefighter greeted as he knelt next to your head. You wracked your brain trying to remember his fucking name. “Ansel gave me a heads up about your call. Sorry to see you like this.” He looked down at you as he braced your head with his knees, practiced calm painting his posture as he smiled gently. You’d met him before, at least once or twice, at one of the house’s joint Christmas parties. He was a nice guy, steady and calm in a way that David sometimes struggled to be. “Hey, friend. I’m Greg, and this is Bailey. Stay still for me, okay? We’re gonna get you taken care of.” 

You wanted to nod, but he wouldn’t let you. You blinked hard. Greg fastened a C-collar around your neck. Somebody pressed something into your stomach and you groaned, unable to force out the scream that pounded at the back of your throat. Colm cursed under his breath, a calloused hand slipping into yours. 

You were loaded onto a backboard and then a gurney in quick succession. Somebody cut through your shirt to expose your stomach properly. Diodes were attached to your bloodied skin. You cried out as you were loaded into the ambulance and you thought you heard Colm yelling at somebody. 

“Colm,” you managed as you blinked past the fluorescent lights of the ambulance. Greg and Bailey loaded into the back with you as the driver took off, full lights and sirens. That wasn’t a good sign. Colm shoved himself into one corner by your head, his hand falling to your forehead again, shaking and cold. 

“I’m here, kid.” He said as Greg and Bailey started talking quickly over you. You focused all of your energy into getting out what you needed him to know. If you died in transport or on the table, Colm needed to know what happened. 

“It was Quinn.” You croaked. “His… friend? Ben. Bartender in the- the fuck- the club. Victim. I- he told Quinn. He left me. Left me alive. On purpose.” 

“Okay,” Colm said softly, “okay, easy. You can tell me all of this later, kiddo, save your breath.” 

“No,” you snapped, pulled your arm out of Bailey’s grasp just as she brought an IV to the big vein in your hand. Adrenaline surged through you, probably for the last time. You had to make this count. You snatched the collar of Colm’s crumpled suit and pulled him close, probably with more strength than he was expecting. “Listen!” Tears escaped past your lashes. “Find Ben. He can… he’ll get you to Quinn.” You swallowed around the blood in your throat. “Tell Milo…” 

“I know.” Colm said. He pressed a kiss to your brow. “I know. I’ll tell him.” 

You closed your eyes.

[the-travelling-witch]

OO MODREN AU ASK

What are the boys love language!

Xiao

Giving: Quality Time

Of course, quality time isn’t a one-sided thing but Xiao loves to spend time with you. Whether you’re actually doing something together or are just present in the same room doesn’t matter as much as being near you. There’s something very comforting about you being within reach and funnily enough his heart can’t stop racing when the setting turns domestic.

Receiving: Physical Touch

He loves your touch, the feel of your skin against his, always treating him so gently. But Xiao’s not the greatest at initiating it even if he really wants to hold you, so he’s at the receiving end most of the time. Linking pinkies, holding hands, slinging your legs over his lap, hugging him from behind, rolling on top of him in your sleep… whether or not he can see it coming, your touch is always more than welcome.

[Peak combination idea: drawing tattoos on each other or colouring already existing ones (yes I’m bringing this up again)]

Scara

Giving: Acts of Service

It’s clear by now that Scaramouche isn’t the greatest with words; they tend to come out harsher than he intends them to and he’d hate nothing more than accidentally hurting you, so he resorts to showing his affection rather than voicing it. Or that was how it was in the beginning. By now, doing things for you is something he enjoys because he can see how relieved you are when a chore is taken off your plate or how your eyes light up when he makes your favourite dinner. Yeah yeah, he’s the greatest, no need to thank him so profusely (actually keep doing it though, your praise means everything to him).

Receiving: Words of Affirmation

Speaking of praise, you really don’t need to question how his hand covers his cheek or why he turns his head whenever you compliment him. Doesn’t matter if it’s because of work or a new drawing or the outfit he chose to wear, this man will soak up all your flattering words… but not without turning bright red. So pull him out from under his hat and tell him something you like about him; not only is he cute to watch when he’s flustered, it also really means something to him.

Kazuha

Giving: Words of Affirmation

Uhm yeah, Kazuha + Words of Affirmation, who would’ve seen it coming… but it’s true!! Between his eloquent vocabulary and his soft, soothing voice, this man can compliment you five hundred new ways this week, next week and all the way into the next year. The real kicker? It’s always, without fail, genuine. Sure, everyone can sweet talk but Kazuha means it all. Even if he isn’t there with you; he frequently texts throughout the day or leaves sticky notes around the house for you to find. How’s your heart doing? Has it been able to calm down or is your doctor concerned for you?

Receiving: Physical Touch

You might be the one giving here but don’t expect to not get flustered. Sure, you were the one to link your fingers but Kazuha was the one who twirled you around like a dancer. And yes, you might have made yourself at home tugged into his side but how did you end up in his lap? Evidently, Kazuha enjoys your touch just as much as you enjoy touching him, so indulge him a little and come over to him, alright?

Aether

Giving: Gift Giving

Aether is a bit of a travel- enthusiast, so whenever he visits somewhere new, he’s sure to bring you something. And he always makes sure it’s something you’d enjoy. But he doesn’t have to go out of town to bring you a little trinket. Often enough, he shows up with flowers or he drew something and is giving it to you or he was at a pottery shop and look here, you have a new mug. It’s hard not to think of Aether when you look around your home or pick jewellery for that day, his gifts are everywhere. (Maybe that was his endgame all along?)

Receiving: Acts of Service

The poor guy often makes sure the shop doesn’t unravel at the seams by picking up after the others and sorting out their messes, so he breathes a sigh of relief at every chore that’s not falling on him. It could be something small like bringing him lunch or picking the lint off his clothes or something bigger like doing his laundry or cleaning around his place when you know he’s swamped with work and other responsibilities. Whatever you decide to lend a hand with, Aether will forever be grateful to you, wondering how he got lucky enough to meet you.

Heizou

Giving: Physical Touch

Heizou is… a menace. Are you jumpy? Because he’ll startle you so often if you are. Not only because he literally can’t keep his hands off of you and comes up at the most random times just to sling his arm around your shoulders, but also because your reactions are just so adorable to him. But he can be just as cute. Like when he sees something that catches his eye and he grabs your hand instinctively to pull you along while he breaks out into an excited grin or when he swoops you up from your feet so he can settle you onto the couch next to him.

Receiving: Quality Time

This man’s curiosity knows no bounds. And what’s better than to learn something new while spending time with his precious partner? Take him to a museum or, better yet, an escape room and his heart is all yours (as if it wasn’t already). Sure, new knowledge is fun but applying his wits on a puzzle turns him into a child at the candy store. Plus, not only is Heizou going to be stoked, you get to watch and join him in his enthusiasm as he works away, probably figuring everything out way ahead of you but pretending not to, so you can have a crack at the problems too.

Venti

Giving: Words of Affirmation

Another one who will make you swoon with words but Venti goes all out… very casually. You wake up some days to find a good morning text and a poem he wrote at 3am right above it (since he’s often up late, that happens a lot… the wine might help). Or he’ll pluck one of his instruments from the wall while you’re visiting and improvise a song for you, playing it as if he’d known it all his life. It might sound over the top to some but with the amount of attention he pays to details and incorporating even the smallest, (to you) most insignificant things he loves about you, you know he means all of it. Especially when he plucks the strings of his instrument and closes his eyes like he’s having the sweetest of dreams as he spins a new verse about you, his muse.

Receiving: Gift Giving

First of all, this man will keep everything you gift him, everything. The shiny stone you found on a walk and gave him? It’s on his windowsill (and he let out such an offended gasp when Scara tried to throw it out). The hoodie you left at his house? He wears it everyday until you ask for it back. You can hear Venti approach from a mile away because he has every keychain you ever gave him on him, either with his keys or on his bag or tied to his clothes, he’s not leaving a single one behind.

[modern au masterlist]

[nina-ya]

HI NINA!! I hope ur doing well, for some reason I never realized your requests are open but ive had this little idea with me for a while and I would really like to see it written ;))

can I request law × reader whos like a spirit or ghost kind of?? But only law can see them for some reason. Also reader is not dead hh they might be a spirit because of a curse or something maybe...

maybe a little angsty (or very)?? Either way, I can't wait to see what you write :)) i love ur work sossoooo much and thank uu!!

A/N: HIIIIIIII I had a lot of fun with this idea actually I DO HOPE YOU ENJOY!! Angst really gets me in my feels and I kinda left it to the possibility of a p2 if anyone ever wanted it :'))) Pairing: Law x reader CW: None really just angst towards the end WC: 2k

You sighed to yourself. Another pirate had arrived, their purpose unclear- were they here for treasure? A place to rest? Or to investigate the rumors of the haunted building? Said building is being haunted by you, of course. You hadn’t intended for the place to become a spectacle that would send even the toughest pirates screaming for their mothers, but the curse condemning you to the spirit world left you with little control over this, so you had to make the most out of it, right? You gave up hope long ago that you would be able to be freed from the clutches of curse. You wandered city to city. You even stowed away on pirate ships to go to different islands, desperate to find a miracle that would help, but that all got tiring and soon enough you called the building you resided in your new home.

From the rafters, you peered down at the interesting pirate that had just entered. He sported a spotted hat, matching pants, and a halfway unbuttoned dress shirt that revealed one of the many heart themed tattoos adorning his skin. 

His voice filled the room, muttering about the rumors of the haunted building, and frustration surged within you. This intruder had disrupted your quiet evening, prompting you to cut his visit short and scare him off. You swung off the rafters and landed on a cabinet with an open door, slamming it shut with a great deal of force.

The metallic sound of a sword unsheathing sliced through the air as the man focused on the source of the disturbance. His eyes locked onto yours, momentarily causing panic through you. Could he truly see you? You questioned the possibility for a moment, but rationalized that he was only looking in your general direction rather than directly at you.

“Who are you?” He asked, his voice demanding.

A shiver ran down your spine as the weight of his gaze fell upon you. ‘Impossible,’ you thought, ‘there’s no way he’s talking to me.’

“I suggest you answer my question before you regret it,” he stated, a blue orb materializing in an outstretched hand.

Disbelief filled your senses as you responded. “Wait, wait, wait… hold on… you can see me?” you stammered, trying to understand the reality that is unfolding before your eyes.

“Quit playing games; of course I can see you,” he replied, his voice unwavering.

You stumbled over your words as you tried to satiate his demands, “I’m sorry, it’s just… well, you’re the first person that’s seen me like this.”

Law grew impatient, and with a quick motion, he enclosed you in the blue bubble of his room, slashing at you. Yet, that was a futile effort as the force passed through you without a trace. Frustration bubbled within him as he attempted again and again, the uselessness of his efforts quickly settling in.

“What the hell is the meaning of this?” He finally snapped, his voice filled with irritation and subtle curiosity.

“Let me explain!” you pleaded, taking the opportunity to share your story. “I’ve been like this for a while and I think I’m a ghost? I can’t really tell.”

"A ghost? Really?" Law sighed, his skepticism obvious. "Okay, whatever, go on."

A sigh of relief escaped you as you continued your story. The tale of encountering a curse, the passage of time, and the unexplainable circumstances that left you in this state spilled from your lips. However, Law rolled his eyes and cut you off.

"I don't know what kind of fun you gain from telling this story to people, but it's not going to work on me," he declared, moving to leave the building, his patience gone.

Desperation filled you as you chased after him in a plea to be heard. "Wait! Please! I promise I am not making this up."

"Yeah, yeah, go find some other oblivious person to fool," he retorted, rounding a corner, making his exit.

You positioned yourself in his path. "Wait! Give me a chance! Don't leave yet!" Your desperate voice rang out.

He rolled his eyes at you, "would you shut up and leave me alone?" he barked back, the force of his words drawing the attention of passersby. Some stopped  in their tracks, casting curious glances your way, while others continued their journey with judgment evident in their glances.

He looked around, noticing the stares. "Look, now you're bringing attention to us," he said, irritation dripping from his features.

The whispers of the crowd filled his ears, 'Us?' 'Is he okay?' 'Why is he talking to the air?'

A sense of unease settled over Law as the judgmental murmurs were made clear to him. Clenching his jaw to hold off a retort, he shot you a silent look that said, 'Follow me,' before walking away.

Back inside the building, the door barely closed when Law spoke up, his tone unchanged, "So, a ghost, you say?"

You sighed in relief at the opportunity to explain. "I… I mean, I think so? A ghost or a spirit, or any other synonym would probably be my best guess."

"Your best guess? Do you not know what happened to you?"

"No! I really don't," you admitted with a sigh. "All I know is that one day, I messed with some people that I shouldn't have, and well… I'm like this now."

His face remained expressionless, a calculating gaze fixed upon you. The silence stretched, and you couldn't bear it any longer. A nervous chuckle escaped you. "So, uh, I guess I have to properly introduce myself to the first human I've spoken to in a while, huh." You extended your hand for a shake, revealing your name. Law hesitated for a moment before reaching out. His hand enveloped yours for just a moment, then phased right through.

You nervously laughed again, retracting your hand at the failed handshake. "Ah, I'm sorry about that. I don't know why I thought that would work."

"But you were able to slam that cabinet just fine earlier?" Law questioned.

"Will you kill me if I say I'm not sure why?" you replied sheepishly.

"How would I kill you when you're practically dead?" Law retorted, his deadpan delivery drawing a smile from you. 

“Not dead, just cursed.” you correct him. “I don’t see much of a difference.” 

Your laughter filled the building, a sound that seemed out of place, but it certainly felt good. It was the first time in a long long while since you genuinely laughed and had fun. Law didn’t seem to share your amusement, though. He eyed you with a raised eyebrow. As your laughter dissipated into chuckles, you felt a warmth inside of you.

“Laughing, huh? You sure you’re not trying to trick me?” Law asked, still seemingly skeptical about this whole situation.

Your smile quickly turned into a frown at his doubts. “What? No, I just…” you start but trail off, seemingly unable to form any words.

An awkward pause fell between the two of you. He just couldn’t understand your predicament. Law is the first to break the silence. “Maybe it’s time for you to get out of here and try and find a way to get back to your old self.”

“You don’t get it,” you said quietly, your voice filled with despair. “I can’t just do that. I’ve tried, trust me. For years I’ve tried, but I'm tied to this life.” For a moment, Law's doubts faded as he saw the desperation in your eyes, and he decided to give you a chance. He walked over to the nearest wall and sat on the floor, leaning against it. He saw your confusion and he gestured to the floor in front of him, nonchalantly saying, “I have a feeling that you have quite the story to tell me, so go on.

- - -

As the night deepened, the two of you found yourselves engaged in an unexpectedly long conversation. You opened up more about your predicament, telling Law every detail you could about the curse, telling him about your human life, your past, and even your fears. He opened up to you as well. You learned that he was the captain of a crew, that he was a former warlord, and he even showed you his tattoos.

The light of the moon filtered through the dusty windows, and the conversation flowed into more lighthearted topics. You learned that you had much more in common with him than you originally had thought. You even learned about some of his quirks such as his distaste for bread. 

As the first rays of sunlight slowly started to replace the moonlight, you two found yourselves in an odd state of comfort. The two of you talked throughout the night and not once have you run out of things to say. 

“I’ll help you break the curse,” Law declared, his words causing a momentary pause in your thoughts. Your eyes widened in disbelief and gratitude. Unable to contain yourself, you impulsively find yourself throwing yourself at Law, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug.

The world stood still as you held the hug, and Law could only widen his eyes in shock at the feeling of the touch. Then the realization hit you– your arms were wrapped around him. You were actually hugging him. Embarrassment soon washed over you as you became aware of the awkwardness of the situation. You pulled away abruptly, your features emanating embarrassment, and you cleared your throat. 

A pause fell over the two of you as both of you tried to grapple with the reality of the uncharted territory of physical contact. “Uh, sorry about that,” you mumbled sheepishly.

Law nodded in understanding, though he still seemed taken aback. “No harm done, right? Let’s focus on breaking that curse.” He looked out of the window as he finished his sentence and his voice filled with urgency as he realized the time. “I have to go now,” he explained, regret in his voice. “But, I’ll be back tonight. I will help you figure this out.” Through the sudden disappointment, you nodded in understanding. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Law nodded at you before making his exit. He left you alone, and the quietness that you were oh so familiar with. You eagerly awaited his return, and as the night came about, you stared out the windows looking for any sign of him, but to no avail. You occupied your mind with feeble excuses, convincing yourself that he might just be running late and that he will come for you. But as the night turned into days, that wait stretched agonizingly long and uncertain. 

Morning after morning, you wandered the island, hoping to find some sign of Law, just to be filled with a growing sense of abandonment instead.�� You questioned every bit of Law’s promise, wondering if you had just gone insane and made up that conversation to make yourself feel a little less lonely. The desolation you felt before was nothing to this new crushing weight of shattered hope.

The loneliness settled in, and with every sunset that passed, your hope vanished further. That is, until you were searching the island for him, and you saw fresh wanted posters plastered across the walls. There he was. Law’s face was among them. The realization that he was not even around anymore hit you like a truck. He went off to do other better things rather than fulfilling some stupid promise with someone he just met. The memory of your interaction replayed in your mind, the hug lingering in your mind more than you’d like to admit.

In a moment of frustration and despair, you tore the wanted poster off the wall, startling those who were nearby. Tears flowed freely as Law's absence filled you with despair. His presence had filled a hole you hadn't even realized existed, and now that he was gone, that hole seemed even bigger than before. Now you were left with the dreaded thought that you may never truly break this curse.

[thebibutterflyao3]

Day Twenty-One - Prompt: Ending @rosekiller-microfic

March Daily Series - 980 words

TW: Piercing in progress, slightly graphic.

<<<Previous Part OR Start Here

Barty looked as shocked as Evan felt to see him. His eyes were blown wide and his face was unnaturally pale. Without thinking, Evan reached for his hand and squeezed it. Barty’s eyes fell closed and his body relaxed immediately.

“If you’re staying, fine,” Kingsley said flatly. “Just keep him distracted, will you?”

“Yeah. I can do that.”

Evan refused to acknowledge the guilt that filled his chest as he settled onto the stool next to Barty. This felt like a rather poignant ending to his well-intended plans. He’d lasted two weeks before crash-landing spectacularly on his face.

Longer than I expected, if I’m honest.

“You came,” Barty whispered, clinging to his hand. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Then why call for me?”

“I need you.”

The admission wrenched the air from Evan’s lungs. He leaned down and rested his forehead against Barty’s shoulder. With slow, even breaths, he gripped the small shred of sanity he had left to keep himself, and Barty, calm.

“Try to relax, alright? Breathe with me.”

Barty flinched, then pressed his nose into Evan’s hair and inhaled deeply. “Yeah, alright.”

“One more, Crouch,” Kingsley warned. “You good?”

“Fine. Better now.” Barty’s words were still strained, but his body wasn’t tense anymore.

Evan refused to look further down Barty’s body. Partially because he wanted to punch his boss for handling Barty’s dick, and partially because he hated watching piercings. Needles weren’t the issue, it was the swelling that turned his stomach. Tattoos were shallow, but a piercing impaled the flesh deep under the skin.

A calloused hand stroked over his hair, but Evan ignored it. He couldn’t deny Barty this small comfort given the circumstances. That didn’t mean he would encourage it.

“That’s it,” Kingsley said curtly. “I’ll step out and give you a minute to pull yourself together.”

Evan was fairly certain that he was due a sharp reprimand, if Kingsley didn’t fire him outright. There were rules in place for a reason. Stepping into a private piercing like this was blatant disregard of those rules and insubordination to boot.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

When Evan moved to pull away, Barty released him at once and hitched up his pants. He pretended not to notice and stared at the wall instead. It wasn’t like he wanted to see it anyway.

“Rosie, I–”

“Don’t call me that.”

Barty sighed, then carefully pushed himself upright. “I know you don’t want to be here, but I’m really glad you were. It was worse than I thought it would be.”

“You expected it to be fun? Getting your dick pierced?” Evan snapped. He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. Anything to separate himself from Barty was a solid move. Leaving would be better.

“Well, no. Obviously not.”

“Why, Barty? You never said anything about this…before.”

Barty smoothed his hands over the legs of his grey sweatpants. He looked nervous. Evan had never seen this side of him before, and it was disconcerting. His hands ached to reach for him, but he balled them into fists in his lap.

“I’ve thought about it for a while, but it never seemed like the right time.”

“Then, why now? Why here?” he demanded.

“You know why.”

Evan scoffed, “To make me jealous? Or because you knew you could manipulate me into this room?”

Barty screwed his face up into a squinty-eyed, twisted-lipped expression. He seemed to be holding himself back. It wouldn’t last long. Barty had no filter. “Are you jealous?”

“No.”

Liar.

“Oh, alright.”

Evan shoved back the stool and stood up, but Barty blocked him from leaving. At first, he didn’t say a word. Barty’s eyes darted around Evan’s face like he was memorising his every feature. His lips pursed in concentration before he spoke again.

“You aren’t sleeping.”

“Piss off.”

Barty prodded Evan’s cheek pointedly. “Dark circles give you away. Reckon mine are worse.”

His undereye bags were worse. Barty looked like shite, honestly. It should have been gratifying to revel in his misery.

I hate this. All of it is bullshit, but I still don’t hate him.

Kingsley knocked on the door loudly. “Come out when you’re decent, Crouch. Rosier, stay put. I need a word with you.”

Barty glanced between the door and Evan, then flicked the end of Evan’s nose lightly and walked out. The move caught him off-guard and Evan stumbled backward into the wall. He was too startled to say anything before Barty disappeared.

Of all the obscene and filthy things Barty Crouch, Jr. had ever done to him, that had to be the worst. Disarming him so thoroughly before throwing him on his boss’s mercy was just plain evil. The bastard.

Kingsley closed the door behind him and eyed Evan narrowly. “You’re a bum-fucking idiot, Rosier. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I don’t get involved in my employees’ personal shite and I’m not starting now. This is your warning. Interrupt a private session again and I’ll fire your arse. Understood?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good. Now get the fuck out of my office,” Kingsley said, his voice betraying his exhaustion. “I’m sick of both of you already and it's not even lunchtime yet.”

Evan nodded, then hurried out the door. He knew better than to test his boss’s patience when he sounded like that. As he headed back to his stall, he held out his hands in supplication and profusely apologised to his client.

“Finally! I’ve been waiting forever,” she groused. “What, are you the piercing inspector?”

“Erm, no. That was personal.”

Her eyebrows lifted high on her forehead as she leaned closer. “No shit? You’re dating that bloke? You could do much better.”

Evan ground his teeth together as he reigned in the sudden flare of temper. If he slapped this woman senseless, then he would definitely be fired. That was not a grey area.

It would almost be worth it.

Next Part>>>

[chronically-ghosted]

WIP Wednesday 🎉🎉

kisses all day long for @almostfoxglove and @sp00kymulderr for the tags and 😱 i actually have something things to show off! (proof i am not mostly just sitting on my ass)

Opening scenes from Lover Share Your Road Part 3

With your elbow, you tip the brim of your hat until it slides off the crown of your head and falls against the knot of your spine, held tight to you by the dirty cords around your neck. You are suddenly intimately aware of the layer of grime and sweat against your scalp when the cool cellar air strokes you over your forehead and behind your neck, the chill erupting goosebumps down your arms, the small wooden box in your hands shaking. Against your sun-hot skin, it’s relieving, comforting, a respite against what has been feeling more and more like trying to dig through concrete with your fingernails. The fine layer of dirt over the most recent harvest in the box shifts. The dirt in the curves and crevices of your skin and shirt and pants, over the potatoes and carrots, shifts, sprinkling the cellar floor with a cruel mockery of rain. The dirt is everywhere these days.

(and here comes the downward spiral of my shame)

a while back (i mean a WHILE BACK) I got a request for an ABO Joel and . . . listen. it's something - mostly a lot of Seether and Rise Against - but it's also this:

“And as an Omega,” her gaze rolls over you, as if inspecting a new machine for cracks, “you’re supposed to be intimidated.” You lift your drink to your lips, grinning as it dribbles around the corners of your mouth. You lick your chin. She smells like magnolias, faintly. Like dead magnolias, stuffed and pickled. You wonder what she’d smell like clean of inhibitors. “‘Supposed to be’. None of that shit matters anymore. It’s the end of the world, didn’t you hear?” “So Alphas don’t bother you.” “Nope.” You pop your lips on the p, catching a drop of condensation on the side of your glass with your thumb, then your mouth. “Alphas can’t control Omegas like that anymore. But I think you knew that.”

(yes that is Tess 👀)

And, yes, there is one more. It's what I've been using to get back into writing after a rather long break. The original concept started as "being in love with someone who doesn't age would be a gift because they would see you and know you, really know you, all your life, as a sort of guardian angel." and then, well, it feels long, it feels self-indulgent, but i'm actually having some fun with it. No, I'm not going to tell you what character its for - you can just come publicly shame me in my ask box as god intended.

Despite him being several inches taller than you, you somehow manage to yank him down to your level, nose inches from the back of your hand, which is still sealed over his mouth. “I’ve worked my ass off to get to the top of my graduating class and I’ve been a good girl all my life and, goddamn it, I want a fucking beer. If I were anywhere else in the world, I could waltz up and buy one, but I’m not and I’m fucked, here in this specific bar . . . so just shut – up!” Get caught by the bouncer and tossed out on your ass or assault a former professor and a current mutant with truly hair-raising, deadly abilities you’ve seen repeatedly in action; the devil you know or the devil you-sort-of-kind-of-know-but-really-just-know-from-being-in-proximity-as-long-as-you-can-remember-combined-with-an-age-inappropiate-hero-worship-complex. And of course, he just had to remember that stupid nickname you were once so proud of you legitimately considered tattooing it on your arm. But if he was going to tease you with it, your hand over his mouth was doing a smashing good job of preventing that. Your hand over his mouth seems to be preventing a lot of things actually – he’s still standing there, hunched down – until he realizes he’s fallen right into your heinous trap of tomfoolery.

that's it for now, folks. passing along the love to:

@clawdee @covetyou @iamskyereads @imaswellkid @sweetercalypso

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Magic Whump Weak Day 6

9/28: Resurrection / "Welcome back." / bonus: came back wrong

Prompts List | Masterpost

Fandom: Death Gate Cycle

Words: 500

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf

@the-ellia-west

CW: restrained, immortal whump, swearing, threats, knife wounds, blood, death

A/N: Let's ignore canon together.

----------

The air reeked of iron.

Iron, and stone, and mildew. The air practically dripped with it, his mouth tasting of it.

The next thing to pierce the oblivion was the sharp throbbing in his chest. The metal cuffs binding him to a hard, angled surface. Aching in his neck and back. Bright light shining through his eyelids.

Hugh gasped, drawing air into lungs that stung, into a chest that almost refused to expand. His eyes snapped open, unfocused and blinded by the light, but he didn’t care.

He was alive.

And he would die again.

“Welcome back,” a smooth, snide voice said from somewhere to his left.

Hugh’s head jerked toward the voice, but he still couldn’t see. “Enough of this,” he snarled, words rasping in his throat.

Sang-drax chuckled. “Fighting words, assassin. But you forget, you are not in a fighting position.”

As Hugh’s eyes adjusted, he could make out the creature’s figure. Human in appearance, the only things that marked the creature as anything but human were the tattoos on his skin and the way his eyes gleamed red. And although the tattoos were intended to be Patryn in nature, Hugh knew they were meaningless, held no power.

Hugh tugged at the restraints. They had not changed between this resurrection and the last. Dammit!

“Still looking to escape, are we?”

“Fuck off.”

Sang-drax made a show of examining his fingernails. “It’s quite a shame your soul cannot detach from your body. You would make a wonderful cadaver.”

Hugh shuddered, remembering Haplo’s description of the Sartan dead wandering about Abbarrach, the phantasm floating alongside them, a shadow of their former selves. “I’d rather jump into the Maelstrom.”

“Imagine being stripped of your free will,” Sang-drax continued, “never having to worry about food or water or money ever again. All of your skill, the perfect weapon at our disposal. If it weren’t for that pesky Sartan….”

“Go find someone else to be your weapon,” Hugh snapped, “I’m busy also trying to get the damn spell off me.”

Sang-drax smirked. “So you see? We have a common goal. Perhaps we—”

“Fuck. Off.”

“So you’ve told me the last seven times I proposed this plan.”

Hugh glared at him. His eyes had finally finished adjusting to his surroundings, and he now recognized the room he had been trapped in for at least seven deaths. Potentially more, but his memory got a little muddy in between cycles. A bright, glowing ball of light hovered above him, illuminating a stone prison cell with an iron door as the only exit. He’d never discovered where exactly he’d been taken, but he had his suspicions.

“Well,” Sang-drax continued, drawing a knife from thin air, “Let’s see if one more death will weaken the rune enough to break it, shall we?”

“It won’t.”

The point of the knife hovered above Hugh’s heart. “Don’t be such a pessimist, dear assassin,” Sang-drax mocked, his face mere inches from Hugh’s own. “I thought you wanted to get rid of the rune?”

Hugh stared the creature down. “Not by you.”

“How… unfortunate.”

The knife came plunging down into Hugh’s chest.

Pain exploded in a fire of agony as it sank deep into his heart, as one of his lungs was pierced. As hot blood bubbled up his throat and out of his mouth. The creature known as Sang-drax laughed in glee at Hugh’s pain.

Oblivion was slow to come, and come it did.

But it would depart soon enough.

[deadn30n]

BIOGRAPHY : RHAAST

▲   𝐵𝐴𝑆𝐼𝐶𝑆   ▲

➢ 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄: Rhaast ➣ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: single ( multiship  )  ➢ 𝐀𝐆𝐄: ---  ➣ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑:  cismale  ➢ 𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: gay ➣ 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓: 8'1  (  approx.: 246cm  ) ➢ 𝐖𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓: uncomfirmed  ➣ 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑: ...red? ➣ 𝐄𝐘𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑:  purplish blue ( his eyes are Xs on a mask )  ➣ 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘: october 31st  ( same as Kayn's ) ➢𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄(𝐒): THE MUSIC DEMON ➣ 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐒: darkin  ➣ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆: SUN KILLER -- SPIRITBOX

▲   𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘   ▲

enigmatic is a strong word one can use when describing the music demon. while he may appear playful and lighthearted, there appears to be a certain darkness draped over his shoulders that suggests there's more to him than meets the eye. that what you see is not entirely the full picture, but if you attempt to dig deep beneath the surface, you're certain to disappear for eternity. when rhaast is witnessed in a body of his own, rather than hanging off the strings of Kayn's conscious, he's surprisingly well-mannered and even listens to Yone, no matter the instruction. while he might play around or even poke fun at others, he's just as capable of cleaning up his act and taking business seriously. he's excessively fond of music, which is perhaps why he behaves so well when it comes to making it.

▲  𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒   ▲

his real face has never been seen by anyone -- not even Kayn. he wears a white mask with Xs carved where the eyes should be, and a mouth made of several sharp peaks. his skin is purple, and an odd, yellow symbol can be seen tattooed onto his exposed flesh. he wears an outfit similar to kayn and is actually the master of the scythe-microphone-guitar that kayn wields..

▲  𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐒❓  music, teasing kayn, teasing the band members, unique food, people who submit willingly to him.

▲  𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐒❓  being scolded by yone, not doing what he wants, rainy days, the winter, when kayn tricks him into eating / drinking bad tasting stuff.

▲   𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐓 𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘   ▲

not much is actually known about Rhaast or his origins. there are a few theories speculating about his creation, but the information he's provided to Kayn is far and few in between. there are only two things for certain though: 1. he has a trail of bodies. 2. he is a demon who was sealed within the musical scythe. his intentions aren't clear of what he plans on doing with Kayn, but those who've met Rhaast in the past have been granted extraordinary musical talent in exchange for selling him their bodies and souls. Kayn's desire for fame rose from his bitterness toward his previous band, making him an particularly intriguing host that Rhaast was eager to get his hands on. because Kayn's emotions are as strong as they are, it often grants Rhaast his own temporary vessel to walk around in. he has a penchant for feeding off the extremes of Kayn's emotions, and will often go out of his way to make whatever he's feeling worse. be it joy or sadness, Rhaast doesn't discriminate. but his favourite types of energy that make him the strongest are usually those born from negative emotions. therefore, with Kayn's already turbulent and unsteady mind, Rhaast intends to harness every bit of it for himself. 

images below the cut

[herdreamywasteland]

Abandonment: Part 2

Warnings: angst

Word count: 817

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Prompt: None

Requests: Open!

@vicmc624, this one's for you!

Curling up on your lonely, depressing couch, you hold onto the memories of the countless traditions you and Bucky had. You let your mind drift to the way he’d pull you onto his lap, kissing your neck till you laughed. The way he’d slip his freezing hands up your shirt, simply to see you gasp. The way he’d lean forward when the two of you kissed, dipping until your hair brushed the floor. 

Distracted, you notice how the rain batters the window behind your dim television screen. The laugh track from the sitcom you’re watching - or rather looking at while absorbing nothing - startles you back to the real world. The rain outside is pouring down, white lighting up the sky before a loud crack of thunder rattles the glass. 

You feel as though the Blip has happened, all over again. 

Your choking devastation, your burning anger, your crushing disappointment, the inability to hope, to see any sort of future, and the raw, burning pain that clawed at your skin, begging to be let out. All this and more seems to be represented in how the rain rushes down. In the way the ground lets itself be pummeled by the water, no longer soaking up the liquid, just letting the puddles grow, layer by wet layer. 

The curled-up parchments burn against your palm. You open your palm and watch the curled, tear-stained papers sit on your skin. You will them to incinerate themselves. Nothing happens, the papers merely sitting against your flesh, mocking you in their wholeness. 

You no longer have your power, your fiery spirit, and your subsequent abilities. No, ever since you made the life-changing decision to remove your pyrokinesis, you can’t produce so much as a spark. You thought your choice would allow you to have a mundane life with Bucky. 

It’s what he deserves. 

When the parchment doesn’t flare to life, turning to dust in hot flames, you reluctantly open the paper. There lay the words you wrote every night, ever since Bucky and half the universe left you behind.

To Bucky,

Please come back. I need you. I can’t sleep without you here. 

To Bucky,

Freight car. Seventeen. Winter.

I forgot the rest.

Come back to me even in the form of Winter Soldier. I’ll flare to life, just like I did the first time. I’ll make you remember me. I’ll show you again, how we are the same, just two people with a life of adversity thrust upon us by some cruel, uncaring being. 

James,

Please. I just want you. 

I need you.

I love you.

I don’t want anything else. I’ll do anything to get you back.

Dear James,

Why did you have to leave? What happened out there? 

I miss you.

To Barnes,

come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back

bucky,

please

i’ll do anything

You crumple the papers again, clenching them in your fists until your nails tattoo red crescent moons on your skin. These were only six out of thousands more. A paper for every night for five consecutive years - how long you waited for him, fought for him, killed for him. Five years you fought to find a cure, a remedy, anything. Five years, trying to figure out how to live.

After Bucky and the rest of the world blipped back, after the sacrifice of Stark, after Steve left, you hid the papers intending to burn them before Bucky found out.

He never stayed long enough to find them.

Now, they’re anchors to your sanity. You have to bring at least one, every time you leave the apartment or when you miss him - which is almost every damn day. You leave them in every pocket, in every jacket, shirt, and pair of pants you own. It’s become an unconscious habit.

Before you can bury your head in your arms, letting your tears fall, the door echoes with repeated knocks. At first, you think it’s thunder, but the knocking becomes more and more insistent. You glance around, checking your phone to see if anyone asked to come over. No notifications. 

Fear spikes in your chest. Uninvited visitors are never a good sign, especially when they show up at the home of a retired Avenger. 

Creeping toward the door, you unsheathe the silver dagger you keep strapped to your thigh. Call you paranoid, but you’d rather be paranoid than dead. Taking a breath to steady yourself, you head towards the door. 

You slip your dominant hand behind your back, concealing the dagger. Then, you swiftly open the door, before you lose your nerve. 

The face on the other side is the face of the devil himself, wet and panting.

"Bucky?"

He stands there, wet, panting, face creased with regret, your washed-up denim jacket slung over his arm. Beautiful.

"Can I come in?"

[thebrathashira]

Emmy said I should write about J’lena in this dress and Hunter on his knees. So I did 😌 everyone say THANK YOU EMMY. (Nothing toooo risqué but there’s an air of intimacy)

J’lena purses her lips, as she studies her reflection in the vanity mirror. She turns this way, then that, watching the dress flow with her movements. In one light, the sheer silk appeared pink, but in another, almost purple. That was the trick of Ulserian silk.

The dress by all means was not flashy, but rather ereathal. The way it hung in sleek waves, practically translucent along her legs and chest.

J’lena almost felt demure wearing it.

“Well now,”

With a startled curse, J’lena catches Hunter’s reflection in the mirror. He leans against the balcony, helmet resting on the rail. There’s a lazy but sly grin on his face that J’lena knows all too well.

“Hunter,” She whispers, surprised by his sudden but not unwelcome appearance. She gives a quick glance at the door. Almost certain her mother would have manifested on the spot.

Without another moment to wait, she begins to move towards him. He meets her halfway.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, leaning up on her toes to pepper kisses around his face. She hears the rumble of his amused chuckle and feels as his hand rests on her hips.

“Had to come see my girl before she ships off,” He answers. His eyes begin to travel over her, slowly taking in just what she was wearing.

A slow heat begins to warm J’lena’s face at his gaze. But still, she rolls her green eyes.

“I am just going to Ulseria for Alpenglow,” She clarifies. It had been a long year for her people to fight alongside the Grand Army of the Republic to win back their freedom from the Separatists.

This Alpenglow would be used to celebrate that and remember the fallen.

“I will only be there for two rotations,” She adds.

Hunter hums in response. His fingers brush along the fabric of her dress. “Explains why you’re dressed like a princess,” He says finally.

J’lena scoffs, flicking her finger lightly against his chin. “Ulseria doesn’t have a monarch anymore,”

Hunter’s hands don't cease in their exploration of her dress. Every so often, skimming over her skin over her midriff. J’lena is not able to fight back the shiver that runs through her.

“Aren't your family descendants of Ulseria’s royals?” He asks in a low mumble, his breath by her ear.

J’lena doesn’t answer right away, trying to find her voice. She gives a small nod, her hands coming to grip onto his arms to try and slow his touches.

He does, and it’s the worst mistake J’lena could have made. Each caress leaves a wake of fire along her skin.

It’s when his lips barely brush over hers, that he speaks again.

“Then if I’m in the presence of royalty,” Hunter says thoughtfully, but J’lena could hear the obvious tease in his husky voice. “I should get on my knees,”

J’lena sucks in a sharp breath, her eyes widening slightly. She feels his body sink low against her. He’s on his knees, his eyes narrowed up at her.

“You have me on my knees, angel. Now tell me what you want.”

Her heart races and she knows Hunter can hear it as a smirk pulls at his lips.

She keeps the tremble from her hand as she lifts it. Her thumb starts to trace along his sharp jawline, feeling the beginning roughness of a stubble. At that, she finally hears him let out his own shuddering breath, his body shifting closer.

She keeps her touch agonizingly slow. A small payback. Tracing the tip of her pointer finger along the outline of his face tattoo, enjoying the low sounds that left him. His hands squeeze tightly to her hips.

J’lena hums in satisfaction, letting her thumb brush over his lips once, then twice.

“You,” She finally answers.

Hunter doesn’t wait another moment. His lips find the soft skin of her leg under her dress. J’lena’s eyes flutter shut, and her next breath carries his name.

She feels his lips leisurely make their way up along her thigh, his teeth leaving small nips here and there.

He intended to make a short night, very long. A restive whine leaves J’lena, her hands finding his hair through the slit of the dress. Her fingers tangle into them.

His hand gently presses her exposed stomach, guiding her against the vanity table. Her head rolls back against the mirror.

“Quiet, angel…” Hunter warns, his voice barely above a growl.

J’lena only has a chance to cover her mouth as he drapes one of her legs over his strong shoulder and his lips move higher.

[the-dye-stained-socialite]

A Study of Tattoos

@house-of-mirrors here's my fic for you for the @fallenlondonficswap! I hope you enjoy!

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1,290

Summary: An academic has an encounter with a spy, and can never go back.

Contains: The great game, Judgements, tomb-colonists, the khanate, permadeath, and brief mentions of zailors and implied intimacy.

Ao3 Link

It has been weeks since I saw her.I was not supposed to open that door. She had been redressing, pulling her blouse back on when I noticed them. Dozens of tattoos covered every available inch of skin, some overlapping even, like the sketching book of a Bohemian who could not yet afford a fresh one. My mind has since become that sketchbook. They fascinate me. I look for tattoos everywhere I go now, hoping to catch a glimpse of more. Sometimes I do.

I have found out more. She was a surface runner. A spy. Staying in the Neath for as minimal time as possible so as to not die, and lose her usefulness. My accidental involvement with her has set off a chain reaction which I do not understand. A chain reaction which I must understand. Ripples have consequences. 

My final term is nearing an end. My professor, a demanding man who always oversees every minute detail, is demanding a long-form research project. I will choose the coding of tattoos to demonstrate my academic expertise.

***

I have made an error. Examples of spy tattoos are hard to find in full for one simple reason: It is vital that they be decoded only by the intended recipient. Even after one is put onto the body and then delivered, it may still be decoded by others to find out a plan. I had to figure out a method that would enable me to find these tattoos.

I bumbled around Wilmot’s End for near to a week. I would pin any spy I could recognize as such with conversation, like an amateur entomologist clumsily practicing on an abundant species. I realize, only now in the aftermath, the flaws in my method. At the time however, I was stumbling through, unseeing, blunt and broad in my brushstrokes.

I did not realize what would be the consequences of my actions. The game I was playing was not long enough. One of the spies began to spread such a storm of scandal that my own professor booked me a ticket to the Tomb-Colonies! As such, I leave today.

***

I have been here a week now, and made friends with a very old Colonist. They are dead now. I watched them crack open, like a cocoon made not of silk, but rather of dusty bandages. Before they died, however, I was permitted to see beneath those bandages. I had been explaining my thesis, and how my attempts at finding samples was what brought me here, when they told me they had something that might help. Indeed they did.

As part of my research, I had studied tattoos extensively. In addition to the time I spent in Wilmot’s End, I had also spent an entire week staking out Clathermont’s parlor, watching those who came and went. When the Colonist unraveled their wraps to show the aged parchment of their skin, I saw tattoos and symbology I had never come across before. I took very detailed drawings, noting everything from direction to color to location.

***

I am back at the University. The Colonies gave me the time and space to think. I took some gifted rags back with me. I wrap myself in them now, and keep a scytale of my notes. Depending on where I choose to wrap them, I can disguise many messages.

***

I have gone through the entire libraries of both Benthic and Summerset. They contain hardly anything about spycraft, and even less about what it looked like before the Fall of London. This place is hindering my research more than helping it. I will go back to the Tomb-Colonies, this time of my own volition. I tire of things happening without my understanding of how or why. I will learn, and I will grow.

One of my classmates is a pawn. He is clearly a spy, but he never operates of his own free will. Is there a way to, in this game? If so, I will find it. If not, I will become it.

***

Once more I am here among dust and moths. A Tomb-Colonist who reminded me of my Aunt spoke with me. I ended up asking her about older tattoo works. She pointed me across the Zee.

“There, in the Khanate. My granddaughter traveled there once. Its people are descendants of those who escaped that last fallen city.” She gave me some of her wrappings, to fill the gaps in my own. I thanked her.

I will spend the remainder of my time here, constructing a false identity with which I may enter the city.

***

I wonder. Was I pointed to the Khanate by chance? Am I still part of someone else’s schemes? Perhaps, like a puppet that resents the one who claims to be her master, I will take up a blade, sharp and precise, and slice off both blindfold and bindings in one neat cut.

***

My disguise is complete now. The Kindly Colonist had parting words for me.

“They will use every last part of you. Death, true death, will not be the end. They will use your memory to haunt and persuade others. They will use your tombstone as a dead drop. They will use your dying breath to pull in another. You cannot love or be loved. Travel safe, and if you do try to escape… Do not do it partway. You cannot have a foot in each world.”

She gave me a small cloth bag. There is a scrap of irrigo fabric inside, which causes a fog in my mind.

***

I have found a captain willing to zail my false identity East. I study the crew’s backs and shoulders, looking for ink.

***

My disguise has held so far. It is a good thing I have learned not to be reckless. My second day in port I saw a junior pawn removed by the White and Golds. I have a growing distaste for them. I played shatar for much of the day. Unlike London, tattoos are kept much more secret here.

***

I intercepted a message today. I danced with a charming woman all night long, and used our intimacy to make a study of her tattoos. The shapes themselves are smaller here, but still just as detailed. They know how to prolong usefulness. The symbols are different as well, though I see similarities reflected in the tattoos of the zailors who brought me here.

***

Last night I dreamt of a chessboard. I was clothed in ruby armor. A man in ivory approached me.

Once within arm’s reach, the world around me transformed into a glittering castle. I could see checkered fighting out of the windows.

Someone guarded him off to the side. He talked carefully and with precision, and explained many things. How he was interested in my development, how I moved across the board quickly for a mere pawn. How he had arranged all of this. His eyes were blue like snow as he dropped carelessly back onto his self-proclaimed throne.

His right hand twisted, and marionette strings tightened against my limbs. I grew furious. I did not want to be controlled. He was not allowed to manipulate my life.

He spoke of bleaching my ruby vestments, and his eyes gleamed. They glowed such a bright light, in fact, that it burned to look upon his shining throne.

My fury kept me grounded. I wanted nothing more than to snuff out that bright white light. I snapped my strings, and all at once, his castle folded and faded, like crumpled notes.

A man who reminded me of someone I once knew rushed up to me. His armor was deep ebony. I looked at my tattooed limbs, and saw that so was mine.

I woke up.

[everthewip]

something I began and intend to continue, but @janec23 was interested and so here is a (lengthy) snippet 💕

My file for this was just called 'Nameless Slave' but I think I will be changing it to simply 'Saga' or 'Saga & Ylva'. Full snippet below cut.

Autumn leaves had covered the forest floor, keeping a soft cushion beneath the bare soles of her feet. It was a comfort she prayed would last. But, too soon the trees began to grow sparse, the blanket of leaves giving way to cold dirt and pebbles. Along the border of the woods was a rocky hillside that stretched wide in both directions. Rather than attempt to find a way around, she gritted her teeth and began the ascent over it.

Tough as her feet were they could not withstand the sharp edges of the rocks. Blood warmed the cold stone as they cut into her, but she did not stop or give in to the pain. The sooner she passed over the rocky terrain the better. 

On the other side lay a valley, surrounded on all edges by the forest. Tall, yellowed grass swayed in the afternoon wind as mountain peaks loomed to the near east. On the northern end of the valley rose a writhing snake of smoke, its source a low-burning campfire. A wagon was stationed near it, along with three figures sitting around the flames. Two horses grazed nearby. 

There was a scent in the air, of burning wood and fried meat. For a while she stood there, letting the blood of her feet seep into the grass, watching the distant figures. Her tongue watered at the scents, stirring the hunger rooted so deeply in her belly - in her bones. 

It hurt to move but she moved anyway. She expected nothing. If the strangers proved violent, they might kill her and end her suffering. If they were merciful they might toss her a bit of meat. Likely they would ignore her, but even that would be enough; if she could but feel the heat of their fire and inhale the scents of their meal, even from a distance, she would be satisfied. To her surprise, however, as she drew close enough to be noticed - first by the horses, who snorted warily, and then by the three strangers who turned to watch her - one of them stood up. 

Of the three she was the only woman, but as she rose the woman’s mere height brought her approach to a pause. She wasn’t close enough to hear what they said, but she could see the three speak. The two men rose as well, but they turned to the wagon to begin gathering their things. The woman turned and walked into the valley. 

She was taller than any average woman, though the men were equally taller than any average man. Broad shoulders set the frame of a sturdy and toned build, though most of it was hidden beneath layers of light leather. She had a strong jaw with a face more handsome than beautiful, and cold blue eyes that never once looked away from the barefoot girl. The hair on her head was coal black and braided, the long rope falling over her shoulder and past her breasts. Hints of tattoos marked what little skin was exposed on her arms and chest. 

The woman almost came close enough to touch, but stayed back a step or two to instead loom over the hungry runaway. Wood, smoke and sweat clung to her like a heady perfume that was both pleasant and not. She smelled like a man and glared down with the expectant authority of one. 

“What do they call you?” Her voice was deep but not hard, softened ever so slightly by the subtle hints of her womanhood. 

“I--” In contrast, the runaway’s voice was harsh and strained, the words catching in the dry crevices of her throat. The woman seemed to sense this. 

“Come,” she motioned for her to follow and without hesitation her command was obeyed. She led her back towards the campfire. It had yet to be doused and the warmth that wafted from it was just as pleasant as she had imagined. With a nod the woman gestured to a wooden crate and upon it the smaller woman sat. 

The two men had gone to retrieve the horses and when they were not looking the woman moved to the wagon and retrieved a small gourd. This she offered to the barefoot girl, who - upon hearing the water sloshing within - immediately opened the gourd and guzzled it down.

“Slowly,” the blue-eyed stranger warned, and so with great reluctance she lowered the gourd from her lips.

“Now, what are you called?”

“I don’t.. I don’t know.” The words came more easily, but her voice was still strained, still rough. She sounded nothing like herself. 

“You do not know,” the woman repeated firmly. “All things have a name. Did you forget yours?” 

She shook her head. Her hands trembled, sloshing about the water remaining in the gourd. She wanted to drink more, but beneath the woman’s cold eyes she remained still. For a moment neither spoke, but she knew a clearer response was expected. 

“No,” she continued, answering more properly. “They… Took them.” The words came out slow and broken, each of them causing her throat to sting. “Our names.” Hesitant, she lifted the gourd to take a small sip. 

“They took your names,” the woman repeated again. There was another crate pushed close to the fire, and upon this she sat - though even seated she loomed like the mountains at her back. Her eyes fell over the girl, taking in every tattered, thin, and weary detail. Beside them the men had returned and were hitching the horses to the wagon, passing quiet glances towards the fire. 

“You are a slave,” the woman stated, and the girl gave a weak nod. “What is a slave doing out here, alone?” 

“I ran.” In the early hours of the morning, before the sun had risen, when her owners were still lost to a drunken sleep. The overseer had been preoccupied with beating another slave and she had slipped away, quietly and with surprising ease. They had always been too afraid to run; she had eventually stopped caring, not even enough to live. 

Her own hazel eyes rose to meet the dark blue of the mountain woman’s, and she was surprised to see a smile at her thin lips. 

“A nameless slave running into the woods with no shoes, no food, and barely any clothes. You are foolish. Did they feed you, your owners?” 

Weakly, she nodded. 

“And they gave you water?”

Another nod. 

“Clothes, a place to sleep?”

Again, she confirmed her answer, now only with a single nod and a nervous sip of the water. Whatever reason the woman had for questioning her, she was certain the result would be the same. With the aid of horses it would be a swift journey back to the outpost, and once there she would face either a painful punishment or an even quicker death. 

“You had food, water, clothes, and a place to sleep,” the woman continued. “You were alive, even if that life was a harsh one. And yet you gave it up, ran into the woods where you could die. Why did you run?” 

Her hands still trembled, but she steeled herself to answer, to explain; that the food they were given was small, barely scraps, and a common punishment was to be given no food at all; that the water was dirty and they were allowed only so many drinks a day; that their clothes were thin and tattered, handed down from slave to slave, and they were only given shoes in the winter or when working in rocky terrain; that they all slept together, often outside, even in the cold. She prepared herself to say all of these things and more, but when her gaze lifted to meet the harsh hue of the woman’s, her voice caught in her throat. They were both silent for a while before she could answer, and when she did her words drew a sudden warmth to the stranger’s fair face. 

“I’d sooner die freely in the woods…” She had to pause and take another sip of water, just to soothe her throat. “... than as a slave.”

“A good answer,” the woman grinned. “You have claimed your freedom and we will not hold you from that.” She cast a sharp look to the men, both of whom had stopped to watch and listen, their gazes less approving than her own. Besides the two crates upon which the women sat, they had piled the rest of their belongings onto the wagon. “But we won’t leave you to die in the wild either. Fell, Hagen - make room.” 

As the men began to move crates and sacks around on the back of the wagon, the woman took the gourd of water from the newly freed slave and helped her stand. After sitting even for those short moments the bloody soles of her feet stung sharper than when they’d been cut over the rocks. She limped and with every step flinched and bit back the pain. The woman watched her and did not berate her for being too slow; when they reached the wagon she even helped her up onto the back. That alone was more kindness than she had ever known. 

The last two crates were piled on the wagon, the campfire was doused, and the two men - Fell and Hagen - took their place at the front of the wagon. The woman sat in the back with her, but until the horses were guided onto a dirt path she remained silent. 

“I am Ylva,” she said after a while. “And if you have no name, I will call you Saga, for I expect one day you will have many tales to share, beginning on the day you became free.”