#his sleeves and the handkerchief or whatever it is in his pocket have blood on them for shouto lmao

[lunejump]

tell me I'm a bad man, kick me like a stray

[nerves-nebula]

hi!!! you don’t need to answer this one, but i wanted to ask what the turtles’ respective themes/individual presenting styles would be? like clothing or whatnot

(for more doodles)

oH MAN IDK UHHHH. i wrote this and this about it a while back but i can extrapolate on their clothing choices!

Donnie: long sleeves, thick gloves, long pants, anything that covers his skin but isn't too itchy/tight/a weird texture. he doesn't like his bare arms being out in the open, partially to hide his scars and partially just because it feels weird and he likes the weight on them. i've drawn him in sweaters multiple times, and he wears a lot of big jackets when they're all older. baggy clothing = good to him.

Leo: he's more into feminine stuff and form fitting clothing. Like, layering and FASHION and shit. at first because she'd never been allowed to try them before, but as time went on they just became a small part of a bigger wardrobe. he loves to accessorize, enjoys wearing soft colors in general but will really wear anything so long as she thinks she looks good in it.

Mikey: just as likely to wear clothing as to not. He has a ton of graphic tee's, obnoxiously patterned button ups (that are always open) overalls, coveralls, handkerchiefs & masks, and board shorts. i can see him wearing sandals even though he doesn't have to. nearly everything he owns has some kind of stain on it, even if its just a small one (paint, blood, donnie's Science Experiments, ink, charcoal, food, literally whatever)

Raph: doesn't wear clothing unless for a practical purpose (like lab safety, or armor or something). He will treasure and wear clothing he's been gifted though, but that's mostly just Casey's oversized shirts & hoodies. He doesn't really have a sense of style of style beyond "make it red" but will on very rare occasions wear a dress if, for example, he's gotta go somewhere fancy. he finds dresses with pockets more practical for fighting than suits. dresses can also have open backs, which reduces the amount of tearing his shell spikes do to the fabric.

[saburaito]

" you're bleeding. "

𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐃, otherwise he would have never let it slip from under his radar. he strived to look the most presentable when he was around mieko of all people. there was no reason for her to be involved with his life outside of their arrangement. he was trying to make her life more stable, the last thing that he wanted to do was bring more harm into her life. looking down at his hand where she was currently fussing over, his expression was hard to read. the majority of his face was covered with a face mask, hiding his features. his eyebrows didn't move, regarding the cut as no big deal. rolling up his sleeve some, the last thing that he wanted was to ruin his shirt with any blood. no use in ruining a good shirt. he didn't want to need to pester the dry cleaners about a blood stain. ❝ a mere oversight, my bad. ❞ his tone comes out as calm as ever. she is the one more panicked, as if he is not the one with a gash up his wrist. she must have noticed it when their hands had brushed against each other. for a moment, he thought that she was making an attempt to hold his hand. but instead, she was holding his hand up for closer inspection. a letdown by some regards.

❝ don't get it on yourself, it's filthy. ❞ muffled words from behind his mask, he's reaching into his pocket with his good hand. searching for anything that he can use to mop up the blood. any reasonable gentleman would have a handkerchief in their suit pocket - but he's not exactly the sight of a perfect gentleman. he might have tried to act the part, but there was still things that he got wrong. wishing that he wasn't so incompetent about it at the moment, he's searching his pockets for even a tissue. whatever would make the bleeding stop. it's a shame that they were in public and she notices this detail. for how long it had been going, he wasn't sure. some of the blood was already dried to his hand, a sign that this wasn't a new development. there was so many ways that he could have injured his hand throughout the day, he couldn't pinpoint the exact situation that would have been his downfall. the most that he can pull out of his pockets is a slip of receipt paper, nothing useful for fixing up a bloodied hand. sabu bites back his scorn. not wanting to have to ask her for help. anything but that.

[independentzaun]

❛ You know, this is an interesting and efficient method of murder. I need to write this down. ❜

From Rosie in the ww2 verse

(So I'm just going to put this up here for anyone that might need it. Content warnings for blood, violence, and brutal killing/death. Ahhh... monster vampire Silco gona monster vampire?) Silco had never been a man opposed to violence, and after having been turned into a vampire he found himself fully embracing the monster inside although he did his best to ensure it served a purpose. After all someone who killed, and took advantage of people indiscriminately soon found the pitch forks and torches at the castle gates. With the advent of WW2 however and the accompanying occupying German forces as well as the cooperating Italian fascists it became quite easy for him to find any number of reasons to kill for the simple reason if there was one thing he hated it was the Germans and the traitors working with them.

This particular evening had led to one of his more inventive kills that had been equal parts efficient, and brutal while also hiding a bit of an inside joke. Silco had stepped out of the shadows just long enough for the guard to turn around to face him, and then with a bit of his vampiric speed he moved. A knee to the mans gut slamming into him hard enough to knock the air out even through any armor he wore. Next was Silco’s right hand immediately moving for the straps of the guards helmet using them to force the humans head back, and as a loud gasp for air started to sound out with a mouth opening wide Silco’s left hand moved. There was a wood gardening stake in his hand, and without any real effort it found it’s way into the guards mouth slamming downwards. Unable to get a breath of vital air and with a sudden exhalation of blood splattering across the stake now embedded in his lungs, and throat his eyes rolled back and if it hadn’t been for Silco’s hand holding him up by the helmet he would have collapsed. Moments later between a lack of air, drowning in his own blood, and pure physical trauma the human would be dead.

Eyes flickering to one side Silco’s eyes had been gleaming, and his fangs fully out as he savagely grinned during the attack. Upon spotting Rosie he blinked, and the fang hid themselves while the odd gleam in his eyes mostly ceased. He had one eerie eye however that almost seemed to hold a spot of fire nestled in blackness while various scars stretched over that side of his face with a section that swept upwards towards his scalp as though he’d been burned once be it by chemicals or fire. “Well I endeavor not to bore if only for my own sake. It’s always best when one enjoys their work I find.” Opening his hand the body flopped to the ground with the garden stake still out enough to make the human’s neck tight around it and his head stay back like a doll that had gotten stuck in one position.

Offering a nod of greeting he turned wiping his hands off on a handkerchief pulled out of a pocket in his vest. A tie, and a button up shirt under the vest with the sleeves rolled half way up his forearms made him almost seem like a businessman… or with the blood on his hands perhaps someone involved in less savory affairs. Regardless he had a certain authority, and confidence to him. “I’m Silco, and as I’m sure you’ve gathered I’m not particularly in favor of certain events happening around here. Now how exactly can I help you?” Silco was of course assuming that who, or whatever the woman was she knew the truths hidden from so many of the common population. That vampires, and many other “mythological creatures” were in fact real. Regrettably there were higher ups in various governments, and military's that knew the truth but such was life. If she didn’t know that’d make her casual response a bit surprising, but all the more interesting.

[kim-miyeon]

Hell Above-Chapter One

PAIRINGS: Hwang Hyunjin X Female Reader

WARNINGS: Mafia!AU, strong language, violent scenes, use of weapons, mentions of blood, mentions of sex trafficking, murder, suggestive language, sexual scenes, unprotected sex. 18+ Please.

WORD COUNT: 6.8K

Previous | Next

This is a Wasteland, My Only Retreat.

The faint roar of the vehicle engine rumbled lowly as you sat in the driver seat of your car, both of your hands resting softly on the steering wheel. Your annoyed sigh released itself as your head turned to look at the sleek folder that laid in the seat next to you. You smirked to yourself as you averted your eyes back to the rusted standing building in front of you. The allure of the night caused the whole scenery to match the mood of this dreadful evening. Your eyes scanned over the area surrounding, four black cars parked to the left side of the building, the whole estate heavily guarded with about fifteen men, the soldiers. You stared for a bit before looking up to your rearview mirror and allowing your eyes to observe you. It was almost cliché the way you looked for the part you played. The way your features could kill a man alone and you knew that better than anybody. Reaching your hand into your purse that sat on your lap, you pulled out an item that was set to complete such a look of power,  your blood red lipstick. You moved closer to the rearview to get a better view as you applied a layer of the tint on your lips, bringing your character to life. You rubbed  your lips together and cleaned around the edges before your eyes naturally diverted to a dark figure walking towards your car.  You groaned in annoyance as you unbuckled yourself and grabbed the folder to the right of you. Turning your keys in the ignition off, you opened the car door, throwing your legs over onto the pebble ground, where the heels of your black boots met. Your whole appearance could have blended into how dark the night became as you wore black jeans and a black sweater, paired with your favorite black trench coat. The only color that could be determined was the deep red on your lips and the silver gun that hung by your side. 

“YAH Y/N!”  the voice of the figured called out and you heard the thick accent of an Australian native come through

You slammed the car door shut behind you as you inhaled the cool freshnes of the autumn night. Shifting your direction to the young man walking closer to you. He had a slim figure, soft blonde strands that fit his small face and hints of freckles that coated him. On a usual day, he would be smiling and spreading his contagious positivity. But on nights like this, he was different. We were different.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He asked sternly, voice low and accent deep. You walked towards him with the folder in your hand.  

“Is that anyway to greet your elder, Felix?” You smiled back playfully, shoving the folder into his chest. He grabbed a hold of it flipping through the contents before looking back at you.

“How did you find out?” he sighed in defeat. 

“Well, I heard you caught a mouse,” You said as you started to walk towards the building,  with Felix following, “the cat wanted to play.”

“You shouldn’t be here, Y/N,  you know you can be comprom-” 

“Cut the bullshit Felix,”  You waved your hand,  pushing away the topic. “Just tell me what you know.”

Felix groaned and you looked over to him, stopping both of your tracks, “He was one of the associates. Caught taking pictures and asked too many questions.” 

“Is that why the soldiers are here?” You asked, arms crossing over your body. 

“Mhm. We don’t know which associate can be trusted, and didn't want to create more trouble.” 

You squinted in confusion at his statement and Felix bit his lip as if he was debating to reveal anymore. 

“We think he might be working with ‘Y’.” 

Y. The alias name of a mystery person who has had multiple failed attempts in trying to reel you out. Or reel out whoever they can in all honesty. Pathetic and yet intriguing, as you and your family have been on the hunt for this mystery person for the past 6 months. Your interest spiked up to the new found information. 

You laughed sinisterly as you turned back to walk towards the entrance of the building. “God, I love a good Friday night.” 

“Y/N, I’m serious. You really shouldn’t be here. We don’t know the multitude that ‘Y’ is working on,” Felix pleaded.

“So we find out.” You stated.

 “We are. YOU just can’t be here because Min-“ you stopped in front of the door to the warehouse and you turned around to Felix who cut himself off from finishing his sentence.

“Because what, Felix.” You gritted.

Felix sighed and looked at you. 

“Minho doesn’t want you here”

You clicked your tongue and scoffed in disbelief at the sentence. You felt the blood bubble in your veins as the adrenaline from anger rushed through you. 

“Last time I checked, Minho wasn’t my fucking boss.” 

You marched up to the warehouse doors and pushed it open. Felix following you as you both walked into the dark and musty place, smells of decaying animals and blood surrounded you immediately, which could have bothered any normal individual, but the smell was too natural for you. 

Straight ahead was a dim light shining on a profound scene. Your sight was captured by a man tied to a chair, hands cuffed behind him, blood hanging from the ends of his hair dripping down his cheeks and arms. Barely hanging on to whatever life he may have left, he raises his head to a man who you assumed performed such a violent assault. The man’s brown hair was sweat ridden and he wore his white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up.  On his hand sparkled a set of brass knuckles that he wiped off with his handkerchief. Walking closer, you witness the man as he swung his forearm back and connected another blow to the captured man's face, earning splatter of blood to the floor and a grunt from the victim. You scoffed softly as you approached such a disappointing scene. 

If it weren’t for the loud clicks of your heels to suggest your arrival, it could have been the dark demeanor you had when you came into the lit area and the man looked at you, first in surprise and then annoyance. It was hard to admit, but he was attractive, his muscles bore through his shirt and pants. His face was one that could ruin a woman. His dark sweaty hair stuck to his forehead from the work he put in for the night. He scoffed when he saw you and you crossed your arms over your chest and smiled at him. 

His eyes switched his gaze to Felix who approached behind you.

“You had... one job.” Stepping forward and raising his finger to emphasize Felix’s one job of the night, implying that it was to make sure you weren’t there.

Felix bowed his head in an apologetic manner and you laughed as you looked down at the floor and the back to the man.

“You’ve been relieved of your duties for the night Minho, you can go.” 

He laughed at you and came closer, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.” You stepped closer to him.

Minho paused and looked at you as you held his gaze sternly. He finally let up, cursing in the air, understanding the consequences of disobeying you. 

Minho turned to grab his coat and walked away calling out for Felix to come with him.

You breathed out in content and removed your coat. The man sitting in the chair raised his head slowly as he had heard your heels come closer to him. You grabbed his bloody chin and forced his head up to look at you as you examined to damage Minho had done. 

“Tsk tsk tsk, he really did a number in your face.” You let go of his chin and he hung his head low again. 

“Who are you?”

“Who am I?” You smiled at the question asked, “I can be whoever you want me to be.”

The man raised his head slightly as he saw you walk over and grab an empty chair, pulling it to sit across from him. You sat down and crossed your leg over the other one and pulled out a box of cigarettes from your back pocket, along with a lighter. You pulled a cigarette out with your mouth and lit it as you inhaled deeply. The smoke burning the back of your throat, almost sobering you for a second.

 “Who am I?”  you reiterated, “ Well truthfully, I don’t think that’s as important. I actually came here cause I wanted to get to know you more”

“I already told the man before that I don’t know anything.” 

You sucked in air as you pulled the cigarette out from your lips “See I could believe that, however, I know that’s not true, right... Danny?”

You paused as you saw no reaction, “ … or is it better to call you...SungHo.” 

He looks at you in immediate terror and you smile, inhaling another drag.

“How do you-“

“Kim SungHo, father to two beautiful young girls, Mina, 3,  and Hyerin, 5. A loving husband to Kim Ji Hye for 10 years. Congratulations, your anniversary was last month right?” You asked innocently as you watch the man in front of you begin to widen his eyes to your knowledge. 

You pulled another drag from the cancer stick, “A former professional photographer. You had your own business that went bankrupt, right? So you opted into your dangerous pleasures to feed your girls, huh?”

“I was just doing what I can,” He mumbled.

“Life in prison without parole. I heard they were even considering the death penalty for the men they found, men like you, right SungHo?” You scooted closer to him as you watched a tear roll down his face. 

“Did you like taking photos of those girls? Did you like watching them beg for their lives?”

He cried and choked on his own tears as you stood up and flicked the cigarette to the ground and stomped on it to put it out. 

“Tell me who you work for SungHo.”

“I can’t” he choked out.

“Oh SungHo, you don’t want to make me mad. I’m worse than that man before. Way worse.”

Sungho just cried and you grew intolerable to the minutes that past as you waited for information. You knew that beating him the way Minho did was foolish. So you did the one thing none of those bastards could ever. You grabbed your gun and cocked it back aiming for his head as he cried softly. You notice the lack of adrenaline, the almost inviting acceptance he was having to a moment of death you could implicate. So you moved your aim towards his groin.

“STOP! STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” he screamed. 

“Tell me who you work for Sungho, my patience is at an all time low.”

“I DON'T KNOW HIS NAME, HE WENT BY Y!”

“What did he want?”

“HE WANTED TO KNOW IF THE LEE FAMILY WAS STILL OPERATING, HE ASKED ME TO TAKE PICTURES AND FIND OUT WHO THE BOSS IS. TOLD ME TO BECOME AN ASSOCIATE TO DO IT!”

“When’s the next time you’ll see him?” He paused and you lowered your gun and fired a gunshot right into his crotch. He screamed in pain and you aimed your gun back at his head. 

“ANSWER ME!”

“HE DIDN’T SEE ME, HE CALLED ME. TOLD ME TO GO TO THE TRAIN STATION AND DROP OFF MY CAEMRA BY THE HOUSE WITH THE MAILBOX!” he cried out as he looked down and saw the blood dripping from his crotch. “PLEASE, HE SAID HE’D KILL MY FAMILY IF I DON’T DO THIS! PLEASE!”

You stepped back and relaxed yourself as you had found all the information you needed. You stood back looking at him as your mind thought back to the kids he had. You can’t protect them y/n. You watched as Sungho cried out in the pain as he bled. Your curiosity got the better of you in the moment as you twirled your gun.

“Did you find out who the boss was?” 

Sungho breathed out heavily,“I took pictures of the man before you.” 

You smiled in disbelief, “and you believe him to be the boss of the Lee Family?”

“The associates say that he is the only one they have seen and fits the description of the son of Lee Won-Shik.” He looked up at you and your face went pale. 

That name. One that you knew too well. Your father’s name.

You aimed the gun back at his crotch and fired another bullet in anger. SungHo screamed and gritted as blood began to pool from his groin area, surely ending whatever reproduction system he had left.

“I TOLD YOU EVERYTHING.” 

“I know, it’s a shame.” 

The pain you inflicted caused you to wonder how painful it could have been. You just watched him bleed out and scream as he begged you for help. You turned and saw the camera lying on the table and you walked over to pick it up. You scrolled through pictures of Minho leaving offices and greeting people, people who worked for your family for years. Any leakage of this information could be detrimental. The whole thing put a sour taste in your mouth. 

“Unfortunately Sungho, you won’t be dropping off this camera tomorrow.”

“NO, NO, PLEASE!” 

“It’s a shame. A man who watches girls younger than your own daughters be taken from their families and exploited in such a distasteful manner… makes me sick.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You walked over and you cocked your gun back again as you aimed the gun to his head. 

“Also, Lee Minho doesn’t run this family,”

You turn to Sungho who was crying in pain and pulled the trigger of your gun watching his head fall back as blood and pieces of his head splattered, coating the wall and floor behind you both. You move away and placed your gun back in your holder as you turned back to grab your coat, walking toward the exit. Leaving Sungho’s dead body to bleed out. 

“I Do.” 

**********

Outside, you see four men talking as you closed the large door behind you. Their views shifted on you and you watched as Minho walked up to you in anger.

“Three gunshots. You killed him.” He spat. 

“He saw my face.”

“I had everything under control.” 

“An interrogation that lasted two hours is your version of under control? What kind of questions did you ask Minho? What kind of camera does he use? Can he get you a deal at Best Buy?” you mocked.

“Like he told you anything! You were in there for 30 minutes and now we have a dead man and no information, I bet. I bet you killed him because he disrespected you as a woman! I know that really gets your blood boiling and you act like a deranged child!”

“Do you want a demonstration?” You grabbed your gun and aimed it at him until you hear a yelling from behind Minho. 

“GUYS SERIOUSLY.” You turned your eyes to the boy who yelled out at you and sighed as Minho began to relax is demeanor. “We are family, we shouldn’t be fighting like this.” 

“Seungmin’s right, we could be in a world of trouble and we need to work together now.” Felix reassured as he walked up to you and Minho and pushed your gun down. 

You walked up to the group as Minho avoided eye contact with you. You stood next to Seungmin who was looking at you with caring eyes. You smiled because he was the type to always bring down the heat of conversations and make everyone regroup. Next to you stood a smaller boy, with blue hair. He had a soft fox like face and you smiled at him as he admired you. 

“What information did you find?” The younger one asked you and you nodded. 

“He worked for ‘Y’ in exchange for immunity to his crime charges to come later this week. That camera is supposed to be delivered tomorrow at the train station on the west side but unfortunately there’s been a delay.” You looked the boys who were nodding their heads all except Minho. 

“And I saved both of are asses tonight, Minho. The associates are talking a lot among themselves, they believe you are the alleged son of my father. He has pictures of you meeting with secret partners. Had I kept him alive, our secret would have been revealed and the Hwang family would had found you, not just ‘Y’.” You informed. 

“Thank you.” he muttered. 

“Everyone report tomorrow 9 AM sharp. Seungmin put together a strategy plan for going forth on the ‘Y’ issue. Felix  dispose of the body near the train tracks, make sure you make a note for ‘Y’ to see. Minho,-”

Minho looked at you carefully having calm down from the interaction earlier, “Kill all the associates. None of them can be trusted.”

The boys all parted was and the youngest member stood by your side looking to you innocently. “What would you like me to do?” 

“I need you to go find Sungho’s family and bring them to safety tonight. Don’t tell the others about it Jeongin, keep your tracker on. Take your soldiers with you.” Jeongin nodded and you hugged him close as he went off. 

You walk towards your car and your phone dings in your coat pocket. You pulled it out and read the message that flashed across the screen. 

“Just got on to my connecting flight, see you soon ❤️-HJ” 

You smiled and put your phone back into your pocket, as you opened and sat in your car, ready to go home.

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

You opened the oven and was blasted with a rush of heat as you removed the roasted potatoes in the pan and placed it on your stove top. The sound of the ongoing sizzle was still coming from the potatoes drowned out by the soft playing of jazz that you had in the background on your speaker. To the left of your view was the  piece of steak you had searing on your pan. It had been a while since you had a nice home cooked dinner. It had been a while since you two have eaten together like this. It had been a while in general. Since you last saw him, leaving you a kiss, one that you still remember fleshed on your lips, and watched him drive away. Just the thought of you two being in the same room made your stomach flip. He was captivating in the sense that he could make you drown in his aura and remove everything around you. It was like you were light like a feather, floating around him, and he was the gentle hand that caught you every time. You blushed to yourself, deep in thought as you began to place the food on the plates you had grabbed from the cabinet above you, remembering how incapable you were when reaching all the dishware in your house, becoming grateful for the way he towered you and helped you in these moments.

You just missed him. And it was difficult for you to admit to yourself that he made you feel secured. There was always fear when you thought of him and how you felt towards this man only to be reminded of how deep of a hole you dug for yourself. Your heart ached every time you had to remind yourself what your true mission was, what the point of this relationship meant. And yet, you pushed it all away. You turned an eye to the ratchet truth because you needed more time. It was a constant fight between heart and mind. Playing a double character all this time exhausted you even when you felt like you were completely and unapologetically yourself in front of this man.

You carried the plates over to your small dining room table and placed them at each end. Stepping back, you absorbed the smallness of the dining room area in your home. You laughed as you took in the lack of luxury in the space, and the lack of luxury in general. You lived comfortably, you never felt drowned in bills, you never went hungry. You had a roof over your head and a bed to sleep in. And yet, if anyone were to ever find out about your true income, they’d wonder why you opted to live in a one story house on the north side of town. You were able to buy the whole damn country if you wanted to. You were able to live a life of luxury and protection, but this is what he wanted. He wanted to show you that he is not who he really is and you acted like you didn’t know what he did, who he was. All these years, he played a character too. That’s how you knew that he loved you the same, if not more. You knew that in order to be with you, he had to tell you, because you had to know what it meant when you took his last name. But in his secrecy, you saw the need of protecting you from a world you already knew so much about and also the aching to hide away and be normal. 

You sighed as you reached over to the bottle of wine you had on the table. You unscrewed the bottle and grabbed your glass as you poured yourself a decent amount of red lush. You raised the glass to your lips as you walked slowly to the mirror on the back wall of your dining room. You looked at yourself, watching how the simple silk black dress hung loosely down your chest. Smiling, as the silk draped over your breasts teasingly and stopping just inches from your knees. Your hand caressed your collarbone, down to your chest as you rose your other arm to bring the glass of wine back to your lips. You drifted your eyes from the mirror to your drink as you took another sip of the sweet liquid. It was almost alarming the way your attention was brought back to the mirror when a figure appeared in your peripheral. Your eyes widened in shock as your breath sucked in rather quickly. You looked at the man through the mirror, as he stood long and tall. Dressed in a pair of freshly pressed black slacks, a white long sleeved satin shirt, and blonde straight hair that was tied in his most comfortable form. Half up with two strands caressing over his face. His complexion was such a creamy tone and had a natural airbrush effect. His thick pink lips were painted on his face with intent to make a woman go insane. His eyes were sharp hiding his dark orbs that made your heart flutter. 

Ethereal would be an understatement to describe him. He simply was created by all the gods.

He smiled softly at your longing gaze through the mirror, sticking his hands in both of his slack pockets,  tongue drifting over his bottom lip naturally. 

“I didn’t hear you come in,” you managed to choke out as you turned around swiftly to now face him.

“Should I have knocked?” The sound of his voice was honey and danced through your ears. It almost made you shudder. You exhaled a breath at his comment as he began taking small steps towards you, looking at the mess you made in the kitchen. “What’s all of this?” 

“I made dinner.” You sat the glass of wine on the table as you felt your skin tremble with anticipation as he made his way over to you. 

“What did you make?” He was so close, voice dropping volume as he walked closer to you.

“I-I made s-steak and p-potatoes,” closer.

“Mmm,” he hummed and got closer.

“and s-some salad-d…” closer.

Until there he was, in front of you. Eyes finally connected, his natural scent and cologne invading your sense of smell, you wanted to drown in it. The heat of his body could be felt on your own as he kept taking steps, making you stumble back until your back was against the wall. He removed a hand from his pocket and placed his fingertips on your forearm, brushing softly, slowly and teasingly dragging his fingertips up your arm as you felt goosebumps form.

“I thought maybe we could, sit and eat..”

Fingertips now close your neck, grazing over your shoulder blade. He tilted his head and his eyes looked down at your body and slowly came back to match yours. He hummed at your words and you eagerly let him stroke over your sensitive neck. It felt like years since you’ve been touched and the thought of him taking you, all of you,  flooded not just your mind, but your core. 

“That all sounds very nice but,” he paused as his fingers slid up to your chin pulling it gently to face him as he started down at you. He was now  centimeters over your face, you were convinced you could already feel his lips graze yours. “I’m actually craving something a bit more….sweet.” 

You were almost in euphoria, your mind was clouded with anticipation and desire. Lust was dripping down your legs and you were falling down a hole. Everything around you went black and it felt like it was just you and him. You barely heard the words that came out of his mouth.

“there’s ice cream in the freez-“ 

“Just kiss me.” 

You nodded frantically as he pushed into you against the wall. One of his hands slamming against the wall, the other wrapped around your waist as he brought you closer to his craving body. You had your arms wrapped around his neck pulling him deeper. His lips molded over yours in such an artistic way. It was simply amazing the way you two fit into each other, as if the heavens created you from the same strand of souls. One in body, spirit, and mind, you both became. You longed for the taste of him and it was as if on cue, he connected his tongue with yours, deepening your kiss. There was so much fire and passion, it was as if you two were begging for this. You moaned into him, feeling the vibrations against his lips as he pulled away from you to catch his breath. Eyes hooded, orbs dark and the light of the room stinging your sight as he moved his head to pepper kisses on your bare neck. Your body responded to him by tilting your head to the side and he used his free arm to slip down the back of your thigh, hiking your leg to his hip. The wetness of his tongue coating the hidden veins of your neck as he nipped softly, earning the sounds of your moaning. You felt his hard aching dick push near your core as his fingertips brushed further up your dress, barely touching where you needed him the most. He pulled back, panting and eyebrow cocked up at you as you licked your lips craving his delicious taste again.

“No underwear?” You felt your blood run cold as you remembered your lack of undergarments under the dress. You knew this was how you two would end up but your mind had erased every detail you had planned the moment he revealed himself to you. You just smiled seductively to him as he growled.

“I know my baby girl didn’t think she was going to tease me tonight.” 

In one fluid motion, you were lifted off the floor, legs around his torso as he carried you to your kitchen island sitting you on the cold surface, your bare ass touching the marble and you hissed at the sudden feel. He wasted no time pushing all your dishware away and you heard the sounds of metal crashing to the ground, as he made room for you to lay. 

“Normally you would have been punished for that,” he uttered referring to your attempt to edge him on. He pushed you back so you could lie on the counter, you grunt as you felt the shivers down your spine. He pushed the  fabric of your dress up, revealing your dripping  heat. He nearly groaned as he saw the way you glisten and wasted no time taking his long finger to drag  up your slit. You arched your back in delight as your pussy throbbed painfully for him. He leaned over your body, lips close to your ear as he let a low hot breath.

“But I’m fucking starving.” 

You watched as he leaned down your body and bent his knees to make himself align face to face with your core. He never broke your gaze as he did so and you hitched a breath as you felt his velvet lips kiss your inner thigh.

“Don’t tease,” you moaned out involuntarily. It was all too much, your mind was so foggy and you heard his low chuckled.

“I have to savor every part of my meal, babe”  his hot breath hit your wet lips and your breathing heightened. It was agonizing.

A sigh of relief and a cry from your lips rang out as he dragged his long hot tongue over your slit, collecting every drop of arousal you produced and laying flat against your throbbing clit. Your hands immediately rested on his head, fingers intermingling with his soft hair. You pulled yourself up in reaction as he lapped you sensually, drinking you, eating you. You were a mess, eyes shut and rolled to the back of your lids. Intoxicated by the way he performed. He looked up at you as you cried and heaved, sweating beads forming from the edges of your hairline. Profanities slipping from your mouth with every movement he made against you. You felt his tongue part your slit and insert inside of you, lapping all he could, moaning into you. You laid back and groaned, hips bucking up at him to chase more. Licking his way back up to your needy clit, he took the bud into his mouth, sucking and licking it. You felt two of his long digits slip into you with ease and stretching you out. 

“Oh my fucking god.” You cried out as you felt him bring you close to your edge. The white hotness built in the pit of your stomach and your legs began to shake. You felt his fingers curl inside you and he lapped deliciously, eyes looking at you as you held on to his head. He smiled as he saw your fucked out face and your mouth was opened, loss of words. He pulled back from your pussy and replaced his ministrations  with his thumb as he kept fingering you. Leaning forward he kissed you, your juices coating his face as you tasted yourself on him. He moaned when you arched your self into him and he pulled back to look at you. He knew you wanted to cum. He could feel the way your walls pulsated against his fingers and saw how fast your chest was rising and falling. Licking his lips he came closer your face, forehead resting on yours, one hand now pushing your hips down and the other fucking you into ecstasy.

“Cum for me baby girl.” He pecked your lips softly as you moaned “Cum for daddy.” 

Your body spazzed and you cried out to him as he enclosed your cries by kissing you passionately. His fingers slowed down their pace and pumped into you deeper, thumb grazing over your worn out clit, which made you convulse every time he flicked over it. He pulled back and stood over you, pulling his fingers out of your dripping core. You tried to catch your breath as he raised his fingers to his lips and slipped them into his mouth. You watched as he sucked your taste of him. It made your cheeks flush red and grow needy again watching the erotic scene. 

“I missed the way you taste,” he smiled at you. You smiled back and found the strength to raise your body to him, sitting up and grabbing his belt loops pulling him closer to you. He bent down and cupped your face as he kissed you again. Your hands fiddling with his belt and buttons of his pants frantically, craving his dick more than ever. You wanted to watch him come undone the way he did with you. As you started to unzip his pants he pulled back and placed his hands over yours. Your innocent eyes looking into his in confusion as he held your hands away from his pants. He knew what you wanted to do, but he had other plans.

“Later, love. Right now I just wanna be inside you” he said softly. You smiled and he resumed, taking his pants off along with his underwear. You watch as his hard dick sprung out of the fabric and you gasped in delight. He wasn’t big or small, but the perfect length, the perfect girth. You licked your lips in the thought of being filled by his cock. He took a hold of his dick  and rubbed up and down your slit, coating himself with your cum. You groaned due to your sensitivity and lied back down on the counter again.

“I can’t wait to ruin you” he stated as he inserted himself into you. 

“Oh my god, Hyunjin.” You slipped his name out for the first time of the night. His hands slammed on the side of your head, as he hung his head low by your neck, stretching you out. You heard his sighs and groans in your ear. He slipped an arm under your head, pulling you close to him and you gripped his shirt as he whimpered, “Even after all that and your still so fucking tight.” 

He snapped his hips into and you yelped. He groaned into your neck and his free hand found yours as he intertwined his fingers with yours. 

“Faster, daddy” you whimpered.

He lifted his head to look at you, “You want it faster, love?” 

He was pumping in and out of you slow and deep. His body melding into yours and your juices slipping out, pooling under you. You bit your lip at his question and you nodded. He pushed his way up and towered you again, grabbing a hold of your legs firmly. He began to quicken his pace as the room was filled with the slapping of skin. The feeling of him inside you was immaculate and you cupped your breasts through your dress as your mouth slipped out anything that came to mind.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” 

“You like that baby girl, you like when I fuck you like this?” 

Your back arching off the counter again as Hyunjin fucked you into another world. It was almost impossible for this man to not bring you into a state of bliss. Each snap of his hip hit you in exquisite ways. His deep grunts and moans sent bubbles in your stomach you watched as he would roll his head back to the pleasure you gave him. The way he spoke to you in moments like this were difficult to overcome. You could cum just by his words alone.

“God y/n you feel so fucking good.” 

You could feel the pit of your stomach grow light again. Your walls began to pulsate around him and he could feel that you were chasing your second orgasm of the night. He smirked at you as you began to convulse, feeling the white heat rise to your ears.

“Are you gonna cum again, love? Am I making you feel that good?” 

“Yes Hyunjin, fuck, you’re fucking me so good...” 

“God dammit.” He growled. 

Everything paused for a second as Hyunjin grabbed you off the counter, still inside of you, and he carried you to the dining room, kicking one of the chairs out for him to sit on. He sat down bringing you on top of him, slamming down on his slick member. 

“AHH,” you moaned, tossing your head back at the different angle you had of him.

His hands rested in your ass and he leaned into your ear, “fuck yourself to oblivion, love”

You nodded as you rested your hands on his shoulders. You began to rock yourself back and forth on his dick, moaning loud. His hands helped you as you felt your orgasm grow closer and you began to lose your strength. 

“Come on baby, give it to me,” you rocked faster and faster and soon you felt your orgasm inch closer. The pit of your stomach churned and the walls of your pussy clenched. “That’s it baby, cum for me.” 

You cried out again and you felt your lower half give out to the intensity of your orgasm, you stopped moving for a second as you breathed in heavily trying to catch your breath. Hands still resting on Hyunjin’s shoulders and head hanging low, you felt so light, so spent. Hyunjin gripped your hips and began snapping his hips up into you, your eyes shut tightly as you gripped him, screaming. Your head now resting on his shoulders, body almost limp to the overwhelming orgasm you just had. Hyunjin fucked into you like a mad man, having not reached his high yet. You moaned into his ear at the overstimulation as he grunted to you. You finally felt like you had enough strength to finish him off and you began rocking yourself back to meet his thrusts.

“FUCK” he yelled as you didn’t let up. Your lips found the skin under his ear and you lapped and sucked on it tasting the sweat that formed in his neck from tonight.

“I’m gonna fill you up so fucking good.” 

You smiled against his skin as his thrust grew sloppy. Your lips moved to his ear and you placed a soft kiss before whispering, “do it, baby.”

He groaned on cue and whimpered as he snapped his hips into you hard. You felt the warm spurts of his cum hit your walls inside you and you didn’t let up to the way you rocked against him, wanting to milk him dry. He gasped and tried to hold you still, unable to handle the sensations. 

“Fuck, oh my god y/n,” he sighed as you stopped overstimulating him and just sat there in the chair with him still inside you.

You raised your head to look at him, both of you  fucked out, and you smiled as you leaned in and kissed him again. He cupped your face into the kiss and held you there. The heat radiating of your sweaty bodies and the smell of sex filled the air as the both of you kissed each other with so much need. Pulling back slowly, you rested your forehead against his with your arms around his neck.

“I am never leaving for that long ever again” he stated and you laughed as you moved a piece of his hair off his sweaty forehead, fingertips lightly touching his vein that the top that always came out when he was working hard like that.

“You were gone for a week” you responded and he pecked your lips a few more times and moaned softly.

“A week too long” he smiled and caressed your lower back as you still sat on him. “I missed you too much” 

“You’re back now, and I’m not letting you go anywhere” you kissed his nose cutely and he pulled you in for another kiss.

“Sorry about dinner.” 

“It’s okay, I’m glad you got what you were craving” he smiled.

“Oh honey, that was just an appetizer” he stated as he lifted you both up off the chair. You felt him grow hard again inside you as you laughed. He kicked his pants off his ankles and began walking you to your living room. Finding your couch, he laid you down and kissed your neck as you giggled. He pulled back and made a goofy smile as you reached your hand to caress his face. He tilted his head to kiss your fingertips softly as you smiled adoringly to him. 

“I love you so much y/n”  He leaned in to hover over your lips and your heart skipped a beat to his words.

Because you knew that no matter what, you were falling into that hole, deeper and deeper. And you didn’t know if you wanted to escape, no matter the consequences. Because this, here like this, with him was all you wanted. For the rest of your life. 

“I love you too Hyunjin.”

***

A/N: Ahhh, it’s out. The first chapter!! I hope you like it and are excited about the series as I am! If you made it to the end and are reading this you are loved <3 

[thatringboy]

Ganqing getting together Idol au? (Extra: Hanahaki disease and angsty, only if you want. Otherwise, fluff or angst or whatever is fine.)

Or

Just idol au with genshin characters, doesn't have to be anything in particular

ohmygods this one took so long to write and it was so worth it! love me some good angst and hanahaki disease up in this house!!!

Glaze Lilies in my Throat

Warnings: Hanahaki Disease, Blood, Hospitals

Characters: Keqing, Ganyu, Ningguang, Beidou

Ships: Gangqing, Background Beiqquang if you squint

Word Count: 12,758 (FIVE pages of google docs!)

Summary: Idol!Keqing finds herself falling fast and hard for her fellow dancer, Ganyu, but her pride keeps her from admitting her feelings. Until the petals in her throat start taking a toll on her career

The first time the purple haired girl noticed the petals, she just thought that they had fallen off of a bouquet she had received from a fan. Keqing assumed her throat was sore from the show she had completed, so she popped a cough drop in her mouth and quickly changed to head to dinner with the other girls in the group.

The restaurant they were at wasn’t anything too fancy, just a small hole in the wall place for their group, the Qixing, to meet up. The group’s center, Ningguang, knew the owner and was able to order milkshakes for everyone for free.

It was a pleasant outing. Keqing sat near the window side of the booth the women shared and quietly sipped her vanilla milkshake while the other members of the group discussed their performances. Ganyu slid into the seat next to her and pushed a straw into her own chocolate shake.

“Is everything alright? You look lost in thought, Miss Keqing.”

There was a sudden tightness in her throat, or something became lodged in her airways because Keqing began to cough into her elbow. “My apologies, I was just staring off into space. I am quite alright.”

Ganyu gave her a pleasant smile that made heat rise in her cheeks before turning to the rest of the group to join their conversation. Keqing quickly looked away and her eyes fell to her lap where the blue petals had fallen off of her sleeve. They were identical to the petals she had seen earlier that evening. Keqing was no fool, she instantly recognized what had brought the flowers and her eyes shifted back to Ganyu, who was laughing at Ningguang and her chocolate moustache.

She brushed the petals onto the floor with a cold expression. Out of sight, out of mind.

The petals plagued Keqing for a few more months after that night. They always appeared when Ganyu was near her, but all the idol did was tuck them away and began keeping a handkerchief on her person for when the blood started to come up with the flowers. She became used to the tightness of her throat and dryness of her mouth that accompanied her beating heart when Ganyu would clasp her hand between those slender fingers and stare at her with those large eyes. Everytime Keqing thought she would collapse from exhaustion, Ganyu would be there to pick her up and tell her to keep going. How could she not fall for such kindness?

After the petals began appearing, Keqing only allowed herself to be alone with Ganyu once in fear of making her feelings known. It was after a particularly long dance rehearsal and the other women left before they did. As they were cleaning up the practice room, a small photo fell out of Ganyu’s bag.

Keqing moved to pick it up, turning the paper over in her fingers. In the photo was a baby Ganyu sitting on the lap of an elegant woman with blue eyes and had her hair pinned up by an eerily familiar flower.

“Who is this woman?”

Ganyu glanced over at the picture. “My, that’s an old picture. I’ve told you how I was adopted as a child, right? That woman was my adoptive mother, Guizhong.”

“Was?” Keqing handed the photo back.

“Yes, was. She was a botanist who loved flowers. That one in her hair is a species she selectively bred for years before perfecting them. We called them ‘Glaze Lilies’. She was killed in a hit and run when I was twelve.”

So the flowers have a name. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Ganyu gave her a sweet smile. “Don’t be, she’s always with me, I can feel her guiding me.”

Keqing turned away before the blush could overtake her face and swallowed down the petals in her mouth. So cute!

The first time a blue bud appeared was during a meeting with her manager and Ningguang, who was also the owner of the group. Keqing shifted uncomfortably in her chair as the manager and albino woman looked over a report of her performances.

Ningguang cleared her throat. “Keqing, you know how much we love to have you in the group…”

Keqing felt the familiar tightness in her throat. She sat still and tried to swallow it down as Ningguang continued.

“However, your ratings have been going down recently. You have been leaving rehearsals early, and we’ve noticed the quality of your performances is suffering.”

Slowly, Keqing reached into the pocket of her skirt for a handkerchief as she felt the petals rise back up. Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic.

The manager made a sad face. “Keqing… if things don’t change, then we may need to replace you. You’ve worked so hard to get where you are now, I really don’t want to do this, but if you can’t put your previous energy into this work then maybe we need to go separate ways.”

Panic.

“No, no, I can do it!” Opening her mouth to protest was a bad idea. As soon as the words spilled from her lips, she doubled over in a fit of coughs, the scent of blood filling the room. Something larger than her usual petals dislodged itself from her throat and fell onto the floor between her and her bosses.

An unbloomed Glaze Lily pod with specks of blood tainting the innocent color bounced on the carpet and rolled next to Ningguang’s foot. She looked at Keqing’s face in horror. “Keqing…”

The purple haired girl got to her feet, covering her mouth with the tiny piece of fabric and bowed quickly, moving towards the door. “I-I’m sorry, I promise to get to practice on time and I will get my ratings back up!”

She only took two steps before falling to her knees in another fit of coughing. This time it was two pods, one halfway blooming. Ningguang called for the manager to call an ambulance before rushing to Keqing’s side, rubbing a soothing hand across her back.

The next few hours were a blur. Keqing barely remembers an ambulance arriving, being carted away with a tube down her throat, a couple doctors examining her before letting her rest. When she became coherent, Keqing was able to sit up despite the oxygen tube in her nose and became aware of a doctor waiting for her.

“Miss Keqing, how are you feeling?”

She opened her mouth to talk, but it was the most sore it had ever felt. She tapped her neck to let the doctor know her speech status. He nodded and produced a pen and pad for her to write on.

“I feel terrible, but not like I’m about to die.”

He read over the paper. “Are you aware of what The Hanahaki Disease is?”

“Of course.” She penned down.

“How long have you been in this predicament?” His calm eyes went back to the pad.

Keqing thought for a second before writing again. “Five months.”

“Five months.” He read outloud softly. “Do you know who brought the flowers to you?”

“No.” She lied. She had known from the very beginning, but a glance out of the glass window of the room’s door revealed that her entire group was anxiously waiting outside. There was no need to drag anyone else into her problem.

The doctor took a deep breath. “Miss Keqing, you are aware of what the removal of the flowers entails if you cannot find the person responsible for these feelings, correct?”

“Yes.” Loss of the memories of that person. From beyond the door, Ganyu peeked through the window with a worried expression. Behind her was Ningguang frantically pointing at her head with wide eyes and her lips in a thin, focused line. The doctor followed Keqing’s eyes to the door and as he did, Ningguang instantly stopped and went back to looking as regal as ever.

The doctor chuckled dryly. “You know, I can’t do my job if you lie to me.”

He got up and moved to let Ganyu into the room as Keqing began to scribble down words in a panic. The doctor opened the door and gestured to the chair beside the bed before shutting the door behind the other idol. Ganyu nervously sat down and Keqing stopped writing, not meeting her eyes.

Ganyu reached out to touch Keqing’s hand, but stopped. “We were all so worried when Miss Ningguang told us you had been hospitalized. I’m not sure what I would have done if something had happened--” She caught Keqing staring at her with wide eyes and silenced herself with the lightest shade of pink dusting her cheeks.

Keqing pulled her knees to her chest to have a hard surface to write on. “Did she tell you what I have?”

Ganyu shook her head. “No, but Miss Ningguang gave a weird look.”

Ah, the ever observant Ningguang and the blissfully unaware Ganyu. She scratched down another sentence. “There’s something I should probably tell you…”

Ganyu read the notepad, whispering the words to herself in that way that made Keqing fall harder and nodded. “I’m all ears, err, eyes?”

Keqing flipped to a new page. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears and her hands shook a little. She was a fool for even considering having the flowers removed surgically. She held the pen over the paper and began writing everything down. From the night at the milkshake bar, the petals in her throat being the same kind of flowers Ganyu’s mother made, how Ganyu’s smile made her heart flutter and her stomach twist in a way that she never wanted to end. The flowers had stolen her voice, so she wrote it all, pouring her heart into every word like the disease would kill her that very night.

When she finished, Keqing quickly shoved the notepad to Ganyu and turned away with a red face, not wanting to see the other’s reaction to the written love confession.

Ganyu read every word slowly, tears pooling in her blue and purple eyes and blush burning her cheeks at the raw emotions before her. When she finished, she simply held out her free hand for the pen, which Keqing practically threw at her. She wanted her bedsheets to swallow her up like that scene from Nightmare on Elm Street.

The blue haired woman wrote something quickly and handed both the pen and pad back to Keqing. She took it and read over the short message left at the bottom of her confession.

“I feel the same way.”

In an instant, Keqing felt her throat open and she took a loud gulp of air, making Ganyu jump in surprise. Keqing began to laugh as she grabbed Ganyu’s wrist and pulled her onto the bed and into a tight hug. “Yes yes yes yes yes! I can finally breathe!”

She realized how close Ganyu’s face was to her own and let go quickly, the color returning to her face ten-fold. “Sorry about that.”

Ganyu remained sitting on the bed, covering her face in her own hands. “It’s fine, really!”

“Hah! What a couple of dorks!” Called a deep voice from the doorway.

The two on the bed snapped their heads towards the sound to see Ningguang grabbing the intruder, a tall burly woman with an eyepatch, by her ear and dragging her out of the room. “Out with you! I called you here to provide moral support, not gawk at my dancers!”

Ganyu giggled. “That’s Miss Beidou for you, I suppose.”

Keqing looked at the discarded notepad and those five words scrawled in neat handwriting.

“I feel the same way.”

Keqing is a woman of sound mind. She thinks through her actions and keeps to herself when situations do not concern her. She keeps her head down and doesn’t make rash decisions. So of course she surged forward to plant a kiss on Ganyu’s cheek before pulling back in horror of her own actions and covering her lips with her hand.

Ganyu turned red as her hand went up to touch the spot Keqing had kissed. “That was sweet, thank you.”

“You said on the paper that you feel the same way I do about you so I just thought--” Her panicked rambling was silenced by Ganyu moving closer to her and gently pulling her hands from her mouth with a nervous smile.

“I’m not very good with words like you, Miss Keqing, so sorry that my confession was so bland.”

Keqing blinked. “That’s what you’re caught up on?! And enough with the formalities, you just cured my Hanahaki Disease and saved me from getting fired!”

“Wait, fired? I thought Miss Ningguang pulled you into the manager’s office yesterday for tea… were you about to be let go?”

“Probably!”

Ganyu playfully poked Keqing’s oxygen tube in her nose. “Then the flowers did you a favor.”

“THEY WERE THE REASON I WASN’T PERFORMING WELL IN THE FIRST PLACE!”

The blue haired woman took Keqing’s hands again. “And now they’re gone, for good this time?”

Keqing blinked once more. “‘This time’? What do you mean, ‘this time’--!”

Ganyu panicked and surged forward to kiss her. Keqing, not believing what was happening, halted all protests and sunk into it, ignoring the plastic tube in her nose and letting the scent of vanilla fill her senses.

When they broke away, it felt like an eternity had passed, but it wasn’t long enough, so they kissed again, and again and again until they were panting for air and the doctor returned with an amused smile. All thoughts slipped from Keqing’s usually buzzing mind and she found herself only focusing on the woman before her; the one she cared so much about for so long that flowers bloomed in her throat. With Ganyu by her side, Keqing didn’t have a care in the world. With Ganyu by her side, Keqing knew she was going to be just fine.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - A Corpse, Cake, and a Cuppa (Rated NC17)

Summary: Aziraphale is Death and Crowley is the serial killer who keeps murdering to catch a glimpse of the ethereal being he fell in love with. (1714 words)

Notes: Written for the above Halloween prompt from @new-endings/M.A.D.#8943. Human Crowley au. It’s kind of gory, I’m not going to lie.

Read on AO3.

“Jesus Christmas!" Aziraphale yelps, tiptoeing through the thick pool of red coagulating on the concrete. Threads of it cling to the soles of his shoes when he lifts his feet as if trying to drag him down. Aziraphale has seen a great deal of blood in his time. None of it has been pretty. But this is especially gruesome.

He wonders if that’s for his benefit.

"Look at... look at this! Look at all the… !” Aziraphale takes a pause and breathes in deep, pressing the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to his forehead. Tension causes a vein to distend and throb - quite the feat since, as a non-human entity, he shouldn't be able to experience this kind of pain. Or so he thought. In the thousands of years he's roamed earth reaping souls, he's finally found the one mortal who can give him what humans call a migraine. And he doesn't like it. Not one bit. “Could you please just… stop already?"

Crowley grins, thrilled giddy by the arrival of his intended audience. “No,” he replies, shoving the slicked head of his filthy ax deeper into the severed spine of the fresh corpse at his feet.

Aziraphale grimaces as the blade lands with a resounding slap. 

That ax of Crowley's gets on every one of Aziraphale's nerves. It's effective for its purpose but positively unsanitary. It makes his skin crawl every time he sees it.

Crowley lifts it slowly, eyes Aziraphale menacingly.

Eyes his nice, clean coat, Aziraphale realizes.

“Crowley!” he warns, putting both hands up in defense. “Don't you dare... !”

But Crowley doesn't let him finish, hoisting his ax higher with part of the dead man's torso attached. He doesn't need to do anything after that. The torso falls from the blade and splashes down in the pool, accomplishing what Crowley set out to do.

“Holy... GAH!” Aziraphale leaps back to avoid the spray. He frowns at his clothes when he sees he wasn't quick enough. "Look what you've done! You’ve made a mess of my coat!”

“Improved it, I’d say,” Crowley snarks. “Given it a pop of color.”

“I've had this coat for ages and hadn't collected a single stain! Not one! And look at your shoes! Ruined!" He gazes down at Crowley's feet in despair. "I actually liked that pair.”

“Really?" Crowley tilts his head, batting his eyes innocently. "You didn't tell me that.”

“Yes, well... " Aziraphale busies himself fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket. Praying he’s swift enough to save the fabric, he pats at the specks on his sleeve "... it’s not my place to tell a homicidal maniac that he looks fetching in snakeskin, is it?”

Crowley pouts, his lower lip jutting out, making him look comically childish despite the streaks of blood running down his cheeks. 

Aziraphale’s brows pull together. He glances around, trying to work out what's wrong. "What? What is it?"

"You're being mean."

"How am I being mean?"

"You're calling me names."

"Accurate ones, yes."

"You sound disappointed."

"You think so!?"

“B-but... but why? I took your advice!" Crowley argues. "I changed me m.o.!”

“I didn’t give you advice! I said you should stop killing innocent people!”

“I did! This guy?" Crowley plants the heel of his sopping shoe into the dead man's crooked neck for emphasis. "He weren’t innocent! He was a serial killer, too! He just happened to be shite at it!”

"I can see that." Aziraphale peers into the vacant eyes of the man on the ground, spirit buzzing beneath his skin, waiting to be reaped. But Aziraphale is in no rush. In the choice between filling out paperwork and shooting the shite with Crowley, surprisingly, he chooses Crowley. 

Or maybe not so surprising, Aziraphale muses, biting his lower lip and indulging in a private chuckle. He rolls his eyes in disgust at himself right after. What are you doing? Stop that!

"Besides, I'm doin' you a solid!" 

Aziraphale scoffs, snapping back to his senses. "How do you figure?"

"You're Death, ain't ya? I'm keeping you in business!"

"I don't know if you've read the papers lately, dear boy, but humans are dropping like flies thanks to their own stubbornness and stupidity. You're slap in the middle of one of the worst pandemics in history, but instead of doing what you can to stay safe, you lot spend your time arguing over petty b.s.! I won't wear a mask! It's against my rights! I'm not taking the vaccine! It'll make me sterile! There is no disease! It's all a big conspiracy! Meanwhile, in the states, some orange lunatic has everyone drinking bleach! Believe me, I hardly need your help doing my job!" 

“Oi! Don’t lump me in with those prats!”

“Why not? You’re not wearing a mask, I see.”

“Don’t have to. I got my shot. And I keep me distance.”

“But you’re covered in blood! Did that man you dismembered have the virus!? You don’t know!” Aziraphale cringes at words that sound far more like concern than scolding. Which he should be doing. Scolding and ridiculing, and possibly calling the police.

But he won’t.

If Crowley were thrown in prison, it would be harder for Aziraphale to find an excuse to see him. Aziraphale has yet to decide if that’s something he wants, but either way, he’d prefer it not be at the expense of another life.

"Fine. Whatever. If that's the way you feel about it... " Crowley grumbles, letting what remains of that statement die as embarrassment rises to his cheeks, settling beneath the red already there. He crosses his arms over his chest and turns his face away. 

Just like a child, Aziraphale thinks. 

And as with a child, Aziraphale should have nipped this in the bud much, much earlier - like when Crowley realized that he could summon Aziraphale whenever he wanted by upping the frequency of his murderous antics. 

This, to date, is his twenty-seventh kill.

Aziraphale doesn't know how Crowley spotted him. He's pretty adept at avoiding human detection. But after victim number eight, Aziraphale turned around, scythe in hand, and there he stood: tall, gangly, bizarrely besotted, dressed in black and wearing sunglasses at one in the morning. Aziraphale thought Crowley was a run-of-the-mill psychopath looking for attention, seeing Aziraphale as a hapless dolt to play cat-and-mouse with, not knowing for one second who he was dealing with.

Not only did Crowley know exactly who Aziraphale was, but he had taken a considerable shine to him.

Aziraphale humored the man when their paths crossed so he could get on with his work, never for one minute considering the consequences. Thinking back on their past interactions, Aziraphale can pick out the hints Crowley had been dropping.

Aziraphale played right into them, and he could kick himself over it.

"We have to stop meeting like this," Aziraphale quipped dryly after Crowley had beheaded some poor, down-on-his-luck fool. "I'm going to start thinking that you have a thing for me."

"Finally!" Crowley tossed his arms in the air. "At this rate, I was going to have to murder half of London and spell out the words ’Will you go out with me?’ with their bodies. Do you know how time-consuming that would have been?"

Aziraphale had written that comment off as a morbid attempt at humor. 

Now he feels like an imbecile.

He’s going to get an earful from Gabriel if he ever gets wind of this. Aziraphale has been able to cover up the increase in London deaths by blaming the pandemic. But once people get their acts together and things calm down, he’ll have to come clean.

There’s a serial killer roaming the streets that has a serious crush on him.

Aziraphale lets out a heavy sigh as he comes to a decision.

A bad decision.

He's going to regret this. He knows he's going to regret this. 

But will he really though?

Aziraphale looks Crowley over, still moping with his nose in the air. He examines him at depth - his sharp features, his debonair style (hiding beneath a litre of blood), his devil-may-care attitude, his rowdy sense of humor. If he were another angel, or even a demon, Aziraphale would have asked him out already, body count or no. 

So what is he waiting for?

It’s not entirely unheard of, an angel dating outside their dominion. And as for the moral issues of dating a murderer, well, Aziraphale is an angel. He has a responsibility to bring sinners to the light, help them see the truth. That can be done anywhere, not just in church - on a street corner, in a diner…

Back at his flat.

Besides, he and Crowley have a lot more in common than Aziraphale did with his last paramour, an angel he had dallied with solely for the fact that he was guardian of comestibles.

It seemed like a match made in Heaven, so to speak.

Far from it.

“Look - if I let you take me out for coffee, will you stop the gratuitous bloodshed?”

Crowley all but gasps when that question leaves Aziraphale’s mouth, the grin growing on his face transforming, becoming less maniacal and more… normal if that makes any sense. "One cup of coffee. That's all I ask."

"Then come along. Here… “ Aziraphale snaps his fingers, cleaning Crowley thoroughly before he takes his arm. “If you're good, I'll let you buy me a slice of cake.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I’m glad you think so. I’m a very slow eater. And I figure the longer I stay with you, the more I can keep an eye on you."

“Deal. But, you know," Crowley starts, his tone so filled with teasing he’s on the verge of giggles, "if you, say, spent the night at my flat, you could keep an eye on me for hours. Think of all the people I wouldn’t be able to kill.”

Aziraphale smirks, amused that they both had a semblance of the same idea. “You don’t say?”

“I do.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“More so than you bartering human lives against a cuppa and cake?”

Aziraphale shrugs, but he doesn't relinquish Crowley's arm. He does, however, relieve him of his ax so he doesn’t get any ideas along the way. “Fair point.”

[blackdragonturds]

“Here” part 3!

Here is part 3! Enjoy! ******** I woke up early that next morning, yawning and stretching myself. I found that a neatly folded pile of fresh clothes were by my bedside and new shoes. I smiled putting them on.

It was a soft and nice blue blouse and pants as I looked quite nice in it.  I could hear chatter outside my room as I looked outside.

D’Vorah and Erron seemed to be discussing something.

“That broken flower of a human is powerless! How can they be able to serve the Kahn?”

“Indigos are rare, D’Vorah. They’re one of a kind and they can alter their abilities if given time.”

Indigo? What in God’s name is an Indigo?

I hid behind my door listening in on it. The bug lady began,

“Erron, you wasted your money. That human will die young you know. The only way to spare them is to take them to Shang Tsung and slow their aging process.”

“I know.  I plan to.”

“Without the Kahn’s consent?”

“Beat you to the punch. He said I can last night.”

“If you insist, but if that moon child turns into bloody slime its your responsibility.”

I gulped at that statement. What were they gonna do to me?!

I had to keep myself calm as I could hear footsteps approach my door.

“Hey, Y/N, you awake?” Erron called.

“Just a second!”

I open the door to see Erron with a veil over his arm and he tells me,

“Well, you’re comin’ with me kid.”

“Okay. Where to?”

“To a friend of mine. He can answer your questions.”

He approaches me to place the veil over my head.

“Nuttin’ personal kid, but the Kahn wanted me to see to slowing down your aging process. That way you’ll be around for a few centuries.”

I was in total disbelief.

“Wait, what?! What are you saying?”

He sighed with an annoyed tone informing me,

“I am saying that the Kahn doesn’t like the shortness of a human life span, so I’m taking you to a special friend of mine to take care of that. Now come with me.”

I nodded and he called to D’Vorah.

“Hey! Toss me that amulet will ya’?”

The bug lady smiled and handed him the device,

“With pleasure Erron.”

Taking the item, he opens another portal wiping slime off his hand with his pants. He looked at me for a split second before he looked away.

I wonder what this was all about…

“Well, let’s go.” he didn’t sound confident but I obey.

“Y…yes sir…”

I follow him through the portal, and he grabbed my wrist. It didn’t hurt, but he was frighteningly strong.

“You move too slowly. Stay behind me.”

“Okay, sorry…”

Once through the portal, I find myself in a place not like the throne room of Kotal Kahn’s palace. It had a temple feel with jade statues everywhere.

I see Erron walk with me, my wrist still in his hand to a man with what seemed to be Chinese features. Long black hair neatly braided behind him and silk black and yellow robes. He smiles seeing the man holding my wrist.

“My dear friend Erron Black. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Hello Shang. I have a problem.”

Erron let go of my wrist finally but left a welt in me. He pushed me towards the man as Shang coyly replied,

“Be gentle! You brought a fine specimen. What do you plan on with this mortal? An offering to my experiments?”

Erron told him,

“I need you to slow down that kid’s aging process. Kahn’s orders.”

Shang gathered my hands into his while he stared at me,

“Pity I can’t keep you my dear. This one is quite beautiful…Is this one a sleigh beggy by chance?”

“No, They’re an Indigo, a moon child. Or as some call them lost souls.” Erron’s tone sounded concerned, or maybe it was just me. I can sense a person’s tone how they really feel. Is he actually concerned about me?

“Ahhh I see. If this one were a sleigh beggy that would be twice as difficult to work with.”

Shang brought his hand up to touch my face. I felt odd receiving such compliments.

“I see why Kotal Kahn wants this one, quite special indeed. Thank you Black. i will see to that at once.”

Erron warned him,

“No funny business, we clear?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Shang asked in a playful tone.

“I mean, don’t make any stupid mistakes or fuck up. I payed good money for that Indigo.” Erron growled.

Shang’s expression turned into a smirk.

“You bought this moon child? As much as I am opposed to buying slaves I will admit, you bought a beauty.”

Shang lowers his hands off my face and takes my hand.

“Come with me you two so we may begin.”

I turn my gaze to Erron, and I could see a bit of fear or concern in his eyes. Well, I am scared too a bit. I don’t know this Shang Tsung from Adam or Eve for that matter.

Shang led us to a work room I presume, full of all kinds of items I never saw on Earth. Were there embalming tools on the table? And I wondered why there were fetuses in jars of some odd orange liquid on a high shelf. I felt uneasy as Shang strides into his small back room for something.

“Ah ha! Here it is!”

He reveals a large green box with an ornately decorated lid. In a way it resembled a treasure chest but with a heart design on the lock. He handed it to Erron,

“You know the procedure Black.”

“Of course. Hey Y/N…”

I turned my attention to Erron.

“Can you reach behind me and grab that satchel hanging off my belt? Its the brown one next to the small vials of sand. I would but my hands are full.”

“Okay.” I replied.

I walk behind him, pushing his cape aside reaching for the small pouch.

Erron said calmly,

“Shang, how’s a hundred thousand for payment?”

“That will be just fine. If you were a stranger I’d charge extra.”

“I know,”

Erron informed me,

“Hand the coin pouch to him. I have what you need.”

Nodding, I handed the coin purse to the man,

“Thank you my dear.” Shang smiled, placing the bag on his desk. Knitting his fingers together, he purred,

“Now I just need a blood sample and we can get started.”

“Blood sample? What are you up to?” Erron asked.

“Not from you, them.” He said pointing to me. I felt afraid and hugged Erron’s side. I began to tremble fearing the worst.

“Don’t be afraid, he’s gonna help you…I hope.” His last statement was more of a whisper.

Shang patted my head,

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, child.”

He pulls a small knife out from his sleeve,

“May I see your arm?”

I reluctantly stretch my arm out, and as quick as a wink, Shang cut my wrist across with a swift motion. I wince in pain as I saw blood drain from my wrist.

“Don’t hurt them, Shang.” Erron hissed.

“Oh I won’t friend.”

The man took his now bloody knife and tasted it.

Eww…

He smiled, and said in a pleased tone.

“I knew it…that taste is one in three trillion.”

Erron looked at me in a fearful manner as Tsung continued,

“This one is truly an indigo. You chose a great specimen. Now, you two may leave to your own accord. The instructions on the age slowing process are in the chest.”

Erron gave a polite tip of his hat, and walked with me out the door. I held the door open for him as he set the box down onto the ground. He inspected my cut as he shook his head.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“He shouldn’t have cut you like that. Any deeper you would get an infection.”

He reaches into one of his pockets and bandages up my wound with a handkerchief.

“That should slow down the bleeding.”

“Erron?”

“What?”

“Where you afraid of what would happen?”

He looked down to his shoes and took a while to answer me.

“He’s been different for a while now. I…I can’t explain how.”

I hugged him tightly out of whatever instinct I had telling me to.

“Huh?”

“Thank you Erron. I oddly feel safe around you…” I whispered.

Rubbing my head, he said to me in a softer tone,

“You’re welcome. Let’s get you back to the Kahn’s quarters so I can get your age slowing started.”

I nodded letting go of him. He pushed my face up to look at me.

“Are you feeling all right? You look kind of pale…”

“I’m fine…what the…”

Suddenly, the world around me felt like it was spinning. I felt dizzy and I fell to the ground. Everything turned black as I closed my eyes.

Erron’s POV

“Y/N!”

I tried to grab them as they fell but I managed to keep their head from hitting the ground. I felt my throat grow tight in concern as I looked around wondering how to assess the situation. The veil I had on Y/N to protect them didn’t work it seemed. That thing was supposed to help protect from Shang’s spellwork! But wait…

What exactly am I feeling? Why did my heart suddenly feel tight when Y/N fell?

Tossing Y/N over my shoulder, I try to reach for my belt for Shinnok’s amulet. Opening a portal to Kotal Kahn’s throne room, I stick it back to my belt and lift the box of things Y/N needed. I get up to walk through the portal. Soon, I see Kotal Kahn stand waiting by the portal.

“What has happened?” He demanded.

“Y/N passed out on our way back. I dunno what Shang did to them. He acted totally different when I went to get the things we need.”

The Kahn rubbed his chin to think.

“That sorcerer has been different? How?”

“When I informed him Y/N was an indigo, he seemed to grow malicious. I think he wanted to keep them for his experiments.”

The Kahn nodded,

“Good thing you left early then. I don’t want my future soothsayer to be dead.”

“Yes my lord.”

I carried the box and Y/N to their small bed, placing the chest on the floor. Opening the chest was a small vial, a note and some things I used when I slowed my aging. But this didn’t seem right.

Closing the chest, the Kahn tisk-tisks at me.

“I did what I had to my Emperor.”

“That is not the issue Erron. If what happened was because of Shang Tsung, you are not in the wrong here. You may stay with Y/N until they awaken.”

“Yes my lord…”

Now what should I do? But I didn’t ask. No way would I risk it.

to be continued…

[snapovans]

Chapter 1: The Boy Who Lived

A stinging pain woke Severus in the middle of the night. He almost moaned as he brought his left hand against his chest in self-preservation, and straightened up in his chair – he had once again fallen asleep at his desk while proofing his students’ works. The pain kept throbbing, like ice freezing his blood, ice burning him from inside. Severus didn’t think and pulled of the ring he wore on his middle finger. The onyx gem, that had been unusually shining, dimmed as soon as he dropped it. It knocked against the wood of his desktop, loud in the otherwise silent room. The pain faded away and Severus closed his eyes, swallowing back tears. He took several deep breaths. When he was able to move his hand without feeling like it was covered in splinters, he leaned down towards the ring to examine the gemstone. It was… turned off, for a lack of a better word. A new wave of ice washed over him. Fear. No, no, no. It was only a malfunction of the charm, a mistake… Though, when was the last time Lily had cast a defective charm? No. Severus pulled back his left sleeve, his right hand shaking as he did so. A gasp. The Mark had faded. Just like the gemstone. Did it mean…? No. No!

Severus took the ring, his fist tight around it, letting the unnatural icing bite of the stone mark him as he stood up from his chair, as he ran out of his office.

~

The door opened before Severus even stepped off the stairs. Dumbledore was talking to one of the paintings on the wall, and as Severus entered, the painted woman disappeared.

“You already know,” Severus stated as Dumbledore turned around to face him. His eyes weren’t twinkling with their usual malice, and it was all the confirmation Severus nodded. He sat on the nearest chair and took a moment to breathe deeply. The ring was still burning in his hand, an icy sting he could focus on to not slip away.

“I’m sorry, Severus,” Dumbledore said with an understanding look. Severus scoffed. Dumbledore had promised him James and Lily would be well-protected, and yet the biting coldness in his hand was proving otherwise.

“What about Harry? Did he survive?”

It was foolish, but it was the only thing he could desperately hope for. No one had ever survived the Dark Lord, but maybe… He would never forgive himself if Harry had died too.

Before the headmaster could answer, the door opened and Hagrid entered the room. He looked harried. He was panting, his face redder than a tomato. The half-giant had probably run all the way from his hut.

“Professor?”

“Ah, Rubeus. Just on time.”

“What is it?”

The half-giant briefly glanced at Severus before looking back at the headmaster.

“I’m sadden to say what we had been fearing has happened.”

Dumbledore barely finished speaking, and Hagrid was already crying. He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket inside his enormous coat and blew his nose as if it was a horn. Several paintings cast him dark looks. Severus clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together. He would surely have a headache come breakfast, but it was the least of his worries. He needed answers. Now.

Dumbledore stepped closer to Hagrid and with a hand under the half-giant’s elbow, brought him to the fireplace.

“Bathilda is waiting for you. Harry survived, you will bring him back here.”

Severus barely managed to suppress a gasp. Something loosened in his chest, making him forget for a moment the icy bite in his hand.

“He will be safer at Hogwarts while I make some arrangements.”

Severus didn’t dare to speak in front of a third party, especially one such has Hagrid, but he had questions. Dumbledore didn’t glance at him until Hagrid took a handful of floo powder and disappeared, bend in half, in a blaze of green. Severus couldn’t help a wince at the sight. Had the Dark Lord tortured Lily and James? Or had he used the Killing Curse right away?

Dumbledore turned around, his whole demeanor suddenly changed. Shoulders low, eyes saddened, corners of his mouth down. He didn’t look like the mightiest wizard of his age, vanquisher of a Dark Lord, the one sorcerer another Dark Lord had been the most afraid of. He looked like an old man with a burden far too great for his own shoulders, a man who had witnessed one too many tragedies.

The headmaster sat in the chair next to Severus and raised a hand, as to confront him, but refrained at the last moment. Severus was grateful – he couldn’t bear someone’s else touch right now.

“So, Harry is alive?” he croaked, looking at Dumbledore.

“Yes. I don’t know how it can be, not yet, but it seems to be a miracle. The whole house has burned down, Voldemort has disappeared, and Harry remains.”

Severus nodded. There was so much to talk about, to wonder, but…

“You don’t think the Dark Lord is dead?” he asked, noticing Dumbledore’s word choice. It wasn’t in his habits to use euphemism. If the Dark Lord had been dead, he wouldn't have stated otherwise. Yet, Severus hardly believed it. If the Dark Lord wasn’t dead, then James and Lily… it was all for nothing?

“I think it would be foolish to believe he wouldn’t have prepared for this eventuality. Whatever happened, it probably wasn’t the last time we hear about him.”

Dread crawled inside Severus. He didn’t doubt the headmaster for one second, which meant the war wasn’t finished. For how long?

“Why did you send Hagrid to get Harry? I could have gone, he is my-”

He was stopped by Dumbledore putting a hand over his. He froze, and the look the old man gave him made him fear what was coming next.

“I trust Rubeus with my own life. No harm will come to Harry. As for your role… With Voldemort’s fate unknown and his followers at large, you are still my best asset in this war..”

Comprehension dawned on Severus and he closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t…

“You want me to keep spying.”

His voice was glacial, but it didn’t seem to affect Dumbledore. If he was to keep his cover, it meant…

“What about Harry?”

There was no way Severus could have the baby if he kept his role as a double-agent. Yet the thought of leaving him again…

“He will need the strongest protection there is until we know more of Voldemort’s situation.” Dumbledore wasn’t looking at him. Severus tensed, he had never seen him like this.

“He will need blood magic to protect him.”

It felt like a slap in his face, like a punch to the gut.

“I’m his father,” he protested weakly.

Dumbledore finally raised his face toward him. He looked sorry, like he knew what he was asking of Severus, but how could he? The man never had a child! He couldn’t understand!

“I know. But you are not related by blood. This kind of magic won’t recognize you as a valid guardian.”

Severus shook his head and stood up. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It wasn’t supposed to end like this! He accepted to play the part, so they could have a better future. He sacrificed so much, and for what? Lily and James were dead, and Harry was to be kept away from him! Perhaps he could still visit, but it wouldn’t be the same.

“You said we wouldn’t have to hide forever!” he accused with a sneer. He knew logically that Dumbledore wasn’t at fault, that he could have never predicted what would happen, but Severus was angry. No, he was enraged and he needed someone to blame.

“We trusted you! You said it would only be temporary! They are dead! And now you want me to stay away from Harry while someone else raise him? I-”

Severus stopped suddenly. James’ parents had died before they had left Hogwarts, and he had no siblings. As for Lily, her parents had died the year before. The closest relative would be…

“You can’t seriously be thinking of giving Harry to her.”

His contempt ran loud in the office as he said the last word.

“It is the safest place for Harry.”

Severus scoffed. He wouldn’t even trust a plant in Petunia’s care, even less in her sad excuse of a husband’s.

“If you truly care about him, you will accept it.”

And that was the heart of the problem, wasn’t it? He cared for his family more than for himself. He wanted to have Harry close to him, to watch him grow, but that would put him in danger. Whereas with Petunia, no wizard would be able to harm him. In the muggle world, he would grow away from the aftermath of the war, away from the tragedies surrounding their family. Severus wanted to protest. James would have fought to find a better solution, but Severus knew Dumbledore was right. Blood magic was ancient, powerful. He sighed in defeat as he closed his eyes and nodded.

He heard Dumbledore get up and step closer to him.

“I am sorry for what I am asking of you. But you know the prophecy as well as I do. It is for the greater good.”

Severus nodded, keeping all emotions from showing on his face. There was no point in arguing with Dumbledore, but for now he couldn’t care less about the greater good.

~

Severus couldn’t go back to sleep. He paced along the corridors, and after a couple of encounters, avoided the others teachers. It was even worse in the morning when the students woke up and learned the news. No one could blame them, really, if they were using magic outside of classrooms to make fireworks and send messages of rejoicing. The ghosts were gossiping – as usual – and before breakfast was over, multiple version of the Dark Lord’s demise were running around, all different, all more extravagant and implausible than the previous one. Though they all had one thing in common: the death of James and Lily Potter, and the unexpected survival of their son, Harry. Severus glared at the students every time he heard of it, and when Filius asked him to smile and rejoice at the good news, he simply answered dryly: “Sorry not to feel merry at the thought of others’ suffering.”

He knew people still doubted his allegiance to Dumbledore – that had been the whole point after all – and his attitude wouldn’t approve the opinion of those who still saw him as a Death Eater. As for those who had known him as a student, they would never believe he could be grieving James Potter and his wife. That would surely please Dumbledore.

Severus found himself walking the grounds around the castle. He reminded the students of the school’s rules, but not even his scowl could damper the happiness of the day. There was smoke floating out of Hagrid’s hut, and Severus stopped for a moment. If the half-giant was back, Harry should be with him. He wanted to see his son, to hold him and make sure he was alive and well, but how could he face his own son when he had failed him so spectacularly?

He closed his eyes, not wanting anyone to see the tears swelling there. The laughters and cries of joy and relief were everywhere, the icy burn of the ring on his finger a ray of cold piercing through the festive atmosphere. He opened his eyes, watched students going to the lake, teachers smiling at them. Hagrid’s hut waited in the opposite direction.

He was almost there when he saw a motorcycle parked next to giants pumpkins. Black’s motorcycle. Severus froze. No, Black couldn’t be here. He had been James and Lily’s Secret Keeper. For the Dark Lord to have found them, he would have tortured and killed Black. But if he was alive, it meant he had been working with the Dark Lord, and for all his animosity toward the man, Severus couldn’t picture him betraying James and Lily like that.

He knocked once, twice and barely waited for an answer. It was hot inside the hut, a hard contrast to the chilly autumnal air outside. Hagrid sat in front of the fireplace, his back to Severus, and didn’t seem to have heard him enter. There was no one else there, not Black, not Harry. Severus frowned, coughed. The half-giant startled and turned around. His eyes went wide in surprise.

“Professor Snape, I… I wasn’t expecting you!”

His face was red, from the heat or embarrassment, Severus couldn’t tell.

“I didn’t mean to surprise you, but-”

He couldn’t finish his sentence. In the half-giant arm laid Harry, sleeping. He looked so small, dwarfed by the sleeve of Hagrid’s coat. At the sound of his voice, though, the baby stirred and familiar green eyes searched for him as his little hands raised in the air.

“Dada! Dada!”

His voice made Severus’ heart shatter in thousand pieces and filled him with warmth at the same time.

Hagrid was fussing over the baby. “No, I had just managed to make him go to sleep. He had been crying non-stop since I picked him up.”

Harry wasn’t crying now, no. He was frowning at Severus and his voice was getting louder and more commanding.

“Dada!”

Hagrid started to ask him what was wrong, and Severus finally took the final steps across the room.

“Here, I’ll take him.”

Severus didn’t even care about how it must look to the grounds-keeper. If it had only been him, he wouldn’t have trusted the half-giant, but Dumbledore trusted him to take care of Harry, and if anything, Severus trusted Dumbledore.

Hagrid didn’t react straight away, but Harry was trying to climb out of his arms, desperate to be embraced by someone familiar. Severus could see tears coming up and his cheeks reddening. He recognized the signs, and before Harry could start wailing his lungs off, he took his son in his arms.

“Sh, it’s alright darling. I’m here”, he murmured against his head, smelling smoke in his black hairs. A new wave of grief passed over him, threatened to pull him at large, but he couldn’t let go. Not now, not when his son depended on him.

He turned away from Hagrid and started to pace across the room, rocking Harry against his chest. He didn’t want to ever let him go again. He could feel Harry’s face wet with tears and snot as he sniffled against Severus’ shoulder.

“Papa? Mama?” he asked, looking behind Severus as if James and Lily would suddenly appear.

“I’m sorry darling, they’re not coming. I’m sorry.”

He stopped at the window which faced the forest. The trees were in shades of red and gold, slowly losing their leaves. Some birds were flying over the branches, amongst dozens of owls which were bringing letters despite breakfast being over for more than an hour. They probably wouldn’t stop anytime soon. Hagrid was silent, yet Severus could feel his gaze on them. He kept his back to the half-giant. Now wasn’t the time to explain. He tightened his grip on his son, felt little fingers pulling on strands of his hair, and he wept.

~

Severus didn’t left Hagrid’s hut for the rest of the day. He wasn’t hiding – it wasn’t like people were looking for him. Hagrid left a couple of times, when Severus made no sign of giving Harry back, not that the baby was complaining, on the contrary. Harry didn’t wait long before falling asleep, and he only woke up when he needed to be changed or to be fed. A house elf brought food to Severus too, at Hagrid’s demand, but Severus didn’t touch it.

Hagrid brought some news. Dumbledore, as expected, had left Hogwarts for the day to convince the right people about his plan for Harry. McGonagall too, which was a little more surprising. Severus wondered for a moment where she could have gone, instead of celebrating the victory with the other teachers and their students.

Late in the afternoon, not long before dinner, Hagrid brought back a special edition of the Prophet and a bottle of Firewhisky. Severus barely glanced at it – he didn’t want to read about the community celebrating. Although Hagrid told him about Black and Pettigrew’s duel. There had been a dozen of Muggles killed alongside Pettigrew by Black. Apparently Pettigrew was trying to catch Black after his blatant betrayal. So, Black had really been a traitor after all. Severus wished he had been there to made him pay, but he took some comfort in the idea of his former rival rotting away in Azkaban. Still, he was sad for Harry. Black had been his official godfather, and Pettigrew like an uncle. To lose so much in such a short time… As for Lupin, Severus didn’t have much faith in him. With his “condition”, he wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on Harry. As if Severus was any better. He wouldn’t be able to say or do anything betraying his true relationship with the Potters until it was certain the Dark Lord wad dead once and for all. How long would that take?

After dinner, when it was dark enough, Hagrid came back.

“Need to get going. Professor Dumbledore asked me to bring the little one to his aunt.”

Severus sighed. When will he see Harry next? Would he remember him? He leaned down to kiss Harry’s forehead, next to his scar. A souvenir from the Dark Lord apparently, where the Killing Curse had hit him and backfired. Severus had tried not to think how it would be to grow up with such a visible scar. Children could be so hurtful to each other.

“I love you, darling,” he whispered. “Always will.”

Slowly, Severus leaned back and stood up from his chair. He put Harry in a blanket so he wouldn’t be cold during the journey, and reluctantly gave him to Hagrid. The half-giant took him carefully, more than Severus would have expected him to.

“I’ll take good care of him,” Hagrid promised, voice strangled by emotions.

Severus only nodded. His throat was too tight to let him speak.

As soon as Hagrid stepped back, Harry started crying, making grabbing gestures towards Severus, calling after him. It took all Severus’ strength and more to not bring Harry back in the security of his arms. He trusted Dumbledore and his plan. He had to.

When the door closed behind Hagrid, tears began to run. He could still hear Harry cry. He went to the fireplace and gripped the mantelpiece. His fingers were paler than ever, so tight on the unforgiving stone, but the hurt barely registered.

Soon, the rumbling of the motorcycle and Harry’s wailing faded away and Severus was left alone.

He took the bottle of Firewhisky and sat in the large armchair by the fireplace. He couldn’t feel the heat. He barely felt the icy bite of his ring. He felt nothing and wanted to forget. He unscrewed the bottle and he could picture clearly Lily’s disapproval and James’ tentative comfort. But that was the problem: he could only picture it now. He would never get to see them again. His husband and his wife were dead, his son taken away.

~

Tears had slowed down since Hagrid left Harry on that doorstep. He still sniffed every couple of minutes as he landed next to his plot of pumpkins. He turned off the engine and swiped away some snot that was dripping threateningly near his beard. He didn’t have to be careful of being discreet, as his hut was far enough from the castle not to awake its occupants even if he decided to sing loudly – which was probably the plan to end the night. Firewhisky tended to bring his artistic voice out. He entered his hut, letting the door slam close behind him. He took off his coat and grumbled as he sat and bent down to take his boots off as well. The fire was dying, he would need to put some wood again in it if he didn’t want to die from the cold – or at least if he didn’t want to get sick. He went to his table and was surprised to see his bottle wasn’t there any more. He looked around and startled when he saw a dark figure in his favorite armchair. He stepped closer. It was Professor Snape curled on himself. He looked like a kid in the too-big-for-him armchair, and Hagrid couldn’t get angry when he saw the empty bottle by his side. He even felt pity as he witnessed tear tracks on the Professor’s pale face, the snot under his nose.

Whatever people thought, Hagrid wasn’t stupid. He knew what was said about Professor Snape behind his back. He knew no one but Professor Dumbledore trusted him. He had heard teachers and students alike talking about Professor Snape’s absence during the day, his inability to participate in the celebrations. They truly believed he wasn’t happy his Dark Lord had been defeated. Hagrid wasn’t stupid. He didn’t know everything, sure. Everyone had secrets, but he trusted blindly Professor Dumbledore and if the man trusted Professor Snape... Perhaps he had doubts before, like everyone else. Until he had seen Professor Snape’s haunted look last night in Professor Dumbledore’s office. Until Professor Snape came this morning and held little Harry like he was the most precious thing in the world. Until he heard whispers from Professor Snape and cries from little Harry. Hagrid wasn’t stupid. Everyone had secrets, and he knew things often weren’t exactly like they appeared to be.

So, he took a plaid from his bed and covered Professor Snape with it. He took the empty bottle away and made sure the fire would burn through the night. Whatever Professor Snape’s secrets were, he would damn well help him protect them.

[ladyhaesoo]

hotel blue moon

"There are a lot of people in this world who deserve to die. And some thoughtful freaks kill them for us in secret. That's why clueless civilians can sleep peacefully at night, completely unaware. Which one do you think I am?"

“Which one do you think I am?"

part 2 | read on page (not for the mobile app, but prettier)

There were a lot of things Moonyoung did not enjoy doing. Smiling unnecessarily. Being touched. Having to censor her books for the general public when their intended audience had no problems with her content. Meeting with obnoxious directors of large hospital chains that took advantage of people's suffering to make billions while looking like great philanthropists.

Ham and Gam hospitals hosted the largest paediatric wards in all of South Korea, with the country's best (highest paid, inflated, overconfident) paediatric doctors and surgeons on their staff. The ugly posters of smiling doctors (couldn't they have hired models?) and smiling children with assorted bullshit statistics stared at her as she sat there, doing one thing she hated so she wouldn't have to do another thing that she, unfortunately, hated more.

The earliest reviews of Zombie Kid were not looking good. Sangin was crying or yelling every time he spoke to her. The art was too gruesome, the story was too violent—of course it was too violent for the timid reviewers that read it from the safety of newspaper positions that afforded them the right to have no critical thinking whatsoever. Themes? Metaphors? These were the people who ate Cinderella up and pretended no feet were harmed in the making of this fairytale.

Still, she had a fanbase. Her books would sell, and, per Sangin, if she went to a hospital and read her books to children who needed money and medicine and possibly new organs, everyone would clap about her good deeds and forget all about the child that ate his mother.

If that had been all, Moonyoung wouldn't have minded. She liked readings; the terrorised but delighted little eyes staring up at her, eating up every word, learning something that a good many adults would never understand. The reading of this book did not have nearly as much drama as she would like, and any more cannibalism-based artwork had been ruled out, but it was still a good read. She made chewing noises as she read, and the children were delighted.

But it was not all.

And the truly generous Ham Kojeon had then had the audacity to postpone their meeting.

Moonyoung had nearly turned around and walked for the stairs, but Sangin was getting scarily fast at keeping up with her; his arm had popped up in her way before she could take a step down, and he'd dodged when she'd gone for her purse, then said something and gone to argue with the secretary.

"The director's been called into an urgent meeting," the secretary had told Sangin half an hour ago. "But the director has arranged snacks for you in the waiting room."

The waiting room in question surrounded the director's office, separated by frosted windows that gave a nice view into the room itself. Nothing was clear, but she could just about make out a pair of nice broad shoulders walking around the room. "Oh my," she said when the shoulders visibly walked around the desk to stare down at where the director was presumably sitting. "Has he delayed us to meet with a personal guest? How impolite."

Sangin glared at her. On the other side, his makeshift assistant giggled into her folder.

"Well, maybe I should go join them. Better view from inside. I deserve some entertainment too if he's going to keep me waiting."

Sangin hissed something about the people listening, even though it was just them and the director's secretary. Moonyoung rolled her eyes and turned away. Sometimes—just sometimes—she almost wished she valued her creative autonomy less than she did.

She shifted to relieving her frustration with all of this by grinding the metal heel of her boot into the metal leg of the chair and enjoying Sangin wincing every time she did it. The trick to something like that was variation. A few seconds of relief meant he wasn't expecting it when—

A thin distant alarm bell began to peal throughout the building, and Moonyoung laughed. "Can this day get any worse?"

Sangin groaned. "Wait a minute, let me go find out what's happened. Don't go anywhere!" he commanded, then gave the art director a look that said make sure she doesn't go anywhere. Then he ran off, presumably to interrogate someone poorly.

Moonyoung gave it a second, then got up and left. "Ms. Ko!" Poor little Seungjae called, but didn't make to follow. Moonyoung ignored her and went down the stairs. If nothing else, she needed a smoke break, especially if she was really expected to shake hands with Ham Kojeon after this.

She was halfway down the stairs when she saw it; a man in a patient's uniform dragging a child into what looked like a supplies closet. She followed at some distance, eyes narrowing, mind whirring uncomfortably. The girl was crying, but the alarm bells were loud enough on this floor that she wasn't audible over them—was that smoke she smelled? Had the man taken advantage of the fire, or had he started it?

When she slipped into the still-open closet door, the man was on his knees in front of the sobbing girl. "I'm your father!" he insisted. "I'm really your father! Why are you crying?"

"My father's dead!" the girl was repeating, eyes screwed shut, "You're not my father!"

"Listen to Daddy! I'm not dead! We both have to go together, do you hear me? Children can't live alone without their parents, that's why we both have to go at the same time!"

Moonyoung clicked her tongue. "What is this? Some kind of personality disorder? Delusions? I didn't realise it was that kind of hospital." She did hope the contempt came through. It worked; the man dropped the girl's arms, and turned to glare at her.

"Who the hell are you?" the man's voice faded between ordinary and not-quite-ordinary. Moonyoung frowned despite herself as his face seemed to shudder into something grotesque for a second—but when she blinked, it was just a grey-haired man with yellowing teeth. "This is between me and my daughter! Stay out of this!"

"She said she isn't your daughter," Moonyoung said. "If you want to die, die alone. If you want to live, don't steal others' children."

The man scrambled off his feet and came towards her. "Do you want to die? What the hell do you know? This is my daughter, and I'll do whatever the hell I like."

"Hearing problem?" she yelled, making an exaggerated gesture towards her ear. "I said, she—"

The man lunged towards her, and she slammed the hard end of her purse into his face, knocking him clean to the ground. The purse flew open, and her knife—too pretty for this place, with its carved handle and its surgical sharp tip—flew out of it to land somewhere beyond the man's hand.

He reared towards it, but he was on the ground, she was faster, and she stamped on his hand, keeping him from reaching the knife, and kicked it out of the way but somehow the man was up again. He jumped, and reached for her throat, grabbing her in a violent choke and banging her head onto the tile. A storage shelf crashed to the ground somewhere behind him. Her legs froze. The hands on her throat went from warm to cool to warm to cool to warm. "Die! Die! Why won't you just die!" a familiar face screamed. Hair floated in her vision, and the face blurred out.

The pressure on her throat lifted abruptly. She grabbed at her throat, air coming in way too fast, the imprint of cold—cold? warm—no—they had been cold, hadn't they?—hands around her throat still stinging, along with every uncomfortable nightmare they drew up.

When her vision re-adjusted, the man was wrestling with another man in a waistcoat. Consciousness returned. She was in Ham and Gam hospital. She was awake. She was an adult. And a piece of shit had just—fucking—strangled her—

She got to her feet and grabbed the knife.

Waistcoat had won, but that didn't help her. "I'll kill you all! All of you!" the man was shouting, even on the ground and clearly restrained by something. Her ears were still buzzing; the man's voice phased again, into something wrong, before it came back.

She lifted her arm, and brought the knife down—

It was a sharp knife. Moonyoung always ate her steak rare, red and raw enough to bleed if she cut into it too quickly—tough enough that no dull knife would cut through cleanly, without ugly ragged edges. This knife cut through her meat perfectly, even with little pressure. That was why she liked it.

It sliced cleanly through flesh, catching on bone too tough for it. She felt the fingers that closed around the knife in her own grip on it, surprisingly sensory. Blood dripped down a forearm and stained the cuff of a sleeve.

Waistcoat stared at her, and she stared back.

"I'd appreciate if you stayed out of this," she said.

The man with the knife currently embedded in his palm said, "Do you know how difficult it is to get stains out of a suit like this?"

"Are you with the hospital?" she asked. "There's a vermin infestation. I was just helping." she glanced down at the man whose arms were bound behind his back —by what, she couldn't see. He started shouting again as he realised her meaning, then promptly fainted, mid-word. She frowned, about to say something, when Waistcoat wrenched the knife from her palm, wringing his arm like a dog shaking water out of its fur. Little drops of blood landed around her heels. He began to wrap a bright silk handkerchief around the knife.

Moonyoung scoffed. "What, is the knife hurt? Why are you wrapping that around the knife?"

He didn't respond. She opened her palm in front of him. He looked up—finally. "Your hand," she said, "not the knife."

Waistcoat smiled. "Haven't you injured me enough right now?" he asked, and slipped the bandaged knife into his pocket.

"That's mine. "

"You tried to kill someone with it," he said.

She shrugged. "If he's Non-Compos Mentis, I can say I acted in self-defense. I was only going to give him a small cut with the knife, but you overreacted and injured yourself," she said, placing her unnerving smile on her lips. The man's lips quirked up, too—he had little dimples at the very corners, which made the smile far too cheerful for his otherwise unsmiling face.

"It landed in my palm, so it's mine now," he said, then cocked his head. "That was a lot of power for a small cut."

She smiled, and grabbed a handkerchief from her own purse. "There are a lot of people in this world who deserve to die," she said, grabbing his palm—apparently, she hadn’t injured him enough just yet. She began to wrap that around his hand, and it stained the red immediately, creating a deep blush in the center—blood in blood. "And some thoughtful freaks kill them for us in secret. That's why clueless civilians can sleep peacefully at night, completely unaware." She tugged the handkerchief shut, smiling when he shuddered. "Which one do you think I am?"

Waistcoat's smile widened. He looked to the unconscious man on the ground, then to his hand, and then to her. "Just a clueless civilian,” he said, after she had stabbed him clean through the palm, held hard enough that the steak knife would go through skin and artery easier than meat. “But which one do you think I am?"

[crazyclownthanos]

White Clover

Page 2: The one they call “the Devil God.”

Words: 2708

“Nice to finally meet you. Ace”

His icy tone complimented his deep voice.

Unlike the tone Nozel uses to call upon others. This man is somehow beats that tone on a whole new level.

Without taking note the man got closer to the young boy.

Ace was short circuited, meaning overwhelming his brain with questions.

The man was crossing personal territory by bonking his forehead onto Ace’s forehead.

...

Snort came out

The man shrugged back seeing the sight

“Need a handkerchief?” Pulling one out of his pants pocket.

No response.

He didn’t show any signs of annoyance. Getting on one knee he brought the handkerchief to his nose for him to blow into, still his silence was there.

“For Odin’s sake did I really kill a child for saving his life.”

He whispered underneath his breath.

Then a light bulb went off in Ace’s head.

Letting out a loud “EEEEHHHH!?”

twisting and turning his head searching by any sort of exit that could of linked to him entering the premises.

“Uhhbokumashindomakigawasoborac.....”

Ace was slowly disintegrating into a pile of goo, while the strange man could only assume that he was the one acting presumption.

“Beg my apologies I seem to having something blocking my ears.” Cleaning his ears with one of his fingers again crouching onto Ace’s level

Finding the strength to get back to height level Ace was ready to rack up questions to this man.

“F-f-f-f-first of all?” Poor boy was shivering, hesitating to even lift a finger. This was like another slap in the face to him, they already wasted too much time. He should really tell this child who he was.

Shifting back to his level he placed a finger on his lips to hush him.

“Helreignn.”

“My name is Helreignn Lokidottir.”

Now starring at this guy in full proposition, he had the look of a butler. Black split hair, split ends, fair skin, pointy chin, thick neck, black long sleeve extending to the wrists, over the black long sleeve is a purple vest on the outside is the lilac colour covering the entire vest and a mid purple lines splitting up. White wrist length gloves, black pants hemmed to the ankles and shiny brown leather shoes. Statue-wise he was built slim masculine. Not to mention his piercing red eyes that can dismiss any god.

“I assure you I won’t hurt you. In a matter of fact I am here to simply conduct myself to you”

“Conduct?’ Ace spoke out of turn resulting in Helreignn placing his finger over his mouth to hush him again

“Speak again and I will stab you and take out your organs and make it into a banner.” His toned became more dark. He wasn’t playing around.

Helreignn moved his hand over Ace’s lips and placed the hand behind his back and continued.

“I’m positive you’re aware about the movement of devils. Over 20 years ago a war happened. The tree of Qilpohoth went *poof! Ever since then the underworld became silent.”

pause.

“I believe it had a name.”

“The spade war?

The moment of time were a boy with no mana cut down one of my own ancient demon dogs, *sigh* poor thing never had a funeral for it~.”

The sarcastic manner he was speaking in was somewhat similar to how Solid would talk if his pork chops weren’t cut the way he wanted to be cut.

But the word ‘my own ancient demon dogs?’ By the word own? Did he make that happen. No. It can’t be possible.

“After the underdogs victory a few more bizarre events took place and next thing I knew I was holding a red headed baby in my arms and that baby appeared to be you.” Pointing at Ace. Ace got the wrong idea.

“You’ve been stalking me all my life?!” Pointing to himself

“What did I say moments ago?!”

He was sure mad. The white silhouette coming out and the red pricing eyes started to shine brighter.

Clearing his throat. His calm and cool persona came back.

“Excuse me but correct ‘stalking’ to ‘residing’ within the void. As the devil god and current ruler of the underworld I must birth or pick a heir to the throne. And that pick so happened to be you Ace.”

D-Devil K-King?

It had felt like a mirror had shattered.

Throne?!

Heir?

Devil?!

“You heard me correctly. Did you not? No? Hahaha that would be quite sad if you didn’t. In years to come that arrow that shot out of you will be the key of everyone dying a horrible death.”

The pain that already was there grew even larger. Like a tumour. The swell was immeasurable. Couldn’t be fixed.

Another tear? Crying already? This time it wasn’t just plain tears. It was tears of blood. Ace would never want the people he loves the most die a gruesome death because of his magic. This sight made Helreignn drop his mouth. Opening his mouth he simply laughed. Laughed at Ace for crying.

Quitting the laughter to speak. “It’s only on the contrary. Powers like those are super challenging to come by. Not even the director of the magic knights or even the Wizard king or whatever could never compare. And yes I am comparing myself to that honorable fool.”

Getting down on his knees Ace held himself crying like a baby these tears are the tears of fear or what Helreignn calls them the tears of the devil.

An echo was made

Turning heads to the door was an adult red fox growling it’s teeth at Helreignn.

The red morph of glitter took shape of the fox once more. Turning the fox into a human. This boy had fare skin, short wavy blonde hair, ends are curled up, a beauty mark underneath his left eye. Orange eyes that screeched for vengeance. Wearing a black crew neck tight-fitting shirt elbow sleeve length, his elbows was showing having cutting edge, representing a Diamond, his back was also visible showing off a second diamond. Below him he was wearing a light olive green skirt and a pair of brown woldwalker boots.

“Shut up you mole rat.”

“Mole rat? How original.....shouldn’t you’re neck have a chain around it?” Helreignn’s words were turning sharp. Was he mad because of the sudden intruder?

“Don’t you dare go thinking your some type of good guy. It’s a nightmare to watch. Please quit it”

“Oh how insidious you are. Also I’m no good guy please refer to me as the bad guy” the tension was rising and at this rate the whole clover castle residents may wake up because of the current chaos.

The human fox walked over to them and only growled while Helriegnn only showed a satisfying smile. Ace sat on the ground hugging his legs, he had his eyes wide open not even blinking, the soaked blood tears continued to fall

“Is making a child cry you’re goal? You really had no build up but just to tell the 11 year old kid that he’s the next devil king and he’s a going to kill everyone he loves?! You’re sick in the head” Now standing in front of Ace defending him from the monster

He twitched for a moment

“I don’t need any build up. All I need from him is for him to corporate with me.” Motioning the last words

“Right now the only thing you’ll be cooperating is my fist.” The human fox rebottled.

A bush of red arrows lined up behind the human fox not making a sound. The pierce was soon going to make its shot. Ace shifted the placement of his head, just a smidge capturing the sight of the red arrows and next Helreignns hand, he was about to shut his hand and if he did.....?

Will the talk of gruesome power’s first victim will be that fox? Such an overwhelming feeling. That feeling went away and welcomed a feeling of determination.

“Helreignn. Do. Not. Close. Your. Hand.” Helriegnn wrinkled his eyebrows hearing those words coming out of a child who was crying a second ago. Slowly rising up the blood tear drops had stopped, you could only see the blood marks. The human fox had also turned around to see this kid and made a face of shock.

Jumping a bit when the human fox finally noticing the red arrows behind him. Helreignn furrowed his eyebrows even lower before entering himself in hysteric laughter.

Ace jolted back his shoulders, disturbed to see. This guy was barmy.

“Oh dear Odin how on the aesir’s penalty did this occur?” The words cracking through his laugh.

“YOU ASSHOLE QUIT TOYING” The human fox kid began to growl again and transformed himself back into an adult red fox and tackled him with mountains of force onto the tiled floor.

Helriegnn let it happened as he carried on laughing. Ace spent no time racing up to them. In an attempt from all hell war breaking out he proceeded to wrap his hands around the red fox stomach to restrain him without hurting him.

The salvia dripping down appearing from the red foxes mouth to Helreignn’s cheeks. Helreignn never lost strain of the laughter that absorbed him.

“Quit the commotion! We can find a solution! I may not know why you feel this way but please can we talk it out?” Ace pleaded but no one stopped.

This went on for many more minutes. Who blood is going to be spilt? That’s what made was thinking if one finger slipped he would be caught in a situation of murder so he couldn’t sit around and let it happen.

Finally taking the fox by full swing Ace landed on his back with the red fox still having a good grip on him. Ace made noises complaining upon the back pain that he couldn’t control. The red fox got off hearing those painful noises and stopped growling, Helreignn stood again and broke off the laughing.

Shit......

And all he wanted was a glass of water.

Ace’s pupils rested on Helreignn and the red fox. Fluttering his eyes open and close until he fully shut them for good.

Cutting to the Silva castle, more precisely Jossyln’s room. It views a messy bed that appears someone had already slept there, a large leather chest opened and a window opened wide while the bed curtains danced in the moon light.

Quavering his eyes lids the first thing that came in Ace’s sight was his mother. Nebra Silva head of branch Ideale. Wearing her mother’s coat, the one she wore when she was pregnant with Noelle. Her hair swaying down and underneath she was wearing her Silva uniform. Consisting of a iced blue blouse with the house Silva pink pinned tied at the front and iced leggings to her calf length Silva boots.

She was worried sick.

“ACE!” She first said moving forward, plus the chair tagging along. To Ace’s aid and gave him plenty of kisses on the head while holding his head.

“Mommy I’m fine.” A little bit of laughter filled his tone enjoying this moment after the rough mishap that recently took place.

She stopped the kissing and pulled back just to take a good stare at him.

Grabbing him by the ears she started to pinch and pull them

“What we’re you thinking taking a night stroll to the grimoire tower and take a nap?! YOU GOT A CURFEW YOUNG MAN.”

This woman was sure scary. After all it’s the second daughter. Compared to 20 years ago or so this woman had sure change. She changed her look, changed her attitude (well a little bit), changed her opinion on the people below her, her best friend is a commoner, she became more powerful after stopped being insecure about her magic, she was the first royal to marry a peasant.

She stopped with all the ear pinching. She started to hug him once more and began to hit her head on his and groaned

“I’m so happy my baby is safe.”

“Ow. I’m happy too.” Ace replied back. Nebra rested her forehead onto his yet there was still questions that needed to be answered.

“Hey....was anyone with me when I happened to pass out?” He whispered.

Nebra didn’t want to answer. Ended up doing so though.

“Yes matter of fact there was a red fox that laid right beside you...the knights didn’t want to harm it so instead they brought the fox into the infirmary.” Ace took his mother’s hand and shifted his body to only uphold the fox laying on a different white sheet bed

Ace smiled, a smile of relief, but on the other hand what happened to Helreignn? Where did he ran off too? Or did he returned back to the ‘void’ Ace never got clear answers off him.

“Actually. I want to ask about him. Can I adopt him as a pet! Since that Josslyn is not around that much anymore.”Switching back to his mother with stars on his eyes. Nebra scrunched her nose. A pet? Well matter of fact he had a point but will Zora approve? Of course he would! He would hate to see his son all lonely and sad, that’s the last thing he wanted.

“Why not? I’d never had a pet when I was a little girl.” Scratching her nails onto the pink cardigan.

The stars in Ace’s eyes had transferred to a feeling of happiness to his brain.

Seeing his pretty smile Nebra had to ask

“What are you going to name it?”

“At the moment I have no clue, but I got a few names in mind” He glees. The smallest things always made him smile.

Ace took the silence the search the room for his sister of father but sadly not a soul in sight.

“Say momma where’s Josslyn and dad?”

Nebra bit her lip. “You’re father got called to a mission with Magna and Luck at last hour and Josslyn is in the ball room heretofore for the royal event. For attendance I have been called upon to attend. As much as it pains me to leave you here I’m positive I can trust you.” Throughout the sentence Nebra placed the pink cardigan on Ace’s lap and to stroke his hand one last time before walking to the doorway. Nebra let out a blow kiss before exiting, Ace of course had to reply with a blow kiss of his own.

Ace positioned his head back to his pillow, the pain in his back had eased. Mimosa most likely healed his back when he was unconscious. “Must thank her with a bouquet of sunflowers.” Ace thought and noded

“For the fox....” he got flashbacks of what happened in the grimoire tower. It had felt like an awful nightmare.

“Names....yeah....think....about....names.”

“Zara? No. That’s disrespectful to his grandfather.”

“Peter? No that’s too plain.”

“Chandler? Cute but no.”

“Marcel. Dose not look like a marcel to me.”

The dialogue in Ace’s head was starting to corrupt to him. Next he would see him crippled. Somehow naming a fox who’s secretly a human....sounded wrong a level.

On the other side Nebra was walking towards the ball room putting on her jacket before Nebra could approach the Silva double doors.

Holding onto the door handle Nebra had got a brief flashback of when seeing her son on the cold tiled floor, all with blood stains on his cheeks and neck.

“Aim 2 fellas looks like we got a woman on her hands and not any woman. Nebra Silva. Once she opens those doors our arrows will slice those royals.” One hooded man said to the next.

“Mm I won’t miss. I am the best archer in my village after all...” the next man said pulling back the arrow when the chandler light blew in like an autumn leaf.

“They believe just because they improved they are somehow still the center of the show? Wrong. There still the assholes of the ball.” Bitting his tongue as he stopped.

======================================================================================================================================================

Ace Silva

Age: 11

Height: 146cm

Birthday: February 26th

Sign: Pisces

Blood Type: AB

Likes: Butterflies, Sunflowers, soft sunsets\sunrises

======================================================================================================================================================

[quirkfics]

spilling whiskey

word count: 4.4k

warnings: tension, Spies AU (..I mean. It could be canon..), smut !! all the smut, mild dom/sub vibe, mild implied age gap (Giran is older than reader, how much older is never specified), Giran spoiling reader

pairing: Giran/Kagero Okuta x Spy!Reader (gender neutral)

The drink tilts, whiskey sloshing, catching the light and turning caramel bright before it spills all over your shirt. It soaks down into the waist of your trousers, burns your nose and the back of your throat when you gasp, tugging at the drenched material like you have any chance of saving it. “My shirt,” you cry, low enough to be pitiful, to sound upset but not angry. It helps that you aren’t, really, that satisfaction and triumph are blazing through your veins now that you know his eyes are on you, that you have the brunt of his full attention.

“Shit,” Kagero Okuta - also known as Giran to his clients - exclaims, righting his glass and setting his cigarette in the half full ashtray on the bar. “Am I clumsy or what?” He says, trying to turn the situation into something to laugh at, something inopportune, but not particularly memorable. He’s good at that, and has been for a while, or so his file says. He fishes a pristine looking handkerchief from his suit jacket, hooking a finger in the belt loop of your trousers to pull you in close. It’s nerves that make your heart beat faster, that make your mouth dry. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. “Let me get that,” he insists, flashing a gap-toothed grin before he nods at the bartender. “Whatever they want, on my tab,” he says quickly and then blots at your ruined shirt, soaking up whiskey with his handkerchief. The warmth of his hand is seeping through the damp material, knuckles brushing against your abdomen.

“Ah, no- no, it’s fine. I think it’s kind of a lost cause,” you say, because it’s the truth and the truth will help build who you want to become. You know for a fact that it will be a lost cause, that the tannins in the whiskey will stain as surely as blood, in fact- well, you’ve kind of been counting on that.

“No,” he insists, eyebrows furrowing as he looks over the mess. He looks a measure too long, eyes tracing the pattern of the spill with a degree of heat most definitely not caused by worry or embarrassment and finally raises a chastened smile. “Let me buy you a new one?”

Hesitant, forcing down the victory of the moment before it can choke you, you try and disregard the inconvenience of a ruined shirt. It’s nothing, you can always get another, but... After a few moments of back and forth, you let Giran convince you - and you accept the drink the bartender brings, careful not to spill a drop.

His file says he likes to take care of people, find wells of untapped potential. You’ll be everything he wants and more.

-

The first evening you’d spent in Giran’s company, you’d drank enough to get buzzed. Enough to loosen your shoulders and your temperament, with that ridiculous stained shirt a constant reminder. He hadn’t been able to stop looking at the ruin of it, hadn’t been able to put the twist of his handkerchief back in his pocket. He’d kept it in hand, watching you talk, rubbing the whiskey soaked mess between his fingers until it was dry. At the end of the night he’d asked to do a further two things. Bemused, you’d agreed to both. The cab he’d called for you had been more than welcome, and another sign of blatant interest. Requesting your phone number was the final nail, poised over the coffin lid. You gave it, and mission parameters hammered the nail home, leaving you sealed in alongside him.

You’d gone home warm, riding the edge of victory and nerves, memories caught on the way he’d pulled at your belt loop, on his fingers twisting whiskey out of your shirt- and you’d gone straight to bed. Your last night of freedom and you’d thrown it away, like a child eager for a morning trip. 

The second time you see Giran, it’s entirely by his design. He’s waiting outside the bar in which you’d met, dressed ‘down’ in a purple shirt and black waistcoat, a gold chain gleaming around his neck. He stubs his cigarette out on the window ledge when he sees you, glasses pushing up with the force of his smile. He’s sentimental, you add to your growing mental file for him. You won’t be able to write a lot of this down, not if you want to ingratiate yourself in his life, not if you want to be given access to things you’ll need to pass along to your handler.

“You came!” He says, like he thought you wouldn’t. He clasps his hand to your shoulder, like he just can’t help himself, thumb stroking once over the arch of you before he lets his hand drop back down to his side. “I worried you might change your mind,” he teases, glasses slipping down his nose as his smile softens. 

Let him take care of you, you tell yourself, covering the spot he’d touched with your own hand, like you’re trying to keep a lingering shred of his warmth. 

“Ah, well, I.. I do need a new work shirt. I can’t exactly go in this,” you say, laughing as you tug at your t-shirt sleeve. It’s nice looking, a step up from something you can get off the rack, but there’s a bit of fray at the hem and your shoes are worn thin. 

It’s important not to throw yourself in head first. Giran is smart. He’s evaded police and heroes for years now, has gotten to the point of arrest a half dozen times and always manages to slip through their fingers like smoke. They suspect it has something to do with his quirk, but nobody knows and you don’t want to tip your hand this early in the game. You’re playing at being down on your luck, stuck in a retail job, mildly unhappy- but not enough to be desperate. Not yet. 

“Let’s fix that then, shall we?” Giran nods his head down the street, waiting until you keep pace and you cross off another crucial step in your mind. 

You spend the rest of the day in his company, dragged from shop to shop, where he tries - and fails - to buy you much more than the shirt he’d ruined. It feels like some kind of test. A non-subtle inquiry about whether you’re after money or after something else. He takes a call in front of you, and though you would love to know who’s on the other end, if it will eventually lead you to high-end targets, you turn away. You walk to the other side of the shop, nodding your head in acknowledgement when he holds up a single finger, letting you know he’ll just be a moment. 

“Work hounding you?” You ask when he returns, because that’s safe, and shows interest without fishing too deeply. You let him reach out to straighten the collar of your shirt, looking away when he takes a step closer.

“Always! That’s just how it goes though. Are you sure you wouldn’t want something in this shade?” He asks, and then the rising tension settles back down.

He takes you out for lunch, which you allow, because it feels like a silent apology for the repetitive questions, for the insistence that this one will bring out your eyes when all you need is something to replace a uniform item. It feels like you may have won this round, that he might be letting down his guard, but then he digs in his waistcoat for his cigarettes, leaning on the table as he lights up.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He asks, as if he’s only half paying attention and then- damn it, you wonder if you’ve played everything too safe. Too mannerly. Or maybe not needy enough?

“Actually, I do,” you interject, before he can turn away or wave down the waitress. 

His smile reappears, and that’s when you know your attention has been lagging, just a bit. Giran likes to take care of people, sure, and the manners you’ve displayed haven’t hurt anything, it’s that you have to want something from him. It’s what he understands, after all, what his business is built upon. 

You, you decide, straightening in your seat and giving a little half shrug of an apology. I want you, and you’re not going to turn me down, are you? Giran sighs, but the smile stays. By the end of lunch, you forget, for just a split second, that you’re not on a date. When you get home, getting ready for the real-but-fake retail job you’ve had for two months, a text lights up your phone:

This was fun - make it a date next time?

Wouldn’t miss it, you send back, along with a blushing emoji.

Giran sends back a kiss.

-

Time slips away from you. You can’t always fight the feeling of comfort, of rightness that follows you whenever you’re with him. Even the litany of: this is work, none of this is real, none of this is real, none of this matters in your head feels hollow.

Reality is Giran taking your hand when it’s resting on your thigh and lacing his fingers through yours. Reality is the clothes he buys for you, the way he likes to find places to touch, to pull: the collar of your shirt, the waistband or belt loops of your trousers, the sleeve of your jacket. Every time he does it, it feels like he’s pulling you off course. Not just from the direction in which you’re walking, but the direction of your mission, your work. Your livelihood and the task that will save people from pain, from trauma

“He’s a villain,” you murmur to your mirror sometimes, trying not to frown whenever you say the words. It shouldn’t make you sad, it shouldn’t make you want to change that, to stick by him and try and help. It should fill you with resolve every time you catch sight of a text from a suspicious number, every time you catch sight of him with a known criminal. You know what many of these people have done, have seen the devastation left behind from the weapons and drugs and the funding of killers with dangerous quirks.

But you like him.

It sounds like such a idiotic phrase when you finally allow yourself to admit it. You like him. The lines on his face when he smiles - and he smiles often - the gap in his teeth, and the way he tugs at his jacket to straighten the collar. You might not like the cigarettes he smokes, but you like the faintness of it, coupled with his cologne on his clothes. You like the way he sounds when he laughs and how he clutches you close if you’re the one who made him do it.

Your mission seems like such a faraway thing, like it’s relegated to memory alone. 

It’s why you’re all the more eager to finish it, why you push yourself. It’s why you wince when you think of kissing him, because you shouldn’t want it with softness or think about the way his stubble might feel. You should be wanting that kiss because it might leave you close enough to steal information. It might get you so far past his guard that you could wipe everything he has his fingers in off the map. But then your attention drifts, and you’re thinking about the way he tastes and what his touch would feel like, stroking over your belly and the tops of your thighs.

That’s when you ask for help, for a life line, to be taken out if you can or pulled away somehow. Just for a bit. Just so you can breathe clean air again, without craving the taste of his cigarettes. You get a hold of your handler a day after you start pressing for contact, legs bouncing in your seat like you’re jittering over too much caffeine. You tell her pertinent information first and then when she asks about your state of mind? You tell her everything. You shouldn’t be here any longer, not if you have these doubts, should you? 

Your handler makes the hard choice to keep you in, to keep you pushing for more, to insist that you need to be closer. “You were correct when you said you needed to look forward to a kiss, or more for the mission. All your instincts are correct. Get closer. Get closer,” she tells you and hangs up the phone. And that’s when you know you’re fucked.

It’s been months, you realize. Of this slow building relationship, of the frequent smiles and the soft way he’ll trace the shell of your ear. You’ve been funneling information to your handler and forgetting you weren’t his- 

“I feel like I’m everything,” you whisper one afternoon, riding in a cab to your doom.

You need to jump the gun, you’ve decided. Push for more in every which way, as soon as possible. It’ll be more like ripping off a bandage that way, than leaving an aching wound. It’d still hurt when they came to take him away, when he found out who you were and what exactly you’d been doing in your time with him, but it would be a fresh pain, ready for someone to staunch it. So you’d invited yourself over, when last you’d spoken on the phone. 

Giran hadn’t seemed perturbed by the request at all, and only mildly curious. More than anything else he sounded pleased, like he’d been waiting for you to give the word. He gave you an address and you’d jotted it down only to give it to the cab driver, not even taking the time to look it up. When the cab stops, you’re in front of a high-end hotel and the sky is starting to dim. Golden lights are flickering on in the parking lot and Giran had said… You glance down at the piece of paper, reading the last 4 digit number he’d added to his address. A room number.

You give the receptionist your name, head held high, and you even get to the elevators, but you freeze in the open doorway of one. You’re.. A little worried about why he’s decided to meet you here. Is it that he still isn’t comfortable with anyone knowing where he lives, or was it that.. He knew about you? If he knew, if he thought you played the assassin end of things, would he really be willing to-

You jump into the elevator when it nearly slams closed on your foot. It doesn’t matter, you decide, nerves making you sweat. If he knows, surely he’d be more willing to hold you and make some kind of deal for information in turn? You’d never seen Giran actually hurt anyone, but- There was still the matter of all the times he’d escaped heroes and police alike. 

You knock on the door when you reach room 1143, heart jumping into your throat when Giran opens it. His glasses are slipping down the edge of his nose and he looks.. Rumpled. He has a whiskey in hand and his shirt is partially unbuttoned, short curls of chest hair visible. “You missed me, hmm?” Giran asks and steps back to open the door wider, to let you by. He puts his whiskey in your hand as soon as you step over the threshold. “I thought we had a date just yesterday.”

You try not to drink heavily around him. Not that you ever thought he would take advantage, but more that you might let something slip, might get a touch too comfortable and give in to the urge to fall into his lap. This time you take a sip of the whiskey, relishing the burn of it, the clarity it gives you so you can harden your heart. You want this.

“I can’t want to see you again?” You ask, taking another sip as you breeze through the room, eager for him to close the door. When you turn around, his back is pressed to it and he’s giving you a quietly bemused smile. 

“That was never the issue,” he assures you. “Want me whenever you’d like!”

You set down the whiskey on the hotel table, right next to the glowing desk lamp. Your heart flip flops in your chest. You’re playing a dangerous game, you tell yourself, not waiting to see what’s really the issue here, whether he’d figured out who you were or not. You turn back to Giran, surprised to find him a few steps back and not close like he usually stays. The distance feels like thorns catching at your ankles - you should stay where you are, slow down, your subconscious says. You cross the carpet instead, breathing deep before you’re yanking on his shirt collar and pressing your mouth to his. 

You’re sharper than you’ve ever been, because Giran makes a little noise of surprise, hands almost slapping onto either of your hips, like he can’t decide if he wants to keep kissing you or he wants to hold you away. Just in case. You let yourself go boneless, nearly melting against his chest, dragging the edges of your fingernails down his middle, catching them on his buttons. His knee presses forward, perhaps to keep from falling back and you groan, rocking your hips against the pressure. His fingers dig into your hips.

Giran huffs, and you wonder if he’s going to stop, going to slow things down or ask where all this is coming from. Instead he catches your chin with his fingertips, taking over the kiss and licking into your mouth. He swallows the gasp you make, stubble catching against your lip and then grinds his own erection against you.

“I suppose you do want me?” Giran asks, voice so rough and tight with wanting that you feel almost short of breath. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” You whisper, pushing his jacket off of his shoulders. Then Giran is pulling you down onto the bed, losing his smile while kissing your mouth. You start out on his lap, still rocking your hips over his thighs, but he laughs after a moment and then tilts you sideways, pushing you onto the bed. He gets to his feet and urges you onto your hands and knees, but his hands pause on your hips, fingers slowing.

“Need to take a breath?” He asks, leaning over your back. You shift, but you can’t feel anything beyond his middle against you. He’s keeping himself at a careful distance. “Or maybe I should be grabbing a cigarette. Are you trying to wreck this old man?” 

He doesn’t know. He can’t. Giran is acting just like you’ve finally decided you’re ready for more, he’s not threatening you or hinting that he knows about anything. He’s- His thumbs have slipped under your shirt and are stroking softly over your bare skin.

“Maybe I want you to wreck me,” you tell him, glancing over your shoulder. It’s as good as saying green light. Giran hums, unfastening your trousers and hooking his fingers into the waistband. He pulls them off of you, slowly, carefully, letting his knuckles drag against your skin, over your thighs and calves before vanishing when you’re left bare. You don’t know what he does with them - lay them over one of the chairs, maybe, but you don’t hear them hit the ground before he’s back in place, one hand splayed in the middle of your back, pressing you down into the mattress. He slips his hand between your thighs, dragging his fingertips over your most sensitive parts and then presses a kiss to your spine. 

“You’re lucky I come prepared,” he teases and then pulls his hand away to pat your thigh. 

You.. aren’t thinking about missions or work. Not even a little bit and definitely not when his hand returns, slicking over you with lube and making you gasp into the sheets. You’re hot, suddenly, blazing and all you want to do is press back against his touch, to keep his hands on you. Giran pushes up your shirt, pressing another kiss to your lower back and then his knee is leaning against yours, urging you to spread your legs a little wider, to shift and make room for him between them.

He kneels on the bed, but you can still feel his slacks against your thighs and you’re only growing warmer, rocking yourself against his touch, repeating his name as his fingers open you up. 

“You can’t rush me to the finish line,” Giran tells you, leaning over you to place his glasses on the nightstand. His fingers curl deeper and your jaw goes slack. “But I like that you try.” For just a moment, you feel his cock pressed against you, the outline of it heavy as he straightens up again and then he changes the angle of his hand. The wet noise of his fingers, the angle- he has you tensing, toes curling as he picks up the pace and then promptly stops.

“Giran,” you choke out, trying to rock back against him, but he only laughs. 

“Didn’t you just tell me you wanted me to do the work here? You can have your wicked way later when my thighs are aching. Right now just relax.” 

It’s easier said than done. Giran knows exactly what he’s doing and every stroke, every time he scissors his fingers inside you, you have to concentrate on holding yourself motionless. You want him to have his fill of touching, but part of you wants to fuck yourself on his fingers, let him sit and sip his whiskey while you do all the work. The thought nearly pushes you over the edge and Giran must notice the difference, must feel you tensing because then he pulls his fingers out, places both hands on your hips. 

“Such an eager thing, aren’t you?” Giran asks and then he’s dragging the head of his cock over you, coating himself with the lube.

“Yes, yes, I am. I want-”

“I know what you want,” Giran says and for a moment there’s pressure and you think he might finally fill you up, but then he resumes that maddening stroke, down and back up, leaving you whimpering. “But you keep trying to rush, don’t you?” He reaches out with one hand, taking your arm and carefully, gently, adjusting it so it’s twisted behind your back. “Try and grab your wrists, or hook your fingers,” he tells you. “If you can’t, just lay your hands there.” As soon as your hands are where he wants them, Giran presses into you. You almost shout, almost move your hands from where they’re resting, but he stops you, fingers curling around both wrists. “Does it hurt?” He checks, grip careful. “Or was that just a little overwhelming?”

“It’s ‘whelming,” you mutter, trying to slow your rapid pulse, words coming out all wrong. He feels so good. You bite down on the noises you want to make, trying to make yourself relax. Giran’s cock slides in another inch though and you’re whimpering. “Good,” you add, “over-overwhelming in a g-good way.”

He thrusts forward and words fail you. “Glad to hear it,” he says, and everything inside you thrills at the roughness of his voice, how low it’s fallen. You want him to keep talking, to keep moving, to keep going, but after every shift forward he pulls back, just a little, still gentle, still slow. “If it’s too much-”

“‘S not,” you gasp, though you want to laugh. It’s not, not right now, but you’re fairly sure your lower back is going to ache in the morning, as well as the muscles in your chest and arms- And then Giran starts to settle into a rhythm and you’re not thinking about anything any longer. His slacks are still on, just pooling around his thighs, the cool metal of his belt buckle brushing against your heated skin every time he bottoms out and his hands keep flexing around your wrists. “Please,” you whisper, though you’re not sure what you’re pleading for. He feels good, wonderful, and his pace is steadily pushing you higher, getting you closer and closer to orgasm but you can’t stop yourself from asking for more, asking for harder. 

“So impatient, you sweet thing. You really want it harder?” Giran asks and then laughs when you shout yes against the mussed sheets and bedclothes. He leans back, sitting on his own calves, but he pulls you with him, grip growing tighter around your wrists. “Then keep moving, hm?”

Your thighs are already starting to burn, but you listen, rolling your hips, fucking yourself back on his cock until every muscle feels like it’s starting to ache. This isn’t a position either of you can hold for every long, but you’re so fucking close, and his hands are starting to tremble around your wrists.

“I suggest,” he breathes, grip gone slightly slippery with sweat, “that you go a little faster, or we’re going to- to have to take a break soon.” The admission only makes you tighten up, which leaves Giran cursing and pressing back against your thrusts and then the world goes a little hazy at the edges. You come, trying to keep fucking yourself through it, to keep bouncing yourself on his cock, but the way you clench leaves Giran falling to pieces right after you. He releases one of your wrists, grabbing hard onto your hip and you try and brace yourself, but your arm feels like jelly. It collapses when you try to catch yourself on the mattress. You fall face first onto the bed, Giran slamming into you one final time and then the room is silent, save for heavy breathing and the very faint, far away noise of cars going by outside the hotel.

“Fuck,” you say, with feeling, turning your face so you’re not mouthing at the sheets. Giran, still half clothed, heavy against your back, chuckles, right next to your ear. Aftershocks make you tremble. 

“I thought we just did?” Giran asks, and his stubbled face brushes against your neck, lips and teeth soft against the tender skin.

“Well round two-” You start, but Giran sits back with a groan, slipping out of you, smacking you once on the ass.

“Round two will have to wait. My quirk isn’t endless stamina or youth.”

That leaves you both laughing as you clean up, and truth be told, the only thing left on your mind is whether you’ll get the chance to wake him later, to stroke your hands over bare skin and whisper what you’d like to do again. Your reason for coming here, for rushing, has completely slipped your mind.  

[buoyantsaturn]

there's something wretched about this (something so precious about this) (1/?)

summary: Nico never wanted to be king.

word count: 1633

read on ao3

Four years, eight months, and twenty-six days. 

That was how long Prince Nico was supposed to have before his coronation. 

Then the King died, unexpectedly, in his sleep. Nico, who was supposed to have upwards of four years before his coronation, was crowned a week after his father’s untimely death. He became King against his will, without feeling as the crown was placed on his head or the dread that he knew was buried deep inside himself. 

His father had been a good King. He hadn’t been the best father, but he had respected Nico and his choices. He had agreed to not arrange a marriage between Nico and one of the princesses of a nearby kingdom. He had allowed Nico to practice his swordsmanship alongside the knights. He was supposed to serve as King until old age, until Nico was well into adulthood himself - not months before his twenty-first birthday. 

Nico was King. But as he sat on his father’s throne with his father’s crown on his head, he wished he was dead.

Nico met with his father’s council of advisors the day after his coronation. He still had to learn how to be King, and according to his advisors, he couldn’t do that alone.

“I have to get married?” Nico shrieked. 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lord Thanatos said, and Nico flinched at his form of address. “History has shown that a kingdom is less trustworthy of a king who is unwed. It is also considered a sign of weakness to other kingdoms, who may consider this weakness an opportunity to lay siege to this place. With your permission, Your Majesty, this council will begin the search for a suitable bride immediately. We have agreed that you must be wed by the end of the month.”

Nico felt like his heart was going to pound out of his chest. “And what if I don’t give my permission?”

Another advisor cleared his throat. “That really is only a formality, Your Majesty. We will begin the search once this meeting is adjourned, with or without your blessing.”

Panic began to set in, so Nico spoke his next words without thinking, “But I’ve already been courting someone.”

There was a pause as Nico’s words hung in the air. Lord Thanatos said, “We were not aware of this, Your Majesty.”

“My father wanted it kept a secret. He didn’t want rumors to spread throughout the kingdom and risk getting any hopes up at the thought of a wedding,” Nico lied, gripping the armrests of the throne tightly to hide the shaking of his hands. “I wasn’t ready to agree to a marriage, but...if I must, then… I will discuss it with my suitor.”

“Your Majesty, we will need your suitor’s credentials in order to--”

“My father approved of us, is that not enough for you?” Nico snapped. He stood, and every member of the council followed suit. “If that’s everything, then I’ll be off to discuss my engagement.”

Nico tried his best not to appear as though he was fleeing the scene.

He ran to the palace infirmary, across the grounds and through the knights’ quarters. He felt sick to his stomach and thought his ribs might break from the furious pounding of his heart, but that wasn’t why he sought out the doctor. 

He went in search of his best friend, who just so happened to be stitching up a nasty wound across a knight’s stomach. At the sight of it, Nico felt sick for an entirely different reason. He turned to face the wall and said, “I need to speak with you when you’re done here. You know where to find me.”

He could hear the smile in Will’s voice as he replied, “Sure thing, Your Highness.”

The knight under Will’s needle grunted, “It’s Your Majesty when speaking to the King.”

Nico barely made it outside before emptying his stomach contents into a shrub. 

There was only one moment on the day of Nico’s coronation that he hadn’t felt numb to the world. It was when Will bowed before him, offering his hand for a dance. Nico had refused to dance with anyone for the entire celebratory ball, but he’d always had a difficult time saying no to Will. 

Will hadn’t even had the opportunity to ask before Nico took his hand and pulled him toward the dance floor. With one hand holding Nico’s and the other wrapped firmly around his waist, Will said, “So desperate to dance with me that you won’t even let me have the honor of asking you, Your Highness? Or I suppose I should call you Your Majesty from now on?”

Nico’s hand tightened into a fist around the sleeve of Will’s jacket, and he buried his face in Will’s shoulder. He didn’t care if their position was inappropriate, he didn’t want to be there in the first place. He didn’t even want to be King.

“Never call me that,” Nico whispered so that only Will could hear. “Please, Will, never from you.”

Nico was pacing in the private library attached to his bedroom when Will found him. He knocked on the doorframe before entering to announce his presence and entered, immediately approaching Nico and pulling him against his chest. His arms wrapped around Nico’s shoulders as Nico’s hands tugged on the front of Will’s shirt, and Nico began to sob.

The scene brought forth the memory of the last time Will had been in Nico’s chambers, nearly a week beforehand. Shortly after the King’s death had been announced, Will sneaked up through the servant’s corridors to Nico’s bedroom, where he’d found Nico still in bed, crying into his pillow. He’d crawled into bed beside his friend and held him for half the day, offering Nico whatever comfort he could.

He was brought back to the present as Nico began to speak through his tears. 

“The council is demanding that I marry immediately,” Nico cried. “They insisted on finding me a wife, and I… I made a horrible mistake, Will.”

Will started to pull away, but Nico only held tighter. “Come with me,” Will said soothingly. “Come sit.” He led Nico toward a large armchair and sat, pulling Nico down onto his lap. He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Tell me what happened.”

“I told them I was courting someone. I lied to the council, Will, and when they find out, they’re going to make me marry a woman!” Nico exclaimed.

Will stroked a hand up and down Nico’s back and said, “I won’t let that happen, Your Highness. We’ll think of something. There must be someone of royal blood somewhere in the nearby kingdoms that would marry you. We can send out letters tonight to each of the kingdoms and ask for only their most handsome bachelors to be sent here. It’s a start, at least, right?”

Nico shook his head. “The council will know that I haven’t been courting someone from outside this kingdom. Besides, who would send off their son to be married to a man in need of an heir? I couldn’t pay someone to marry me.”

“Hey,” Will said, taking Nico’s cheek in his hand and turning him to face Will. “Your Highness, plenty of nobles would happily marry their sons off to you, because you were a kind and polite prince, and you will be an even better king than your father ever was. And I think you overestimate the price tags some would put on their children - if I had chosen to stay with my father, I’m sure he would pay to have someone take me off his hands.”

Will smiled at him, hoping his joke would help to lift Nico’s spirits, but Nico simply stared up at him with his big, dark eyes. “Your father… He’s a duke, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is. Why?”

“You have royal blood.”

Will’s head tilted in confusion - what did that have to do with anything? “Technically, yes, but really, being the third son of a duke hardly means anything. I basically gave it all up to study medicine, anyway.”

Nico grabbed Will’s face in both hands, forcing him to look Nico in the eyes as he said, “Marry me.”

Will felt like he’d been punched in the throat. “What?”

“Just for appearances!” Nico continued, dropping Will’s face and raising his hands in surrender. “Just so I won’t be forced to marry a woman, please! I can make sure this is a mutually beneficial arrangement. You’ll have your own bedroom here in the main palace rather than in the knights’ quarters, and I’ll even hire a new cook who specializes in Southern foods, so you’ll feel more at home here. And I promise you, as soon as you find someone you’d rather marry, I’ll arrange for our divorce. And...and I’ll do whatever else you want, Will, please.”

Will blinked in surprise. It took him a moment to process all of Nico’s words, but finally, he said, “I was ready to agree as soon as you said ‘please,’ but I’ll still let you hire a new cook.” He grinned and took one of Nico’s hands in his own. “You’re my best friend, Your Highness. I won’t let you suffer for your kingdom.”

Nico brought Will’s hand up to his mouth and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “When we’re married, will you finally use my given name, like I’ve been asking you to for the last decade?”

Will’s grin grew brighter. “You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

Nico huffed and dropped his gaze to their intertwined hands. “We’ll need your father’s approval for the wedding. Will he give it?”

Will snorted rather unattractively. “Weren’t you listening? He’ll cry tears of joy.”

[buy me a coffee] | [more solangeloweek stuff]

[grxceblqckthxrn]

Read an exclusive excerpt from ‘Chain of Gold’ now

Cordelia couldn’t understand why she was so worried about Lucie. Several withdrawing rooms had been opened up, and Lucie could have wandered off to any of those, or returned to her own bedroom. She could really be anywhere in the Institute. Matthew had told her not to worry before he’d hurried off somewhere, but Cordelia couldn’t shake her sense of unease.

“For pity’s sake!” someone called, interrupting her thoughts. It was a man’s voice, low and baritone. “Someone come help her!”

Cordelia glanced about: everyone seemed to be looking surprised and chattering to each other. In the distance she could see a loose circle of people standing around whatever was going on. She picked up her skirts and began to push her way through the crowd.

She could feel her hair coming out of its carefully arranged curls and spilling down over her shoulders. Her mother would be furious, but really. Why didn’t people move? They were Shadowhunters. What on earth were they doing standing around like sticks while someone was in distress?

She wriggled through a small knot of onlookers and there, on the floor, was a young man holding Barbara Lightwood’s limp body in his arms. Oliver Hayward, Cordelia realized. Barbara’s suitor. “We were dancing,” he was saying, looking bewildered, “and she just collapsed—”

Cordelia dropped to her knees. Barbara Lightwood was ghastly white, her hair dark with sweat at her temples. She was breathing in short, erratic bursts. In times like this, all shyness deserted Cordelia: she could only think of what to do next. “She needs air,” she said. “Her corset is probably tormenting her. Has anyone a knife?”

Anna Lightwood pushed through the crowd and moved forward, kneeling down opposite Cordelia with fluid grace. “I have a dagger,” she said, drawing a sheathed blade from her waistcoat. “What needs to be done?”

“We need to cut her corset off,” Cordelia said. “She has had a shock, and she needs to breathe.”

“You might leave that to me,” said Anna. She had an extraordinary husky voice, honey and sandpaper. She reached to lift Barbara out of Oliver’s lap, then ran the dagger down the back of her dress, delicately separating the fabric and then the thicker material of the corset underneath. As it sagged free of Barbara’s body, Anna glanced up and said absently, “Ari—your wrapper—”

Ariadne Bridgestock swiftly drew her silk wrapper from her shoulders and handed it to Anna, who swaddled Barbara in it to keep her decent. Barbara was already beginning to breathe more regularly, the color in her cheeks returning. Anna looked at Cordelia over Barbara’s head, a considering look in her blue eyes.

“What on earth?” Sophie Lightwood had made her way through the circle of onlookers, her husband, Gideon, just behind her. “Barbara!” She turned to Oliver, who stood nearby, looking utterly distressed. “Did she fall?”

“She just collapsed,” repeated Oliver. “We were dancing, and she fainted—”

Barbara’s eyelids fluttered. She sat up in her cousin’s arms, blinking up at her mother. Her cheeks flushed bright red. “I’m—I’m all right,” she said. “I’m all right now. I had a spell, a silly dizzy spell.”

Cordelia rose to her feet as more guests joined the loose circle of bystanders surrounding Barbara. Gideon and Sophie helped their daughter to her feet, and Thomas, appearing from the crowd, offered his sister a worn-looking handkerchief. She took it with a wobbly smile and dabbed at her lip.

It came away stained with blood.

“I bit my lip,” Barbara said hastily. “I fell, and bit my lip. That’s all.”

“We need a stele,” Thomas said. “James?”

Cordelia hadn’t realized James was there. She turned and saw him standing just behind her.

The sight of him startled her. Years ago, he’d had the scalding fever: she was reminded of the way he’d looked then, pale and sick. “My stele,” he said roughly. “Inside my breast pocket. Barbara needs a healing rune.”

For a moment Cordelia wondered why he couldn’t fetch it himself, but his hands were clenched at his sides, hard as stones. She reached out and fumbled nervously at his chest. Silk and cloth under her hand, and the beat of his heart. She seized hold of the slim, penshaped object in his pocket and held it out to Thomas, who took it with a look of surprised thanks. She hadn’t really looked at Thomas before—he had bright hazel eyes, like his mother’s, framed by thick brown lashes.

“James.” Lucie had slipped between James and Cordelia and was tugging at her brother’s sleeve. “Jamie. Did you—”

He shook his head. “Not now, Luce.”

Lucie looked worried. The three of them watched in a silent group as Thomas finished the healing rune on his sister’s arm, and Barbara exclaimed again that she was just fine and had only had a dizzy spell. “I forgot to eat today,” she said to her mother, as Sophie put her arm around her. “That’s all it is.”

“Nevertheless, we had better get you home,” Sophie said, glancing around. “Will—can you have the carriage brought around?”

The crowd had begun to scatter; clearly there was nothing more of interest to see here. The Lightwood family were headed to the door, Barbara on Thomas’s arm, when they paused. A pigeonchested man with a black handlebar mustache had rushed up to Gideon and was speaking to him excitedly.

“What’s the Inquisitor saying to Uncle Gideon?” Lucie asked curiously. James and Matthew only shook their heads. After a few moments, Gideon nodded and followed the man—the Inquisitor, Cordelia supposed—to where Charles stood speaking to Grace Blackthorn. Her face was turned up to his, her eyes bright and interested. Cordelia remembered all the lessons her mother had given her in how to appear interested in conversation at social events: Grace seemed to have already absorbed them all after only being in society for a short time.

Charles turned reluctantly away from Grace and fell into discussion with Gideon Lightwood. The Inquisitor was moving through the crowd, stopping to speak to several Shadowhunters as he went. Most seemed to be about Charles’s age: Cordelia guessed he was somewhere in his twenties.

“Looks like the party’s over,” said Alastair, appearing out of the crowd holding a cigar. He was gesturing with it, though Cordelia knew that if he ever started puffing tobacco, Sona would murder him. “Apparently there was a Shax demon attack in Seven Dials.”

[sometimeswritingsometimesdying]

dreaming in gold

aka the one where i vent furiously through my favorite character

a/n: i wrote this after receiving some ~bad news~, and lately i’ve been having a weird relationship with religion, so enjoy? also, i know my experience with religion is not the one everyone has so just know this portrays religion (christianity, more specifically) in a morally-grey/good way since it’s been taken from my own personal experience. Also @ people who know me irl and follow this blog: i told u u didn’t want to see me post my fics. i TOLD u 

warnings: death of a parent, implied homophobia (sorta), implied alcohol/drug abuse, lots of religion and religious imagery, illness mentions, blood mention, this is set in what i imagine is the late 80s but idk really u chose

pairing: moceit

wc: 1.8 k

Summary: patton looks for closure and he isn’t sure why

ao3

also thank u @pheonix-inside for beta reading this for me :)

He stood there, in front of the doors, hands jammed into the pockets of his coat and nose scrunched up. It was the middle of january, and the streets were mellow and sad, with few people roaming around them, a sharp, cutting wind accompanying them with each step.

And there, in front of the large, wooden doors, at seven pm tight, stood Patton A. Moore. He Didn't even know why he was doing this. He didn’t have to do this. But he’d gone out for an evening walk, as he’d taken up to doing, and his eyes had fallen on the local church’s doors. 

He wasn’t a religious man. Maybe he had been, as a kid, when all it took in his head to talk to Him was a simple “hey, god?”, but he’d given up faith a long time ago, when life got hectic and his mind was clouded.

No, Patton Moore was not a religious man.

He didn’t question it, didn’t question his motive, didn’t question the reason he had felt a draw towards the doors. He was going to walk away and not think twice about it.

“Are you here for mass?” he turned his head to his left, finding a priest opening one of the side doors with a warming smile. “It was over about twenty minutes ago but i’m sure you’ll find what you need anyway.”

Patton looked at the man in silence, about to refuse his offer, but he was shivering slightly out there, and there was a warm lighting coming from inside that door, and beyond whatever reasoning he could give himself- he nodded and thanked Father and walked straight in.

The church was, as most churches he remembered, rather grand. The marble and the gold and the paintings- the statues and the candles and the organ- it all pulled together a rather magnificent scene.

Above it all, the smell hit him most. The old smell of dust and benches and perfume that reminded him of the many afternoons spent with his father, sitting in the very front row of those seats. The light from the streetlamps filtered in through the glass mosaics, casting colorful shadows across the floors.

It was inviting. Loving, almost.

He took a seat in the second to last row, close enough to the doors for a light and chilly wind to nip at his scalp. It seemed to be reminding him of how much he wasn’t meant to be here.

He tapped his feet nervously, staring at the cross that hung in the apses of the church. It was weird. Everything was too familiar and yet too estranged and out of touch for him to understand. He was feeling, feeling something akin to devotion, perhaps. Was this what people described as devotion? A feeling of grandeur and confusion upon such a place? Upon such a scene?

What was there to be devout about when the candles people had so dearly lit up would only be burnt out by the end of the night? Perhaps everything, perhaps nothing. He didn’t know, but then again he hadn’t known as a kid, and perhaps that’s when we learn most about feelings like these.

Soft steps caught his attention as the same priest that had opened the door for him walked down the aisle to his particular row of seats. The man stared at him as he stared at his feet.

“What is it exactly that you’re here for?” Patton shrugged, playing with his wedding ring. It hadn’t been a legal wedding, perhaps. It was, after all, illegal still, but to him it had felt just about real enough. Enough for them, at least. He heard the sliding of Father’s robe as the man slid onto the bench.

“Are you a religious man, son?” Patton blinked. No, he wasn’t. But he was here, wasn’t he? He didn’t own a rosary, but did he believe in god?

Well why else would everything happen? Fate? No, no, not fate, not destiny. Love then-

He shrugged. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Father nodded thoughtfully.

“What about your father?” Patton raised an eyebrow, hoping not to be noticed. “You can tell a lot about a person when you know their father.” Father said, evidently noticing Patton’s skepticism. “Was your father a devout man?”

“He was-” Patton paused, playing with the ring on his finger. “He was, but he was a sinner too.” he stopped and chuckled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. What’s he doing? He’s a thirty year old man sitting in an empty church for the first time in a decade. He wasn’t meant to be here. 

And yet. 

“He drank. He smoked. All the usual sins, still came to mass.” he tilted his head. “You know?”

Father just looked ahead. He nodded and smiled. “I expect you followed in his footsteps?”

Patton observed him, nervously playing with the golden band on his ring finger. “Yes and no. I didn’t turn out particularly devout-”

“Yet you’re here,” Paton sighed and nodded, moving around in his seat.

“And yet i’m here.” Father tilted his head. “I don’t know- I don’t know why i’m here. Why am I here?” he asked, more to himself and the room than anyone, or anything else.

Father took a while to answer, but the air was just about warming up Patton’s hands and Patton thought nothing of it.

“Sometimes we wander into places asking for answers to questions we don’t know-” the man paused. “That we don’t know we even need to ask.”

They fell into silence after that. The good meter and a half that divided them seemed to only become more and more unrecoverable as time progressed, and as moments turned to seconds and as seconds turned to minutes.

The silence was deafening. It was all too reminiscent of a hospital room and Patton’s hands were getting cold again.

“You- you talk to god, correct?” he asked, through a trembling voice and a whisper. 

Father turned to look at him, posture ever so inclined. “In short, yes, but it’s not-”

“Just- tell me one thing,” Patton said, faulting on his usually so polite manners. “Why him?” he took a shuddering breath. “Why him of all people? Why him? And why now of all times?”  he chewed on his lip and shrugged, helpless. “Does god have an answer to that? He makes all of this happen,” he paused, looking down at his hands, lying limp in his lap. “doesn’t He?”

He heard no response, he heard no response for a long, long time.

“When did it happen?” A short humorless chuckle escaped him.

“So there is no answer?” No response. He looked up at the ceiling, observing the alfresco that popped out between golden arcs. “This morning. My brother called me.” he shrugged and smiled a sour, bitter smile. “My father he- started feeling ill and coughing up blood and-” he felt his eyes start to water and he could feel his cheeks reddening. “and they- they called an ambulance but there wasn’t much they could do and- and i wasn’t there.”

He shook his head as he felt a tear roll down his face. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeves until Father handed him a handkerchief. He took it, albeit rather reluctantly and held it in his hands, playing with the edge of it. It had him focusing on something, as he tugged on the string and folded and unfolded the piece of cloth.

“I wasn’t there.” he raised his hand to gesticulate and then let it fall. “I wasn’t there. My brother was. I wasn’t.” he shrugged, his voice slowly turning back to normal from the small whisper it had fallen into. “I told him to go to hell eight years ago, and I never looked back. I never spoke to him again.” he took up a sudden interest in the footrest on the bench in front of him, as he avoided eye contact with the only other person in the room. “Sort of ironic that now I'm here of all places, huh?” Patton paused for a moment, took a deep breath. He raised his eyes and looked around him- at the statues and the crosses and the alfrescos and the rows upon rows of empty seats. It was familiar. Old and familiar and all too loving.

Father stared ahead, a conflicted expression on his face.

“You asked me why He would let this happen,” he said, all at once. Patton nodded, although he wasn’t being asked anything. “You asked me why He would let this happen and, in complete honesty, the answer is a rather morbid one.” he paused. “If there is an answer at all, that is.”

“Well then,” Patton smiled tight lipped. “Enlighten me?”

“Perhaps it’s what you needed and He was simply helping you through it,” Patton was about to open his mouth to protest, but Father held up his hand in a stopping motion. “What i mean, is that you’re here now, aren’t you? In a way, you’ve reconnected with your father.” Patton pulled his coat tighter around himself, although his hands were warm. He supposes that he did. Maybe. He wasn’t so sure, but, then again, he wasn’t sure about anything right then and there.

And they shared a silence, then. A silence that was filled with the smell of perfume and benches and old scrolls and a golden lighting that found its way in from outside and the texture of the dark wooden seats. Father smiled at him, that weird, familiar smile that felt all too loving to show to a man like him. The bells rung out.

Eight pm.

He heard a soft “Patton” when he closed the door behind him. It took him longer than normal to take off his coat and his scarf, feeling Janus’s eyes on him as he worked through the motions. He'd always done them in a breeze but lately they felt so heavy.

He turned around, his eyes landing on his husband leaning in the doorway, in all his pajama-pants-and-t-shirt glory. He wasn’t smiling, not a sympathetic or a ‘everything-will-be-alright!’ smile either. He was frowning, the deep kind of frown that made lines appear on his face and his eyes darker.

Patton walked up to him and kissed his cheek. They stood there for a few minutes more, Janus stroking his hand and Patton intently staring at his shoes.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, making Janus snort and shake his head.

“I should be asking you that,” he said, interlocking their fingers. Patton half-smiled at him.

“I’m-I’m,” Patton paused. “I’m something. I went to church,” he added hastily. Janus tilted his head.

“And did that help?” Patton smiled, shaking his head.

He walked past Janus, slipping his other hand into his husband’s and heading to the bedroom. “Let’s just get some sleep.”

He dreamed about something golden.

[darkblueboxs]

Where the Night Takes Us

Mafia & Hitman AU, Inspired by butcher!Andrew discussions on Twitter

Sequel to Blood Beneath your Fingernails (But can be read as a stand-alone)

Read here or on AO3 (Check AO3 for content warnings)

 *

Nathaniel Wesninski – or Neil Josten, according to the forged papers Andrew procured for him - was more trouble than he was worth.

This was the mantra Andrew repeated to himself as he stalked across his study to where Neil waited for him, slouched on his couch with a false nonchalance that said, I’m sitting like this by choice, and not because I’ve lost too much blood to keep myself upright. He flinched as Andrew approached, but stilled when Andrew seized his chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning Neil’s face from side to side to inspect the damage. It was as though Andrew’s touch melted something stiff and glacial in Neil’s core, and he visibly softened, reassured by Andrew’s protective grip.

Neil showed none of the fear or anger one might expect from someone Andrew had recently pulled, unconscious, from a car full of bullets and corpses.

The kidnapping had been clumsily planned and clumsily executed; it had been child’s play to track the gleaming black Lexus as it roared north out of the city, likely headed to a convenient dumping ground in the wilderness. Wrecking such a nice car had prompted more regret from Andrew than any murder ever had.

The car was quiet in the ditch it had rolled to a stop in, although a bloody handprint glowed on the rear window. Having confirmed that Neil was alive and largely in one piece, Andrew neatly disposed of two of the three kidnappers with a knife drawn swiftly across their throats. The blood spilled hot and heavy over his fingers as he worked, but the faint twitches and jerks the assailants gave as they bled out on the leather upholstery ultimately left him unsatisfied. Andrew wasn’t used to feeling much of anything in the wake of a kill, but the adrenaline of the chase mixed with the dark fury that came from the knowledge that they had laid hands on something of his simmered uncomfortably beneath his skin like an itch in need of scratching.

Leaving the third kidnapper alive was more… challenging than Andrew had expected. The sight of blood oozing from the criss-crossing slits carved into Neil’s skin drew something primal to the surface of Andrew’s mind, something that threated to spill over him and wash away the neat suits and refined tastes and cool, calm efficiency of his methods. Andrew didn’t want the man dead; he wanted him destroyed. It was a dangerous path from which there was no return, but the strain of hauling himself back from it left his hands shaking as he carried Neil back to the Maserati. The blood would be removed from the seats easily enough, although Andrew would remember the shape and distribution of the bloodstains with pin-point precision until the day he died.

And, back in the safety of Andrew’s study, Andrew had Neil’s blood on his hands for the second time that night. He removed his hand from Neil’s chin before the congealed stains could stick them together, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together. The familiar heat of Neil’s blood seeped into his callouses as he contemplated the damage. “Care to explain why the Moriyamas are after you?”

Neil smiled. His face split itself open all over again. “I suppose they don’t like the look of me.”

“Understandable,” Andrew agreed, “But wrong. You should know better than to lie to me by now, Abram.” The sound of his given name was enough to dent Neil’s smile. It was his father’s smile, and for that reason Andrew detested above all else the heat it bit through his gut.

“How did you find me?” Neil said, as though he honestly believed Andrew would be so easily distracted. Andrew indulged only because letting Neil believe he had the upper hand occasionally was entertaining, and dissuaded him from seeking out a real victory. Andrew leaned in, knee dipping into the sofa cushions as he slipped a hand under the lapel of Neil’s jacket. Neil held his gaze as Andrew’s fingers worked their way across his chest. He could feel warmth radiating through the thin fabric of Neil’s shirt, but refused to let it distract him from his mission. He found the miniscule disk sewn into the lining of Neil’s suit jacket and yanked it free without regard for the seams and stitching he tore along the way.

He held the tracker up for Neil’s inspection. It could be mistaken for a button if one didn’t know what they were looking for. “If you were better at keeping your phone on you, this wouldn’t be necessary.”

“And here I was, thinking you bought me this suit because you wanted to treat me.” Neil crossed his legs, and barely twitched at whatever pain the movement must have caused him. “Or because you thought I’d look good in it.”

“Making you fit to be seen in public with me was a welcome side-effect.” Andrew dropped the tracker into Neil’s lap. “Keep your phone with you.”

“Why bother? The tracker has proven itself.”

“The tracker can’t text me back,” Andrew snarled. “Now, circling back to this.” He punctuated the sentence with a jab to one of the thin slits running the length of Neil’s cheekbone, “Shall I get my answers from you, or from the man chained up downstairs?”

Neil’s eyebrows twitched, as close to surprise as his face would admit. “You took one of them alive.”

“I had a feeling my other captive would be reticent with information.”

Neil snapped forwards with an agility that the night’s events should have denied him, crowding into Andrew’s space. “I’m not your captive.”

“True.” Andrew didn’t blink as Neil’s face eclipsed his field of vision. His eyes were as electric a blue as the day they met, raising the hairs on Andrew’s arms with the efficiency of a static shock. “You could walk out of those doors right now and never look back. Your father’s men would tear you to shreds, and I would be free to enjoy my whiskey in peace.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Why not? We both know you won’t.”

Neil was the first to blink. “The Moriyamas think I should have gone to them after my father’s death. Apparently, I’m quite a valuable asset.”

Andrew hummed. “Does that make me the lesser of two evils?”

Neil snorted. “You think highly of yourself. I’ve lived with evil. You go through the motions to keep up appearances, but you have no real interest in the business of evil. You don’t live the life you live because you enjoy it. You don’t enjoy anything but expensive suits and fast cars.”

Two out of three wasn’t bad, but Andrew wouldn’t admit it. Neil’s assumptions had opened a far more interesting line of enquiry. “And why do you do the things you do, Neil? You’re hardly an angel yourself.” Andrew slipped two fingers under the hem of Neil’s sleeve to check that the knives he had lent him were still securely sheathed in his armbands. His fingers flickered across warm metal and came away damp. This time, Andrew doubted that it was Neil’s blood. “You should really clean them before you put them away.”

“I was in a hurry,” Neil muttered.

“No more evading. You have hit your limit for evasiveness for tonight.” Andrew slipped a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from his hands. He offered it to Neil, who scrubbed it half-heartedly across his jaw. “Do you kill because you have to? To keep up appearances? Or because, like your father before you, you enjoy watching a man bleed out on the end of your blade?”

Neil flinched. Silence hung heavy in the air as he handed Andrew his handkerchief back. Andrew rolled his eyes, held Neil’s head in place as he wiped away the streaks of dried blood Neil had missed. Neil tracked the movement of his hands as though trying to connect the careful movements to the man before him. He tilted his head to the side to grant Andrew access to the vulnerable underside of his jaw, and Andrew felt the muscles of Neil’s throat flex as he swallowed.

“I don’t know,” Neil answered quietly. “I don’t want to be like him, but I feel… I feel something of my father in me. His temper.” He swallowed again. “The henchman said that once he was finished with me, he would come back here and do worse things to you unless I stopped fighting back. I wanted to… I don’t know what I wanted to do, but I wanted to do it.” Neil’s eyes flicked to Andrew, heavy and unreadable. “I’m not losing you.”

Four simple words, but Neil didn’t know, couldn’t know, the effect they had. Andrew clenched his jaw, schooling his expression into something along the lines of his usual blankness before Neil could read too much into it. Andrew protected Neil, as was their arrangement. The last thing he needed was his fool of a runaway getting delusions of heroism.

“Would you like to find out?” Andrew’s question ploughed a furrow into Neil’s brow, so he elaborated. “Would you like to find out what you wanted to do to him?”

Neil’s eyes fixed on Andrew’s mouth as though Andrew had offered him eternal life, or perhaps eternal damnation. “Yes.”

Andrew lead and Neil followed as they made their way down to what Andrew privately called his workshop. It was a small building with insulated walls, separate from the main house, easily mistaken for a garage, and it was labelled as such on planning permission forms. Andrew didn’t often have cause to bring his work home with him, preferring to dispatch with his enemies as neatly and quickly as possible, but sometimes circumstances demanded a little more time with the kind of tools that weren’t easily transported to and from a potential crime scene. This was where Andrew brought victims in possession of information that they would not easily part with. Until today, Neil had never stepped foot within the workshop.

He was not the man Andrew had first believed him to be, that much was certain. Nor the second, third, or even forth. Looking at Neil was like staring into a maze of mirrors, impossible to discern which images were reflections and distortions and which was the real person concealed within the labyrinth. Their first meeting had been a headlong sprint into reflective glass, leaving Andrew bruised, disorientated, but itching for a fight. At first, Neil had been the suave inheritor of his father’s fortunes, a mini-butcher in the making. Then he had been the scarred victim of his father’s violent tendencies, trapped and desperate for escape. Then he had drawn his knife and pressed it to Andrew’s throat with all the ease of breathing, and the reflection shimmered and distorted itself all over again. Andrew had taken Neil on in the vain hope that he would reach the end of Neil’s maze or lose interest, yet neither event had yet occurred. No, the more Andrew learned, the more interesting Neil was, and while he remained as dangerous as the day they met, it was now for entirely different reasons.

Tonight, Andrew suspected, they would crack through another layer of glass.

He keyed his twenty-digit code into the keypad – Neil rolled his eyes – and flicked the lights on before tugging the door shut behind them, checking for the usual clunks of numerous locking mechanisms sliding back into place.

Most men in Andrew’s line of work would have guards, lackeys, minions – whatever one wanted to call them. Andrew personally found that the issue with hired muscle was simply that – it was hired. What could sway a guard to work for Andrew could just as easily sway them to work for anyone else. If Andrew was to be double-crossed, he would rather it was by his own blood, however expanded his definition of his blood might be. The workshop, despite and apart from his captive, was thus unoccupied.

The man was where Andrew had left him, which was to be expected, considering the numerous restraints holding him there. Andrew hadn’t genuinely expected him to know anything of interest, but there was a slim chance that Neil would have no earthly idea why the Moriyamas were after him, at which point a surviving kidnapper would be of help in filling in the gaps. Unluckily for the man, whose name Andrew would never learn, he had outlived his worth.

Neil showed little interest in their prisoner. He touched one of the carving knives hanging on the wall, flinching as it clanged against the neighbouring blades.

“Show me his face,” Neil said quietly. Andrew obliged, tugging the gag and blindfold down around the man’s neck in turn. He screwed up his eyes against the sudden light, sweat beading on his forehead despite the room’s chill.

“I have information,” he panted. “Valuable information.”

“Don’t care.” Andrew ran a hand across his cuffs, checking they were sturdy and untampered with. “Neil?”

“Yeah,” Neil said, and Andrew stepped back when he saw the axe swinging at his side.

As much disdain Andrew held for the others in his chosen profession, the irrefutable fact was that Andrew had a type. Neil, armed to the teeth as though he could be any more of a hazard than he already was, sharp smile and sharp weapons and sharp tongue, was Andrew’s type. Andrew wasn’t sure what he wanted Neil to do to him, and whether the axe should be involved, but he knew he wanted something.

Neil Josten was, undeniably, more trouble than he was worth.

“Hey,” Neil crouched before the captive. “Remember me?”

The man was stupid enough to nod.

“I never liked axes.” Neil tossed it from hand to hand like a running baton. “My father’s thing, really. You know, he threatened to hobble me with one of these? Nearly slit my ankles once, too. Figured I’d be less trouble if I couldn’t run.” Neil levelled the sharp end at the man’s head. “I can’t say I understood the weapon’s appeal. Blunt, imprecise, unwieldy. But that was the point, wasn’t it?”

The man’s head twitched in aborted movements, as though unable to decide whether he should be nodding his head or shaking it.

Neil pressed the edge to the same place his own face had been sliced open. A trickle of red wobbled down the man’s cheek before dripping onto his shirt. The stain blossomed on the white fabric like a miniature gunshot wound. The man quaked.

Neil abruptly raised the axe, inspected the thin sheen of red on the blade, and tossed it aside. He straightened to meet Andrew’s gaze.

“That’s what I wanted to do.”

“All out of your system?”

Neil smiled thinly. “It seems I am not my father after all.”

Andrew smoothed a thumb across the cut healing on Neil’s cheek. “I’m going to kill him, now.”

An unsteady breath shook itself from Neil’s lungs as he nodded. He had a particular way of looking at Andrew when he was working, gaze intent and pupils dilated, as though Andrew’s actions were poetry written for him alone. Andrew’s principles of detachment were never closer to shredded than when Neil looked at him like that.

Driving them home, Neil on the backseat and the kidnapper in the trunk, Andrew had played out this moment in his mind. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened to chase the endless trembling from his fingers, which twitched with impatience in aborted movements towards the knives secreted in the folds of his suit. The anticipation sliced through his veins with the efficiency of molten iron, hot and furious and growing stronger with every glance Andrew caught of Neil’s form in the rear-view mirror. He had curled in on himself in his unconscious state, hair ruffled and sticking up in every direction at once, dark eyelashes standing out against his copper skin. His features were smoothed out in sleep, his brow freed of its usual pinched worry, and were it not for the blood streaking down his cheeks Andrew would have said he looked far younger for it.

Before that night, Andrew had not believed he had a truly vengeful bone in his body. He did not cause pain for the sake of pain; he caused it as a warning, a deterrent, a statement, an affirmation of his place in the world and the consequences that would meet anyone who wished to remove him from it. Andrew had left his statement for the Moriyamas in a Lexus filled with dead men, but he wanted more. He wanted to hack and tear and slice until there was nothing left. He wanted to remove every finger that had dared touch Neil one after the other and work his way inwards until there was nothing left of the surviving kidnapper that wouldn’t fit in a matchbox.

That Neil made Andrew want to do these things – that Neil made Andrew want at all – brought with it a kind of fear that Andrew had long believed was dead and gone, buried under years of betrayal and pain and loss. Wanting was as strange an ache as he remembered it being, more so when the object and instigator of that want was standing before him, looking at him as though Andrew could hack a thousand men to pieces before his eyes without prompting so much as a flinch.

Andrew wanted the man ruined, but he wanted Neil more. He promised Neil his protection, and he could not protect Neil if he became the kind of man both of them would rather forget. The kind of man who revelled in losing control.

Andrew killed the man. He died quickly, quietly, unremarkably. It wasn’t what he deserved – it never was, with his kind – but he owed Neil that much.

After, Andrew washed the blood from his hands, stilling as Neil chased a stray fleck from his clavicle with the pad of his index finger. Neil used the point of contact to turn Andrew to face him, allowing him access to refasten the top buttons of Andrew’s shirt. In the chaos of losing Neil and finding him again, Andrew couldn’t rightly say when they had come undone. Neil’s knuckles brushed Andrew’s neck as he did so, and Andrew repressed a shiver, remembering the day Neil pressed a knife to the same spot.

“I can help clean up,” Neil murmured, casting a sideways glance to the mess behind them. Andrew rolled his eyes as he tugged Neil’s lapel back into place. It was the same suit he had been taken in, and it showed, scuffed and rumpled and sporting several loose threads and dried bloodstains. Andrew would have a new one hanging in Neil’s wardrobe before sunrise, although Neil certainly wouldn’t appreciate it.

Andrew flicked a wayward tuft of Neil’s curls from his forehead with a roll of his eyes. “Worry about cleaning yourself up. You’re a mess.”

Neil shot him a flat look, but left to do as he was told. It wasn’t long before Andrew followed him back to the main house, checking his clothes as he went for stray flecks of red, knowing he would find none. The night air was cool after the stuffy, stale workshop, which was now choked with the thick odours of cleaning chemicals. The light in Neil’s room was still on, and Andrew squinted up at the tell-tale twitch of curtains that told him his return had been awaited.

Andrew took his time, holding a cigarette between his lips until the smoke drowned out the lingering smell of disinfectant. He knew from the tingle on the back of his neck that he was still being watched, but knowing it was Neil did something warm and pleasant to Andrew’s stomach, something that nipped. Andrew was particular about the kinds of attention he did and didn’t welcome and found that Neil’s faceless vigil was one which he, in fact, did. He pursed his lips around the cigarette, rolling his shoulders as he looked back up to the house, keeping his stance loose and relaxed as though he were returning from an evening stroll instead of a crime scene.

He waited Neil out, listening to the quiet chirp and rustle of the garden around him. Finally, the orange glow from Neil’s window flicked to black, and Andrew went inside.

His post-kill routine began, as it always did, with the longest, hottest bath he could stand. He threw handfuls of bath salts and goop into the claw-footed tub without much regard for the conflicting scents. He felt little need to wash off the grime, as it were, of a murder scene, but did so as a courtesy to anyone he might encounter in the immediate future less acclimatised to the scent of dry blood. When his skin was bright pink and scrubbed soft by the salts, he hauled himself from the tub, shaking water everywhere as he slipped into a grey silk bathrobe and returned to his room.

He found Neil waiting for him on his bed. This was not part of Andrew’s routine, as much as he might have fantasised otherwise. Face freshly scrubbed and his suit jacket abandoned somewhere between then and now, Neil was halfway towards looking human again. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, and Andrew made a conscious effort not to let his eyes catch on the exposed stretch of Neil’s collarbone. Andrew did not like people sitting on his bed, or being in his bedroom, or behaving unexpectedly. Neil was doing all three, yet somehow it didn’t bother him.

“That is expensive Japanese linen. Do not get blood on it,” Andrew said. Neil’s wounds were cleaned and sealed, but it was wise to err on the side of caution where the runaway was concerned. Andrew wouldn’t be surprised if Neil had found someone to infuriate to the point of homicide between his room and Andrew’s. He was gifted that way.

Neil picked at the sheets. “They’re not even soft.”

“Can I help you, Neil?”

“It smells like hibiscus in here. And lemon. And lavender?”

“We have talked about your evasiveness quota for the night.”

Neil sighed. “I just don’t understand why I’m here.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Fate, destiny, a horse, who cares?”

“I mean, why you brought me here. Why you protect me. It would have been so much easier to kill me. It’s what you do¸ and you’re good at it. What makes me special?”

“This couldn’t wait until morning?”

One of Neil’s eyebrows slid upwards. “Now you’re being evasive.”

Andrew exhaled heavily. “You said I don’t enjoy anything but expensive suits and fast cars. You were wrong.”

Neil wrinkled his nose. “Clearly, you enjoy over-perfumed baths too.”

“Concentrate, Neil.”

“It’s hard to think when you smell like you’ve just robbed a florist.” Neil was too busy complaining to notice Andrew’s approach. Andrew kneeled in front of him, hands braced in the bedding on either side. Neil blinked.

“You’re interesting,” Andrew said simply.

“Interesting? Are you serious?”

Andrew shrugged. “It’s not often that I’m…interested.”

“Interested,” Neil repeated, and suddenly his eyes grew wide. “Oh.”

Andrew snapped his fingers in front of Neil’s face to regain his attention. “Now. If you want, you can walk out that door right now and go back to whatever plans you had for your evening. Your place under my protection will be unaffected.”

Neil did not, against Andrew’s expectations, look to the door. “Or?”

“Or you stay here, and I blow you.” Andrew had never been one for flowery propositions.

“Oh,” said Neil again. His eyes flicked across Andrew as though he were the mirror-maze reflection instead of Neil, and another layer of reflective glass had just been torn down. “You like me.”

Andrew fixed Neil with the most disdainful glare he could manage.

“Is it because…” Neil gestured vaguely over himself. “Because I’m the son of the butcher?”

“No,” Andrew replied. “It’s because you’re not.”

A new kind of understanding dawned in Neil’s features. He leaned in until their faces were inches apart. Andrew could smell Neil’s crisp aftershave, not one of the expensive brands Andrew preferred but compelling all the same.

“Kiss me,” Neil whispered, and Andrew was happy to oblige. He buried his hands in the sheets either side of Neil’s legs and kissed him until his lips were numb and they were both breathless. Neil gasped, and Andrew drew back, scowling when he noticed a thin scar cutting across Neil’s upper lip had re-opened.

“I don’t need medical attention,” Andrew mocked. “I’m fine.”

“I am,” Neil insisted. His tongue darted out to lick across his upper lip, and Andrew had to tear his gaze away. “It’s a scratch. It doesn’t hurt.”

“You said that about a stab wound last month.”

“You can’t tell when I’m lying yet?” Neil asked innocently.

“Stop talking.”

“Make me.”

Andrew was careful, the coppery taste of Neil’s lips setting long-abandoned parts of his mind alight, but Neil chased Andrew’s mouth with such fervour that Andrew soon gave in to the rough slide of their lips against each other. Neil, always so careful where it really mattered, dug his hands into the sheets so hard that Andrew wondered how he hadn’t torn right through them, leaving Andrew to dictate the points of contact between them.

Andrew nudged Neil onto his back as he climbed onto the bed, pausing to check for Neil’s consent before slipping a hand under the hem of his shirt. Neil gasped into his mouth, but as Andrew’s palm dragged across his ribcage Neil tensed, a bitten-off sound jerking from his chest. It wasn’t a good kind of sound.

“Neil,” Andrew said carefully. “You said your only injuries were on your face.”

“They were. I’m fine.”

Andrew retaliated with a light press to the side of Neil’s ribcage. Neil’s breath hitched, his face twisting. “Looks like it.”

“Fine. Fine, I think I broke a rib. It’ll heal.”

“Anything else I should know about?”

“No. Yes. No.” Neil winced. “It might be two ribs.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this because…?”

“You were upset.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. A dangerous swirl of emotions churned in his stomach. “Was I?”

“Yes,” Neil replied. He said it with such ease, like he didn’t know what his words did to Andrew, staring up at him, open and exposed and caring, and for a moment Andrew couldn’t stand it.

I hate you¸ he wanted to say, but instead, “It is not your job to protect me. It is mine to protect you. Don’t lie to me again.”

“Can’t it be both?” Neil’s eyes traced the length of Andrew’s body, fingers twitching but still fisted into the sheets. “I’m not made of glass, Andrew. I’m the son of the butcher. I know how to fight. Let me fight for you.”

Andrew bit back a curse. He cupped Neil’s cheek in his hand, thumb running across the chapped skin of his bottom lip. “One condition,” he said at last. “No more lies.”

“Done,” Neil agreed, so easily, too easily, and yet Andrew couldn’t help but believe him.

He guided Neil’s hands to his hair before kissing him again, rough and hungry, and waited until he had succeeded in pulling a desperate moan from Neil’s chest before pulling back.

“Now, we are going to the ER, and you are going to get an X-ray, and I am not going to hear a peep of complaint about it.” Andrew ducked to press a kiss to Neil’s pulse-point.

“And afterwards?”

“And afterwards,” Andrew said thoughtfully, lips moving against Neil’s skin. “I suppose we’ll see where the night takes us.”

Neil smiled. It was not his father’s smile, not anymore. Neil had claimed it as his own.

 *

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought.