#it's called not being able to sit with my thoughts for a second lest i start thinking the worst ones

[darlingeames]

‘You’re Blackbeard?’

Ed – Blackbeard, for Christ’ sake – pops his head out of the wardrobe into the cabin to see if whoever called for him left, then turns back to Stede.

‘Yep. Blackbeard. That’s me.’

Stede, still holding the stupid fucking pants, openly gapes. He thinks for a split second that he should be careful what he says next, how he acts – he knows the man in front of him is incredibly dangerous. But he doesn’t feel it. So it doesn’t matter.

‘But I just asked you, and you said you work for him.’

Ed. Short for Edward fucking Teach.

He vaguely remembers seeing all that leather surrounded by smoke before he lost consciousness, Ed’s voice saying I’ve heard all about you.

‘Techincally, that’s not not true, you know,’ Ed says, and he looks a bit smug. Like he’s proud of his little trick. ‘You could say that being Blackbeard is my job.’

This man is incredibly peculiar, Stede thinks. He grips his pants tighter, which Ed seems to notice.

‘Since you already got up, even though really, you should take it easy, or your guts will spill out, take it from someone who’s been stabbed countless times before, you probably want to get dressed, I’ll leave you to it–’

And Ed starts to get out of the auxiliary closet, but then he turns back.

‘Wear those pants, the colour’s gorgeous.’ And, to Stede's absolute dismay, Ed winks at him.

Left alone in his secret closet, Stede thinks that any rational man would probably at least entertain the possibility that Blackbeard would lock him in said secret closet and steal his crew and ship – but then, Ed was so kind, and he could have killed Stede in his sleep anyway if he would have so desired, so the thought passes so fleetingly through Stede’s mind that it leaves behind no trace.

Stede does indeed put on the pants, and a white shirt and the black cravat, because he felt the need for something to counterbalance the redness of his flesh where the noose had choked him.

He barely stepped out of the closet when Ed turns from looking up at the chandeliers. 

‘What other cool stuff do you have in here?’

So Stede shows Blackbeard his library.

Stede has a feeling, the moment an unknown man, with incredibly kind, large brown eyes wakes him up from his feverish nightmare. He feels, more than he thinks, that of course, this is exactly the way it should be. If it had been Lucius or Olwande sitting on his bed, warning him not to get up too fast lest his guts spill out, he would have felt disappointed, and he would not for the life of him been able to pinpoint exactly why. But Ed, who works for Blackbeard, and who looks exactly like someone who would work for Blackbeard, assures him that he might be a decent pirate since the Spanish didn’t manage to kill him yet, and takes an interest to Stede’s best robe and he can’t tell silk from cashmere but he keeps rubbing it between his fingers, and Stede knows nothing about this man, and the part of him that has been reading pirate stories all his life yells that it might be a trap, they are pirates, for fuck’s sake, they screw each other over all the time, he could be lying for all you know and your crew is either dead or imprisoned and you’re this close to being thrown overboard – but it’s such a distant tirade, and Stede can barely hear it over the sound of his robe rustling between Ed’s fingers, and he’s been dying to tell someone just how much fun he’s had while having the Revenge built. 

So really, it’s no choice at all.

‘Can you keep a secret?’

It turns out that pirates do lie and do screw other people over, even if it’s such for a bit of fun – Ed says No, I’m Blackbeard, and Stede thinks Christ alive, did I really bring the actual Blackbeard into my auxiliary closet that nobody but us knows about and showed him my fucking summer linens, how has this become my life, and stares in horror at the back of Ed’s head, at the unruly mess of salt and pepper curls, and thinks of the worst. But Ed shows no sign of it meaning anything at all – doesn’t call back to whomever it was that was looking for him, and doesn’t start laughing at Stede –

In seconds, quick as silver, the two images in Stede’s head become one – this is Blackbeard, he knows he is, just as he knows he’s not in any real danger, just as he knows the sparkle he saw in Ed’s eye when he opened the secret door was real.

He’ll never look at him and think Blackbeard. That word still conjures up the fantasy version of Black Pete’s stories, the one in his books, the smoke and the glowing eyes and the nine pistols, and the ruthlessness and bloodthirst. That Blackbeard has never had anything to do with his Ed, the man that woke him up and seemed thrilled with all of Stede’s idiosyncrasies, from his clothes to his two chandeliers and his books. In this world, it’s one of his biggest failings – he’s never been able to look at Edward Teach and see what he should have seen. What his crew saw. What Izzy had tried so hard to preserve. He had taken one look at the man and Stede, in his feverish, incredibly embarrassed state, hadn’t seen the leather and the tattoos and the years upon years of having the sea as a home, he saw kind eyes, he felt a warm hand, and he didn’t meet Blackbeard, he met a man that made the simple act of breathing easier.

[iwaasfairy]

siscon isagi 😵‍💫😵‍💫

SiSCON ISAGI! Say it loUDer for people in the back!!!! Isagi is the type of big brother you don’t pay no mind about him teasing you and hugging and kissing until you have a boyfriend and he’s just unreasonably short and mean to him. He wasn’t gonna be overbearing and all, but what do you think you’re doing??

tw incest, choking, blackmail, noncon

contains isagi yoichi x fem!reader

The door shuts with a quiet click. Push it for good measure, take a breath, let it out. It's the sliver of quiet. Before you whirl around and stomp down to the living room, and glare under your eyebrows as Yoichi plops himself back down into the couch. When you don’t get a response, you kick his shin and he grimaces. “What’s your deal?!”

“What’s my deal,” you repeat, voice already shooting up too high, “really?!” You resist the urge to put your hands on your hips, lest he comment on it, and allow yourself to imagine pummeling his stupid arms blue for being the way he is. "What's your deal with my boyfriend?!"

"Pff," the noiret dares to roll his eyes, as if it didn't mean anything when he basically shoulder tapped him every time walking by, like some moronic dick measuring contest. How he cut off every other sentence with a short comment and a sneer. You know your brother, and you know he knows better. Should know better, at least. "Oh, spare me. If you didn't want me to give my honest thoughts, you shouldn't have brought him home."

"My boyfriend is-"

"Your 'boy friend' is a dick. He's an arrogant pretty boy, and can't keep his fucking hands to himself. Mom thinks so too! He's a joke." His eyes are strangely distant. You barely recognize the person sitting in front of you when he glares. "I'm not gonna fight you on it."

"You don't know that, niichan!"

"I do fucking know. Better than you do, apparently. How dense are you?" He then puts on a mockingly high pitched voice, swinging his hands like a schoolgirl. "'Kei kun, come here. Kei kun, show mom how good you are at photography. Kei kun, come kiss me again.' It's ridiculous."

Your well-spoken, quiet mother blanks from her uncomfortable seat at the dinner table to give you a stunned look, and you can't help but take steps closer until you can jam your finger into his forehead and grit your teeth. You know better too, than to poke until your brother retaliates. Because you were always more fiery than he was, but his quiet, calculated nature isn't any less hard-headed.

"I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but you don't have some moronic territory claim on our house. And you don't have some stupid say on who I see either. And you don't have to like him. Because he's my boyfriend." Your mom only starts cleaning off the table when you both don't make any sign of slowing down. "Mom?" you beg though, as your brother wraps his hand around your wrist to tug hard and move you back a few steps.

Ever since getting his growth spurt, there's a glint in his eyes that- scares you, sometimes. Like he'd gladly burn you down to the ground. You used to get away with anything— but lately, you're not so sure.

"Yo-chan, please-" your mom tries, and is promptly cut off by the way he gets up and goes to stand almost forehead to forehead with you, azure blues hard and narrowed.

"Do it again. I dare you," he mumbles, jaw tight, as the air between you two becomes thick enough to cut it with a knife. You try to pull your hand back, but he resists with too much ease. "If you wanna have the fight, we'll have the fucking fight." You are dragged behind him before you can even say anything back, and your mom puts aside the plates to glance between the two of you. She calls his name again, but he only pauses for a second.

"I - I just want talk this out. I'll be- civil." When you get down the hall and to is room, most of your heat has now seeped out of your body, suddenly aware that if you really pissed him off, neither you or your mother would be able to do anything. And you aren't scared of him, you're really not, but— fighting sounds a lot less appealing when it's just you and him in a closed room.

"Yo niichan—" He slams you up against the door before you can get another word out, trapped between his taller, stronger body, and the door. And his long fingers are a little too comfortable wrapping around your throat and squeezing just enough to make your eyes widen and the pressure to itch your lungs.

He has a ghost of a smile on his lips as he forces his solid thigh between your legs, and gets too close to your face. "Don't start again. I want you to listen." His eyes flutter for a second, before he dips his head. And warm lips find yours and push and push until you can't get him away from you. He pulls back with a little puff, and licks his lips. "That guy is an ass. And not for you. I know, because I've seen how much he asks you for pictures."

Your hands are fisted into his sweater by his shoulders, like stone, in pure shock as you stare into his eyes and he does it again— kisses you again. You grab his face to push away with more purpose this time, but he doesn't move an inch before he turns you around and pushes you back to the door instead, and crowds against your back.

"And if you don't want everyone to see them," the way he pushes himself against you is all too much crotch and - hardening cock- as he brushes his lips along the shell of your ear, "you'll listen to your big brother."

[sim-ply-lilacs]

Dear Irene,

I once again renew my efforts to draw you all to Brindleton Bay. If you and Seamus won't come for the good earth, clean air, and wholesome community, then come for me, your dearest friend. I so miss having you near! Would that life were as simple as when we were young, and I might stop over at yours for a cup of tea and a friendly chat on a whim. Especially now, as I am not able to make my way around Brindleton and Henford to do the marketing and meet with the ladies at church as easily as I used to. I can only imagine how strenuous I will find the tasks when my time comes nearer!

You will be gratified, I'm sure, to hear Josef has been marvelous in helping me in my current weakened state. I've never met a man more excited to become a father! Ever since I returned from the midwife and told him my news, he has spent all his waking hours either working the fields where I flatter myself to think he feels acutely the loss of my help, or working to improve the house for us. What was our bedroom has been split into a stairwell and a wee room for our newcomer. Our room, meanwhile, has been relocated to our brand-new second floor. It is a bit sparse, but it is more private, and it is ours! Of course, I was horribly emotional to think that the room I came to as a bride no longer exists, but I was calmed at the thought that we are doing well enough on the farm to afford these improvements.

Lest you think we are all work and no play, I will tell you how we have been spending our evenings lately. Mother is spending more and more time with her mysterious friend, and Josef and I find ourselves alone more and more. I adore Mother, truly, but I don't think I need to tell you how nice it is to have one's home and husband to oneself.

He dotes on me, my darling man. Josef is always touching me, pulling me close when no one is looking, placing a hand at my back when I am cooking our dinner, and especially caressing my (ever-growing) stomach. It seems so odd to say, but I don't believe he's ever been so in love with me as he is right now!

He is more impatient for Baby to arrive than I am, even. He pulled his father's violin out of storage and is teaching himself to play. Baby and I are his nightly audience. He is improving, but I confess I am hoping that my little passenger does not yet have ears. Other nights, he listens to me plod my way through children's piano books. We were gifted a dear, shabby old thing by a family moving back to the old country, and Mother and Josef were kind enough to fix the old thing up for me, so I might have something other than reading, knitting, and embroidery to occupy my time when I am too tired for much other than sitting.

One evening, though, we were occupying ourselves with none of these things. We couldn't seem to settle down to anything, not even to sitting ourselves on the couch. You would have teased me terribly for how sentimental we were being, caught up in the realm of fairies and fancies. He told me all about the plans he's making for our child. He wants to put away money whenever we might squirrel some away to give Baby and any more children we might have the chance for the kind of education we both dreamt of but never had the chance for ourselves.

I confessed that I love feeling Baby move. She is so little that Josef cannot yet feel much, but her little flutters are a near constant presence during my day—and yes, I am convinced that Baby is a she. Call it mother's intuition if you like, but I am certain about this. Josef teases me that this means we will certainly have twin boys, but of course I will love any children we are blessed with. Even if my pride will smart horribly if I am wrong!

We talked long into the night that evening, as we often do on Saturday nights when we plan to go to the late morning Mass the next day. The one thing we avoid talking about are the dangers to come. I am not so naive that I do not know how perilous what lies ahead may be. Mother lost many of her own before I was born safely, and almost lost her life when I was born. I have helped at my fair share of births, as well. You and I both have seen childbeds where mother or baby or both leave the grieving father behind. I try not to catastrophize for Josef's sake. He has already lost so much.

Still, in my happiness, I must plan for the worst. If...if it does happen, and I do not survive, please send the notes I have enclosed alongside my letter to you for Josef, Mother, and Baby, so they have something from me. I cannot shake the feeling that something may yet go wrong. The town midwife is capable, and I am young and strong, so hopefully this is all for nothing, and when you and Seamus and the children come out after the baby is born you will laugh at me and all my silliness.

To resume what I was writing about before that little sadness, I confess that I'm rather desperate for all the plans we talked of that night to come true. I would not change the life I share with Josef on Idyllwind Farm for anything, save maybe if Mr. Edison would see fit to run some of his incandescent lamps out our way, and we might no longer have to rely on our kerosene lamps and candles to light the way. Waking up next to this man, working on this farm, being with our animals and my mother and our neighbors and friends, feeling our child kick within me, living in my beloved Bay, I know my life has turned out the way it was always meant to.

And yet...and yet I don't want my child to feel compelled to follow in my footsteps.

I have chosen my life, and that is why I love it. My situation when Father died was less than desirable, but I could have searched again for work in town, I could have joined a convent, I could have forced Mother to come out west with me and taught at that school. I chose Josef, and I choose him every day. If this baby wants to work the land, then I will celebrate that this farm will stay in the family. If Baby wants to teach, then she will teach. If she wants to go to university, or join a convent, or be a tailor, then I want her to be able to have those things. Life is so much sweeter when you do what you are made for.

Well! That is all for this very, very long letter, my friend. Write me soon, and do tell me that you and Seamus will at least consider leaving that awful city behind and join us out in the Bay. I have included a few newspaper clippings for your perusal. One is the account of a concert of Mr. Dvořák's music, which the artist himself attended, where a man got up in the middle of a piece and loudly complained and what transpired hence which I found amusing. Josef read it aloud to me and had me beside myself with his performance. I have copied it down for myself, so I leave you the original clipping. Another is the obituary for Father, as I have finally acquired an extra copy for you. Finally, a listing for a farm near here. Do consider it, both of you! Josef and I have been to see the property and the cabin is sound, if small. Josef says the earth there is good, and there is ample space for the children to run around, and a good schoolhouse to boot—and it is only a half mile's walk from Idyllwind Farm. There! I have said my bit! Do give my love to Seamus and the children, and write back soon. I eagerly await your response.

All my love, Bea

Prev ~ Next ~ Beginning

[god-whispers]

may 1

acts of compassion

"I have compassion on the multitude, because they have now continued with Me three days and have nothing to eat.  and I do not want to send them away hungry, lest they faint on the way." matt 15:32

it seems a lot of you out there like a good story that tugs at the old heart strings. that being the case, i've got one to share with you today.  since we talked a little bit yesterday about "no free lunch," i'm going to jump on the other bandwagon today.

too many in this world have forgotten to be kind, to be compassionate.  our Lord knew compassion and He wants us to know it too.  remember - "love will cover a multitude of sins." 1 pet 4:8

-------

i am a mother of three (ages 14, 12, 3) and have recently completed my college degree.  the last class i had to take was sociology.  the teacher was absolutely inspiring with the qualities that i wish every human being had been graced with.

her last project of the term was called "smile."  the class was asked to go out and smile at three people and document their reactions.  i am a very friendly person and always smile at everyone and say hello anyway, so, i thought this would be a piece of cake.

soon after we were assigned the project, my husband, youngest son, and i went out to mcdonald's one crisp march morning.  it was just our way of sharing special playtime with our son.  we were standing in line, waiting to be served, when all of a sudden everyone around us began to back away, and then even my husband did.

i did not move an inch.  an overwhelming feeling of panic welled up inside of me as i turned to see why they had moved.  as i turned around, i smelled a horrible "dirty body" smell, and there standing behind me were two poor homeless men.  as i looked down at the short gentleman close to me, he was "smiling".  his beautiful sky blue eyes were full of God's light as he searched for acceptance.  he said, "good day" as he counted the few coins he had been clutching.

the second man fumbled with his hands as he stood behind his friend.  i realized the second man was mentally challenged and the blue-eyed gentleman was his salvation.  i held my tears as i stood there with them.  the young lady at the counter asked him what they wanted.

he said, "coffee is all miss" because that was all they could afford.  if they wanted to sit in the restaurant and warm up, they had to buy something.  he just wanted to be warm.

then i really felt it - the compulsion was so great i almost reached out and embraced the little man with the blue eyes.  that is when i noticed all eyes in the restaurant were set on me, judging my every action.  i smiled and asked the young lady behind the counter to give me two more breakfast meals on a separate tray.

i then walked around the corner to the table that the men had chosen as a resting spot.  i put the tray on the table and laid my hand on the blue-eyed gentleman's cold hand.  he looked up at me, with tears in his eyes, and said, "thank you."  i leaned over, began to pat his hand and said, "i did not do this for you.  God is here working through me to give you hope."

i started to cry as i walked away to join my husband and son.  when i sat down my husband smiled at me and said, "that is why God gave you to me, honey, to give me hope."  we held hands for a moment and at that time, we knew that only because of the Grace that we had been given were we able to give.  that day showed me the pure light of God's sweet love.

i returned to college, on the last evening of class, with this story in hand.  i turned in "my project" and the instructor read it.  then she looked up at me and said, "can i share this?"  i slowly nodded as she got the attention of the class.  she began to read and that is when i knew that we as human beings and being part of God share this need to heal people and to be healed.  in my own way, i had touched the people at mcdonald's, my husband, son, instructor, and every soul that shared the classroom on the last night i spent as a college student.  i graduated with one of the biggest lessons i would ever learn: unconditional acceptance.

much love and compassion is sent to each and every person who may read this and learn how to "love people and use things - not love things and use people."

to handle yourself, use your head. to handle others, use your heart.

-------

i particularly wanted to share this story today because it reminded me of one of my longest friends.  she used to always talk about meeting friends at mcdonalds and spending time there.  i don't know whether they still meet or if she ever performed such an act but it certainly wouldn't surprise me.  you see, she joys in doing things like that - buying food or useful things for the less fortunate.  (she especially likes finding a bargain so she can stretch the blessing further.)  that's always kind of been her ministry; her way of sharing God's love with others.

prayers and preaching aren't always what someone is in need of at the moment.  "what does it profit, my brethren, if someone says he has faith but does not have works?  can faith save him?  if a brother or sister is naked and destitute of daily food, and one of you says to them, 'depart in peace, be warmed and filled,' but you do not give them the things which are needed for the body, what does it profit?" james 2:14-16

a simple act of kindness can share God more than a thousand bibles that are never read.  we are God's bible to some; a least the only one they will ever read.  have you reflected our Lord today?

[subpar-ghoulfriend]

Let’s have a baby

yandere!EraserMicx PREGNANT!Reader 

A terrible mix up leading to an accidental pregnancy? Or something more intentional? Either way now you were pregnant with (none other than the beloved power couple heroes) Eraserhead and Present Mic’s child. Time to discuss how co parenting is going to work. 

TW: pregnancy, artificial insemination, yandere elements, mentions of stalking, alludes to potential custody battle

You had been avoiding the two men for the past week, which was challenging seeing as they managed to find your phone number, address, and place of work. Any time you blocked their calls they got a new number. Two Pro Heroes versus a twenty something civilian, it was only a matter of time until you were cornered.

Now the couple stood between you and your apartment. You had a long shift at your job as a pet groomer and just wanted to get some rest.

Present Mic was the first to speak. "Hey lil momma, we heard you had work today so we brought you some dinner. We thought we could talk over a nice meal."

You had no response. You were tired, both physically and emotionally. You had been put through the ringer ever since meeting them at your doctors office. It was a total Jane the Virgin situation. You went in for an assessment about some supposed ovarian cysts and unknowing left artificially inseminated. There was a supposed mix up, a digital glitch that somehow merged your chart with the surrogates - apparently your names were super similar. Two weeks later you were called back into the doctor's office and informed of what took place. And now you were in this living nightmare.

And the two heroes had nothing to do with the error. There was totally a surrogate. They hadn't paid off your provider. And why would they? You had never met them - although given their patrols they may have seen you once or twice...

They were tearful when they were informed of the mix up, they had been waiting patiently through the whole process and now everything was thrown in chaos. They offered to compensate you for your service which sent you into a blind rage. They just assumed you would carry a child, a child with half of your DNA, and then give YOUR baby away. Rationally you understood that they had planned to be be the only parents to the child, but that was with a professional surrogate who understood the process, who didn't want the child in their life, just happy to help out a loving couple. But that wasn't you, you grew up wanting to be a mom, and now they would take that from you.

What if they tried to legally take sole custody of the baby? Surely they had some pull in the judicial system. Besides, they were a solid couple with money, while you were alone with no family and working two jobs. The thought made you sick to your stomach.

You were shaking as you tried to push past them. Maybe they would just disappear if you ignored them, a girl could dream. But instead they tagged along inside. Albeit you weren’t fighting them on it, you knew this had to happen eventually.

Aizawa easily found the cluttered dining table in your small apartment. You flinched when the loud one tried to help you shrug off your backpack. Taking a seat on the couch you waited for them to start berating you.

"Come sit at the table, dinner is getting cold," Eraser spoke for the first time.

"I'll eat later, I'm not hungry."

"You may not be, but the baby needs to eat."

You glared, how dare they insinuate you didn't know what your child needed. If your body was hungry, you ate. If you were full the baby was full too.

But, you complied, not wanting to argue, "Fine, but I ate a snack not too long ago."

As you ate, Mic kept you company, picking at some left overs, they clearly ate before their visit. Aizawa was rummaging through your place but you managed to hold your tongue until he began throwing things out of your fridge.

"What are you doing?" You hissed, getting up out of your seat.

"Mic and I will bring you groceries tomorrow. The food you have is barely safe for an adult, let alone a fetus."

"Are you kidding me? It's not like I'm chugging alcohol and living off Twinkies. Hey! I just bought those turkey slices. How is turkey bad?" You whined.

To make sure you wouldn't dig the food out trash he dumped it out of his container.

"Zashi, don't let me forget to empty the trash on our way out. Do you know how much salt is in deli meat? And there's no way you can drink any of this while you're pregnant." He gestures to the cans of soda.

As the frustration built you had to fight back tears. They couldn't come in to your home and start throwing out your things.

"Some of us don't make ridiculous money, I'm buying what I can afford and the doctor never had any problem with my health." You hissed.

Hizashi felt the tension thickening, "Hey hey hey, it's okay. Sho and I will go get you some good stuff. We just gotta watch out for you and baby."

And that was the end of your resolve, you stomped past the Hero and locked yourself in your bedroom. Finally tears began to drip down your cheeks.

Back in your kitchen Mic was chiding his boyfriend for being so tough on you.

"So I should just back down while she stuffs herself with junk food?"

Mic gave him a shrug, showing him a bottle on your counter, "At lest she's taking her prenatal vitamins?"

Grabbing the keys to your apartment Aizawa instructed Mic to wait with you while he got you better groceries. He would make copies of your keys on his was back.

You prayed they would leave soon. You were laying in your bed having cried yourself out. Barely into your second month of pregnancy. You still had to endure this for at least seven more months, but most likely much longer.

Next thing you knew you were opening your eyes and the clock read seven AM. By now your uninvited guests must be gone. Nervously you sat up, praying that you'd skip the morning sickness just once this week. You had always had a weak stomach and even the doctor was surprised you were already experiencing the symptom. Unfortunately the minute your feet touched the floor you knew what was coming. You sprinted to the restroom, not even checking to see if the duo had left.

God this was terrible, you didn't just hate throwing up, you were terrified of it. What if you started and never stopped? But it did come to an end. You wiped the water from your eyes and took a moment before standing from the floor. You screamed when a hand slid under your arm, helping you up. Another set of feet rushed to the bathroom.

" What's wrong?" Hizashi huffed as he skid to a stop.

You pulled arm free from Aizawa's grasp. "What are you two still doing here?"

You turned in the faucet to rinse your mouth. Trying to calm your stress, the nausea was trying to return.

Undeterred the scruff pulled your hair into a bun before rubbing your back. You debated returning to bed but that wouldn't get them out of your apartment. You told them you need to sit down, both of them nodding, still wearing their concerned expressions. They got you a glass of water before joining you on the couch. Stubborn men, you sat at the end of the couch so they couldn't both sit, but Mic decided to perch himself on the armrest.

He started petting your hair, "You feelin better little listener?" You nodded in response.

"I got you more food, let us know if your hungry."

You sighed in defeat, "I'm barely two months pregnant, I can fend for myself. What did you all want to talk about?"

You anxiously placed a hand on your stomach. Both men felt their hearts flutter recognizing your maternal instincts kicking in.

Aizawa let Mic begin, he was the more gentle of the two.

"Well, we figured we got off to a rough start. You got put in a tough situation. We shouldn't have assumed you didn't want a child so we're not mad at how you stormed out. But either way we expect to be in our baby's life. The two of us talked it over and we don't want to fight you if you want to be in their life too. So if you wanna be the mommy we're cool with it."

You could blame your reaction on your hormones for your response but you didn't, "Geez thank you so much for allowing me to be in MY child's life."

Aizawa placed a hand on the back of your neck, giving you a gentle massage. "Okay then, the three of us are gonna have a baby. That means you have to stop ignoring us. We can raise the baby together, without involving anyone else. But if we have to, we can always go the legal route for the baby's best interest." 

He knew it was a low blow, but the couple needed you to stop fighting them. Your eyes snapped to his and you shook your head in protest.

"Okay then we're all the same page," Aizawa reassured you.

Mic cheered, "Now we can focus on the fun stuff."

"Hun," Eraserhead caught his attention. "There's still a few more important things to figure out. We don't want you going back to that doctor. They're incompetent. We scheduled you an appointment with another's clinic for next week. Okay?"

You couldn't find your voice after how easily he threatened to take your baby. So you just nodded. Half listening.

"Good. We also went ahead and programmed our numbers into your phone. We need to be able to check in with you."

"Okay, but I can't use my phone at one of my jobs."

"About that lil momma," Mic started. "You work a lot, which is totally bad ass, but we don't think you leave enough time to rest and take care of yourself."

You tried to protest but Aizawa cut you off, "You also shouldn't be working around so many animals. Even though we love animals, they can be unpredictable and one dog can trigger all the rest into a frenzy."

You were dumbfounded, "I've never heard of anything like that happening. One of my coworkers was pregnant last year, she worked until her maternity leave. Plus I need to be able to pay my bills. And don't offer to compensate me again."

"Why do you have to view it as compensation? We just want to take care of the mother of our child. Just think about it. Mic and I have to go take care of some business but we'll be back later this week."

---

Back at their home Hizashi was dramatically splayed on their bed.

"Babe why are you pouting?" Aizawa asked.

"Why can't we just bring her home already?"

Aizawa sympathized with his better half, but they needed to be methodical. He reminded Hizashi that they didn't need to cause her even more stress, especially so early into the pregnancy. If they played their cards right they would have their happy little family soon enough.

If they could ease you in to the relationship everything would be easier in the long run. They had been managing just fine until now, they could wait a few more months.

He joined Hizashi on the couch. Mic was comforting himself the way he usually did when he felt like this. He was scrolling through the countless photos they had collected since their chance encounter with you over a year ago. 

[zuluc]

summary: maybe thinking about you affects them more than they thought? or have they really realized just how much you occupy their minds? who knows, but it is pretty cute to know their reactions to you whenever you may be mentioned in conversation

pairings: childe, diluc, & xiao x gn!reader

style & genre: written; fluff, modern!au

notes: the albedo museum date will have to be rescheduled because i found this in my drafts and never remembered to post it haha. to be honest idk what this was supposed to be exactly so i’ll just say a little slice-of-life genre in school with the boys

and also i am living for the friendship pairings i put here

i am so drained from school and i need one of them irl rn please 🤧

Childe

“I’m telling you I’m fine!” Childe scoffs as his friend insists on shoving him in the direction of the nurse’s office. He hisses when a particularly sharp jab is directed into his side and his friend huffs, clearly satisfied at the reaction and annoyed at Childe’s reluctance to get himself checked.

“Fine, you say. You have to stop picking fights when you know you can avoid them.” Kaeya chuckles, knowing this’ll just go in one ear and out the other with him, but it never hurt to try. Especially with the recent information that allowed the blue-haired student to have the upperhand.

A smirk appears on his face and Childe raises an eyebrow in confusion and wariness. “What?”

Kaeya shrugs, a mischievous grin now overtaking his features as he walks ahead of the other. “I suppose that y/n will be sitting alone in the office, waiting for the bell to ring for their next class.” He doesn’t have to turn around to see Childe stop his tracks as he takes in the information.

“Th... They’re in the nurse’s office?” Childe looks up slowly to see Kaeya tilt his head, “Are you messing with me right now?” Kaeya only laughs and walks away, waving his hand in the air. 

“I mean, I did say you should get yourself checked but if you don’t want to then--” Childe doesn’t hear the rest of his friend’s statement as he limps over to the room where you were waiting.

It wasn’t like you knew he would walk in with “minor” injuries, as he says,  and a bright smile on his face that he only seemed to have whenever he was around you.

Diluc

This is hopeless.

Diluc leans back in his seat during the break they’re given and stares out the window to see you walking with your friends. They must have said something funny to have you laughing, a light look on your face that has his cheeks dusted pink in seconds. 

His ears pick up the scraping of a chair on the floor and he flips his notebook closed to hide the small notes of practice confessions he wrote while he should have been listening in on the lesson. It was none other than Lisa who seemed quite cheerful in contrast to himself.

“Whatcha thinking about?” She nods her head over to his hastily closed notebook as she smiles knowingly at the warmth on his face. Her voice is considerably louder with her next statement that has him nearly shutting her up with his own hands, “Could it be about your dear, sweet y/n?”

Her voice tapers off at the end so the rest of their classmates couldn’t hear the name, but their stares indicated their intrigue. It was very surprising for the ever cold and stoic Diluc Ragnvindr to have a crush on someone. Many have confessed, and all were rejected, and they assumed there would be nothing to be done to win his heart.

That is, unless you were y/n l/n.

His classmates shudder at the glare he gives them and return to their own conversations. He wasn’t mad, just slightly embarassed.

Lisa deems his current state finished for her daily teasing and leans in to give him a word of advice. But really, it was yet another word of truth that he could choose to believe or not.

“I have a feeling that they feel the same about you.” She leaves with a little hint of a smile and Diluc is left to his thoughts once more. He ponders over her words, generally the same ones he hears from her whenever she sees he’s thinking of you. And it’s important to note that Lisa has good intuition.

Maybe his plan to confess wouldn’t be so hopeless after all.

Xiao

To be able to hang out and keep up someone like his closest friend took all Xiao had in himself for social interaction. It wasn’t like he absolutely hated it, but he preferred to not speak to anyone lest they get the wrong idea from his “normal” tone of voice.

Venti shoves another book in his face to look at and he scowls at the title, “How to Date The Person You’ve Been Pining Over For Years Now.” Why was there a book like this in the school library and who the hell decided that this was a good title to go through publication? Now, Xiao would never admit it to being true because he hated how he felt very called out at the moment.

“The books don’t lie, my good friend.” Venti muses, placing the book in his arms before skipping off to avoid it being shoved back at him. Xiao sighs and tries to find its place on the shelf only to realize that he is now left alone in the self-help section. He can’t call out Venti’s name now, assuming that the other had gone far now to seek his own genres he had been looking for. 

Xiao had been teased for this little crush on you for years now, which probably has grown to be a full blown one by now, and he never found the courage to do anything about it. For now though, he was perfectly fine with being able to wave hello to you in the hallways or have a small chat when you would be partnered together for class activities.

Just thinking about you makes him the slightest bit giddy inside.

His wandering thoughts along with finding the book’s place is cut short when the library doors open and you step in. His face lights up for a moment before it is replaced with narrowed eyes when Venti skips up to you. The boy whispers in your ear and you smile, sending Xiao into yet another state of being flustered at the little things you do.

He looks down at the book in his hands and closes his eyes. 

At least Lisa never judged anyone at the book checkout.

[stxrvel]

bittersweet feelings (1)

summary: you have to deal with the harsh truth after Bucky arrives from one of his missions.

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader

warnings: nothing i think, just you know English is not my native language so sorry for any mistakes!

words: +2.5k

note: hi! I've been feeling physically unwell since I last posted and have been in bed, but today I was finally able to get a moment of calm and lucidity, so, enjoy and hope you like it!

also, i've been working on a series that I want to publish soon, but I don't know why I always find it difficult to do all that planning. anyway, I really hope I can bring it to you soon! thank u for all the support!

part 2

part 3

Admiring Bucky Barnes from afar has become too much of a challenge in recent days. Before, you were wrapped up in papers, essays, final exams and projects due, locking yourself in your room at a time or living in your university library, simply too busy to wander your eyes over the sprawling figure of Bucky strolling around the Complex. Ironically, he always spent more time there when you weren't there.

But now, completely free of academic responsibilities and banned from going on missions at Fury's whim, you had a lot more time to wander the halls of the Complex, especially in the gym where the man with the metal arm used to spend most of his time. Many times (if not all the time) you felt like a lousy attempt of a stalker, and you was almost 100% sure that he realised what you were doing but preferred not to say anything so as not to embarrass you. And that was much more embarrassing.

But did that stop you? Absolutely not.

He'd cut his hair a few days ago, and although you loved the way his hair looked on his shoulders and the way it blew in the wind every time he walked, as if he were a model on a bloody photo shoot, you shamelessly admitted that you had quickly grown to love his new style. Because, honestly, did something look bad on Bucky?

Your hands moved indiscreetly across the table, crumpling the paper between your fingers that you had previously been reading, as you watched the aforementioned man's shoulders shake after hearing Sam Wilson say something about Scott's card game. You moved your eyes scanning his entire face, trying to memorise the expression on his face as he smiled so openly, as he almost never did in public.

“Am I interrupting your crazy stalker moment?”

Tony's voice startled you, and you turned your head so sharply to look at something other than Bucky that a slight twinge of pain made its way from the back of your neck to your right shoulder. You grimaced and watched the millionaire sit down next to you on one of the black chairs that were spread out in the first floor cafeteria. Ahead of you, a large glass door separated you from one of the side exits of the Complex, where Bucky and Sam had stopped to talk and, surely at first, discuss the mission Bucky had just returned from.

“I'm not a crazy stalker,” you told him dismissively, but your nerves were eating you up inside. Even though you knew you weren't entirely discreet, you still weren't ready for someone to tell you that you were too obvious for him not to know anymore.

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” Tony commented sarcastically and you felt a quick pang of fear inside your chest, “I was just coming to tell you that Fury made the decision to send you to Milan with Steve the other week.”

Your gaze finally shifted away from Bucky's figure, closer and closer to where you stood, to Tony and you frowned at him in extreme confusion.

“What? So soon?”

“Isn't that what you wanted? To go back to the camp?”

“Well, yes, but I thought his tantrum was going to last much longer.”

Tony let out a laugh and proceeded to open the packet of peanuts in his pocket, “If he hears you say that, consider yourself fired, kiddo.”

“Then it's a relief that no one heard me say it,” you smiled innocently at Tony, who only gave you a tight-mouthed smile in return.

“It's just a recon mission. Steve thinks there's an empty HYDRA base you can investigate, and you're pretty nimble with that non-digitized document review stuff.”

“You mean I'm good at reading physical documents?”

“You know what I mean, eagle eyes. There's nothing you're missing.”

“Ow,” you croon with a smile, “Thanks for the compliment, Stark.”

“You're welcome. Now, don't go freaking out. Barnes is walking this way.”

He then stood up and planted himself in front of you, as your heart did a wild flip and you felt him pause for a second, before resuming his march at an unnatural pace. You didn't even know if it was possible for a heart to beat that fast. You felt sweat beading on your hands and started to breathe through your mouth as you felt the nervousness take over your whole body.

“What?” you exclaimed, staring at him, sitting uncomfortably in the chair across the table they had shared.

“I told you not to freak out, you're only going to make it worse.”

You narrowed your eyes at him with a frown. Next, you took about three deep breaths to try and calm your frantic heartbeat, before Sam's figure - and consequently Bucky's - appeared in your field of view to the side of Stark's body. The man gave you a look with an arched eyebrow, as if to ask you to behave yourself, which was an exaggeration.

That was an exaggeration. You spent a lot of time with Bucky! Even when you two were alone you didn't feel as nervous as you did at moments like this.

When your gazes met, you could barely return the smile he gave you before you turned your eyes to Sam, who had just spoken but you hadn't gotten to hear everything he'd said because your head was in the clouds.

“...and that you're going back to the camp with Steve. How long since you've been out? Almost four months? You must be anxious.”

You just nodded, looking at him through tight lips.

Tony rubbed his eyes in an exasperated gesture.

“I could ask Fury to let me tag along,” Bucky's voice reached your ears like a forbidden delicacy. It had been several days since you'd last heard it and it was like a gift from the gods, “Lest he bore you with his awkward silences.”

“We don't have awkward silences,” you grumbled quickly, not knowing exactly why you were getting defensive. Tony raised his eyebrows at you and you shrugged in place, “I mean, we talk about a lot of things.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky's jocular tone didn't do much for your nerves and sanity, “Name a topic you've been talking about for more than three minutes.”

You pursed your lips and stared at his perfect face, uninjured by the mission, as you conjured up memories of your conversations with Steve. Your almost non-existent conversations.

Your cheeks flushed as you realised he was right, but you weren't going to let him win you over this time.

“One time, we talked all night about a movie.”

“If you're going to say you talked about Lord of the Rings, that doesn't count,” Sam spoke with a half smile on his face.

“Why not?” you grumbled quickly, watching the grimace in his face.

“He talks to everyone about those movies. It doesn't even feel like a conversation anymore, it's like a monologue.”

“Careful, Sam,” Tony spoke up after several seconds, “She likes those movies too.”

“Hey! They're good movies.”

“Good for a nap,” Sam let out a laugh.

You watched Bucky pursed his lips and looked down at the floor, holding back a chuckle.

“They're entertaining,” you muttered with a frown.

Sam pointed at you, his eyebrows arched and his corners raised in a playful grin.

“Well, that's it,” Bucky interrupted whatever Sam was going to say, “You know what they say, to each his own.”

“I'm with Barnes on this one,” Tony spoke up, resting one of his hands on Barnes' shoulder and giving it a little squeeze. Bucky watched his hand and then the millionaire's face with an arched eyebrow, but Tony quickly turned his attention away from Bucky to Sam, “Speaking of Steve, he asked me to tell you to look for him in the main room. He said something about a pending conversation.”

Tony put his arm around Sam's shoulders, leaning part of his body to lead him to walk with him out of the cafeteria. They promptly struck up a conversation on their way out of the cafeteria, and you felt your hands shake once you realized you were alone with Bucky after a couple of weeks of not being able to talk properly with him.

You turned your head away from where the two people who had accompanied you a few seconds before were leaving, hearing the creak of a chair being dragged in front of you. You watched Bucky move his body into a sitting position, settling his forearms on the table and his eyes fixed on yours. Settling into the chair, you gave him a tight-lipped, tense smile. Act normal.

“So the boss finally gave in,” the black-haired man said, his lips curling as he interlocked his hands.

You nodded your head slightly, “It was quicker than I thought. I thought he'd never let me back in the field.”

“And can you blame him? You sure scared the soul out of his body,” Bucky arched his eyebrows, and the mere memory of what happened gave you a feeling of irritability.

You grimaced, “Oh, it wasn't a big deal.”

“It wasn't a big deal? Honey, you threw yourself at those people all by yourself.”

You stared at him for a few seconds, like you did every time he called you names when you were alone. He never did it in public, and it was something you didn't try to think about very often.

“So what? This was all unnecessarily dramatic,” you tried to say in the most neutral tone of voice possible as you crossed your legs under the table.

“There were twenty men,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“Do you think me incapable, Barnes?” you arched an eyebrow, speaking with courage.

“No, of course not,” he quickly replied, his gaze softening, “But you disobeyed a direct order from Natasha and put your life at risk. You know how Fury is with you, he cares too much about you.”

You rolled your eyes, letting your back fall against the back of the chair, “But I'm not made of porcelain. I'm as good as Nat, she trained me herself!”

“But Fury didn't see her grow up.”

Well, he had a point and rightly so. You had grown up with the boss, who had practically adopted you, which was one of the reasons he used to be overprotective or refuse you to do some things because he thought it was for the best. And that fact had also helped you form fraternal bonds with all the Avengers until you were old enough and capable enough to be a part of them.

Well, you saw everyone as a nice family except Bucky. And that was a big problem.

You watched him through your eyelashes with an almost imperceptible pout.

Bucky gave you a beautiful smile, the kind that could light up an entire city, “Honey, I understand that it bothers you, but the position you put Fury in at the time, or everyone for that matter, made it hard for him not to make the decision he did. Maybe he overstepped, I'm not denying that, but he was scared.”

“There were other ways...” you started to renege again.

“And would you really have listened to him?” he inquired without wiping away his smile. It amazed you how lenient he could be with you, when with the rest of the world he was a hermit and sulky most of the time.

You sighed. Yep, you could be pretty stubborn when you put your mind to it.

“Well, the important thing is that he finally realised his mistake,” you blurted out with an amused grin. Bucky frowned and pointed the index finger of his metal arm at you.

“I think you missed the point of our little debate.”

“No, no... I understand, Bucky, I do. But Fury have to trust my skills a little more. I could against all of them! It was a spectacle.”

“But you're not always going to come out on top, sweetheart. At some point someone can catch you off guard, and that's what Fury's afraid of.”

“Well, it'll have to happen at some point. Unfortunately, I'm not invincible,” you agreed and admitted what he had said, because he was certainly right, with a tight-lipped smile.

You thought Bucky would be amused, or at least agree with you, but he merely bowed his head, frowned and tensed noticeably. You noticed that his expression suddenly hardened, and it frightened you that you had said something that would have angered him.

“What?” you asked fearfully.

He looked up from the table to look at you again, waking up. He gave you a smile, but a stiffer, harder and committed one. Your chest tightened, “It's not.... It's nothing. Just try to be careful next time, more cautious if necessary. You know, strategist.”

“Yeah, I know, I don't risk it if I don't think it's necessary.”

“That's my girl.”

You froze for a few seconds, just watching him, before your face heated up into an all too violent blush. He'd never said anything like that to you before... but you certainly didn't balk at the possibility that he might again.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you smiled shyly at him.

The sound of the cafeteria doors swinging open distracted the man in front of you, but you kept staring at his profile, gawking and surely with heart-shaped eyes. How was it possible that you liked him so much? Even though it had been a while since you last spoke, it seemed that your feelings for him had only grown three times his size.

Then, you heard it:

“Bucky!”

A woman's voice in the distance.

Confused, you turned your gaze in the direction of the voice, which came from the same place Bucky had been watching for several seconds. She was the one who had opened the doors so frantically, then. You frowned at her from a distance, unable to recognise her figure or features; it wasn't usually easy for you to forget the faces of people you knew, and you certainly didn't know this woman.

However, when you turned to ask Bucky, the half-smile on his face gave you the answer without words. Your chest tightened and you clenched your hands so as not to show the abrupt change of mood you had just gone through when he turned his face and fixed his eyes on yours. All without erasing that smile.

That smile he had on his face for her.

“I guess you'll have to go with Steve to schedule everything about the mission.”

You nodded, uncomfortably, not looking away.

“Fine. In the meantime, I'll go on my date,” he crooned, and the burning you felt intensified so much that it felt like you couldn't pass saliva without straining. But you smiled at him, your lips curving awkwardly and your face reluctant to show a feeling you didn't experience.

“Wow, I thought I'd never hear you say something like that.”

“Life is full of surprises, honey,” he said smiling as he stood up, “Do you want me to walk you to the living room?”

“No, don't worry. I'll be there in a minute,” you replied quickly. It was the first time since you had met him that you wanted him to leave you alone for once.

“All right. Good luck with the old man.”

“Thanks. Good luck with your- your- your date.”

You hated the way your voice betrayed you, but Bucky didn't seem to pay too much attention to it as he waved goodbye to you and started walking in the direction of the woman waiting for him outside the cafeteria doors. You felt your chest tighten as you sighed deeply and a couple of tears welled up in your eyes.

Damn it, at what point had all that happened?

[robininthelabyrinth]

🧿🤠🐇🍲🍯: Lan Wangji does not think it’s safe to raise A-Yuan in Cloud Recesses after the Lans participated in the killing of his zhiji and the entire Burial Mounds community (or more accurately that it’s not safe while he himself is in seclusion and can’t watch over A-Yuan, at least) so he delivers A-Yuan to the one person who he knows did not stand against Wei Wuxian (and got away with it, bc this person has never stood against anything, since standing takes effort): Nie Huaisang.

Little Side Door - ao3

Nie Huaisang’s rooms in the Unclean Realm had a little side door that no one but him ever used.

They hadn’t originally. The Unclean Realm was a fortress, designed to maximize protection and defense; there was no better place for keeping things safe by locking them away. While it had its fair share of boltholes and escape routes, they were not common and universally difficult to access lest the enemy learn of them and use them to their advantage. Even the layout of their open spaces were carefully planned lest the attack come from the sky, a concern that only cultivators had, and not about how they themselves could escape – after all, weren’t they all Nie, ready to die rather than endure dishonor?

The little side door that led to Nie Huaisang’s room opened onto a small rock garden, left to grow wild with weeds rather than reveal its presence to more people. It existed only because his brother had ordered it constructed by those he trusted most, all in secret in the dark of the night. He had never explained why he had gone to such lengths to create such an unwelcome and inauspicious place, but then, he hadn’t needed to – Nie Huaisang had been there, too, when his father had descended into madness and they had been trapped in the familial quarters with no way out that did not take them through him. If his brother had been the one to brave his father’s rage directly, Nie Huaisang had been the one stuck in a small space that was only not claustrophobic because it was so painfully familiar.

Now, though his father was long dead and gone, Nie Huaisang had a little side door.

A little side door, and a little garden that almost no one knew about; in combination with the saber that his brother forced him to learn and the golden core he had so begrudgingly formed, he now had a way to reach the sky and the illusive freedom it represented – the freedom to flee and leave his home behind.

If it ever happens again – his brother had said once, the closest he had ever come to speaking of it.

He did not finish his sentence, as Nie Huaisang had thrown his plate into his face and stormed off, steaming mad and close to tears. He did not raise the subject a second time.

Nie Huaisang did not often use his little side door.

Although he enjoyed gardens, he preferred the aviary he’d constructed, or one of the myriad of well-tended gardens in the main part of the sect; even the vegetable gardens out back beside the kitchens were far more welcoming than that sparse straggle of land. He’d only ever spent time there when he was a child and in desperate need of some quiet, wanting to avoid adults with their arguments and their miseries; he’d taken some friends there because he thought it might impress them, but it hadn’t, and anyway his brother had put a stop to that soon enough.

He didn’t even think about the little side door, most days. It was just a part of the room, a small tucked away corner with nothing in it. Nothing to think about.

And then, of course, years after he’d put it out of his mind entirely, there came a terrible banging noise at that little side door, like someone was kicking at it furiously from the outside.

Nie Huaisang nearly fell over sideways in his scramble to get up, and then once again when he realized where the noise was coming from – almost no one knew about his side door and its little garden, and so no one had ever come to him through it. Who would be knocking now…?

He opened it.

Lan Wangji, white robes stained with blood and cheeks bright with fever, shoved something into his arms. “You have a child now,” he said through bitten lips. “Congratulations. He is called A-Yuan. I entrust you with his care, for my sect cannot be trusted with it.”

And then he turned and staggered away, mounting up on Bichen and flying off before Nie Huaisang could say anything – before he could even finish searching his memories and recalling that yes, in fact, Lan Wangji had been one of the friends he had shown the side door to, years and years before, and thus knew how to find it. Before he could even start processing the thousands of thoughts that had spring to life, fully formed, at all the information he’d just received: the bloody robes, the desperation, the reference to the Lan sect – the Lan sect! – being somehow untrustworthy…

He looked down at his arms.

“Congratulations,” he echoed blankly. “I have a child now.”

The child blinked up at him, and then smiled.

-

“Da-ge!” Nie Husiang howled, rushing into the sect leader’s study where his brother was doing work – luckily it wasn’t receiving hours and he wasn’t in the main hall, as that would have been unfortunate. “Da-ge, you have to help me! I have a child now!”

His brother stared at him, expression blank and mouth slightly agape. The brush in his hand dripping ink onto a now-wasted piece of paper.

“Huaisang,” he said after a moment. “What the fuck.”

Nie Huaisang nodded furiously.

“Where did you get – how – who – what did you do?!”

“I am currently unable to disclose any details,” Nie Huaisang said promptly even as his brother tossed aside the brush and got up, striding over with a storm brewing in his face. “All I can say is that I have to raise this child now. By which I mean, you have to help me raise this child now; I can’t raise children! I’m not mature enough to raise a child!”

“No kidding! Why would someone entrust – to you…” Nie Mingjue trailed off, looking down at the child with a frown that shifted from disbelieving irritation to concern. He pressed his hand to the child’s forehead. “Huaisang, this child has a high fever. We need to get him to the medical wing at once – is that blood?”

“Not his, I don’t think?”

“I don’t want to know,” his brother decided. “Move.”

Some time later, they were both sitting next to the bed in one of the spare rooms in the family quarters; Nie Huaisang thought it might even have been the same one that he’d used when he was very young. A-Yuan was sleeping, and Nie Mingjue was still holding his little hand in his own, having been clocked as the oversize comfort animal that he not-so-secretly was from the very first moment A-Yuan laid eyes on him.

The doctors had declared A-Yuan’s fever to be very severe, but they had applied plenty of medicine – the Lan sect might have more esoteric healing techniques, but there wasn’t anything like the Nie sect when it came to standard medicine for injuries and illnesses associated with the battlefield, and despite A-Yuan’s tender age Nie Huaisang would be willing to bet that his injuries were from a battlefield. They were confident that A-Yuan would make a full recovery, body and mind both intact, although they warned that his memory of the past might be impacted.

Nie Huaisang had thought about all that blood that wasn’t his, of Lan Wangji pale-faced and wild-eyed, and decided that a little bit of forgetting might not be so bad after all.

“Are you going to tell me anything more,” his brother said after a while. “Or should I just give up now?”

Nie Huaisang leaned over and patted his knee. “It’s good that you know your limitations.”

His brother rolled his eyes.

“I can’t believe this is my life,” he remarked.

“What part?” Nie Huaisang asked, curious. “The fact that we have a kid now, because obviously we’re keeping him? Or the fact that someone gave a kid to me?”

“Both,” his brother decided. “Definitely both.”

-

“His name’s A-Yuan,” Nie Huaisang said. “Apparently.”

“Well,” his brother said. “Obviously that won’t do.”

-

Nie Huaisang had the ability to be sneaky when he wanted to be. It wasn’t a matter of stealth, he had explained to his brother, but sneakiness– a completely different concept. Stealth suggested that he was doing something to conceal himself and required skills and talent, or else a lot of practice, and obviously Nie Huaisang was not going to go in for either of those.

Sneakiness, though…

He didn’t need people not to be able to see him in order to be sneaky. He just needed them not to care about him, or wonder where he was.

“Psst,” he said, knocking on the window to the rooms where Lan Wangji was purportedly practicing seclusion. “Psst! Lan Zhan!”

Lan Wangji had given him a child. They were definitely past the ‘Lan-er-gongzi’ stage.

“Lan Zhan!” he rapped at the window with his fan. “We need a courtesy name!”

There was some sounds from within the jingshi, mostly stumbling around. Nie Huaisang waited patiently, and after a few moments the window opened and Lan Wangji stared out at him. He was as pale as a ghost with lips as red as blood, and very clearly not in seclusion at all, but rather in the midst of healing whatever wounds had left him bloody – he probably shouldn’t have gotten out of bed to answer.

Oh, well. Too late for regret now.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Lan Wangji said, voice dull and eyes blank as he stared at Nie Huaisang. It was unclear if he meant in the Cloud Recesses generally, or here in particular, interrupting his ‘seclusion’.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Nie Huaisang said, scowling at him. “We need a courtesy name! A courtesy name for the child, you hear me? You know, of course, that Qinghe Nie don’t use personal names, not even for children – certainlynot for children older than their first year. It’d be a complete giveaway that he’s not organically ours if we call him something like A-Yuan.”

Lan Wangji raised a hand to pinch his nose. “Please go away.”

“Courtesy name, Lan Zhan. I mean, I may be the one who’ll be raising him, but please think carefully: do you really want meto be the one naming him?”

“…call him Sizhui.”

“Sizhui,” Nie Huaisang repeated. “With the characters…?”

Lan Wangji nodded.

“Uh, no,” Nie Huaisang said. “I need a bettercourtesy name. Are you joking?”

“Nie Huaisang. Go away.”

“But –”

Lan Wangji slammed the window shut.

“…fine,” Nie Huaisang said to the closed window. “Be that way, see if I care. Not like we don’t need to build up a decent coparenting relationship or anything eventually.”

He thought he heard a choking sound from behind the door and smirked.

“Don’t you think you can baby-trap me and just walk away, Lan Zhan,” he said in his best ominous tone. “If you wanted someone to raise your kid without ever consulting you again, you should’ve dropped him off in the Lotus Pier with Jiang Cheng, who’d probably be too busy being confused to even question where he came frome – but no. You came to me. I don’t make decisions in the best of times, least of all good. I have questions. A lot of questions.”

He thought about it for a moment.

“Not about how you got him or anything like that,” he said. “I’m not stupid, I can tell a secret when I see one. But, you know, other types of questions. Parenting stuff. Are you a ‘go sit and think about what you’ve done’ sort of parent? Or more traditional discipline, with copying lines and occasionally strikes when they’re naughty? Do you want him to learn the Lan sect rules along with the Nie sect principles –”

There was a muffled sound from inside the house.

It sounded angry.

“…we can talk about it later,” Nie Huaisang decided. He might’ve pushed his luck a bit too much. “Talk later!”

-

“You have a…what?” Lan Xichen asked, his smile a little fixed and stare a little wilder than normal.

“A nephew!” Nie Mingjue gushed. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

“Nephew.”

“He’s so well behaved, too! He plays quietly by himself most of the time, drawing and even writing a little, and Huaisang’s already teaching him how to play the dizi –”

“When you say nephew, do you mean Nie Huaisang’s child?”

“Do I have other brothers?” Nie Mingjue rolled his eyes at him. “He’s obviously not yours. Anyway, I know Meng Yao is expecting one, too, but he wouldn’t be dressed in Nie colors if it was his, would it?”

“Yes, but…are you telling me that…that Nie Huaisang…”

“It’s a battlefield child, Xichen,” Nie Mingjue said patiently. “Obviously. Someone entrusted him to Huaisang.”

“Oh,” Lan Xichen said, looking relieved. “Yes, that makes more sense…wait.”

Nie Mingjue waited.

“Someone entrusted him to Nie Huaisang?”

“I know, right?” Nie Mingjue said, and Lan Xichen didn’t notice how strained his grin had suddenly become, or how thoughtful his eyes were as he surveyed Lan Xichen as if trying to find an answer to a question. “I would’ve assumed they’d go for someone more responsible, like you. Guess you never know…”

“I guess you don’t,” Lan Xichen agreed, looking down at the child with a bemused expression. A battlefield child, entrusted to Nie Huaisang… “They must have been truly driven to desperation.”

“Perhaps,” Nie Mingjue said, and then changed the subject to little Nie Sizhui’s accomplishments, of which he could list many at great length and very great enthusiasm. By the time he was done with that, Ln Xichen was so overwhelmed that he didn’t ask a single other question.

-

“So I’ve got an idea on how to do this whole co-parenting thing,” Nie Huaisang said, cracking nuts to eat. He was sitting next to Lan Wangji’s bedside, and dropping the shells straight on the floor, too, staring dead-eyed at Lan Wangji as if daring him to say something – which he wouldn’t, of course. “Since with Sizhui starting classes soon it’s become much more urgent, on account of me needing you to attend meetings with his teachers and discuss his progress.”

Lan Wangji looked deeply long-suffering. He’d only invited Nie Huaisang inside because Nie Huaisang had threatened to start shouting out his business loudly on account of oh but Lan Zhan, how was I to know if you could hear me in there, I just had to raise my voice just in case because I wouldn’t want you to miss any of the extremelyimportant news –

It was all Lan Wangji’s fault for being born earlier than Nie Huaisang, Nie Huaisang thought virtuously. It was merely Nie Huaisang’s lot in life to fulfill the role of annoying younger brother to everyone.

“See, it’s the music,” Nie Huaisang continued. “You do music, right?”

Lan Wangji’s ice-cold glare suggested that he did, in fact, ‘do music’.

“So your brother has been playing this song for da-ge on a regular basis,” Nie Huaisang explained, ignoring the glare entirely. “And when he’s not available, which is most of the time nowadays, he’s been sending san-ge instead. Even though, of course, poor san-ge’s so busy back at Lanling all the time…ughh, it’s so unfair, you know! Poor san-ge has to do all the work of being the heir and gets none of the benefits, and they pile even more work on him on top of that – really, he gets no respect.”

Lan Wangji’s expression suggested he didn’t care.

“And think about the inconvenience to us!” Nie Huaisang sallied forth, undeterred. “People coming and going all the time, da-ge having to interrupt his schedule of spending quality time with me and Sizhui – and sect leader work, of course, though that’s less important – in order to march over to greet them and host them and listen to them…what a pain it is!”

Lan Wangji appeared on the verge of suggesting that Nie Huaisang consider getting to the point.

“So you should come do it instead.”

Lan Wangji’s expression cracked, suggesting that Nie Huaisang had actually managed to make an impact.

“You remember,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse from all that refusing to speak he’d been doing. Really, if Nie Huaisang wasn’t around to goad him into it, he might’ve lost the voice entirely – he didn’t even have little Sizhui around to force him to speak! “That I’m in seclusion. Right?”

“You’re horribly lonely is what you are,” Nie Huisang said briskly. “You require company. Therefore, coming to take up a semi-permanent posting in the Unclean Realm to play the Song of Clarity for my brother morning, noon, and night is clearly the finest way to solve all of our problems, and for you to see little Sizhui as often as you like.”

Lan Wangji visibly wavered. “My brother,” he said, then coughed. “My brother will never believe it.”

“That’s your problem,” Nie Huaisang said. “Find a way to sell it.”

He stood, shaking the remaining shells onto the chair.

“See you in Qinghe soon, Lan Zhan..!”

Lan Wangji was trying to kill him with his mind, Nie Huaisang thought happily as he wandered off with a whistle and a vaguely silly expression. Good – he’d been inside for too long. He needed the stimulation.

-

“Truly,” Nie Mingjue remarked, strolling around their gardens without any apparent notice of the small child perched on his shoulders, giggling wildly at the feeling of being tall, “I feel far better than I did before! One can scarcely compare it – night and day, really. Your Lan sect’s Song of Clarity is a marvel, even if it does take a while before it kicks in.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji said, walking slowly with his hands behind his back. He was still unsteady on his feet on account of the absolutely horrific injuries he’d incurred – but if the Lan sect’s response to everything was seclusion, seclusion, seclusion, then the Nie sect’s equivalent response was exercise. These little excursions through the gardens were the result.

Thus far, they were still only doing laps around the main gardens, but Nie Huaisang had plans to eventually force Lan Wangji to go even as far as his own little side garden. He’d made it through his side door once, after all; why not a second time..?

At any rate, Nie Huaisang still wasn’t quite sure how Lan Wangji had talked Lan Xichen into allowing him to come to the Unclean Realm, but it really did make the whole co-parenting business a lot more convenient. And his brother had had so much fun making Lan Wangji stiff and awkward over all his thanks and praise for his decision to come ‘help out’ with Nie Sizhui’s raising until finally, at last, Nie Huaisang had taken pity and revealed that Nie Mingjue knew perfectly well whose battlefield child this was.

Both in terms of who had gifted him to Nie Huaisang, and who’d adopted him originally, and of course even his original surname – The little tot’s been through enough adoptions to make anyone’s head spin, his brother had said, his voice gruff as always. There’s no point in thinking back too far, is there?

Lan Wangji had been very relieved.

“Run, bobo!” Nie Sizhui cried, pointing over at a bird. “We need to get it for Sang-gege!”

Nie Mingjue snorted like a bull but obediently quickened his feet and left the rest of them behind, heading in full charge straight at the wild pheasant that was far more likely to end up on Nie Huaisang’s plate than in his aviary. It was about even odds which one Nie Sizhui meant, anyway.

“Nie Huaisang,” Lan Wangji said, his voice low, and Nie Huaisang looked at him. “The Song of Clarity does not take time to work. These effects should have happened at once.”

Nie Huaisang opened his fan, hiding his face as he frowned. “How odd,” he said. “And after san-ge put in all that hard work.”

“Perhaps he played it wrong.”

“Odd,” Nie Huaisang said again. “When san-ge gets so very little wrong…has your brother sent any word on the Xue Yang issue?”

“…he has not.”

“He’s going to need to pick a side eventually.”

“He does not want to make things difficult for his sworn brother.”

“Does he have only the one?” Nie Huaisang asked archly, and Lan Wangji averted his gaze. “It’s awkward for us if he doesn’t back us, and is a bad look besides…truly, it’s a wonder that san-ge managed to squeeze out the time to come here.”

Lan Wangji’s frown deepened. “Indeed,” he said. “One would think his father might be tempted to stop him.”

“Wouldn’t you just?” Nie Huaisang said. “Wouldn’t you just…you know, maybe when you’re feeling better, we should go visit Lanling ourselves.”

Lan Wangji glanced at him, arching an eyebrow, and Nie Huaisang smiled, fanning himself casually.

“I’m not the only one with a little side door,” he said. “Let’s go knocking and see what we find, shall we?”

[sinnamonrolle]

[ the little moments] ♡ Satan

5 - That moment when you found Satan covered in blood.

✿ part of a series now! ✿

❀  gender neutral reader  ❀

Warnings: Blood (no gore)

“Devildom does not tolerate slander, and I, most certainly, will not sit quietly when my human is being talked about in such a filthy manner. Now, I’m sure you know this, but I have connections in every layer of the Devildom. If I ever hear anything remotely similar again, whether it’d be in text or words, there will be consequences.”

The Devildom was always dark, and it was something you’ve long gotten used to, but it was way, way darker in alleyways where the streetlights never reach. Within the shadows of a small alley, you heard a familiar voice.

“Satan?” you called out. You didn’t want to step into the shadows, knowing of the potential danger in doing so, but you wanted to see Satan again. You wanted to see him safe, and so you hesitated in the walkway, wondering what you should do.

Satan had just suddenly walked away from you earlier. He didn’t say a word to you as he left, only leaving a hint of anger—pure, unfiltered anger, ready to burst into something darker, more dangerous—in the sound of footsteps and in the bond of your pact. You felt it sparking in your chest, like firecrackers going off, but at one point in your search for Satan’s whereabouts, your head spun at the amount of rage swirling in you. You heaved, wanting so badly to thrash and to shout and to destroy something.

You whirled around in circles on the street, the colors and shapes mixing around you in blurs, and you were dangling dangerously on the edge of falling head first into the abyss of wrath until—

Satan, where are you? Satan, please be safe. Satan, are you okay? Satan, Satan, Satan, I need to find Satan, I need to make sure he’s okay. Don’t leave me here, please…

You thought of him.

It was the thought of Satan, of seeing him safe and sound, of seeing that wonderful smile on his face again that pulled you back into a more rational state of mind, enough so that you could restart your search. With one feet in front of the other, you took a deep breath.

And now, you’d finally found him, but…

A heavy silence filled the air. Every second that passed made you worry more and more. From what you heard, you were sure something had gone down. It wasn’t that you were worried about his physical well-being (although, it was still a point of concern for you), you were much more worried about his mental well-being, which had always been rather fragile compared to his brothers.

You weren’t saying that he was fragile, but rather that it didn’t take much to set him off. He might be able to hide his emotions extremely well, but he felt them harder, and they lingered longer—much, much longer. It was this vulnerability that made you worried.

You couldn’t help but call out again, “Satan? Are you okay?”

It was only after that did a familiar figure slowly walked out, the shadows clinging onto the flickering form of Satan. His eyes were a cold, harsh green—so lovely yet so dangerous with that dark glint in his eyes—and they glowed, like a warning, against the backdrop of night.

Several sharp slashes of red stained his cheeks. Droplets hung to the blonde strands of hair hanging above his eyes. And you could see similar splatters dying his gray shirt, although most of it were hidden by his boa.

“My beloved,” Satan murmured, and the flickering between his human form and demon form increased in intensity, almost resembling an old TV with static.

He stumbled towards you, conflict coloring his cold eyes, and you couldn’t help but look behind him at the shadowy corner. If it was you from when you first came to the Devildom, you would have felt sorry for those poor souls, but now—now, the only person on your mind was Satan.

You took his hand and pulled him away from the alleyway to some place with more light, some place with more breathing room, some place safe. He followed obediently behind you, letting you take him to wherever you wanted.

It was this trust Satan placed in you that made your heart clenched tight, beating along to the sound of your hurried footsteps. His breathing wasn’t loud, but you heard it anyway—gasping, pausing, hitching. The wrath had died down the moment you called out his name, and now you were left with nothing but your own thoughts and feelings swirling inside you. You wondered what was going on in his mind, what emotions he was feeling, what you could do for him. You wondered and wondered, and all sorts of thoughts cluttered your head, but you didn’t say anything until you stopped near a street lamp off to the side.

Lit by the pale white light, you finally saw Satan from head to toe. The flickering has subsided greatly, leaving him in his gray dress shirt, his ribbon, his boa, and his spotted pants, but his horns and tail were absent. There was a bit of dissonance at the sight of him in his demon outfit but without the demon features, and it seemed Satan felt it too with how his eyebrows were furrowed, and how the pale green in his eyes was growing agitated.

“You can stay in your demon form, you know,” you said softly, taking his other hand in yours and squeezing them. “You don’t have to hide them from me. I’m not scared.”

“I—” Satan began to say, but then he looked down at your hands, and he was jerking away, pulling his hands from yours.

It wasn’t hurt that you felt first, but rather concern, a kind of fear that has always nested deep at the bottom of your heart, a pain that didn’t come from the rejection but from how Satan was hurting, and you wanted nothing more but to hold him again.

So that’s what you did.

You reached out for his hands, determined not to lose him, but—

“Your, your hands,” Satan breathed out, trembling almost invisibly. His eyes were trained on your hands, and you finally looked down at them.

Semi-dried blood coated the surface of your palms along with your fingers, but you didn’t see any problems with it, especially since it wasn’t your blood. A thought knocked into your head then—you wondered if the blood was his.

You looked back up at Satan, who had taken a few steps back, his hands gripping roughly at his hair.

“The blood isn’t mine. Is it yours? Are you injured?” you asked, the words wanting to jump out of your mouth, but you held them back, urging them to stay calm and steady, lest the hurriedness of your speech scare Satan off.

“No… no, it’s not mine, and that’s exactly—” he broke off, lips pursed, and you couldn’t help but notice how his hands shook as he unintentionally smeared more blood into his hair, turning the once beautiful golden strands into something darker.

Satan fell to his knees.

It came so suddenly. One moment, he seemed like he would break apart into a million different pieces if you were too rough, and the next moment he was on his knees, forehead pressed to the ground, his fingers twitching forward like he wanted to touch something but didn’t dare to.

“That’s exactly the reason why,” Satan whispered. His voice was so small, so weak. Each syllable quivered delicately on his tongue as they escaped him, hoarse and afraid. “I, I’ve stained you. Let you see something you should never have to see. Your beautiful hands should never have to touch something as dirty as blood. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”

You stared at the way he was almost curled into himself on the ground. Satan, who has always been so prideful, so full of confidence in himself and the vast amount of knowledge—Satan, who has always been aware of how he handled himself, every move thought out, every remark a well crafted reply—Satan, who used to look down at you, now, was in front of you, not daring to look into your eyes.

“I never wanted you to see me truly angry, to, to see me violent with my wrath. Violent with bloodshed and bodies and carnage. This side of me you should never see, it’s unsightly, and something so unsightly should never grace your eyes. And because of it, I left you alone when I shouldn’t—”

“That’s not it, is it?”

“Huh?” Satan lifted his head up in surprise, eyes wide with a hundred thousand emotions flying past them, yet you could understand none of them except for one. He had always been a mystery to you. A carefully composed mystery that lured you in deeper and deeper, until you were completely unable to extricate yourself from him. But sometimes, he hid himself so well, he composed himself so neatly, he closed himself off so tightly that he, himself, would forget what he was truly feeling.

“That’s not it,” you repeated, but this time as a statement. Squatting down to get closer to him, you ran a hand through his hair, brushing some of the blood away, and swiped your thumb against his bloody cheek.

He tensed under your touch but gradually relaxed to it, enough to fully switch back into his human outfit, and you noticed how his eyes were glossy. There was a light wet sheen over them, but you were sure you were also the same. Between the two of you, all differences revealed themselves in the forms of adjacency, of opposites, of analogs.

You cupped his face in your hands, and he finally looked at you. You’ve always loved his eyes—that dark, forest green with a depth that you could never decipher.

“You’re afraid,” you murmured, thumbs tracing the slope of his face. “But what are you truly afraid of? Will you tell me?”

Satan stared at you for a moment with his eyebrows furrowed, as if he was trying to find answers from your face alone. You waited for him. You would always wait for him. You would wait centuries for Satan, if only he didn’t feel so close to disappearing in your hands.

“Of course,” he said, and the silence broke under the weight of the promise underlying his words. He gently held your wrist, his thumb settling on top of your pulse. “Of course, I’ll tell you. Only you.”

A pause.

Then, Satan looked down, and you felt something wet settle on your fingers.

“I’m afraid that you will disappear,” he whispered. “I’m afraid that one day, you will really see me for who I am and leave me behind. Every moment seems so unreal, and I feel like if I don’t confirm your presence, I will wake up and realize this is all a dream. A beautiful, wonderful dream that I could never experience again. I don’t want this to end. I want you to stay by my side forever, until all eight layers of the Devildom collapsed, until the end of time itself. I’m afraid of a day without you. I’m afraid of never seeing you again. I’m afraid of losing you. I’m afraid of so much, but there is so little I can control.”

He stopped and took a deep breath, like he was living his fears in his mind, but when he saw the tears building up in your eyes, he pulled out a green handkerchief from his pocket. You vaguely saw embroidery of your name on a corner as he pressed it against the corners of your eyes, careful of the blood on his hand, even though you could see a tear rolling down his face.

“My beloved,” he said softly, as soft as a kiss, “I can’t imagine my world without you, so please, please, don’t suddenly disappear one day.”

You disregarded everything and pulled him into your embrace, squeezing him hard. There was so much in your mind, clanging against each other in an effort to be first in line to be said, but any thoughts were overshadowed by the pain in your heart, consumed by that clenching sensation where you felt like your heart was being crushed by an invisible hand.

“I want every side of you, every piece, every emotion,” you sniffed. “I want everything that is yours, and in return, you can have everything that is mine. I’m not afraid of you, Satan, and I never will be. No matter what, no matter if all eight layers of the Devildom collapse, no matter if time ends, there won’t be a moment I would go without loving you. So please, please don’t be afraid. Not when I’m here with you.”

You set his hand on your chest, where you could feel your emotions running rampant, where you could feel the fear chewing away at your insides, where you could feel your heart beating—badump, badump, badump.

“Can you feel it?” you asked. “Can you feel what I’m feeling? My soul is eternally linked to yours. Our pact is the first proof of that.”

Satan smiled, a breathtaking smile that had his eyes curving, the vibrant emerald green of his eyes soft with love, and while he didn't say a word, you could feel it—

The overwhelming relief.

-------

Masterlist!

[angeli-marco-writes]

Tom Hiddleston - Stripped Sunday

A/N & WC - I came up with this concept ages ago and only just got around to writing it, though it’s slightly short. I do not know Tom, nor do I claim to. 2k.

Warnings - Swearing (that's now just a given), definitely suggestive and nsfw but nowhere near explicit, just mentions of sex, nudity too. And unknowing exhibitionism I guess? 16+

Summary - Sunday's are always the best, especially when you and Tom walk around the house nude, but it's been a while. Too long a while. So, obliviously, you take matters into your own hands...

THOMAS WILLIAM HIDDLESTON IS A SIMPLE MAN, believe it or not. He likes meals he can cook in fifteen minutes, he likes his tea with only a splash of milk, he likes the simple pleasures of nature. He likes morning runs and evening walks, re-watching movies he’s seen a dozen times, cuddles on a cold night. But most of all, he likes it when you walk around nude.

It might just be the one singular thing in the great mystery of life that is inexplicable to him, the one thing he enjoys so bloody much he daren’t speak of it, lest he risk losing it. Just the sight of your beautiful body keeps him up night after night after night when he’s working away, plotting and planning ways to ensure he never forgets it for the second he returns home. He can’t even begin to explain the things it does to him.

So, he set up a Stripped Sunday, with the basic premise that you both have to walk around in your birthday suits all day. It’s essentially his unique, perverse, inventive way of seeing you naked all day once a week. Not every Sunday, naturally, but just on occasion, when he’s not working, he’ll jot it down on the calendar. Nothing too glaring, in case someone catches a glimpse of his calendar, but just scribbling down a winky face in a Sunday space, and you know what you’re in for.

In all honesty, you love it just as much as he does. It’s hard not to. Seeing him walking around the house with not a scrap of clothing on all day does things to you you’ve never been able to put your finger on—or his. If you were to get pregnant, Stripped Sundays would be the culprit with the amount that the two of you shag in a single day. And he always seems to have another round in the bank to wake you the morning after, hungover on dripping lust.

However, it’s been far too long without one of these days, you think to yourself. And you know that there are no plans for the day, seeing as there’s nothing in the diary or the calendar, where—upon Tom’s own decree—all arrangements have to be written down. Seeing as you and Tom have a somewhat secret relationship, one certainly sheltered from the press, and no one knows you’re together, let alone live together, keeping all plans written down is imperative. His work meetings are always good reasons for you to get out of the house for a few hours.

Today, however, Tom seems to have made a mistake. Today’s meeting utterly slipped his mind, and he completely forgot to tell you, let alone jot it down, that he was having a casual meeting with a few co-stars to discuss future production of some sort—of what, he was entirely unsure, since this was texted about weeks ago, now. Nothing too major, though.

Logically, Tom thought that, with how late you were currently sleeping, and how much you enjoy your lie-ins, he’d be wrapped before you woke up, and even if that wasn’t to be the case and you wake up, that you’d have the sense to dress, or even call for him at the very least, before going downstairs.

You aren’t so lucky.

—

Waking up to an empty bed is never much fun. Usually if Tom wakes up before you, he’ll only slip out to put the kettle on, or fetch a new book to read from the library while he waits for you to stir naturally… that is if he isn’t waking you up in other, more pleasurable ways. At most, if he does have plans and doesn’t want to wake you after a late night, he’ll leave you a lovely note, a voicemail, and a thermal mug of tea.

Today, however, you can smell the coffee machine on—no wonder after the late, and rather energetic night you had—and hear the machine whirring, signalling that Tom likely hasn’t long been awake. That’s when the gears begin to turn and your plan begins to formulate, a completely devious idea that creeps into your mind and quirks your lips into a smirk. No matter how enticing the idea to nuzzle back into the pillows is, your need for Tom is overpowering your clawing need for sleep, especially with your primal instincts telling you he’s within grabbing distance, his aftershave still on the sheets you’re wrapped in. So, you strip his shirt, now perpetually appropriated by you, off and get out of bed, stretching as you go, beginning to make your way downstairs.

“What’s that?” Tom hears someone ask.

Not hearing your footsteps on the squeaky stairs over the whirring of the coffee machine and the layered discussions, including his own laughter, he simply replies, “Probably the dog.”

You, however, aren’t lucky enough to hear this brief conversation before your bare feet land on the cold hardwood floor, sending chills throughout you that don’t seem to even mildly combat the overwhelming heat building all throughout you. With just a few more steps, keeping your footing light and avoiding Bobby’s various chewies and toys littered all over the floor, you’re entering the kitchen in nought but your birthday suit. Utterly, completely in the buff.

“Morning baby,” you call out, yawning, your eyes fluttering shut, your jaw wide.

Except, instead of the warm embrace and slatherings of kisses that you expect to receive, or even a simple “Good morning, Princess,” you’re welcomed with a deadly silence, a stillness you can’t quite comprehend.

Your eyes fly open in shock, opening to see three people, mildly familiar faces, with mouths agape and eyes wide, sitting around the breakfast bar with mugs between their hands. Tom looks as stunned as you’ve ever seen him, over by the coffee machine, his hands trembling. With a fixed gaze of his baby blue eyes, so piercingly alarmed, he looks you up and down, his eyes blazing over your nude form, his kissable mouth practically watering at the mere sight of you.

That’s before it clicks with him, the dire situation, and alarm bells begin to blare inside his head, causing him to jump into action. Almost instantly, he’s pulling his shirt off his strong arms and muscular torso with lithe fingers, and is tugging it over your head, covering your naked torso.

You can already feel the blush on your cheeks, your skin burning from the bruised base of your throat to the pierced tips of your ears, the blood in your veins rushing around so violently that it drowns out any other comments or noise within the room, within the situation, but you’re brought back to reality when Tom’s strong, callused hands fall to your arms, clasping the flesh before he’s all but lifting you off the tiled floor and steering you back out of the room. It snicks shut behind you, but all you can focus on is the kiss he gives you, slanting his thin lips over yours so intoxicatingly that you’re able to forget your humongous disaster, if only for a second. There’s an emptiness the second he stops kissing you, and you’re able to hear the previously shut out gossip from inside.

“Sweetheart, what the hell was that?” he commands, his tone soft.

Despite the austere authority he so naturally demands in a room, he doesn’t sound angry whatsoever. If anything he’s just a little exposed, his private home life revealed to people when he wasn’t in the least bit prepared for once in his lifetime, with a definite undertone of irritation, mostly that he can’t have his way with you instantly. His blood is roaring, his stomach an explosion of swarms of butterflies, his core pulsating. He can’t tear his eyes away from you, even now you’re covered, your hardened nipples poking through the fabric.

“I— I saw the calendar was empty, I wanted to impress you, have a nice Sunday because it’s been so long,” you confess, shuffling your feet on the floor, unable to meet his blue gaze boring into you, “I’ve felt… distant from you recently, you’ve been working so much. I don’t know,” you shift anxiously, tugging on his shirt wrapped around you, “I love you, I didn’t wanna lose you. I thought you’d like it.”

“Baby,” he says, “I love you and this so so much. Of course I like it!”

You let out a feeble cry against his chest, his arms knotting around you and tugging you into his chest in one swift movement. His hugs, the way he holds you and cradles you, always make you feel better, no matter what your troubles may be.

You sniffle a little, “Really?”

Any trace of hardness in his face just dissipates and is replaced with sympathy, empathy, love.

“I truly wish I could take you right now, Darling, and if they weren’t here, I’d be fucking you on that breakfast bar and you know it.” He sighs deeply. “But, I didn’t put down a special Sunday for a reason, love.” Leaning down, he kisses away your wry tears, and then the tip of your nose. “You are so thoughtful. It’s all my fault though, I must’ve just forgotten to write this down.”

How can you be mad at him when he’s being so thoughtful and heartfelt, confessing his mistake even when it was your rash thinking that’s gotten you into this mess?

Once you calm your breathing down, though, you realise that you’re actually not particularly phased by this at all. You don’t mind this; it was the sheer shock that passed over Tom’s face, the flash of terror he must’ve felt with his work colleagues in the room with him that scared you so. You know well enough that it’ll be a huge knock—monumental, even—for him, if this gets out. Your worry for your treasured boyfriend takes power over any of your own misgivings.

“I’m really sorry, Tom.”

“Don’t be,” he says hastily, “can you please pop up and get dressed, though, darling? Just some shorts, I don’t want you to feel exposed.”

You let out a soft chuckle, nodding, stepping away from him to make your way upstairs. Before you’ve taken so much as a step, though, he tugs you back by the bottom of his shirt, and ravels you into a searing kiss, everything he wants to say passes from his lips to yours.

—

You return a couple of minutes later, dressed simply, comfortably, his shirt in your hands, you find him waiting for you, standing outside the door with his hands clasped at his front. He greets you with open arms, prompting you to take his hands as he leads you back into the kitchen, your eyes connecting in a secret agreement before stepping inside.

The air is rife with anxiety, three panicked faces staring back at you, but thankfully, you’re able to recognise these people as ones he’s worked with for a while, people he knows really well; confidantes and friends more than co-stars or colleagues. However, by the inquisitive glint in their eyes and their parted mouths, you imagine they’ll still have a lot of questions, and this’ll still be a hit for Tom.

He wraps his spare arm around you, his head bowed as he meets the dead faces staring at him. That’s when you begin to wonder if something else has happened.

“Baby, everything okay?” you ask, cupping his jaw, caressing your thumb over the scruff of a beard shadowing his bone structure.

That’s seemingly when it hits him, his face paling, blanching, his grip around you loosening.

“It’s a good job you never got over the threshold, darling,” he says breathlessly, “or I’d be in much more trouble.”

You look to him, eyes searching his face imploringly as he viciously gulps. “We were live on Instagram.”

“SHIT!”

Well, it looks like Tom’s girlfriend is public knowledge. You can’t mind, though not as he dips his head and kisses you hotly, heartily. With this passion, the second these people leave, Stripped Sunday might just happen after all.

[imagineredwood]

PLEASE 😍🥰🥰

WHy did this turn into damn near a regular length story  😩

“Hey, isn’t that your girl?”

Angel sucked his teeth angrily in response to Steve’s question. He watched as you laughed and smiled, joking around with some hang around that was at the club party. You had changed the style of your hair, a new look that had thrown Steve off. Seeing you sidled up with another man was also cause from confusion though and he figured he must’ve been seeing wrong. The angry heat rolling off of Angel told him that he was seeing things just fine though. 

“Never was.” 

Steve cringed and gave a nod of his own, not having known that the two of you had a falling out. It was clear that there had been something going on between your though. He had seen you making out at the clubhouse enough to know there was something there. Hanging his head and started to slip away, lest he face Angel’s wrath. 

Angel however stayed with his eyes glued to you. He watched as you smiled, looking up at the other man. How your lashes fluttered on the tops of your cheeks when you blinked. How you licked your lips after taking a sip from your drink. How you absentmindedly would place your hand on the guys forearm when he made you laugh. 

The sight was angering Angel more and more by the second, though he knew he had no right to be angry. He was the one that had called off your little fling, citing that he didn’t want you getting attached to him. It was bullshit of course, Angel actually being the one to find himself growing attached to you. But he had pushed you away regardless, falsely reminding you that it was only ever sex. Nothing more. 

So now here you were, finding someone else to enjoy and have fun with, and Angel wasn’t having it. He was seething, desperately trying to will away his anger, but nothing helped. He simply stood there with his back against the counter, arms crossed in front of him as he fantasized about bouncing the guys face off the wall. It was the man’s hand reaching for your thigh that set him off though, watching as his fingers lightly dug into the plush skin where Angel himself had been kissing not four days ago. He was pushing off of the counter quickly then, coming to tower over both you and the guy as you sat. Your smile fell away but the guys stayed, completely oblivious to the issue he was causing. 

“Oh, hey Angel.” 

Angel responded, but kept his eyes on you the entire time.

“There a reason you’re over here touching up on my girl?”

The hang around’s eyes widened and he quickly stood from the stool he was sitting on, hold his hands out in submission. 

“Shit, sorry homie, I didn’t know.” 

He was scurrying off then, thankful to still be on one piece. He had heard stories about the brutality Angel could deal out. With it just being the two of you now, Angel stayed with his eyes locked on you, his irritation growing as you nonchalantly leaned back on one elbow and took another sip from your drink. 

“Kinda fucked up for you to run him off like that. I was hoping to have him on top of me before the end of the night.” 

Angel growled, the mere thought having him seeing red, and he was snatching your arm up quickly, not a care in the world as you drink sloshed and spilled as he tugged you along to the back supply closet. 

“When I’m finished with your ass, you’re not gonna be able to fucking walk.” 

General taglist

@piccasoe @ateliefloresdaprimavera @gemini0410 @woahitslucyylu @my-rosegold-soul @that-chick212 @everyhowlmarksthedead @glimmerglittergirl @elcococruz @fanaticfangurl21 @encounterthepast @iambabyharry @svintsandghosts @starrynite7114 @saturnsaree @multiyfandomgirl40 @destynelseclipsa @sadeyesgf @queenbeered @iamthegraham @emoengelfurleben @all-the-boys-to-the-yard @otomefromtheheart @rosieposie0624 @papa-geralt-of-cirilla

Mayans MC taglist

@dazzledamazon  @abunnykisses @briana-mishell24 @angelreyesgirl @wrcn9fvlcver @peaches009 @capt-canadian @thesandbeneathmytoes @krysiewithak @veracruz-djarin @appropriate-writers-name @cind-in-real-life @blessedboo @montanaraed @kkim120 @megapeacelovemusic-blog @emoengelfurleben @blowmymbackout

Angel taglist 

@cardenasarmy @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @maciiiofficial

[after-witch]

Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: Escape isn’t easy. Nor is it very long-lasting. When Overhaul’s men drag you back into captivity, you brace yourself and wait for what your captor will do with you. 

Word Count: 7,592

Notes: yandere, kidnapped, humiliation, degradation, mentions of eating disorder behavior, improper use of household cleaning products, Overhaul is a mean man 90% of this fic is just Overhaul being an asshole to you

There are going to be bruises on your shoulders. Fingerprint shaped bruises from the men holding you steady, afraid that you'll try to sprint off--maybe afraid that you'll try to spring at their boss, disobedient, unruly possession that you are.

You know that Overhaul won't like it when he eventually sees those black-and-blue fingerprints marring your skin--he might kill them for it, or worse. They're digging in too hard, but you don't warn them to ease up lest they find themselves on the wrong end of Overhaul's hands; they brought you back to this place, after all, and they deserve nothing but your hot, raw contempt.

You could run. You could slip out of their grip, if you put your mind to it. Your clothes are wet and the medical table that you're sitting on is slippery from the rainwater that's dripped out from your soaked clothes. But Chisaki Kai--no, Overhaul, you remind yourself, for the energy he’s exuding now is very much that of a foreboding boss--is standing in front of you, and you'd never make it to the doorway.

"Leave us," Overhaul says, not bothering to move as the men gripping your shoulders release their painful hold and swiftly leave the room. He tears off a sanitizing wipe from the ever-present canister on his desk and wipes down the doorknobs that they touched, before locking the door. An unnecessary precaution, given your nerves, given your state, given your realization that your escape attempt was a massive fluke that would never be allowed to happen again.

You numbly watch as he gathers up supplies from around the makeshift clinic he'd created in the small suite of rooms he allowed you to exist in. The canister of disinfectant. Medical-grade soaps. Sponges. A bucket. Needles, needles, needles... you remember the feel of the syringe you'd stolen in your hand and distract yourself from the fear of what he's going to do to you by retracing the steps of the past day.

**

You got farther than you thought you would--really, you did. At every stage of your plan, you expected Chisaki to suddenly reveal that he knew every step you'd taken so far. That he'd catalogued every act of false obedience to lure him into relaxing the rules, that he saw you swipe the syringe of tranquilizer from the clinic when he'd left for a moment to grab a fresh pair of clothes for you, that he knew you asked to sit with him at his desk only to sneak a glance at his calendar, so you could sweetly plead for an afternoon in the garden when he would be busy, when he would surely ask a highly trusted subordinate to watch over you.

A highly trusted subordinate who knew all about your weeks of good, sweet behavior and who was none the wiser when you'd jabbed him with the syringe, plunging the medicine, the same kind your captor once used to 'calm you down' when you were having fits, right into the man’s thigh. 

You didn't hesitate: you'd dipped your hands into the man's pockets, pulled out his wallet and ran. You barely remember anything until you were in the forest--you vaguely remember using the key card to open the gates surrounding the base, you remember the fear that at any moment you would hear an alarm sound; but from there, everything was a blur as you sped into the forest wearing only the soft day shoes you'd been given to go outside.

You made it through the forest, though not without bumps and cuts and sore feet and a dimly throbbing ankle that was thankfully only turned. You ran until you reached a small town, one you'd never been in before. You buried your first instinct deep, deep, deep: do not contact the authorities. Who knows what connections Overhaul had, especially in a town so close to where he operated? So instead you waltzed into a little corner shop and made a beeline for the bathroom--where you promptly vomited out your breakfast as all of the anxiety and fear and adrenaline caught up with you in an instant.

You remember staring into the bathroom mirror afterwards, your face cold with splashed water. It was then, staring into your pale and anxious face, a face you hadn’t been allowed to see in a mirror for ages, that you felt freedom slamming back into you. You could do what you wanted, now. You were going to get your life back. You could make your own schedule and have your own hobbies back and eat what you wanted and--your stomach had gurgled, as if on cue. You had to get something to eat. But how would you pay?

The wallet you'd pilfered felt heavy in your pocket, and you opened it without a second thought. No cash. But a credit card. It would do, until you were able to get some cash of your own. You wandered back into the shop and even now, you can still feel how struck you were by how cozy, how nice, how different it felt. Just a small general store with big open windows and soft music in the background, and an old woman behind the register who immediately asked you if you needed any help finding this or that.

You smiled--a real smile, how nice that felt--and shook your head and loaded up a basket. A first-aid kit, a large water bottle, a toothbrush and toothpaste... then came the snacks. Candy. Chips. Soda. Things you hadn't tasted in so long. You even grabbed a pointless fashion magazine. The old woman had glanced at the name on the card and you offered a sheepish smile, a fake one that made you feel a pang of guilt for lying to her: "My boyfriend sent me to do the shopping. He's no good at this stuff." She'd smiled and nodded, oh I understand dear, before packing up your order.

You stepped out into the sunshine--you can't pretend like you remember how it feels, right now, shivering from the damp rain on this table--and took a deep breath of fresh air. It smelled crisp and sweet and clean. Not the sterile cleanliness of your captor's clinic, but truly pure--real. There was a slight tinge to the air, and you spotted grey clouds on the horizon. Not an omen, no: just another sign that you were outside, you were in nature, you were free. The smell was the promise of thunder, of electricity, of cool rain.

It also smelled like... well, lunch. Or more precisely, you smelled the vague scents of the little pizza shop a few shops down.

And here is where you made, looking back, your biggest mistake. You should have headed to a bus station. Or called for a taxi. You should have gotten the hell out of there right that second. But your mind flashed back to Overhaul's little calendar, the words printed neatly in the little square for today: he would be away until the evening, which meant you (surely, surely) had a few more hours before he came back and discovered your escape.

He’d ordered no one to bother you and your now-unconscious guard in the garden, so if no one saw you run out, then an alarm certainly wouldn’t raised for a while. You had time, didn't you? Time to grab a meal? You could always get it to go, and you could even ask an employee inside about buses or taxes. Yes, it was fine--you would get a few slices to go and hop on a bus and leave forever. More than that, it was practical. You needed energy, and the junk in your bag--while undoubtedly delicious--wasn't going to be enough to sustain you for long.

The door to the pizza place dinged when you entered, and you almost teared up at the normality of it. It was a buffet style place, with rows of pizzas under yellow-cast lights and rows of red booths and people lifting slices onto their plates with shared tongs. Unusual for a small town, but maybe it was a remnant from a more bustling time, when American-style pizza places were all the rage. For a moment, your thoughts had turned back to your captivity: Overhaul would have never set foot into a place like this--nor would he have let you. Germs, germs, everywhere. And you loved it.

You paid with the card, but there was no need for excuses this time--the young man behind the register didn't even check for a name or signature, much less ask for identification. You asked about a to-go box and he'd shrugged, mumbled out an apology--they didn't do that here. You have to eat inside.

For a moment, the rational part of your mind screamed: get the hell out of here, then! But your stomach growled, and hunger beckoned, and damn if that row of glistening pizza slices didn't make you want to eat. And eat.  And… eat. You shoved repressed thoughts deep down, your heart hammering all the while, and took a tentative step towards the buffet. Thunder rumbled as you debated. You could be out of here in... 30 minutes? Enough time to eat--to binge, your mind whispered, you can now--and maybe get it out after? Yes, it would be fine. (It would not. Future you, the one sitting on the table and watching in increasing anxiety as Overhaul finishes up his tasks, wishes she could tell you.)

You should have seen the start of the rain, sudden and relentless, as a bad sign. Instead you ignored it and filled up a large cup with diet soda that spilled a little when you forgot to let go of the button. You ate without thinking, not even really enjoying the taste of the first greasy pizza slices you’d had in ages.

You were on your fifth slice when the restaurant doors dinged, but the sense of small town charm was overrun by the immediate realization that you were caught. You were fucked. The air thickened--were you the only one to notice?--as two men in slim suits entered the restaurant with an air of immediacy. You were spotted in a second, if that. You thought about running.

But then you thought about the bored teenager behind the register and the old man cutting up his wife's pizza slices because she had trouble chewing and the little girl stacking up pepperonis while her mom chatted on the phone and you resigned yourself. You didn’t want anyone else to get hurt…even if it meant giving in. You didn't struggle, couldn't struggle, and let them lead you swiftly outside where the torrent of rain soaked you immediately  as they pushed you down the block, where an unmarked car waited. You glanced up helplessly as the cloudy sky and rain streamed down your face before you were unceremoniously pushed into the backseat.

Overhaul was sitting inside, staring at you with an intensity you've never seen before.

**

Your backpack drops with a thump next to you and you flinch out of your memories.

"Let's see what you bought with that stolen card during your little adventure."  His voice is deceptively calm. He must be furious with you, you think. And you can't believe you didn't think about credit fraud alerts before you used the damn card.

The noise of the zipper is thunderous and you scoot yourself back on the exam table, pressing against the wall to put a little more room--even if it's only inches--between you and your captor. He begins to pull everything out of the bag, one by one, and seeing it all lined up makes it clear what type of lecture is coming.

A few bags of chips, a bottle of soda, bars of chocolate, all junk, junk, junk. All food he would never permit you to eat, and certainly not in such quantities.

"Disgusting," he murmurs, before tossing each item into a trash bin kept against the wall, one by one. You cringe at the sound of each bag, each bottle, hitting the bottom of the trash. You didn't even get to taste them. He stares at the trash, eyes narrowed, as if the food itself was worthy of his venom. "Full of unnecessary sugars and fats and oils. Eating so much of this will make you sick. We've talked about this."

You say nothing. You press your lips together. You won't give him the satisfaction of argument. You won't let him pretend like he has any right to lecture you on what you eat, and certainly not what you eat after you've escaped (however briefly) from his clutches.

"At least you didn't have time to ingest them during your ill-planned escape, hm?" He replaces his previous gloves--tainted with the thought of germs on the junk food bags, no doubt--and your stomach flips at the sound of the medical gloves he's snapped on in their place. "Which is more than I can say for the pizza." You never knew someone could say pizza with such a ridiculously nasty tone, but you've learned a lot of things during your captivity.

"You weren't content with this junk hoard," he says, gesturing towards the trash while keeping his eyes firmly on you. "You had to gorge yourself on greasy pizza from a dirty buffet, too? We are going to clean your mouth out, by the way.”

You hate the way he says gorge--you hate the way he says greasy--you hate the anxiety that comes with wondering what he’ll do to ‘clean’ your mouth. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. The hate makes you answer defensively, despite your earlier resolution to stay quiet. You can't help yourself, in a lot of ways.

"I was hungry," you say, still feeling defiant.

"No one working on their fifth slice of pizza is hungry," he answers, simply. You feel diminished, but not enough to shut you up.

"So? It's not your business what I eat anyway.” A familiar tightness is springing to your throat. You don't want to cry in front of him ever again, so you clip the words out, fighting to retain control.

He presses a fist to his forehead in a sudden, rather surprising show of frustration. "Not my business? Not my business? It's my business to take care of you. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out there?"

The fullness in your stomach, the cold rain soaking you, the remembrance of the wind and branches lashing at you as you ran hours before, all these freedoms have made you feel bold. Or maybe you're succumbing to the effects of an adrenaline crash and you just can't control your mouth.

"I could have been free. You can’t--you can't just keep me here. You can't just kidnap someone and decide you know what's best for them."

There's a long, steady pause as he stares at you. His expression--what you can see from his eyes--is blank, and you almost wonder if perhaps you've stumped him.

"I can," he says, lightly. Easily.

Fucker.

He sighs, and you get the distinct impression that you’re a nuisance, something to deal with, something he’s having to deal with instead of doing far more important things. "You’re showing a severe lack of appreciation for all the work I do to take care of you."

You don't know how to respond to that. "You kidnapped me.” It’s all you can think of--the bare truth.

He doesn't speak at first. Then he lifts something from the supply tray he's set up--a blue hospital gown, thin and short, and tosses it towards you. You catch it instinctively, feeling the thin, feather-light material in your fingers. He tosses a towel, next, and you hold it against your damp chest. He turns around.

"Change."

You don't want to. You don't want to. But you've never pressed your luck on what would happen if you refused to get dressed before, afraid that he might do it himself, and that fear overrides any thoughts of outright rebellion. For now. You slide off your wet clothes and push them towards the end of the table, then use the towel to dry off your skin. There are scratches and bruises, including a nasty looking one that's already turning green on your ankle. Your feet are swollen from running on the hard forest floor with your thin day shoes.

When you're finished, you clear your throat, and he turns back around. He tosses your wet clothes right into the trash--damn, you liked that shirt--and wipes off the table with a separate towel. You sit, legs dangling off the table, and wish he'd just get the punishment or examination or whatever it is he has planned over with. You can feel the coldness of the table through the medical gown, and its thinness makes you feel even more helpless. Weak. You want to retain that feeling of freedom that you had earlier in the day. Even choosing to return without a fight, choosing to avoid hurting the innocent people in that town, made you feel bold.

He stands in front of you until you force yourself to look up, to get it over with. He's swapped out his mask for a medical one.

"Have I ever hurt you?"

You hate this.

"No," you admit, voice tight. "Not physically," you add spitefully, because fuck him for trying to make himself sound like a decent person because he kidnapped you but didn't happen to hit you.

"Do I take care of you?" His tone is firm, commanding. It leaves no room for silences. Instead, it makes your stomach feel light, makes your heart feel like it wants to race.

"I can do that on my own," you counter.

"Can you?" He says, voice dripping in condescension.

"Yes," you spite, bile rising into your throat. "I can take care of myself."

He reaches back and grabs the little stool he keeps in this room, rolling it up to rest in front of the table and in front of you. He sits down and cups his hands together, resting them on his thigh. He leans forward. An easy gesture. Like he wants to have a conversation. But something about his movements sends out warning signals. Big, glaring, flashing warning lights that scream DANGER.

“You can take care of yourself.” It’s a statement, yet the way he says it is brutally mocking.

“I can,” you insist, your voice cracking just the slightest bit under his gaze.

"So, where would you live?" He watches you intently and it takes a moment for you to realize what he just asked you. He isn't offering you freedom, no. But maybe you can win an argument, just this once, and forcibly stop his delusions that he's "taking care of you."

"Anywhere," you say, but he looks unimpressed. "An apartment," you correct. "Like my old one. Doesn't have to be big." Your heart pangs with nostalgia for your old place, for your independence, for your life.

"Ah." Overhaul brings a gloved finger up to his chin and rests is there, nodding, as if he's seriously considering your words. "And how will you pay for rent at this apartment?"

You can't resist the snarky tone. "A job."

He rests both hands on his thighs. "Tell me, how much did you make at your last job, again? No--tell me, how long did you hold your last job?" You cross your arms defensively around your waist as he continues. "If I recall correctly, you were fired rather quickly from that one... and the one before."

You squeeze your waist, hoping for the tiniest bit of comfort from the gesture. "I... it wasn’t my fault.” You feel like you’re under a magnifying glass. “The first time. And the second, well, I was looking for something better, anyway."

He raises his eyebrows, curious. "Looking where? At the bottom of a bottle?"

Your entire body tenses.

"After all," he continues, voice almost taking on a syrupy sweet tone. "Your fridge was so well-stocked with them. Hmm. Do you think it's responsible to spend so much money on alcohol when you're behind on rent payments?"

"No," you say, voice tighter, "But--"

He doesn't give you a chance to finish. He stands, and you immediately squeeze your arms again. "And how much were you spending on other luxuries? Those clothes you kept carelessly shoved in your closet... they were a name brand, weren't they?"

Your throat is dry and your mouth is dry and you lick your lips. "There were sales," you insist.

"Ohh," he says, his voice lifting in mockery. "And I bet there were sales on the jewelry, the trinkets, the--" his eyes drift upwards, an implication of his disdain, "--figurines."

You lift your chin in defiance. "I'm allowed to buy things that I like."

He begins to pace. Not aimlessly, no, nothing with him is ever aimless. He paces until he stops in front of you, turning to face you for effect.

"What happens if you're late on three rent payments? Remind me of the policy that decrepit building you called an apartment complex had."

You squirm on the table. "I was only behind on two--"

"What happens?" His voice is firm. You can't avoid it.

There's a pause before you murmur, unwillingly. "You get evicted."

"So." He takes another step, and turns back towards you. "Do you think it's responsible to spend money you don't have on luxuries, when you're behind on rent?"

You want to run. Maybe you should have run at him earlier. Getting tossed into a solitary room after attacking him might be better than this interrogation.

"No," you admit. You swallow, dry and thick and a bit painful. "Okay. I'm not great with money. I bought things to make me happy because I was stressed out about---life. It's not that big a deal. I--I didn't get kicked out, anyway."

He sits again, but keeps himself upright, the air of faux casualness replaced with an air of command. "How did you catch up on your rent? Tell me."

You hate him. You stare at him, hoping he'll end this, but he simply stares at you until you blurt out the words. "You paid my landlord. Anonymously." You stare down at the floor, at the drops of water still there from earlier. "I didn't ask you to. I would have figured something out."

"I'm sure."

He stands, and you stare at the wall until you hear him roll the tray of supplies towards the table. Your body trembles of its own accord when he grabs your arm firmly and wraps a blood pressure cuff around the top. You sit in silence as the cuff gets tighter then mercifully deflates.

He tsks at the number, and jots it down on the pad resting on the table. For once, you're not tempted to peek.

"I need to take some blood," he says, and you stick out your arm in automatic, habitual compliance before your brain even realizes it. He grips your wrist firmly while he swipes your arm with an anti-bacterial agent.

"How much do you weigh?" He asks suddenly, voice nonchalant.

You stare at him, incredulous. He's never brought up weight before. He’s always been careful to avoid details about weight, nutrition--calories. The most he would do is point out that you need a well-rounded diet with the right vitamins and nutrients, and ignore your questions about sauces and cooking oils and grams, all attempts to find out something that could give you an ounce of control over what’s going into your body.

"I--I don't know.  You don't let me look at the scale when I step on it." He knows this. He knows that he's forbidden you from seeing the number, because he knows about your past, knows your tendency to get obsessive and strict and focus on food and weight and worth.

"Why don't I let you look at the scale?"

Your stomach feels like it's twisting.

"I don't know." The lie is bitter on your tongue.

The casual tone in his voice when he replies is far more biting than any cruel insult. "Yes, you do." 

His words are punctuated by the harsh medicinal smell of the next wipe. But you're in no mood to appreciate that he's still choosing to numb your skin despite your earlier transgressions.

The tears you felt building earlier begin to prick at the corner of your eyes. You don't want to cry, you don't want to cry, you don't want to cry.

“Why don’t I let you look at the scale?” He repeats, firmer, more insisting. He winds a band around your arm and taps at your veins.

Your arm looks fatter, like this. You swear it does. You look away to avoid your arm and the needle and his gaze.

“Because, um, I sometimes have problems with food. Or weight. Or whatever.”

“You have an eating disorder,” he tells you, all business as he plunges the needle into your skin; there’s only the ghost of a sting as he begins to slowly draw your blood. But you barely feel it, you can only feel the impact of his words, blunt and hateful.

"You were going to throw up in that germ-infested hovel. Eat until your stomach was distended, then head into a bathroom--which I'm sure the staff hadn't cleaned in ages--and stick your unwashed, greasy fingers down your throat until it all came back up. Am I correct?"

You can't tell if you feel woozy because of the needle or the way that your heart is racing at his words. Throw up. Greasy. Disgusting. You're disgusting.

"Stop it," you say, voice muddled with humiliation and anger.

He pulls the needle out, and quickly presses a bandage to your skin. He keeps a finger there, firm and pressing. He looks up at you, now, as he continues his onslaught.

"And then what? Let me make an educated guess. You were going to get on some filthy bus and open up all the junk you bought earlier? Perhaps," he muses, as he rips off a piece of tape to keep the gauze in place, "you could have asked the bus driver to stop at a public bathroom for a vomit break. And you'd probably make sure that whatever flea-ridden hotel you found along the way had a scale in the bathroom so you could keep track. And another one of your delightful," he practically spits the word out, "cycles would have started, hm?"

"Stop it," you repeat, voice breaking. "I wasn't--I wouldn't have--"

"You were going to," he says simply, interrupting. "Thankfully, we got there in time. Although I'm sure now you will endure a stomach ache after your reckless indulgence. A lesson, perhaps, though not the exact one I would inflict myself."

As if on cue, your stomach rolls and clenches. You’re keenly aware that you’re going to have digestive problems tonight, and the thought of being at his mercy while you’re dealing with them threatens to send you over the edge.  Could you get even more disgusting? The thought of how you look right now, stomach no doubt bulging, hair disheveled and damp, covered in ugly bruises and cuts--combined with the fear of spending the night on a toilet sends you over the edge.

You press your knuckles against your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut and try to force the sobs down. Your body begins to tremble, even more so as he lifts your leg. Without warning, he begins to unceremoniously scrub it down with a sponge dipped in disinfectant.

It stings and your eyes feel like they might pop at the sudden pain. You hiss at the feeling of the liquid on your cuts and try to pull away, to no avail. Your legs feel like jelly in his grip.

“That hurts,” you whine. 

“It can’t be helped,” he tells you, holding your leg firmly as he scrubs the sore bottom of your feet. Any sensitivity you had there is overruled by the soreness and pain from running, from the stinging aches that remain in your cuts. “I have to clean every cut or you may get an infection.”

He sets your leg down and lifts up the other, and you cringe before he even begins to move. You can’t help but whimper as he scrubs your leg, and the helpless stings of pain only increase when he moves on to your arms.

“Please,” you say, feeling low, nearly flattened. “I can’t… I can’t take this.”

He pauses, and the seemingly genuine concern in his eyes (it’s not, you remind yourself, it’s not--you think of the shop and the pizza place and the old man cutting his wife’s food, that was concern, that was care) has you feeling sorry for yourself.

“The stinging will go away in a few minutes. You chose to run away, you can certainly deal with this minor consequence.” He retains his grip on your upper arm and he swipes the sponge across your shoulders, briefly pushing the fabric aside as he does so. He pauses when he sees the blooming fingerprints on your shoulders, but says nothing.  You wonder if those men will survive the night.

There’s a a cut, thin and long, dragging from your collarbone down across your chest. He dips unceremoniously below the gown, touching you in a spot he normally avoids. The feeling of him so close, touching you--not quite on your chest, but close enough--only intensifies your humiliation. You whimper again and try to pull away, but his grip offers no room to move.

“I can’t--” You don’t finish. Your throat is so tight and you hate it, you hate that you can never talk about anything with him, never argue with him without clamming up with tears and a thick throat.

You bring your hands up to your hair, tugging on it until it prickles. Your breath starts to come in short bursts, your chest having as you pull on your hair and will yourself to be anywhere but here. For a flashing moment, you wish you’d never tried to escape. If you didn’t, you’d be getting ready for bed right now. Things would be--not okay. Never okay. But you wouldn’t be here, on this table, cold and stinging and in pain and utterly despondent from having your failures shoved in your face. But then you remember that if he’d never kidnapped you, you wouldn’t have had to try to escape in the first place, and the wish fades.

He remains silent, and instead simply keeps a steady, firm grip on your upper arm until your breath slows, until you can control yourself. Your skin feels at once numb and prickling in anxiety and adrenaline and emotions coursing through you.

Overhaul gives your arm a squeeze that is, perhaps, meant to be reassuring. “Are you suitably recovered?

You nod. Your stomach feels sour. You want to ask if you’re done, if you can just go sleep or get sent (you dread the idea) to solitary confinement or whatever it is he has planned in the wake of your escape. Anything would be better than this room and this soft, thin gown and his bright blue surgical gloves and your failure hanging in the air.

He extends his arm out and you pause for a moment before you grasp it, holding tight as you get off the table and stand on wobbly legs. You’re loathe to touch him, but you’re even more loathe to fall flat on your face on the hard floor.

He speaks before you get a chance to ask if you can change out of the medical gown.

“Now, we’ll go to the bathroom.”

Your knees suddenly feel like they might drop out from under you. “The bathroom?”

He nods, and pulls himself away from your weak grip as he begins walking towards the door. You follow without thinking, pausing when he stops to slide his medical gloves into the trash before slipping on another pair.

“We’re not finished here,” he tells you, and you swear his voice is almost giddy as he turns his head to meet your questioning face. “I told you earlier, we’re going to clean your mouth out.”

He can’t mean--

You take a step back, and your knee buckles. He’s quick--he catches you before you fall, but doesn’t let go. His pulls you upright and pulls you along. Your legs have no choice to walk--walk or be dragged--and you struggle for words as he leads you out of the clinic. Before you know it, you’re back in your room (familiar, warm, the same as it ways this morning) and led swiftly into the attached bathroom.

He pulls you in far enough that he’s able to shut the door behind him, trapping you inside. As if you wouldn’t be trapped by his mere presence. For a moment you wonder if he was bluffing, trying to scare you into submission, but by the time you take another breath he’s running the sink water and tearing into a new box of bar soap.

Your voice catches as you finally speak up. “You--you can’t be serious.”

“What makes you think I’m not serious?” He doesn’t even face you as he speaks. Instead, he turns on the tap and fills a paper cup with water before setting it on the sink’s edge. Next comes the bar of white soap, which grows slick underneath the water. He turns off the tap and lets the excess water drip off, before turning to you, soap bar in hand.

“Open your mouth.”

Your lips press together automatically, and you shake your head. No, no, and no. This isn’t happening.

He sighs, and again the feeling that you’re annoying him creeps under your skin. Why does it bother you that you’re annoying him? It shouldn’t bother you at all, but somehow you feel a pang of regret at how much has changed in less than 24 hours. 

“If you don’t open your mouth willingly, I will open it for you.” He takes a step closer, but your legs feel heavy now, rooted to the spot. It isn’t like there’s anywhere you could run, anyway. “I don’t want to do that,” he continues, voice slightly softened. “Cooperate and open your mouth.”

What choice do you have? You could protest, you could argue, you could leap into the bathtub and make him fight for what he wants. You could keep your mouth shut tight and force him to find a solution. But he is stronger than you, in more ways than one, and he would get his way in the end.

So you make the only choice available to you. Your entire mouth shakes and seems to fight against you as you slowly open your lips in compliance. You feel stupid, standing here with your mouth hanging open.

You can’t reflect on the feeling for long, as he wastes no time in shoving the bar inside your open lips. You can’t help but whimper at the intrusion, but he doesn’t let up and begins methodically scrubbing at your tongue. At first, there’s no taste--then the built-up slick of clinical soap makes itself known, and you take advantage of the soap slipping out of your lips to press them together again, denying him entry.

“Open,” he orders, soft and firm.

And you do, heaving your shoulders in an unreleased whimper. What else can you do but listen? He continues to scrub, this time moving the bar into the side of your mouth to scrub at your teeth. The clammy, greasy feeling of soap coating your teeth makes you curl your wide open lips downward. You must look ridiculous, in all respects, lips gaping in an unpleasant frown as your captor mercilessly soaps the inside of your mouth.

“Do you not like the taste?” His eyes glance over at your frown, and the mockery in his tone is more than blatant. 

“Uhh-uhh,” you mumble, open-mouthed, shaking your head. The position you’re in--Overhaul scrubbing into your mouth, your shaking body, the dim feeling of your bruises and cuts from earlier--makes you feel so painfully exposed. So painfully helpless.

He hums and rests the soap against your tongue. Before you can attempt to move your tongue, lessen the feeling of the taste of the soap against it, he gives you a command.

“Bite down.”

Your teeth sink into the soft bar, keeping it in place, and your whimpers grow stronger at the humiliating order you’ve just obeyed. Could you sink any lower?

You watch him through tear-brimmed eyes as he moves to stand in front of you. You know what’s coming before he even speaks and when he does, it’s no surprise.

“Have I ever hurt you?”

Back to this, again.

You shake your head, mumble around the soap: “No.”

“Are you capable of being on your own?”

You hesitate, and he merely jumps to another question, one far more pointed.

“Have you held a single job for longer than a year?”

You want to protest, but any attempt at complicated speech is marred by the soap--the weight of it, the taste, and your need to keep it steady in your mouth.

“No,” you admit, hating the feel of the bar as your lips press against it with the effort of speech.

“Would you have been evicted if I didn’t pay off your debts?”

“Yes.” Tears sting at your eyes. You want to wipe them away but you’re afraid you’ll get soap in them, somehow.

“Are you responsible enough with money to hold a job, maintain an apartment, and buy yourself the necessities for life without someone else stepping in?”

The soap somehow tastes even more bitter. “No, I can’t.” Your tongue pushes up against the soap at this, and you resolve to keep it to one-word answers only.

“If we didn’t intercept your little outing, would you have attempted to throw up at that restaurant today?”

You shake your head, but it’s a lie, and you know it’s a lie--and he knows it’s a lie. So you nod, weakly. “Mm-hmm.”

“Have I been feeding you healthy meals? Have I been ensuring that you don’t engage in disgusting self-destructive behaviors?”

He has, but that’s not--your mind wants to argue, but you’re so tired and sick and your stomach hurts and the taste of the soap is too much. So you nod, instead.

He nods in response, and you pray that he’ll take the soap out and end this. Instead, he lifts your chin with a single finger, making you keep eye contact as he speaks.

“Do I take care of you?”

“Yes,” you cry out, your words garbled around the wet soap bar. He releases your chin and it’s these words, this final question, that make you break entirely. Your shoulders ache from bruises as you cry, hunching over slightly and watching as some drool-laden soap droplets fall on the floor. “Yes, yes, yes,” you repeat, mechanically, crying around the bitter soap that’s digging into your front teeth.

Satisfied, he takes hold of the bar and waits for you to release it, then tosses it with ease into the trash. You blubber and spit, only succeeding in releasing a trail of soapy drool down your chin. Your tears are hot and stinging as they roll down your cheeks. You open your mouth, you try to say something, but all that comes out is soft cries punctuated by your attempts to spit out the soapy film.  

“Look at you,” he murmurs, bringing a gloved hand up to your cheek and wiping at the tears. “My poor thing. You can’t even speak. You can’t even articulate yourself. How could you ever hope to make it on your own?” His words are soft and cruel and you merely cry harder, humiliated and helpless.

Your throat is sore. Your stomach hurts. You want your warm nightgown on. You want to be in bed. You wish your stomach didn’t hurt so much from eating junk. You wish you weren’t covered in cuts and bruises. You wish you’d just enjoyed the garden and went back inside. You wish you’d never done this at all. You’re so stupid. You’re so stupid.

And you finally say so, all of it, blubbering, bits of soapy drool dribbling out of your mouth as you cry and admit your faults out loud.

After your wrought-out apology dissolves into meaningless whimpers, Overhaul finally grabs the glass of water he set on the edge of the sink, and you gratefully swish the lukewarm liquid with earnest. You lean over the sink and spit, body trembling, then fill the cup again and repeat the gesture again and again to get rid of every bit of white soap stuck in your mouth. Even as you spit, you realize that the taste isn’t going to be completely gone anytime soon--it’s stuck in your mouth like a bad memory.

You jerk when his hands are suddenly on your back, rubber gloves sliding up and down the thin medical gown covering your cold, helpless body. But he merely keeps rubbing, gentle and soothing, while you swish and spit, and cry and cry.

His hands leave your back only to grab a washcloth from the built-in shelves across from the toilet. You watch as he wets the cloth and you stand silently, allowing him to wipe up the drool and soap from your chin, your neck, even a bit on your chest where it dribble-dropped downward.

When you’re all cleaned up, he fills up a cup with mouth wash and silently hands it to you. You gratefully swish it for as long as possible before spitting it into the sink. The soap taste is still there, but lessened somewhat by the overpowering mint of the mouthwash. He gestures to your toothbrush and you pick it up, and begin mechanically brushing your teeth, stopping when the 2-minute timer flashes on the bottom. You instinctively grab your floss without having to be told and make quick work of that, too.

He opens the door to the bathroom, but gestures for you to wait. You do, standing numbly, wishing that he let you have a mirror so you could see your own state. But he doesn’t, and you can’t, and so you wait until he returns with a bundle in his arms.

It’s your pajamas. A soft, pink nightgown--he didn’t pick the soft blue one, tonight, and you’re grateful to avoid any reminders of the medical gown you have on--with matching socks and underwear. You nod and accept the bundle meekly. He turns around and you make quick work of the medical gown, tossing it in the trash yourself before you get dressed for bed.

“M’done,” you mumble, though you quickly realize speaking makes the lingering soap taste stronger. You follow him silently out of the bathroom and into your bedroom, which is just as you left it that morning. The only thing different is you. Subdued, humiliated, helpless.

Overhaul pulls the cover on your bed and you sit down, numb and chastened. You pull your legs up and tuck them under the soft comforter. You’re forcing yourself into the routine you’ve been following for the past few weeks, but the secret thrill you once had of obeying with ulterior movies is no longer there. It’s been replaced by a heavy stillness, the knowledge that you failed in more ways than one. The occasional roll of your stomach reminds you that the night may not be over, bedtime routine be damned.

But you ignore it for now, and you lean your head back on your pillow as he pulls the comforter towards your shoulders, tucking you in. Rather than leave immediately, he sits next to you on the bed, looking down at you with an obsessive, possessive expression in his eyes.

You force down an instinctive flinch when he suddenly begins to stroke the top of your forehead, moving up to pet your hair softly. His gloves are gone. While not completely new, it’s rare--rare enough that the feeling of his bare fingers is still an unusual sensation.

You close your eyes. It usually makes him leave faster. Your heart begins to pound as you hear him stand, as you sense him leaning in, as you feel the ghost of his breath against your face.

“Sweet dreams. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

What a silly thing to say, you think. Your dreams are never sweet anymore.

[bokettochild]

Day 5: I've Got Red In My Ledger

Whumptober Day 5: Betrayal/Misunderstanding/Broken Nose

So, I ended up using all three options, and 'm honestly not sure if this counts as Warriors Whump, Four Whump or both.

I will excuse Legend's presence as being because I just wrote a Four and Legend one-shot and was still in Split Heroes mode.

Hope you read, enjoy, and don't hate me for what I've done, because I don't regret it :)

Warriors keeps staring at them.

The captain’s piercing royal blue eyes have been boring a hole into their back for ages and the ridiculous part of them worries that if they don’t keep moving that stare will bore a hole right through them. Thanks Red.

What? It’s a valid concern!

Red, when has having someone stare a hole through you ever been a valid concern?

Wild’s guardians.

Alright, but Wars isn’t a guardian, he’s-

He helped to build them. Red murmurs softly. Plus, he’s the Captain, I wouldn’t put it past him to be able to do something crazy after spending so much time jumping across worlds and learning stuff from the people there.

Red, we all jump through portals and learn things from across time. I think we’ll be okay.

“Four?” Legend’s voice is the one that breaks through to him as the vet stops in front of him, two bowls in hand and one offered to them as the vet cocks a brow. “Y’all okay?”

They smile at the vet, despite the itch of someone’s eyes fixed on them, and take the offered food. “I’m good, just thinking is all.”

“About what?” Legend presses, sitting next to them with curious cock of his brows as he begins to eat, violet eyes staring them down, piercing, but not as pointedly so as Warriors’ gaze. Legend’s eyes are gentle for once, and the vet seems to relax slightly as he eats, seated at their side and calmer than he’s been in days.

Four wishes they could feel the same.

They don’t regret sharing their secret with the vet (even if it wasn’t on purpose) and it’s nice to have someone to feel safe with, but no matter how warmly Legend might smile at them, a secretive wink or knowing smirk being shot their way, they’re still on edge.

“Nothing much, just...thoughts, you know?”

“No.” Legend deadpans.

They chuckle nervously. “Thinking about our different worlds and how we learn so much by hopping across them, you know? Like, Wild learning the recipes from your time or Wind getting to learn to ride horseback in Twilight’s world.” Th vet nods wordlessly, sucking on his spoon as they turn their attention to the meal Wild has so lovingly prepared.

Warriors still hasn’t looked away.

He’s been doing this for days, and usually, Four wouldn’t be worried, but it hadn’t started until after Shadow had helped them trip up an enemy in battle, and though the action probably saved the captain’s life, Wars hasn’t stopped watching them and it’s beginning to remind them of that time that Ezlo and them had been cornered by a cat in Pita’s Bakery. They still have the scar from that incident, and it’s something they guard the secret behind fiercely, if only out of shame of their own weakness and foolishness in that particular situation. Ezlo had warned them not to try darting away, to stay hidden in the sacks until the cat had been gone, but they’d rushed forwards and barely survived being made mincemeat.

Ezlo had needed stitches.

They had needed a minish healer and a bath in red potion. And even if they cover the worst of the scars beneath their tunic, the ragged tip of their left ear is a reminder. It’s why they chose to wear their earring, to remember to listen when the minish or the little voice in their head -or voices now- tell them to be careful. That voice, all four of them, is screaming at them to shield themselves.

And really, they should have listened.

Legend is on his feet in a moment, sword out to catch the second blow that falls their way as their ambusher grunts out an irritated oink.

“Ambush!” Wind shouts as the others pull themselves to their feet and grab hold of their weapons. They’d left their sword beside their seat, and from their place lying on the ground they can’t reach, but Shadow, Hylia bless him, sneakily pushes it close enough that they can wrap their fingers around the hilt and jump in to join the battle with their brothers.

It’s not a large group of monsters, and it doesn’t take much work between nine heroes and a sneaky shadow to fell them all, and they’re just turning to offer Wind a high five as the kid kicks the final lizalfoes off his sword when the cold of a blade presses against their throat.

“Warriors, what the bloody heck!” Legend shouts, jumping back up from where he’d been knelt to help Sky begin relighting their ruined campfire.

“Drop your sword.” The captain’s voice grates out behind them, cold and commanding in a way that sends shivers down their spine.

What’s going on?

The captain’s gone bonkers is what! Green, what’s the plan?

There’s only silence from their leader as the other deviants wait impatiently for an answer.

Green, we need a plan, War is-

Their sword clatters to the earth as the other colors begin to swear and panic, but Green has forced their hand, literally, and the stare they send their weapon is both resigned and horrified, one eye flickering various colors as the other remains solidly green.

Across camp, Legend’s own eyes are bugging out of his head, panic clear in his gaze as the vet’s hand closes on his sword hilt.

“Stay your hand, Legend.” Warriors rumbles, firm but not cruel. “No need for weapons-”

“Says the one holding a sword to Four’s throat!”

The captain doesn’t even shift, and their mind spins as they try and decipher what it is that the other man is doing or thinking, Red and Blue still screaming inside their mind as Vio murmurs various schemes about what they can do while Green sits in stony silence.

What were you thinking!

Green! We- what if- Red is nearly sobbing. Green, please! What are you doing?

Calm down. Of Green had his own body he’d be shooting them a rueful but reassuring look, and they can all feel it. This is a mistake or misunderstanding. If we listen and don’t make it worse, it can be cleared up faster.

Brilliant, might want to fill the vet and Old Man in on your plan though, and maybe Sky too, guys about to blow up.

They shoot a wary glance towards the Chosen Hero, careful not to move their head lest they press against the blade at their throat. Sky’s eyes are wide, but he’s still as a board and already falling into his ‘king stance’ as Legend calls it, shoulders back and jaw set with a grace and power behind his gaze that makes them shiver even more than the cool steel at their neck.

Or wait, that metal isn’t all cold, there's a bit of warm sticky stuff brushing their jaw and they nearly shiver again as they realize that Wars hadn’t even cleaned the monster blood off of his blade before trapping them.

“The smithy’s been lying to us.” Warriors grates out, cold and harsh and angry as the blade presses closer to their throat. They have to inch back a bit to avoid being cut, only to find themselves stumbling against the captain’s chest. “He may be a hero chosen by the goddesses, but he’s chosen his own path.”

“What do you mean?” Time’s voice is emotionless, stance unreadable and face carefully blank and it’s unsettling in the extreme, making the other young heroes draw back with wary looks as they glance from one to another of the adults, only Legend standing firm and furious as he glares across at the captain.

“Four’s working with the shadow.” The captain spits out, blade again pressing close to their neck. “I’ve been watching him, he’s either learned it's powers or the beast is here itself, but I know what I saw, he’s got a shadow helping him.”

The vet twitches. “Duh. Have you never read the Legend of the Four Sword?”

There are a few confused sounds from the others, but Four can’t bother to figure out what the others are all saying and doing as the steel presses sharp against his throat, leaving him pressed against Warriors’ armor-clad chest with no way to escape as something warm bubbles against the blade and crimson leaks down from the line the blade presses against him.

“Let him go!” Legend shrieks, hands already on his own blade as he darts across the camp, but Warriors, only draws Four closer, voice unbearable gentle and pained as he addresses Legend. “Vet, you’re not yourself. He’s messed with your mind, can’t you see?  It’s why you two have been so close all of a sudden, he’s put a dark spell n you, don’t give into it.”

“I’ll do what I bloody well want!” Legend screams in return, chest heaving as the tempered sword comes unsheathed, tip inches from Warriors’ face as Legend’s body begins to tremble. “Let him go, Captain.” The title is spat out like a curse, and Four can nearly feel Warriors’ shoulders sag as the man winces, but Legend doesn’t lower his blade even as Wars gently urges him to calm.

The others have started moving closer too, doubt on a few faces that makes their heart sink in their chest. Sky’s gaze is firm though as the Chosen Hero settles a hand on Legend’s shoulder. “Let him go, wars. If there’s a problem that needs addressing, we’ll address it like civil adults.” The words make hope flutter in their chest, but Warriors is only pressing closer, his blade digging in and making them whimper as blood dribbles into the collar of their tunic.

“Not a chance, Sky, he’ll get away, shadows are sneaky like that! They-” The captain is cut off suddenly, breath catching as the man wheezes behind them, his hand on the sword at their throat loosening its grip and giving them room enough to breathe again.

Legend takes the opening, whatever it is that caused it, to dart forwards, dropping his own sword and pulling at the captain’s sword arm hard enough that Sky can scoop them up into his strong arms and duck away, holding them close to his chest and giving them a full view of the shadowy hands that have wrapped around Warriors’ throat.

“I’d watch who you messed with if I were you, Captain.” Shadow hisses in the man’s ear before releasing him, zipping over to where they lay in Sky’s arms, startling both the Skyloftain and the vet, who’s already reaching for his weapon again as the shade stops to float over them. “Four, oh gosh Rainbow, are you okay?”

Good old Shadow.

Vi, we almost died, now’s not the time.

“All good.” They wheeze with a shaky smile, eyes darting up to Sky’s wary ones and then down to Legend’s steely indigo ones. Neither hero has made a move though, and for that Four is grateful.

A few paces away, Warriors is rubbing at his throat and staring in shock and horror at the shade that hovers over the trio of heroes who crossed him. They wince, this is not going to be easy.

“You’re bleeding.” Shadow hisses, nearly growls as his fangs glint in the glow of faded embers. “He- Oh Lolia no, this ain’t going down like this, not on my watch!”

Well Shadow’s managed to accidentally calm Legend at least, as the vet loosens slightly at the name of the Lolian Goddesses name, even if Sky still hold them tight like he thinks he’s going to have to run.

The shade looks up, away from them for a moment and salutes Sky with a knowing nod, all cockiness gone as from his demeanor as he addresses the Chosen Hero. “Thanks for sticking up for my idiot, feathers, watch him for a second while I handle this freak, yeah?” And Sky doesn’t even have time to speak or agree or even blink before Shadow has whizzed across the cam and sent one clawed fist slamming into Warriors’ face, a sickening crunch breaking the silence as Warriors stumbles, hand reaching for his face as Shadow wrings out his hand. “Thats for hurting my friend, you asshole!”

“Shadow.” Red’s wrested control as they flop against Sky’s chest. “That is not helping! You hurt Warriors!”

“He hurt you first!” The protective shade shouts back, crossing his arms and giving Wars his scary eyes before darting back to hover at Sky’s shoulder, much to the poor man’s surprise. “Racist jerk, what am I evil just because I’m a shadow? Never heard of shadow puppets as a kid? Or shadow dancing? Hey, guess what, you don’t need to think every freaking dark thing that moves is evil!”

Sky frowns, eyes straining as he stares at the being leaning on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Four’s shadow, resident dragon master, smithy wrangler and protector of one stupid hero who thinks surrendering and keeping the peace is more important than keeping their hide in one piece.” Shadow pokes their shoulder pointedly at that, making them wince as Blue grumbles something about sharp claws.

“So, you are real.” Legend cocks his head, chest still heaving and cheeks still flushed as the vet visibly tries to force himself back under control. “Huh.”

Shadow turns, hovering mid-air and giving Legend a once over. The shade offers a strained grin, forced and brittle as he tries to distract them. “Rabbit huh? Nice. Rainbow’s always liked rodents. You the younger or older brother here?”

And even though all eyes are fixed on them, Warriors glaring and the others staring in disbelief, Four find themselves bursting into laughter because, of all things, of course Legend would apparently also have a shadow form, and the fact that it’s a rabbit is only making it worse. To their surprise, Sky’s laughter joins their own, and across camp, Twilight huffs a strained chuckle as Legend glares up at the floating shade.

“I told you!” Warriors wheezes, blood spilling down his face as he pulls himself up. “It's a shadow! Four’s working with Dark Link!”

Shadow hisses. “That nutcase? Are you kidding? I’d rather die again, thank you!”

And really, now is as good a time as any for them to explain. “He’s just a normal shadow, Wars. Yeah, Ganon and Vaati brought him to life, but he’s been helping me protect Hyrule since we freed him form their control. He’s on our side, he was just nervous about showing himself around all of you guys because we heard you all talking about your own shadows.” Their eyes are flickering violet as they stare at the captain, and they know it. “He’s not a monster, and he’s only a threat if you make him one, same as any of us.”

The captain moves to protest, only to have Hyrule clear his throat from the edge of camp, all eyes swiveling to the traveler as Hyrule nods slowly. “He’s telling the truth, the Legends of the Four Sword all say that the hero befriended and helped his shadow, and the shadow reformed and sacrificed himself to save Hyrule.”

“Exactly.” Legend squeak growls. “The only threat in this camp is someone who’s more willing to draw a blade on their comrade than to approach them with their concerns.” The words make Wars flinch, maybe more than the blow Shadow had landed to his face, and though the captain makes to speak, he's cut off once again by Legend’s harsh voice. “Don’t want to hear it, Captain. I’ve got my brother to help heal up after what you did to him.”

It’s like the mirror shattering all over again, the silence in the air as two parties are separated by a line none can see as Legend and Sky settle on the opposite side of the camp from the others, Shadow hovering over the vet’s shoulder as Legend turns his back on Warriors, dabbing gently at the cut on Four's throat with a cloth damp with red potions.

The captain stiffens, standing and turning on his heel to march towards the other end of camp.

Blue eyes never leave them as their three protectors hover and fuss over them.

[amerrierworld]

Not a total frickin’ idiot

For the request: R x Daphne Kluger. R being a part of the original Heist Crew and also being the one Daphne approaches. They’re super flirty w/ each other and everyone knows that they like each other except themselves.

Summary: You thought you had gone unnoticed at the Met, but Miss Kluger never forgets a face.

Characters: Daphne Kluger x fem!reader, the Ocean’s team

Word Count: 1,657

Warnings: swearing!? Do i still have to put a warning for that? idk

If you had learned anything about diva actress Daphne Kluger from Rose, it was that you don’t speak unless spoken to first. 

And considering she didn’t talk to you at all during the heist, you were able to get around the entire night never uttering a single word to her, fulfilling your role on the team without any kind of hiccup.

So you were quite surprised when she had slid into your booth at your favourite coffee shop, giant sunglasses and a fashionable sunhat masking her face. You looked up from your phone and were about to comment about your booth being taken until you recognized her.

Your mouth hung open a little bit as she took off the hat and glasses. Her lips were painted a deep red and her outfit was impeccable, as always.

“Say..” she immediately said, pearly whites nearly blinding you as she smiled, “you were at the Met, weren't you?”

“I- I’m sorry?” you began. “I don’t know-”

“Oh my god! You totally were! You were wearing that adorable dress. Gosh, you looked so good.”

You were blushing hard, because in a matter of barely a minute, Daphne Kluger, gorgeous movie star, had called you adorable and good-looking all in the same sentence.

“I was there too- well, obviously you know that,” she chuckled, “and I was wearing that beautiful diamond necklace, don’t you remember? It was all over the news. Especially when I supposedly lost it.”

“O-oh? Right, y-yes I remember reading about it in the news..”

“And you know.. I couldn’t help but wonder how weird my designer was acting all night. And that lady in the black from the staff, who found my necklace? You’d almost think they were acting.”

You were almost as pale as a sheet at this point, gripping your cup in shaking fingers.

“And you know what’s funny? I saw you talking to both of them during the night. I mean, how couldn’t I notice? You looked so gorgeous, almost like you were asking me to see you.”

You gulped, “I do not know what you’re talking about, Miss Kluger-”

“Just call me Daphne,” she leaned forward, lips spread in a feline smile, elbows resting on the table and propping her head up on her hands.

“Y/N, right? I asked for your name from the guest list, I hope you don’t mind. They let me in on those sorts of things anyways.”

“That’s me,” you replied. 

“Do you know Debbie Ocean? Of course you do, you two also seemed pretty close all night, hm? You’re lucky I was the only one who noticed.”

“What?”

“I’ve been approached by an investigator who seems really interested in her because the uh, necklace turned out to be a fake.”

You tried to pretend to be surprised at the news, but you couldn’t muster it, and Daphne looked at you knowingly.

“Luckily, I didn’t tell  him any  of your names, because I wasn’t sure if I was right. But you just confirmed all my suspicions anyways, so..”

“Are you threatening me?” you narrowed your eyes at her, and she gasped in mock offence.

“Of course not!” she leaned forward, giving you ample view of her cleavage, hand trailing over yours,

“I’m seducing you, Y/N.”

You didn’t know what to say as she looked at you with those deep, telling eyes. Her own eyes flickered appreciatively over your features, and you wondered if she was checking you out or if she was simply acting.

A small group of fans approached the table, chittering and blushing at the sight of Daphne Kluger in a meagre coffee shop such as this one. She smiled amicably, accepting their compliments and giving them autographs, before saying,

“You’re all so sweet, but do you think you’d be able to let my girlfriend and I have some privacy for the rest of our date? Thaanks,” she waved as the fans rushed off, gasping and gossiping amongst themselves at the prospect of the Daphne Kluger having a girlfriend. 

“Girlfriend?” you asked once you found your voice again. She only grinned and winked at you.

“Oh, don’t be like that baby. Now, are you gonna tell me about the necklace, or what?” she sipped your drink and your mouth went dry.

-

“Chilly,” Daphne remarked at the glances given by the rest of the group, “what about, ‘Hi Daph, welcome to the team. Let’s not all high five at once.’”

You chewed your lip, bounced your leg, avoided her gaze altogether, and tried very hard not to look at how good she looked in her black dress. You were sitting across from the couch where she had plopped down, hunched in the metal framed chair.

“Why’d y’let her get to you, Y/N. I told you not to draw attention to yourself!” Rose said to you, after you and Debbie had explained how Daphne had found you, recognized you and called out the plan. You, being the newbie in the ways of criminality, could barely think of a cover up and ended up bringing her to Debbie with a spluttering confession.

“She didn’t,” Daphne’s eyes were locked on yours, “I just noticed her myself.”

You blushed a little and looked away. Debbie looked at you apologetically, knowing you felt put on the spot.

“Plus,” Daphne continued, “I am the one who is saving your asses from insurance fraud, okay?”

The team burst into shock, responses flying left and right.

“I-I was gonna get to that,” you said hastily, eyeing Debbie, who stepped in,

“It seems that they’ve assigned an insurance investigator-”

“Who’s about to look up your asses with a flashlight,” Daphne pointed out.

“Who?” 

"Oh, this little Columbo dude, everything but the trench coat, totally on to you.”

“His name is John Frasier,” Debbie said.

"Wha- you know him?” Amita spluttered in disbelief.

“Yes, he busted my father twice, my brother once.”

“He’s family,” Lou added.

“Lest we forget, this entire enterprise was to keep me out of jail,” Rose interrupted, worry etched on her face.

“No one is going to jail,” Lou assured her.

“We expected this, we prepared for this,” said Debbie. Not many of the team seemed to believe her, with Nineball adding,

“Yup... that’s clear.”

“We will not be the prime suspect,” Debbie said sternly.

"Then who will be?”

“Well,” you added, “we’ve got the security guys, the busboys-”

“...The shady guy who put you away,” Tammy sighed, arching an eyebrow at Debbie, who could barely contain the smirk on her face. Daphne stared at her incredulously,

“..the boyfriend.”

"Mhm,” Debbie replied, “they were gonna be looking for somebody, just had to make sure it wasn’t one of us.”

Lou nodded in approval, adding a faint, “that’s nice.”

"Thanks.”

“Wow... that is amazing,” Daphne grinned, chewing her gum in delight, “the precision, right? It’s always the attention to detail and the little grace notes that really make something sing.”

A short silence followed. Glances were cast between the rest of you, wondering what on earth had gotten into Daphne’s head.

“...Why are you doing this?” Tammy asked, clearly dumbfounded by this multi-millionaire actress dropping into their party. Daphne stilled for a moment, her eyes flickering to you for a second before saying,

“I.. don’t have that many close female friendships. Plus bookclubs are the worst, so I just thought y’know... could be something fun to share?”

“You’re becoming a criminal because you’re lonely?”

“...Who isn’t sometimes, right?”

"Are you an only child?” you asked her. Her silence told you enough.

The team seemed to accept at that point that Daph was there to stay, so they went about their usual business. 

“Beer?” Lou offered you, which you immediately said yes to, feeling a little woozy after that whole experience.

Tammy went to the kitchen and opened another pizza box, and you went to grab a slice for yourself before calculating your next move carefully, hoping your brain wouldn’t short circuit as you grabbed another slice and headed to where Daphne was sitting by herself.

You sat next to her, very very awkwardly, and offered her the paper plate.

“Aw, thanks,” she smiled, cheering up a little, “you know you don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be nice to me because you feel bad for me. Look, I’m sorry I cornered you the other day. I didn’t mean to seem desperate or whatever.”

“You- you didn’t seem desperate,” you frowned, “and I don’t feel bad for you. Whatever gave you that idea?”

She looked at you with a mouthful of pizza, and made an exasperated gesture to your whole surroundings, indicating the events that had just occurred. She also didn’t want you to know how she had been dying for your attention the minute she had seen you at the Met. 

“Oh, well, I mean, I think your reasoning was perfectly justified,” you cocked your head at her and smiled. Then you lifted your pizza and said,

“to crime!”

The rest of the group cheered and replied with the same phrase, lifting their beers or pizza with glee. Daphne blushed at the exclamation.

“Now you,” you said, nodding encouragingly. 

“What?”

“Do it! If you’re gonna be a part of the Ocean’s team, you gotta get with the rituals.”

“Rituals?” Daphne scoffed. But then she saw your dopey smile and sparkling eyes, and her insides melted. She delicately lifted the pizza and said,

“to crime!”

You laughed and sipped your beer.

“Ten bucks says they’re dating by next week,” Nineball said in the kitchen, peering into the fridge.

“I say by the weekend,” Constance offered. 

“Idiots,” Rose shook her head. “If tonight is gonna keep up like this, I say by the morning.”

They eyed you and Daphne chatting away on the couch, completely forgetting about everyone else.

“Not so lonely anymore I guess,” Tammy smiled.

“Told you, crime’s good for many things,” Debbie nudged her and smiled at Lou, who rolled her eyes playfully.

[1994sunflower]

Can you just make something really fluffy of just her hanging out with Ashton and Calum while Micheal is busy or something. Like just siblings love because I could use some nice fluff from my favorite writer at this point. Pretty please. If not it's totally chill. ( Heaven to you)

so so cute, I really liked exploring this friendship. hope you like it!

in which you spend some time with calum and ashton

“I’m serious Michael.” You kept pushing him away from you. Tapping the textbook on his lap, “You need to study, you’re going to fail the class if you don’t pass this exam.”

Michael groaned, “It’s a fucking elective, it’s not like I need it to graduate.”

He’d been trying to avoid the studying he denied needing (but knew he did). You were doing your best to not be distracting. You studied yourself, scrolled on your phone, never once speaking to him lest you take his attention away.

But his eyes always seemed to eventually trail over to your small figure laying on his bed after a long time of staring blankly at the book in front of him. Sometimes he would ask you what you were doing, claiming he was taking a break. Other times he would try to kiss you and start something you knew would definitely just destroy his concentration on classwork. He was just a natural procrastinator.

You pushed him away each time, no matter how sweetly he approached you or how innocent his words seemed. You knew his tricks. And frankly, you were worried you might be too weak to resist him if you let him get any closer.

“That’s right. It’s an elective you chose, so you have to study for it. I know you’ll do fine if you’d just actually try.” You’d made your mind up already on what the solution to the problem was. Because apparently it was you, he couldn’t concentrate with you in the room. You got up from his bed, taking your phone and his with you. No distractions. “I’ll come back when you’ve actually finished studying.”

“Wha-” Michael moved to grab your wrist but you moved out of the way quickly. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. You study or I’ll leave altogether. You’re going to pass this class.” You smiled at him, just to show him just how much you believed and cared about him. You were doing this for his own good. “I’ll be outside when you’re done.”

“What are you even going to do all alone?” Michael called out, turned away completely from his book as he stared at you with disbelieving eyes. You’d always ended up going along with his attempts of distractions before, you’d never actually gone this far to make him study. Not when your absence was likely the biggest punishment his girlfriend could inflict.

You huffed, stepping out of his room, “Worry about what you’re going to do in this room, Michael Clifford.”

You full named him. Michael groaned heavily as he rested his forehead against his desk, that was how he knew you were serious. And he had nothing to do but dreadfully start learning about a subject he didn’t even care about and barely understood during the little lectures he did attend. Because no matter how docile you may appear and how intimidating he may seem to everyone else, his small girlfriend was truly the only one who would ever be able to tell him what to do. He’s wrapped around your finger.

-

The house was lit up for once and you could see Ashton wrestling with the control in his hands, completely immersed in whatever war game was on in the television. Calum was sitting on the opposite side of the couch, glancing up at the screen every so often. But his attention was almost completely on the laptop on his lap. At least one of the people in that house tried to do his school work.

You stepped out hesitantly. You already missed the comfort of your boyfriend’s presence. It might’ve been a punishment for both of you. But it was for his best. So you sighed and moved forward nonetheless. You always felt equally as safe and more than happy in Ashton and Calum’s presence.

“What are you two doing?” You asked as you took a seat next to Ashton. Your movements were confident, like second nature because they never made you feel like you were intruding.

Ashton’s only acknowledgement of you was a nudge but Calum looked up from his screen and smiled at you. It hadn’t been long since you could say you barely knew him, compared to your relationship Ashton. But you were glad that your friendship had evolved and you felt a lot closer to him, a lot more comfortable and friendly.

Calum gestured to his screen which you couldn’t see, “Well, I’m doing my work unlike other people.”

Ashton was just able to let go of the controller with one hand to be able to flip Calum off before going back to handling it with two. The multitasking was honestly impressive.

“At least someone in this house is being a good student.” You muttered, placing Michael’s phone on your lap as you leaned back on the couch. A sigh left your lips as if all your attempts with Michael had left you exhausted.

“I’m sorry.” Ashton glanced at you and only then did you realize he had paused his game, “Are you insinuating that I’m not a good student?”

“I’m ‘insinuating’ that I didn’t know you knew big words.”

“Fuck you, Hood.”

Your giggles were the only thing that stopped Ashton from some saying some very select words to Calum. A smile formed on his lips without him even thinking about it. It was hard to repress, your happiness was contagious. He understood why Michael always talked about your goodness.

“Where’s Michael anyway?” Ashton asked, his tone already teasing. “I was wondering when you’d get sick of being around each other 24/7.”

“Hey!” You slapped his arm in faux-anger. To which he laughed promptly, ruffling your hair dismissively enough for you to swat at him again.

Your attempt to get your hair back to normal was useless until Calum decided to move forward and place the pieces of hair back in place for you. You sat perfectly still as he did. They were always gentle with you. Sometimes you wondered if they thought you would break otherwise, you looked dainty but you’d gotten used to Michael’s manhandling, not being held back by that.

“For your information, he’s studying too. So it seems you’re the only one who isn’t, Ash.”

Ashton eyed you up and down, “I don’t see a book in your hands.”

You glared up at him but to both he and Calum, you looked a little less threatening than a Chihuahua. So they did nothing but smirk back down at you until you huffed out and crossed your arms.

Calum closed his laptop, his attention evidently no longer being held by it. “So you’re just going to wait until he’s done?”

Ashton scoffed, “As if he’s actually studying. Sorry to tell you, Y/N, but you’re giving him way too much credit.”

You looked so offended at his words that both of them wordlessly burst out laughing. Ashton shook his head, his grin so big you could see his dimples as he held out the control in his hands to you.

“Here. While you wait the whole 10 minutes he’ll pretend to be studying, you can play with us.”

Ashton was serious about his games. Only letting a select few friends ever even pick up one of his controllers. It was a privilege for only the people he liked the most. One he was giving you and you beamed with pride. You took the controller from his hand.

Calum took the other one left abandoned on the floor. “I’m not going to go easy on you.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, feeling utterly too confident for someone who could barely hold the controller correctly. “You’re going down, frat boy.”

Calum let out a surprised laugh. It was so easy to forget who exactly he was associated with when he was so different from all the frat boys you’d ever known. You were grateful he was, because otherwise you’d never feel comfortable with him. And certainly never develop the close friendship you had with him.

Ashton was kind enough to change the game, knowing you weren’t fond of war, even depictions of it. How ironic for a girl who was dating a guy that seemed to bring the spirit of war anytime he got pissed off. He didn’t ask but you felt happy that he knew you enough to think of your preferences.

It was sweet. The way they took the time to remind you what exactly the keys did (Ashton reminding you for the nth time since the first time you taught you).

“You’ll do fine.” Calum waved dismissively, leaning back on the couch. His laptop long forgotten next to him. “But not better than me.”

When the game finally started, it was a slow start. Mostly because you were trying to get into the rhythm of things and Calum slowed down too, allowing you to adjust. They both watched you carefully, nodding when you were hesitant about pressing a button. Even giving you words of encouragement when you actually did well in the game. Or when your calm demeanor sent a wave of enjoyment through the three of you.

“I think we like you more than Michael.”

“Yeah, you better.”

Your grin and giggles was genuine. You were having fun. Even without Michael there. While any other time you’d be just counting down the time until you could get back to him. Good thing his friends, your friends as well, were so hospitable and nice to be around. That they included you and they liked you. It sure meant a lot to Michael anyway that the people closest to him cared for you and looked after you even when he wasn’t there.

Truthfully, they weren’t the type of guys you would’ve befriended if you hadn’t dated Michael; you were too shy and they were too outgoing and friendly. You would’ve been too hesitant to even try to go into their world or group, you would’ve been too awkward and nervous. But despite that, you felt perfectly comfortable in their presence. And you were glad they were your friends.

Ashton helped you a lot during the game. His gaze would be completely on the screen as he watched you and Calum play but his hands hovered over yours. His fingers sometimes clicking buttons for you that you never would have known to press otherwise. Other times, completely moving your fingers as if he was playing through your hands. You didn’t mind, in fact you preferred it when he helped. It was when you started winning.

His face was focused, serious as it always was when he was playing and it was kind of amusing to glance at, especially because technically, he wasn’t playing.

Calum didn’t call you out for cheating even though having Ashton help you technically was exactly that. It wasn’t that he wasn’t aware. It was pretty obvious, Ashton did nothing to hide it. And even if he did, it was kind of hard to not at least be suspicious when your sloppy gaming suddenly got much better and you started to win. But for your sake, Calum pretended to be oblivious.

Truth was, you sucked. But if anyone ever even tried saying that to you, they’d be asking for a death wish. Especially when you looked so content just to be involved, you trying your best. And that was what mattered to them.

It was subtle when Calum began to ease up on his playing. You didn’t notice. Not even when the game that was so close beforehand started to go overwhelmingly in your favor. Just like that Calum let you win. Even if he was known to be competitive. He could put that aside for his dear friend.

You squealed out in happiness, dropping the controller on the sofa as your arms went up in celebration. “Ash!! Did you see that?”

Ashton locked eyes with your excited one and nodded, his own arms mimicking yours and wooping in celebration. Your high fives were probably too many given that it was a video game you won by cheating half of the time and had been allowed to win. But his smile was large and his laugh was genuine.

He turned to Calum, both hands flipping him off in good humor while you placed your hands on Ashton’s shoulders, just enough to be able to look past him above his head to Calum.

You stuck your tongue out at him in the way that was not very sportsmanlike but very cute, so he couldn’t be mad. “Told you I’d win.”

Then you shrieked when Calum pulled your from your seat. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders enough to have you leaning forward from the weight. He wasn’t as big as Michael but he certainly rose up much taller than you. “Yeah, yeah. Good luck trying to beat me again.”

You were laughing along with him, looking up at the amused boy but you couldn’t respond. Michael’s door was flung open before you could. You hadn’t realized how loud the three of you were being.

“If I’m being forced to study could you two at least shut the fuck up so I can concentrate.” He didn’t leave his room, his head just peeking out of his doorway. He was as daunting as always, his face serious and close to emotionless. His words harsh. But if he wanted to be intimidating, it was a shame his demeanor didn’t effect the room filled with the closest people in his life.

Michael’s eyes softened when he spotted you in Calum’s arms. Obviously he hadn’t been talking to you, he never would be so brash with you. Especially when you looked at him with those eyes that said you could do no wrong. But he also hadn’t expected you to be participating in making the noise with his rowdy friends. His voice was markedly nicer, “Oh…what are you doing?”

“What we get yelled at but she doesn’t?” Ashton scoffed.

You smiled sweetly at Michael, knowing that he could never get mad at you. Your nose crinkled slightly from pride, “I just beat Cal at a game.”

Calum placed a hand on the top of your head, “She got lucky. But she’s actually pretty good.”

“She’s a natural.” Ashton interrupted, even if his words were a bit of an exaggeration, you still raised up on your tiptoes for a second at the praise. Ashton’s eyes held a mischief to them. “One of us just might steal her from you, I think she likes us better anyway.”

If it was anyone else that dared utter those words, you were sure the result would be much different. You could imagine the way Michael’s eyes would shut down in anger, the way his body would tense up and his knuckles would be ready to meet bone. They’d be on the ground bleeding, almost as quickly as the words would leave someone’s mouth. The same went if anyone else put their hands on you like Calum was currently doing.

But it was his best friend. Someone he trusted, cared for and most importantly, he knew cared and respected you as well. He knew his friends’ flirty comments were just talk, just to rile him up. So he did nothing but roll his eyes. “Don’t make me have to beat your ass. Just fucking try it.”

But his words were all bark, no bite. They couldn’t be when he was saying it to Ashton when he knew there was no real problem and when you looked so amused, no discomfort at all. Ashton and Calum were flirty with you before, only when Michael was around and only to get a reaction out of him. You never felt uncomfortable, they always respected boundaries and you had begun to enjoy seeing their friendship with your boyfriend.

Michael struggled with being friendly. But it was almost fascinating and sweet to see him enjoy himself with Ashton and Calum, play around with them like any other guy. Not like the angry, mean guy others saw him as. Even when it came to you, when it would otherwise be when he was most on edge and terrifying. It was a big part of why you felt so safe and secure in Ashton and Calum’s presence as well, because Michael seemed the same way and his trust wasn’t easily won.

Your boyfriend turned around after that and went back in his room. Muttering under his breath, not happy that he had to leave the fun and get back to studying. But you watched him o silently, a small smile on your face as he was actually responsible for once.

In truth, Michael was happy you got along so well. That he could leave you with them and be sure that they’d entertain you, keep you comfortable and safe when he wasn’t around. That you saw in his friends the same thing he did, that you liked them and didn’t mind spending time with them. Even with how different they were from you. They didn’t make you feel uncomfortable.

Even then, you found a way to connect with them to the point where he would find you laughing with them, that you’d hug them as a greeting or goodbye, could hang out with them on your own accord. Not being forced to just to make him happy to see his loved ones together.

It just went to show him, once again, how perfect his little girlfriend was. Everyone felt happy with you around, you embodied that happiness, it was impossible not to feel it. You were just so good. And it wasn’t just in his head, a side effect of the love he felt for you, that was proven when he saw the way Ashton and Calum succumbed to your goodness as well. They were powerless not to.

He couldn’t be prouder.

[musicallisto]

hi love! congratulations on such a wonderful milestone! i’ve been following you for ages so this is almost as exciting for me haha

could i please get a 🍨 for the grishaverse/six of crows? (whichever you feel fits!) i’m straight female who is an istj, slytherin, and 6w5! i also took the grisha quiz and am apparently a alkemi (but would i truly want to be grisha? the jury is still out on that). im 5’7 with blonde hair, brown eyes, and glasses. i’m a sagittarius sun, pisces moon, and aquarius rising!

i’m pretty independent, and believe no friendship demands blind faith. i’m probably too selfish (which i don’t see as a bad thing, personally), and can be quick to anger.

HOWEVER! i’m not all angst. i’m introverted, shy, & frankly bad with emotions (both feeling and expressing), BUT i also love to laugh, and will not stop talking to you about things i like once we’re friends.

i love that first sip of coffee, the silence after it snows, and the stars on a clear night. i’ve had multiple concussions from sports (which tells you all you need to know about my self-preservation skills) but i will take a day in bed reading or watching various franchise movies over adventure most days. i also lovelovelove listening to music — specifically classical!

thank you so much in advance !! and take all the time you need, this is a fun celebration so i wouldn’t wanna stress you out :) congrats again!!

hi! here’s your vanilla milkshake! (also - please come off anon because first of all, you’ve been following me for a long time? my heart melts. but ALSO! you sound like the most amazing and fascinating person and i adore your personality.) i thought of going for a shadow and bone character to diversify a little bit - but who am i to resist the call of kaz brekker?

no words can express my excitement at being able to use an actual gif for Kaz.

we all know Kaz and we all know his emotional turmoil. expect the slowest of slow-burns; expect to even wonder if the candle is lit at all.

But it is, I promise. It is lit and it seeps into his heart in ways that he doesn’t understand, and frankly, that scare him a little.

He’s never been good at that whole falling thing. He’s more than content to sit above the rest, and leave the tumbling to Inej.

So when he has to face the music and understand that you’re not getting away, and neither are his growing fondness for you? He’s totally helpless. Serves him right for not learning how to fall sooner.

At first, he thought it was mere fascination that drew him to you. Sure, it takes a lot for him to be impressed... but even he has to admit that you are a lot. Not in the lot in the exuberant sense of all these merchants, but assured and strong in your mastery of your powers, and in your quiet competence.

You craft most of the poisons and antidotes the Dregs use, and are unafraid to yield them yourself; you don’t mind getting your hands dirty; you’re reliable, loyal, easy to trust, and, surprisingly to him, easy to befriend as well. Although he doesn’t make a big effort to befriend you anyway; but whenever he goes down to visit you in your clandestine lab, he ends up spending much more time than he originally planned talking to you.

It’s just so easy to forget the grime of the streets above in that peaceful laboratory, with the distant sound of violin and chemical solutions bubbling somewhere indistinct. And your total concentration, as you mix up the poisons and conjure the blasting powders with deadly precision, is a magnificent sight to see.

At first, Kaz is guilty of sending you on missions for him, or confining you to your lab. You don’t mind the work, and understand that it is where you are most useful, but quickly tell Kaz that you are not at his disposition whenever he wants to run his errands; that you are his equal, and that you work for the Dregs because someone must feed these poor children, not because you would blindly give up your life for him.

In other words: you owe him nothing, and you’re not his lackey. And he better understand that quickly, lest you leave and offer your services to a cause that will remember you for more than your craftsmanship.

It’s a wake-up call for him, surely; it’s when he realizes that you have an independent soul, that you know no ties nor bounds, that you are neither a Kerch nor a Ravkan nor a Shu, but truly a citizen of your own heart, and that there is nothing tying you to him except your good will.

And the idea that you might disappear from his life as quickly as you barged in is enough to paralyze him for a good second. But then he regains his composure.

And asks you to stay, please.

(Not for the poisons, not for the magic, not for the money, but for me, he almost adds, but he can’t get the words out, and doesn’t.)

From that point on, you go on missions with Kaz and the Dregs, and no longer for them, standing as tall as the other Crows.

And your relationship with Kaz grows seemingly a little stronger for it. He opens up a little more, sometimes slips in a little something that might even be considered a compliment.

The others have told him time and time again that you are a fun and happy person to be around, and he couldn’t believe them, because all he ever saw of you was the focused and precise Grisha synthesizing arsenic or negotiating contracts by his side. But as he opens up to you, and on the rare occasions you’re both at the Crow House, he listens to you excitedly tell a story to the others Dregs crowded around a greasy table, he understands what they mean.

You are fascinating.

It’s not the Alkemi in you, it’s not your deadly aim nor your rigor with your work... it’s you. It’s in the excitement in your voice when you talk about something you love, and the care you put in making space for Kaz in your busy schedule.

“I thought you didn’t want to see me?”

“I don’t want to see you when you boss me around. Otherwise, you’re not so terrible to spend time with.”

(Which, in your shared language of restriction and shiness, means “I appreciate you a lot and enjoy your company more than I let on”.)

It’s in your relaxed face when you listen to classical music... when you’re working late nights at the lab and start humming along to the piano on a beaten gramophone that Jesper, of all people, stole for you one day - a Romantic Fjerdan melody, nothing to do with the industrial rhythms of Ketterdam, and your feet begin swaying to the music without you noticing.

He just stopped by to bring you the list of what he’ll need to take care of the Ice Court guards... but he’s taken aback, on the doorstep, watching you enjoy the music like a careless ballet dancer. He’s never seen you quite so relaxed...

... maybe that’s when he falls for good.

And maybe you know he’s fallen for good when you stop by unannounced at his office at the Crow House to hand him the poisoned blades he’s asked for... and you find him listening to the exact same waltz you were playing when he arrived.

You never took Kaz for the classical music type - you do a double-take before he looks up at you, his face and lips even, but a glimmer of hope twinkling in his dark eyes.

“You wanted?”

“To see you.”

His brow perks up.

“However did I get so lucky?”

But he gestures for you to step in, to get closer to him, to fill his dull office with your heady scent, both poison ivy and white rose.

Maybe, under the right night sky, with the right alignment of stars, and after the right snowfall on a deserted plain, he will hear the same music again, and this time he will clumsily extend this hand.

Not to dance, not even for you to take. Just to hold it out for you. Just so you know he would go to any lengths to keep you safe.

But for now, you have a heist to plan.

800 follower sleepover CLOSED!