#tw fighting

[draw-the-squad-like-this]

Draw your characters like this

[frownyalfred]

So I’m watching the Jake Paul/Mike Tyson boxing fight right now and I’m having some Batman-related thoughts:

I so badly want to hc Thomas Wayne as a casual/amateur boxer in college. It just makes sense. Bruce got it from him.

Bruce being able to take direct hits to the face all night on patrol or even just consecutively is very very impressive. These guys can sometimes barely take one or two before they just can’t keep going.

Bruce’s bulk and Jason’s bulk post Pit make sense for how they fight; you need that kind of weight in order to keep taking hits. You need that kind of weight in order to throw hits that hard.

“These guys get knocked out enough that they know how to get up right away without panicking.” Hmm that’s giving me thoughts.

We’ve seen Bruce default to a boxing stance as a fallback for close quarter combat in canon and I have thoughts about that too. He knows a dozen different martial arts and is an expert in many of them.

Bare knuckle boxing is even more impressive to me now after seeing the damage gloves can do.

Telegraphing hits is so real, but sometimes your opponent is so tired or injured it doesn’t matter.

[4axel4loop]

"the task of being alive is a sacred one" / Book of Ancestors, Margaret Atwood

[coolpartytimefan]

Rick Grimes - TOWL s1.6

Rick: I never lost my son. I lost myself. He brought me back, my wife brought me back! We're the sword that kills. We're the sword that gives life. One life, one unstoppable life. We're not dead. You ARE!

[ananxiousgenz]

pssst. pssssssst. hey guys. look at what i got y'all (IT'S MORE JARTHUR COWBOY AU)

this one comes with several pieces of info you need to know first:

@percymawce-arts and I are writing this fic together!!! we have entered into writers matrimony for this fic and we are super excited about it!! I wrote the bare bones of the scene you're about to read and he added almost all of the flavor and spice (while i was laying on my bed in the family guy dead pose bc of how good he made it). make sure to go show percy some love for this too!!

this scene takes place after one where john and arthur chase after larson, but arthur refuses to shoot him, and john is more than a little pissed off about it.

and some trigger warnings: this scene contains some fighting (both verbal and physical), child abuse, religious trauma, homophobia, and some suggestive themes

and finally, i will tag @ellamenop and @izel-reblogs bc i have a feeling you will both enjoy this :)

“What,” John snarled, slamming the cabin door shut behind him, “the fuck. What was that?!”

“None of your business,” Arthur replied, ever so prim and fucking proper. He kept his back to John, maybe to hide his face, so John couldn’t read him. Maybe because he was too much of a coward to meet John’s eyes after that stunt. John didn’t care what the reason was. It was only pissing him off more.

“No. Fuck that. It's all my business.”

“I didn't fire a gun. How is that making you upset?”

“You had him right in front of you,” John rumbled, his voice as low and dangerous as thunder on the horizon. Arthur shivered. “And you let him go. You had the opportunity to kill him. To end this, all of this. And you let it slip through your fucking fingers.”

“Maybe I didn't want to kill him.”

“What the fuck does that matter? He's too goddamn dangerous to be left alive!”

“It's not that simple, John-”

“The hell it is! I’m sorry you feel conflicted or whatever it is that’s going on in that head of yours, but this isn’t about you! All you had to do was fire the fucking gun. He was right in front of you, and you didn't shoot!”

“No, I didn't!”

“Why?!”

“You want to know why?” Arthur shouted, whipping around to face John, at last. “Because I can't kill another person! Even someone as awful as Larson! I’m not like you! This isn’t easy for me, alright?!”

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Arthur’s face fell. John could see the regret wash over his face like a cloud over the burning sun, but it only lasted a moment before he was collecting himself. Putting on that same mask of polite-until-you-fuck-with-me he always wore around suspects and targets. John had never had that face turned on him before. He hated it.

“So that’s what this is about,” John murmured, his tone dark. “You think it’s easy… You think I’m a monster, and you’d rather let Larson go free than be like me.”

“No, John, that’s not-”

 “Who do you think made me that way?” John snapped. Arthur’s mouth closed so fast John heard his teeth click. “It was him, Arthur. It was Larson. And thanks to you, he’s going to go and do it to another lonely, scared Native kid with nowhere else to go!” John chuckled humorlessly. “Christ, Arthur, If that’s what you thought of me, why didn’t you just say it at the start?”

Arthur threw up his hands in frustration. “That’s not what I think of you, John. Jesus, am I not allowed to have a minor moral crisis over shooting a man?!”

“He’s not just a man! He’s a gangster! A robber! A killer! You told me so yourself!”

“So are you, John.”

“Yeah, and you shot me for it,” John reminded him. 

Arthur growled and slammed his fist down on the mantle of the fireplace beside them, hard enough that John could feel the vibration travel through the floor. “Jesus fucking Christ, John, I wanted to let the law deal with him! Is that so hard to understand?!”

John took a step in Arthur’s direction. “Oh yeah? The same law that ripped me away from my family and home? The same law that turned me into a monster? Too little and too much for everyone all at the same time? The same law that drove human beings off of their lands and into reservations? That killed thousands of people like me?”

“The criminal law would have placed Larson in jail. Like he deserved.”

John scoffed and crossed his arms. “You think the law cares that he deserves it, Arthur? The law is punishment for those who don’t deserve it and ignorance for those who do. There’s no justice in it.”

“What, so that means it’s your job to deal it out?”

“Yes!” John yelled. “If it means he can’t hurt anyone any longer, then yes. And vigilante justice works a hell of a lot faster than the court system will ever manage!”

“I thought you were trying to be a better man, John.”

“I was trying to be like you,” John said venomously. “My mistake.”

That was the final straw. Arthur took a step forward without warning and swung his fist as hard as he could. It made contact with John’s ribs (he could feel them shift beneath Arthur’s fist), and John made a soft oof sound as the wind was knocked out of his lungs and he was knocked into the fireplace mantle, the corner of it digging into his shoulder. 

The fight that followed was chaotic and messy in a way John had never experienced before, and when he tried to think back to it, it would only be preserved in blurry snapshots, like someone moving in the middle of a photograph. Arthur grabbed John’s braid and pulled. John clawed a deep gouge into his arm. He drew blood. Arthur twisted John’s arm. John cracked Arthur’s rib. Arthur knocked John’s legs out from under him, causing them both to go sprawling onto the floor. Arthur punched. John slapped. Arthur bit. John pinned. And then paused. And then…

In the midst of the fighting, John had ended up on top of Arthur, straddling his waist while pinning both wrists with one hand and grabbing a fistfull of Arthur’s shirt with the other. Both of them had frozen, the only movement the rapid rise and fall of their chests. Their noses were nearly touching, and John could feel Arthur’s breath fanning across his lips, staring into those dark, dark eyes. They weren’t so dark, John realized as he looked into them. They were brown, lovely and warm, with scattered flecks of gold and green nestled deep inside. Hidden gems, wide and wild with adrenaline, flicking back and forth across John’s face without any point of focus.

John’s eyes flicked over the rest of Arthur’s face. Freckles smattered across his nose and cheekbones. Loose strands of auburn hair falling messily across his forehead. The crooked corners of his nose from being broken one too many times. Smile lines beside his tired eyes. Lips like flower petals, soft and pale. Slightly parted and inhaling, exhaling. At some point, John realized he had let go of Arthur’s shirt and was cradling Arthur’s face oh-so gently as he examined it, dragging his thumb lightly over his cheekbone, caressing it. Down the bridge of his nose to his lips, his perfect lips. Arthur remained as still as stone, barely even breathing as he stared blindly back at John.

Somewhere behind the haze of the moment, John wondered subconsciously what would happen if he kissed Arthur. Because, the truth, he realized, was that deep down, in the pit of his stomach, he wanted. He wanted Arthur, in a way he had never wanted anyone else before. He wanted to be close to him, close like this. Closer than this. To be around him always, to hold him, to kiss him. 

What would happen if he took what he wanted instead of what he was told, for once?

He hesitated when he heard Arthur’s breath hitch.But then, when no resistance came, he leaned his head down ever so slightly (there was barely any bridge to gap, by that point), and then he was kissing Arthur. And it was like the world had been set ablaze.

As he pressed his lips against Arthur’s, every nerve in John’s body was alive. It felt like a jolt from a live wire, like a burst of fireworks that would light up the sky on the Fourth of July, like the sparking tang of gunpowder before the shot rang out. It felt like energy, pure and bright and hot and lighting him up from the inside. He felt Arthur’s body respond in kind, arching up to create a line of contact that started at their hands and continued all the way down to their tangled legs, making John shiver. He tasted like whiskey, sweet and sharp beneath the campfire smoke and aftershave, and John marveled at how such a strange and sinful combination could taste like it had just come down from heaven.

He kissed harder, chasing the taste. He nipped at Arthur’s lip hard enough to draw blood, adding a coppery tang to the kiss and eliciting a small moan from the back of Arthur’s throat. It only made John want more. He kissed him again, and again, and again, Arthur’s lips and tongue moving against his with a practiced skill that made John dizzy. He kissed him until his lips were swollen and his head was swimming with nothing but Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. He only pulled away when his chest was burning and there was no choice but to come up for air.

Arthur’s face was flushed, his eyes wide and twinkling. “Oh God.” His voice was hoarse. “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, John.”

And an unbidden memory surfaced in John’s mind. 

He was back in boarding school, sitting for a mandatory midnight mass in the chapel, his posture ramrod straight. The priests had always been so particular about those masses. There was to be no slouching or fidgeting, and God alone could help you if you dozed off. John had been kneeing in one of the pews, focusing all of his attention on keeping his posture perfect and his eyes open and remaining somewhat alert. 

In the midst of silent prayer, one of the priests, a Father McKenna, had thrown open the doors to the chapel, and dragged another boy up before the altar by his ear. 

The boy had tears streaming down his disheveled face and his nose was red from crying, but the thing that struck John the most about him were his eyes. He just looked so… tired. Not the kind of tired that John was fighting, the kind where a seductive sleep was lingering at the corners of his vision, waiting for him to blink or close his eyes in “prayer” for a second too long. This boy looked like the kind of tired that shot through his bones and grew like rot and rust with every passing day, the kind that only shuffling off this mortal coil a bit too soon could cure.

Father McKenna said the boy had been caught ‘with’ another, with a fury in his eyes that made John wonder in the back of his mind if he had been possessed by the devil. He’d been too young to know what it meant to be ‘with’ another boy at the time, but he knew it must be evil. Father McKenna threw him down in front of the altar, and the boy- John vaguely recognized him to be a child named Alexander- just knelt with his head bowed, like he had accepted his fate before Fate came to dole it out.

Father McKenna was not pleased by this. He smacked the back of Alexander’s head. Hard. He didn’t respond. He picked up a hymnal and smacked him harder still. And still, nothing. 

The priest was trembling with barely concealed fury now, and there was a steady pit of dread opening up in John’s stomach as he began to eye the doors, the windows. Any potential escape from the devil and the punishment that awaited him.

But there was no escape, there never was. So John sat, quietly, and watched as Father McKenna began to beat Alexander.

It was horrible, but somehow John couldn’t tear his eyes away, not even as Alexander’s screams tore through his ears and began to echo off the vaulted ceilings, pleas to stop and promises to never do it again ringing in John’s mind. Not even as the boy’s blood began to stain Father McKenna’s hands and drip onto the marble stairs, as vivid and crimson as sacramental wine. Not even as two of the altar boys had to drag Alexander’s barely conscious, barely breathing body down the aisle and out to the hospital wing.

John was trembling by the end of it. He felt like he was going to throw up. He dreamed of that moment for weeks afterward, never able to sleep without witnessing another religious sacrifice, another crucifixion, another martyr behind his eyelids.

Suddenly back in the present– but not really, never fully out of the past– John scrambled back off of Arthur and pressed his back against a wall, wide-eyed and sweating in sudden, sickening fear. In another life he might have missed the feeling of Arthur beneath him, his waist between his thighs, his lips against his. But nothing could permeate that fear. Nothing would ever be bigger than the fear.

“Wha– John?” Arthur asked. There was fear in his eyes too, but it was different. It wasn’t fear of hell or Father McKenna or whatever had become of Alexander. It was fear for John. It was concern. John closed his eyes against it. “John, what’s wrong? What–,” “Shut up.”

“What?”

“Just, be quiet!” John snapped. “Please, please, just–,” his voice broke. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his fingers, trying to stave off an oncoming headache. 

“Okay…” Arthur said, quietly. Gently, so cruelly gentle. John could feel the beginnings of tears burning behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut tighter. “Okay.”

“This…” John started. He didn’t want to say it. He knew there would be no coming back from it. No more fireworks, no more whiskey on flower petal lips. Never again would he be so close to Arthur Lester if he said it. But that was the point wasn’t it? Make distance.

Take what he was told, never what he wanted.

“This was a mistake,” John said, firmly. A lie, of course. Inside, his very soul was shaking. The strings of his heart were trembling in a tragic vibrato, a song with no recipient. But he’d always been good at lying. He stood, tossing his braid over his shoulder and brushing the dust of his shirt (his wrinkled shirt, stained with a speck of Arthur’s blood). “It never happened.” He didn’t look at Arthur, because he was a coward. He was everything Arthur thought he was, so he didn’t look him in the eye when he said:

“If you ever so much as mention this, to anyone, I won’t hesitate, Arthur.”

He opened the door to the cabin, ready to step outside, leaving everything he’d never known he’d wanted behind. 

“I’m not you.”

[silverskye13]

Mind control tanguish?? (i was gunna offer time loop for the hell-raisers as another one, but ut canon is Basically a time loop aint it SO!! Make tanguish do something wild)

Helsknight hummed tunelessly under his breath as he cooked dinner, piling some chicken and mushrooms into a pan to fry. He didn't know when Tanguish would be home [every trip to Hermitcraft was a gamble, when it came to time] but he figured whenever the little pest came home, he would be hungry. Besides that, Helsknight was hungry, so he might as well do something about it. Worst case scenario, he would just reheat a plate for Tanguish on the furnace when he got here. Or threw away wasted food. The point was he was hungry, so it wasn't wasted time at least. He pulled some flour out from a cabinet, frowning down at it and wondering what his chances of making a decent gravy were.

[Gravy was the bane of cooking. It either turned out like wallpaper paste, or it turned out like soup. Rarely, when every god and saint turned their greatest blessings on Helsknight for a moment, and every star in every heaven aligned, and every angel and allay and fairy-dust creature held its breath and crossed it's fingers, he would make a passable gravy.]

Helsknight sighed, tossed a few spoonfuls of flour into a pan, and resigned to try his luck. He didn't feel very lucky today, but then again, any day he made gravy, he didn't feel lucky, even if it did taste good in the end.

"I should learn how to bake," he grumbled to himself, eyeing the little bag of flour dispassionately. Tanguish would certainly appreciate it, and it would be cheaper to make a batch of muffins from scratch, instead of buying them from a cart four times a week. Helsknight stirred his fledgling gravy absentmindedly, waiting for the flour to brown, and considering his chances of finding a half-decent cookbook the next time he went to the market. Behind him he heard a clatter of claws, the unmistakable noise of Tanguish stepping into hels. A soft breath of chill dampened the room like a breeze. Helsknight threw a glance over his shoulder.

"Hey, what's your opinion on homemade--?"

Instinct made Helsknight slam to the side as Tanguish propelled himself over the kitchen island, Helsknight's rondel dagger in his hand. The point dug itself into the wall over the stove at about chest-height, a very intentional, very lethal lunge. It missed him by a decent margin; Helsknight was quick, even when he was caught off-guard. That one look over his shoulder, and years of Colosseum training and instincts, had saved his life.

Anger, hot and baffled and electric, raced through Helsknight's chest. He backpedaled towards their little dining table as Tanguish yanked the dagger out of the wall. He needed distance, he needed room to move. [He needed a house that wasn't so saints-damned small.]

"Tanguish, what in hels--?!" Helsknight managed before Tanguish was lurching for him again, a sharp, quick, dagger-pointed shadow dappled in flickering stars. Helsknight snapped a hand out, trying to bat him aside, only for Tanguish to duck nimbly beneath his outstretched arm. The dagger stabbed in towards him again, and Helsknight barely twisted away in time.

"Tanguish! Stop!" Helsknight shouted, confusion and adrenaline crashing together in his chest, muddling up his instincts. His training, his impulse, his experience in the Colosseum, demanded he fight back. He was unarmed [why would he stay armed and armored in the safety of his own home, when he planned to stay in the rest of the day?] but that didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. He knew a few ways of disarming someone with his bare hands, and he knew how to punch, and kick, and break bones. But his louder, conscious mind screamed at him this is Tanguish! He can't break Tanguish.

Tanguish didn't give him long to be horrified by the thought. He was lunging again, arrow-quick, and this time when Helsknight jolted backwards the blade nicked his out-flung arm. He didn't know if he was proud, or if he regretted how sharp the blade was -- his training had come in handy.

[It was marvelous really, how deadly his little pest could be when he put his mind to it. Helsknight had always thought Tanguish learned more than he let on. He was simply too scared of causing harm to use it. But he wasn't scared of causing harm now. No, he seemed hels-bent on shredding Helsknight where he stood, and he didn't know why.]

"Could you at least tell me what the hels I did to bring this on?" Helsknight demanded, a grin writhing across his teeth. It was something he knew intimidated people, intimidated Tanguish. There was something about baring teeth while fighting that seemed dangerous. If Tanguish cared, it didn't show, and he didn't respond. He just crouched low and gazed back at him, eyes half-shut in something like concentration. It gave him the look of a sleepwalker, and Helsknight didn't like it. He was used to the wide, curious, cat-like gaze, glittering in dandelion yellow.

"Tanguish?" Helsknight breathed, taking advantage of the pause. "Look, I don't want to hurt you--"

Tanguish lunged again when he was mid-sentence, something that might have killed him, if he hadn't seen Martyn do it a thousand times. Even with that knowledge, he almost reacted too late, side-stepping and slamming a heavy palm into Tanguish's shoulder, tossing him off-balance. Helsknight let out a short breath through his nose when Tanguish regained his feet, undaunted.

"I'm not running away," Helsknight said witheringly, dashing for the door. He could feel Tanguish following like a wasp over his shoulder, more the impression of danger than a true knowledge of what he was doing. Helsknight ducked out the door and managed to yank it shut behind him before Tanguish could follow, and was treated to a heavy slam as Tanguish tried to follow. Helsknight held it shut for a second, trying to figure out -- trying to figure out anything.

[Would Tanguish try to break down the door? Surely he couldn't. Even as... weirdly determined as he was to harm Helsknight, that wasn't something he was strong enough to do, especially with Helsknight bracing the other side. But the house had windows. Would Tanguish care about glass? It would cut him to ribbons. He could seriously hurt himself if he -- why was he worried about Tanguish jumping through a window? If the little idiot wanted to deal with a face full of glass--]

Helsknight released the doorknob and stepped aside. He needed to get that knife away, pin him still, preferably without hurting him too badly. His guts gave an uncomfortable squirm.

[How bad is too bad? And why? Why was this happening? It wasn't just strange, it just wasn't Tanguish. He didn't have a dangerous bone in his body.]

The doorknob clicked. Helsknight pressed himself against the wall, hiding behind the door as it swung open. He just needed a few seconds. He was stronger -- that's all he needed. Tanguish stepped onto the street, and before he had the chance to look around, Helsknight lunged forward and wrapped his arms around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He lifted Tanguish off his feet, trying to keep the thrashing feet from kicking anything.

"Tanguish, I need you to--"

Tanguish's head snapped back suddenly, slamming into Helsknight's mouth and nose. He swore, and his grip loosened, and Tanguish's sharp elbow dug itself into his side hard enough wince away some of his breath. A clawed foot came down on his ankle, and then Tanguish was twisting, and Helsknight, whose only objective narrowed into [don't get stabbed you fucking idiot] drove a punch into Tanguish's sternum. Tanguish's breath left him in a whoosh, and he curled in on himself a little, some sense of self-preservation kicking in. But he didn't cry out in pain, and he didn't drop the knife.

A lancing, twisting feeling darted through Helsknight's guts. It was a feeling so unfamiliar it was nearly foreign, hard to place, and hesitant to name. Dread. Dread as Tanguish turned that sleepwalker's gaze on him again, re-positioned his dagger to continue fighting. His tail gave a contemplative lash, a cat figuring its best approach on a bird, and it had been a long, long time since Helsknight felt like prey. Dread made his mouth dry, closed his throat, blanked his already reeling thoughts.

[What should he do? What could he do?]

Helsknight took a hesitant step back. Tanguish's eyes narrowed, and glittered blue.

[Blue? Blue. A little ring of blue, like a clear, winter's morning, ringed his yellow iris. That hadn't always been there. He knew the color of Tanguish's eyes.]

"Tanguish, talk to me," Helsknight said, taking another hesitant step back. "What happened? Whatever it is, we can fix this. I promise."

Tanguish let out a slow breath, and the blue ring around his iris seemed to flicker, then flashed brighter. Helsknight swore again as Tanguish pounced. He caught Tanguish's wrist, and might have even considered breaking it, had Tanguish not twisted out of his grip in the second of hesitation he gave in to. Helsknight's perception narrowed to the point of the knife as he dodged it, sidestepped it, and then spun on his heel and ran.

Helsknight needed time to think, needed time to figure out what was, whatever was happening. And he was faster than Tanguish. Even if he couldn't fathom harming him, he would always be faster. And armor-less as he was, he felt unnaturally fleet, near to flying. He was down three blocks, into an alley, over a wall and two more blocks over before he stopped, panting, to check for pursuit.

"I'm not running away," he breathed again, to himself, to his Saint, to Tanguish. He wasn't. He just needed time. He just needed to pull himself together, to figure shit out, to stop shaking. To stop shaking? Helsknight looked down at his hands, at the tremor starting. He swallowed hard.

[Okay, he was a little freaked out. He was allowed to be a little freaked out. His best friend was trying to kill him, and he didn't know why, and apparently the veil between "Nice Normal Tanguish" and "Silent Death-Machine Tanguish" was unnervingly thin. And Helsknight wasn't used to someone trying to kill him assassination-style, through dogged pursuit and bloodless silence. He was used to arena fights, and occasional back-alley brawls, where things were loud and obvious and made fucking sense.]

"I'm going to kill him," Helsknight hissed, stealing down the alley as fast as he dared. He didn't know who he was going to kill. Whoever had done this, maybe. Certainly not Tanguish. He hadn't really tried, physically he thought he could, if he'd just commit. But he had no weapon, and his options for killing his best friend [one of a slim handful of people he would gladly die for] were all slow and grim and painful, and not something he would inflict on anyone willingly.

[He would just have to evade, and try to knock some sense into him? But head wounds were difficult. The margin between unconsciousness and death was illusive, and he was a knight for helssakes he didn't bludgeon people. He was so ill-equipped for something like this, it was staggering. But why would he be equipped for his best friend randomly trying to kill him?]

There was a sound. There must have been. The whisper of breathing. The slide of claws. The crackle of gathering frost. Something set Helsknight's hair prickling, the gooseflesh on his arms raised.

[The rooftops.]

Helsknight didn't have time to look up. Suddenly a weight fell on his shoulders, and he was slamming to the ground. Tanguish's hand dug claws into the back of his neck, his knees dug into his shoulders. Helsknight twisted his whole body as hard as he could, wrenching his elbow back to slam into Tanguish's side. He flipped over, throwing Tanguish off him for just a moment. He got an arm underneath himself, tried to scrabble backwards, boots digging into tiles. Tanguish lunged on top of him again, and Helsknight threw a hand between them. A noise escaped his throat as the knife slashed through the webbing between his thumb and his forefinger, but he managed to wrap his fist around the hilt.

Tanguish was on top of him, bearing his full weight down on the dagger, trying to drive it into his throat. Helsknight clenched his bleeding hand around it, while is other arm scrabbled at the cobblestones, and through the haze of half-panic finally found its way around one of Tanguish's wrists. They were too close. He couldn't make full use of his longer arms, his strength, his leverage, and while his feet scrabbled, Tanguish's long tail twisted out for balance, and he held firm.

There was a buzzing starting in the back of Helsknight's mind, a panic he wasn't used to. His hands shook. His hand was bleeding, and it had to be his hand, didn't it?

[Note to self, Tanguish had laughed once, Helsknight is weak to hand wounds.]

He couldn't pass out. Little sparks and stars crowded his peripheral vision, his awareness narrowed itself to the space between his hands, and the slickness of the dagger, and the tear in the webbing between his fingers, and how stupid that was. A Colosseum gladiator, a knight of Blood and Steel, laid low by a flesh wound.

"Tanguish, you don't want to do this," Helsknight grunted, his voice buried beneath the buzzing of panic and his heartbeat in his ears. "You don't want to hurt me."

Tanguish threw his shoulder forward, and the twist sent tearing pain through his hand, and his grip slipped dangerously. Every muscle in his body tightened in dread and desperation, and he screwed his eyes shut as he clenched his bloody fist tighter. An undignified wince of a noise squeezed its way out of his throat, but it was better than screaming.

"Okay! Maybe you want to hurt me. Fine." Helsknight grimaced. He could feel the blood from his hand dripping onto his neck. A dangerous foreshadowing of just where the blade was aimed. "Tell me why. Tell me anything."

He managed to crack an eye open, to blink away the blooming stars. He gripped the knife and a spinning world in his bloody hands, and clung to consciousness and life with equal fervor. And Tanguish watched him, impassive and cold, that little blue ring a persistent chain around his iris. It reminded Helsknight of something, something that made his stomach twist. It took a moment to place a coherent thought to the feelings, a long moment where he breathed and shook and bled, and Tanguish watched.

[Wels. The open sky blue of Wels's eyes. Ice dagger blue. He clawed at his memory for any way that made sense, and in his flailing finally remembered what Tanguish had said about those golden, inescapable commands. How far could they compel? Surely not this far. Surely--]

Helsknight swallowed hard.

[Right. He just needed to break the command. That was all. That was all.]

Helsknight reached into himself for any lie of calm, any ghost of reassurance. He tried to steady his voice. Tried to force command, and calm, and certainty into his words. Stilted and shaky, and hoarsely whispered, he half commanded, half pleaded.

"Tanguish, let go of the knife."

Above him, Tanguish blinked. The pressure on the knife didn't relent, nor did the blue ring around his iris.

"Please let go of the knife."

Tanguish's fist balled tighter, and as it did the knife twisted just barely. He felt the burning in his hand, and Helsknight lost his words behind pain that should have been insignificant, and stars and noise in his head.

"You're scaring me," Helsknight whimpered, and then managed more firmly. "You don't scare people. This isn't you. You don't want to do this to me."

He searched Tanguish's eyes again. Was that a flicker in the blue? He couldn't tell. He couldn't tell.

"Helssakes," he swore. His hand grasping Tanguish's wrist reached up to grab the back of Tanguish's head, fingers tangling in his hair. He wished he could force Tanguish to focus, to center that sleepwalker's stare on something other than his general direction. "If you're going to kill me, look at me."

Tanguish blinked again. There was a shimmer in his eyes, and Helsknight winced as a tear dropped onto his face. A grim smile worked its way onto his teeth. No, that blue ring hadn't flickered. Tanguish had simply started crying.

"You're not going to kill me." Helsknight whispered. He closed his eyes, and his voice was a prayer, and it was a command. "You're not going to kill me."

He couldn't tell how much of the shaking in his arm was from him, or from Tanguish. He couldn't tell if the pain in his hand was from pressure, or from the wound. But he knew this was hurting them both, and he needed it over with, one way or another.

"You're not going to kill me."

Helsknight had been killed by wounds to his neck before. The Colosseum was a terrible place to die sometimes. He told himself he could bear it. Told himself if the pain came, he would try to hide the terribleness of it. He wouldn't gasp, or scream, or any of the other horrible, dramatic thrashings a person could do when they bled. He would make himself small and silent. He would respawn, if he could, and he would find his way back here, and he would find a way to fix this. Helsknight released Tanguish, and, eyes closed, braced himself for whatever happened next.

He couldn't stop himself from flinching when a few more teardrops fell on his face. But the blade didn't come. Helsknight dared to crack an eye open.

"Tanguish?"

Tanguish moved, and Helsknight stiffened, only to relax again when the blade clattered to the ground beside them. Helsknight let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and before Tanguish could scramble away from him, or devolve into a blubbering mess, or shake apart or fall under some new spell, or any of a thousand other things Tanguish could probably do, Helsknight wrapped his arms around Tanguish's neck and dragged him into a hug.

"Helsknight--"

"You idiot," Helsknight snapped, crushing Tanguish against his chest. He had the grace to drag them over to the side, so he couldn't bleed quite so much on both of them, but when Tanguish squirmed he held him tighter and refused to let him go. "Don't scare me like that again."

"H-helsknight I'm s-"

"You're sorry," Helsknight interrupted him, screwing his eyes shut, suddenly scared he was going to start crying too. From relief. From the ridiculousness of whatever had happened. From the closeness to disaster. From how angry he was that Tanguish felt the need to apologize. "Gods. I thought I'd lost you."

Tanguish had the audacity to laugh, a miserable hiccup of a noise that tangled itself in growing sobs, and muffled itself against Helsknight's chest. "You thought you lost me?"

"You were so quiet," Helsknight said, feeling dread lance through his stomach like a knife wound. "It's like you weren't even there."

"I was there," Tanguish whispered, his fists balled into Helsknight's shirt, like he could somehow cling closer. "I was there."

"Of course you were," Helsknight murmured back. "Of course you were."

[0xy--m0r0n]

ty @numerous-bees-in-a-skin-suit for the wonderful stock image that i used as ref for this

i just. felt like it worked.

also i was super tired while drawing this so its not. super detailed. idk

[void-bitten-ghost]

Modern Mizu hears you like a bit of 'danger and excitement' from one of your friends, so she takes you to an underground fighting ring for like, your fifth date. This is after the gun range fiasco, so you've already seen a side of Mizu that not many have been allowed to see.

When she mentions this idea you're like, so fucking excited but still kinda like??? There's one of these here????? Nearby????? Holy shit yes???? Please?????? That's so cool?????

She specifically avoids answering how she knows it exists. This isn't about her. This is about sharing an experience she loves and you've shown interest in.

She picks you up on her bike (because Of Course she would have a motorbike that's like either this hand-me-down or a fixer-upper she restored) and you go. It's exactly what you thought it would be, off vibes and dodgy people, but being with Mizu somehow makes you feel safe because she's confident. But it's not an arrogant kind of confidence, it's a steady, assured sort of confidence that puts you right at ease as she takes your hand and leads you through the crowd.

Now, something you don't know is this is not Mizu's stomping grounds. Not even close. But she knew it by name and reputation and it was close enough you could both make a night out of it rather than three. Although... she wouldn't mind if that were to happen--

She snaps back to reality when you step forward and holler out encouragement to the scrawnier one of the two currently in the ring. The corner of her mouth quirks at your enthusiasm, a brow lifting and a hip popping as she crosses her arms to just. Watch you. As you lose yourself to the energy of the room.

The match ends with the scrawny one getting his ass handed to him by the dude built like a brick shit-house. She expected as much. It takes a certain amount of skill to be able to take a mountain of a man like that down while having such a slight build. She'd know, after all.

Anyway. Everything is going swimmingly until some prick pushes his luck trying to get your attention. You very bluntly tell him he's barking up the wrong tree and he does not take the rejection well. Mizu tries to not intervene directly with your battles too often. You're a capable person, it's one of the things she lov- likes. Likes about you.

But then the burly fuck reaches for you. You smack his hand away and go to headbutt him. She grabs you by the waist before you could start the climb to reach and if you weren't so riled up you might have short circuited at the feel of her calloused hand on your skin.

"This bitch yours, mutt?" He grunts to Mizu, and you see fucking red.

"You fucking dare call her a mutt you jumped up little cun--"

"Yes," she says over you, calm as a still lake, and you do actually short circuit at Mizu calling you 'hers'. The heat of anger in you switches gears to something far sweeter, but no less scalding.

"And I would appreciate it if you didn't upset her," Mizu says, her fingers trailing to your hip and gripping a belt loop possessively. You can suddenly feel every point of contact. Hip, arm, chest...

That's when the man looks at Mizu. Really looks at her with a lean forward and squinted eyes, looking over her tinted shades.

"Onryo," he breathes, and you feel Mizu tense behind you. She hadn't heard that name for a good long while. It was a name from her troubled youth. One she thought was long behind her since going legit.

"You're a long way from home, demon."

"What of it?"

You could sense something was happening as the two spoke in what you thought was an amicable tone, but then Mizu is pulling you behind her and shedding her jacket. You take hold of it instinctively as she went to drop it on the ground and she finally turns your way.

"Everything is fine," she tells you in that same confident tone, but she must see your confusion and anxiety written on your face because she takes your chin in her hand and gives you a quick peck on the lips. You stand there with a stupid, dumbstruck look she grins at as she--

She's heading to the ring. She's heading to the middle of the ring and she's shedding another layer as she climbs over the freshold oh dear gods you don't know what to do. What to think. Holy fucking shit she's right there in a sports bra and baggy pants while wrapping her knuckles-- where did she get wrappings from?????

You're more than short circuiting at this point. You need a soft reboot. Maybe a full reboot at this rate since she's sliding off those tinted glasses and-- oh.

You see her eyes.

You've seen them before, of course. But not like this. Not with this intensity behind them. Like she's looking right through her opponent to predict every single movement his future self might consider making. That indomitable focus had you flushing with heat from head to toe as you watched, mouth parted, breaths quickening.

She floors a man twice her size and three times the bredth and your knees might give out. Are you swooning? You might just be fucking swooning holy fuck--

But then she gets gut punched and then tackled by a secret second opponent and you snap back into the whole situation.

You scream out encouragement to Mizu until your lungs feel dry, and then you scream some more. You want to be the loudest. You want Mizu to hear you and know you're rooting for her while she wipes the floor with these cheating bastards.

There's four of the fuckers now. Four all dressed in similar... you hesitate to call them uniforms. More like they all shopped at the same tec-wear store at the same time. But shit are they fast. You have the slightest moment of worry when you see the glint of metal fly past in one of their fists--

Mizu breaks thier arm with a sickening twist and a wet 'crack', and you think you might never have been so turned on in your entire fucking life.

(And also you might need to address and analyse some things about yourself later...)

The metal drops to the floor with an audible clang and a loud noise goes off somewhere. You're going to be honest, you're not really paying attention to anything else other than how Mizu moves around her opponents. Even outnumbered she holds her own, muscles coiled and yet her movements are smooth like flowing water. You can't help but think of the type that wears away cliffsides and cracks apart mountains, because that's what she's doing. She's fighting smart where they're fighting with force, and she is kicking their fucking asses--

Others converge on the ring, the crowd flooding in to hold them all down and you can't help but notice it takes five fully stacked men to hold Mizu down. And even then that only lasts about seven seconds before she breaks free, methodically picking them all off one by one before she launches herself into the now turbulent crowd.

That's when you panic, shouting for her while elbows and shoulders send you this way and that. You narrowly dodge a fist to the face before a hand grabs yours. You're ready to swing right back when you lock eyes with those sharp blues you so adore.

You both book it out, avoiding flailing limbs and thrown table legs. You've somehow still got Mizu's jacket in the crook of your arm when you both make it outside and keep running, only stopping when the sound of sirens was long, long off in the distance.

You're both curled over in a dark, dank alleyway, breaths haggard and coming out as clouds in the crisp night air.

You look up from your knees, ass pressed against the brick wall to support your wobbly legs, and you can't help but crack a grin when you see Mizu in a similar state, only just realising what the fuck just happened.

The grin breaks into a laugh when Mizu looks to you with a bright smile of her own, it's a wheezing thing at first, but then it becomes a full belly laugh when she joins you. And oh, is that such a rare sight. Mizu losing herself in a laugh and then looking at you with the most beautiful full face smile you've ever seen in your life.

Your giggles die in the face of that smile, replaced with a quiet awe and probably the dumbest looking lovesick stare--

Steps. Multiple steps approach the alley and Mizu's first and only instinct is to hide and protect you, pressing you back against the wall and covering your mouth with her hand, catching your yelp of surprise before it could really become an external sound.

And ohhhhh, what a predicament you find yourself in. Pinned to a wall by this very strong and capable and, evidentally, dangerous woman who took you out tonight to a place you would only dream of going to and protected you the entire time and then caused a room wide fight to break out that she was, up until that point, winning--

Ohhhh my phone is currently dying a death imma have to post and carry on later because my brain is a bastard that way 🙃

[thelunarsystemwrites]

A fight.

Tw: blood, weapons, fighting, flashbacks.

Textbox: Heh, it's been- *cuts off.*

I'm still on break, I'm not really gonna be scrolling on tumblr or anything, probably not gonna be talking to people much here ^^" but I figured I'd post this! The censored (no blood version) below!

Reblogs and feedback are appreciated, but obviously not forced! Take care everyone!

[draw-the-squad-like-this]

This is from an anime called "Asobi Asobase" almost all the scenes are good to draw the squad and this slap scene is far my favorite 👍

[ask-liam-p]

BRYCE OWEN STOP FIGHTING! PLEASE LIAM WOULDNT WANT THIS!

[strawberry-cowmilk]

the brothers apologizing to mc

-> they say they're sorry after a fight

mc's gender is not mentioned, not proof read

content warnings: implied past fight, some of them are displaying (lowkey) immature behavior, angst, crying

-----

Lucifer

this man cannot say the words 'I'm sorry' unless you two are very close, otherwise it will be like he thinks speaking those words would bring shame upon him

a few hours after the fight he will knock on your door, and if you let him in he'll leave a little something for you on his desk

usually it's a little gift like some lip balm but after placing it on your desk he leaves again after saying dinner is almost ready

if you want a 'proper' apology you're gonna have to approach him first

Mammon

if it wasn't a huge fight mammon will literally be at your door a minute or two later apologizing

but if it was something more serious he would be afraid to talk to you for a while, he's ashamed so he just stares at you during dinner and all

when you or him finally decide to make things right and talk to each other there's a good chance he'll cry (he thought you wouldn't forgive him)

Leviathan

the guy thinks you might hate him if you greet him in a different way than usual a fight isn't good for him

after the fight he has no idea what to do, does he approach you? does he wait for you to come to him? how long should he wait until he goes after you?

if he decides to come to you he's saying things like 'I'm sorry' over and over again

if you want to tell him you forgave him already he'll cut you off and say something like 'I'll give up tsl if that's what it takes'

Satan

it takes him a while to calm down but after he does he realises what an useless fight that was (which might anger him again thinking back on it)

he's honestly thinking of pulling a lucifer and leaving you a little gift but satan thinks that's not a good idea at all

so he goes to your room and it's straightforward

'mc I've thought about what happened and I think I should apologize, I hope you too can put this behind you'

Asmodeus

the second either you or him left the room the realisation of what happened hit him and he has no idea what to do

if the fight was bad enough he might avoid you for a few days, for example by going to clubs straight after rad

but eventually somebody has to apologize and if you didn't already he'll do it, as scary as it might be

if you forgive him and the mood isn't too tense he'll take you out to a nice dinner

Beelzebub

he's quick to apologize

he probably realises the fight isn't worth it two seconds after it started and says he's sorry and you shouldn't fight

unless one or both of you is really upset then he'll wait for the situation to cool doen a little before saying he's sorry

if you hug him the apology he'll smile from ear to ear, beel is relieved the fight is over and he will try to make sure no useless fights happen again

Belphegor

he might start ignoring you in the middle of the fight and realise how immature that was later

either that or he starts insulting you

belphie would be so ashamed he'd probably ask beel for advice on how to earn your forgiveness, both twins think saying 'I'm sorry' is a good start

so belphie does exactly that, maybe he brings a little present too

[justdrawlynn11]

Hey guys I made another thing, it may or may not be based off of Solar’s past for when he separated with his Sun and couldn’t do anything about it. It kinda had to be up to his Sun as his Moon was against the idea. (Also sorry for the angst)

(At 11 and 12 Solar is trying to get control of the body, his Sun is trying to stay in control, hence the shaking)

I could probably clean it up more and finish it later though! I hope you have a nice day!

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

Life Is Short So Make It Sweet

Chapter Twenty-Six: Busted

Summary- 5.3k. Curtis Everett x Plus!Sized Reader. Everyone is getting together for a dart tournament at Paulie's when everything is derailed before the night even starts.

Warnings- Unwanted attention from drunken men, vicious comments and name calling, fighting, police not taking the situation seriously, talk about Curtis's past and his mental health.

A/N- Thank you so much! Everyone who takes the time to like, share, comment, leave me messages and asks. Especially those who just feel seen in this storyline. You all have all my gratitude and appreciation. (let's be honest, I totally tear up and get all emotional) You all honestly are part of the reason I continue writing and sharing. Special shout out to @what-is-your-plan-today for editing. Dividers made by the talented @firefly-graphics

A/N 2- Is there an award for terrible titles? Cause I should have that trophey.

Chapter Twenty-Five / Masterlist

You, Claude and Yona drove together after getting done at the school for the week, heading straight for Paulie's. The three of you were getting ready in Yona’s car, laughing amongst yourselves as makeup was applied in the car's vanity mirrors and someone played lookout while the other changed in the backseat. While you were doing the finishing last touches on your outfit, Claude was filling you and Yona in about having her first official weekend with Sophia present. You were finishing up your lipstick while in the backseat Yona helped Claude do her hair. “How are you feeling about this weekend?” 

“I’m excited. I have a bunch of games and stuff to do with her. I just… want her to like me being around when she's with her dad?” Claude fretted a bit, glancing out the window while Yona calmly braided her long hair in an intricate pattern. 

“You don’t have much to worry about. Sophia likes just about everyone. Ella and Grey are pretty good co-parents.” You assured her. “What are you doing this weekend Yona?” 

The woman whipped a couple of ties in Claude’s hair, patting on the braids to make sure none of them were loose. “Tomorrow I’m taking Edgar to do some indoor rock climbing.” She grinned in excitement. “He claims he isn't scared of heights and it's something I love doing, so we will see.” 

“Okay, that sounds pretty cool and Yona, are you like a professional stylist?!” Claude was leaning between the seats to look in the rear view mirror at the tight curls of braids Yona made in her hair, her head tilting left and right to check them out. “I would have paid a small fortune for this at a salon.” 

Yona shrugged as if it was no big deal. “I used to do my friend's hair all the time at home. What about you?” 

“Oh, I think tomorrow we are gonna have a game night with Tanya, Timmy, Ella and I think Grey was coming around too with you and Soph?” You asked Claude and she gave a nod confirming it. “Okay, I’m ready to get inside. Are you guys?” Another glance out the window made you catch sight of Curtis’s truck in its usual place as well as quite a few other regulars and out-of-state plates, meaning it was going to be a busy night.

Which you didn’t mind, that meant Curtis would spend some of the time helping Paulie at the bar making great tips and giving you a chance to shamelessly check him out while he was working. It always made some fun flirting and usually sneaking off together much to Paulie's dismay. Claiming his place of business was reputable. 

“I'm ready,” Claude said as she pushed the door open and the three of you piled out of the car to make your way to the front door, where a group of men were just stepping out and headed back to the cars that had out-of-state plates on them. None of you paid any attention to passing the loud boisterous group till one reached out to grasp your arm, stopping you in your tracks with surprise. 

“Where you running off to sweetheart?” He flashed a grin that was supposed to be flirtatious but came off more leering than anything. It made your heart tighten, reminding you so much of Jake’s grin that he flashed whenever he had you cornered. Your eyes widened in alarm as you pulled your arm from the stranger's grasp. 

“No thank you, not interested.” You said to brush him off, going to sidestep around him to re-join Claude and Yona who just noticed that you were no longer with them. You weren’t allowed to leave though, he stepped back in front of you, blocking your way. 

“Come on, I’m just trying to be nice. You could at least give me a smile.” His gaze fell down your body. You felt sick at his gaze, taking in your figure as if he was contemplating how easy you might be. From the gleam in his eyes, he wasn’t thinking you would pass him up. 

“Let me go.” You said calmly, good at hiding the flutter of unease building. 

“Y/N… You all good?” Claude re-joined you, glaring at the man in your path as she hooked her arm through yours, making you both a joint team. 

He sneered at the two of you, his circle of friends coming to enclose the space further cutting you and Claude now off from the door. There were a few cold snickers and the heavy smell of alcohol coming off of them. 

“Yeah, let's get inside, I’m sure Grey and Curtis are expecting us.” You went to lead Claude through an opening between the strangers but that too was cut off. Over their shoulder, you saw Yona take a few steps as if to join you but then dart inside. You were sure she was going for some help. 

In the few seconds all this took place, you felt helpless. It would take too long to grab the pepper spray from the keychain in your jeans pocket and Claude was gearing up to swing a punch, you felt her practically vibrating with anger next to you. “What the fuck is wrong with you guys? Fucking dickheads, MOVE.” She snapped, pushing against one's chest to back them up a step.

He was bigger though, an unmoveable force who she bounced off.

The original prick barked out as he waved a hand towards you. “That’s the problem with the girls around here, ungrateful bitches.” He stepped in closer to you, brushing against you momentarily to make you stumble back, his hands once more catching you to pull you aggressively in while you yelled with alarm, slapping at him while losing contact with Claude. “You should be thanking me for being willing to fuck someone like you.” 

You could have sworn you felt bile roll up your stomach while his liquored breath soured the air you were breathing, panic starting to set in. 

“Let her the fuck go.” Claude yanked at you once more into her hold and you lifted your arm, throwing a punch at the drunk stranger. Your aim fell wildly off its mark but it was enough for Claude to pull you out of his reach and then a sharp roar came up behind them. You only saw a flash of Curtis’s dark face, enraged before he struck. His fist landed firmly against the back of someone's head, pitching them against one of their drunk friends. 

“Get your fucking hands off those girls.” His voice was deep with anger, while he shoved his way between you and them, his fist landing in someone's gut, making them keel over and throw up the liquor. Grey came up to block you and Claude, sending you out of the mayhem while Edgar barrelled out of the bar to help Curtis. Yona followed out right behind him to get you guys inside. 

“Someone has to help them.” You rushed, ready to go right back out but Grey caught you to pull you back into the bar. Paulie was coming out with a bat in his hands muttering to himself as he went to go outside and from the distance, police sirens could be heard. “Curtis and Edgar are outnumbered, Grey.” You said in a panic and he shook his head at letting you go back outside. Claude and Yona went around the back of the bar to search for a first aid kit. 

“Trust me, it won’t last long. Curtis and Edgar are fine.” Grey assured you, catching you from slipping around him. “This isn’t either of their first fights. Just stay, okay? Curtis would ring my neck if I let you back out there. ” He let you go and moved to slip back outside. 

“Fuck, fuck fuck.” You swore, waiting all of ten seconds to burst out of the door following Grey. Several cop's cars were flashing lights and scattered around the parking lot. Officers were dragging both Curtis and Edgar into the back of one of the cars. “Hey!” You dashed down the steps to yet again be blocked by another man. 

A sober cop this time. You glared up at him while pointing to the car you just saw Curtis and Edgar piled into. “Miss, go back inside.” 

“Why the hell are you arresting them!?” Your voice raised in question. “They saved me and my friend from being harassed and assaulted.” 

“By who?” The officer stepped aside to show the majority of the men from before bloodied and being helped up. 

“Them obviously.” You snapped. “That one blocked me from going to the bar and the rest joined in him taunting us. Fuck, he even grabbed me.” 

“Okay Miss, we can take you down to the station if you want to put in a formal statement against them.” 

“You still didn’t answer why you arrested Curtis and Edgar. Why not those men?” 

You could see the flash of irritation at you, another officer coming up to join him. “Miss, please calm down.” 

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down.” Your arms folded defensively against your chest as you kept pushing for an answer. “Why?” 

“Because Everett and Bell assaulted those men and…” He waved his hands at Paulie’s “Intoxicated.” 

“That is utter fucking bullshit.” You spat out and they narrowed their eyes at you. “Claude and I were attacked first and they haven’t been here long enough to be intoxicated. The guys who grabbed me, they’re the ones that are intoxicated!”

“That’s not your call to make Miss… What is your name?” 

“Y/N.” You snapped out. “When can they be picked up then?” You were raging now at the utter unfairness of what was going on. The men who harassed you were being treated by a few EMTs for what looked like bloody, possibly broken noses. They had all miraculously sobered up enough to put on a decent act. “Yes, I will be putting in a report on them.” You were shaking while you leaned enough to look around the cops. “THOSE ASSHOLES HARRASSED ME.” You flipped them the bird while behind you Paulie came up, bat still in hand. 

“She’s right, I just kicked them out for trying to start a fight.” 

“Yes, we are being told it was more like the other way around. That Edgar and Curtis were trying to start something inside with them and they left.” 

Paulie snorted in disgust while you rolled your eyes at them. “Bullshit, Curtis, and Edgar weren’t doing anything but hanging out at the dartboards waiting on the girls for a game. It’s a tournament night here. This lot took up the slot next to them and started in on them looking for a fight. Kicked 'em out, we all look out for each other here. It was my mistake not checking outside to see who was in the parking lot.” Paulie gave you an apologetic look. “I’m sorry Y/N, if I just followed them out, and made sure they left...” 

You put a hand on your friend's arm, smiling at him to assure him you weren’t upset. “Don’t, you had no idea they would mess with us too.”  

“Well, we will look into it, if you got cameras set up or anything.” One officer offered a way to a solution, the other looked like he wanted to be doing anything other than dealing with you and Paulie. 

“Yeah, I have some covering the front door, it should see everything that happened out here.” He motioned to go inside, the officer following him. That left you with the one who seemed to not give a shit. 

“So, I just have to go to the station to get Curtis and Edgar?” 

“We will still be keeping them overnight.” 

You wanted to continue about how ridiculous it was, but it was clear that was the most you were going to get. Turning away, you went back into the bar to grab your stuff. “They are not letting Curtis or Edgar out tonight.” You informed the group, Yona immediately grabbed her jacket to slip back on. 

“I can drive us over.” She informed. “They were arrested?” 

“Yeah, supposedly for being publicly intoxicated. And possibly assault.” Claude handed you your purse you had ditched earlier. 

“Do you want me and Grey to go?” She questioned worriedly while Grey went to dig out his car keys. 

“No, Grey you probably shouldn’t go if you have had anything to drink or else they will find some bullshit to charge you with.” You sighed in aggravation. 

He hesitated before pulling you aside. “Listen, I don’t know what Curtis has told you, but they might give you a bit of a hard time.” 

“Why?” You frowned while listening. 

“It isn’t the first time he has been arrested for fighting and it’s been quite a while but they don't let shit go.”

“Of course.” You pinched the space between your forehead and nose. “Okay, thanks. I will drop you guys a message later about what's going on.” You waved at Grey, Claude, and Paulie on your way out with Yona. 

That little dark thought lodged in your brain, wondering if Curtis was hiding his previous arrest from you all along, or was it something he simply never thought to bring up? 

Edgar paced back and forth in the cell while Curtis leaned back against the wall, one leg stretched out ahead of him and the other folded closer to him, bouncing now and then with anxious energy. They hated this, both of them but all they could do was wait it out. The likelihood they would be let go tonight was slim. Not with his previous track record. 

His eyes were closed as he pictured the look on your face as you looked up at that asshole blocking your way on purpose. You looked calm at that moment, but he could see how wide your eyes were, shining way too brightly with alarm. He had been intent on just approaching and standing the guy down, already knowing he would back down the second he saw him.

But then the bastard had stepped into your space, purposely making you stumble back in an attempt to keep yourself out of his reach, laid a hand on you and that’s when Curtis was ready to rip the man’s head off. 

Curtis did manage to lay the man flat out with the promise that if he ever laid a hand on you or any woman again, Curtis was going to rip him apart. That was when the cops showed up. Familiar faces from years ago dragging him off and slapping cuffs on him. 

‘Bout time we brought you in again.’

He ground his teeth in aggravation at the memories it dragged up, his eyes slitting to open, watching Edgar pace back and forth muttering about asshole cops. Curtis worried about how you were dealing, were you okay? He knew Claude, Grey, Yona, and Paulie would make sure you were fine, but he just kept picturing your face. Hearing you afterward calling his name as the door slammed on him. 

You looked pissed at that moment and he couldn’t help smiling at that. 

“What are you grinning at?” Edgar stopped pacing and slouched on the bench next to him, still a ball of nervous energy. 

“Just thinking about Y/N giving those officers hell.” 

Edgar laughed then, leaning back much like Curtis was. “I saw out the back window, she was mad. Not like it do us any good, but she looked like she was ready to deck him.” 

“Yeah, she did.” Curtis barked a laugh. “I don’t think I have ever seen her mad like that before.” 

“When do you think they will let us out?” 

“They won’t, not till morning at least. Public intoxication and all that.” 

“Bullshit charge, we hadn’t even finished a beer yet,” Edgar muttered in outrage, glancing around the empty cell. “I hate this.” 

“So do I.” Curtis pushed up to stretch himself out, the bench a hard unrelenting place. He would much rather be in his bed with you, soft, and warm in his arms. “Probably those bastards will just get a slap on their hand and let go too.” 

“Fuck I hope not.”

It was hours later when they were finally let go, served with papers for fines they needed to pay. Charges were dropped against them for assault, much to Curtis’surprise. You and Yona were sitting out in the lobby, both of you huddled in the uncomfortable seats, heads leaning against one another in what must have been an unrestful sleep. Edgar was gentle when he touched Yona, his hand brushing along the side of her face, whispering her name. Curtis squatted in front of your seat, letting his hands slide over yours till your eyes slipped open and you gave him a sleepy smile, sliding forward to hug around his neck. 

“Hey, I didn’t think they were ever going to let you out.” You muttered into the crook of his neck

He squeezed you back assuringly, rubbing at your back. “They like to drag ass over this stuff. You ready to go home?” 

“Please.” You pulled back to let him go and Curtis held you against him a second longer before letting you ease off the seat, pulling himself back up to a stand. In the parking lot, you said goodbye to Edgar and Yona, who were quick to promise to call later to reschedule the missed triple date at the bar but you could tell they just wanted to head home. Neither had gotten a lot of sleep that night. Curtis was relieved to see his truck already there. 

“Grey?” 

“Yeah, he said he had a spare to your house and grabbed your extra keys.” You dug them from your purse to hand over to Curtis. 

Getting in, the drive back to the house was quiet. But not the typical comfortable kind that happened between you two, more like you had something on your mind and it was worrying you, causing unspoken tension. “Did you stay there all night Honey?”

“Hmm?” You turned back towards him just as he was pulling into the driveway, next to your car. “Oh yeah, Yona was set on staying till she at least saw Edgar, and good luck getting me to leave after what happened. Every time we asked to see either of you, they had an excuse not to let us talk to you.” You paused as if collecting your thoughts. “They seemed to not like you. At all.” 

“Mmhh, yeah,” Curtis said, he wasn’t ready to elaborate and you let it die there for now. Instead, you both made your way into the house, yawning loudly as you looked at the time. 

“Good morning, about the time I typically wake up.” You chuckle and Curtis rubbed at his face, making himself go cross-eyed a bit. 

“How about today we nap in bed instead, take a real lazy day?” 

“I could really go for that.” You shrugged out of your jacket and hung it up, offering to take his. 

“Deal, you wanna go get comfy upstairs and I will be up with some snacks?” Curtis offered. 

“I can make you something if you want?” You hesitated at the foot of the stairs, thinking out loud. “I have those veggies diced up and you got eggs, I saw them in there yesterday. I could make us western omelets.”

Curtis shook his head, directing you back towards the stairs. “Nope, I got it. Go shower if you want and get comfy… wear that tee of mine I love so much?” 

You went up a few steps, twisting to face him while still inching up the steps, grinning. “That and what else?” 

“Absolutely fucking nothing.” He gave a feral grin, even as tired as he was and you laughed while finishing going up the stairs. Curtis heard the house's old pipes groan, signaling you started your shower. It gave him plenty of time to get some of the quick easy snacks he had in the house. Grabbing some of Sophia’s granola bars, a bag of your favorite goldfish, his stash of Oreo cookies, and some other randoms he found in the pantry. Then he was sure to make you a cup of your favorite tea with generous dollops of honey to sweeten it to your liking. He took a quick sip, making sure it was how you liked it. 

Curtis finally made it upstairs where his bed never looked so good. Especially with a few of your clothes littered on it from where you undressed to shower. Dropping the snacks at the foot of the bed, he heard you turn the water off, steam flowing from out of the shower. Yanking off his shirt and pants, he walked into the bathroom in his boxers, preparing the tub for himself while you stood at the mirror doing a few last-minute things. 

“There’s a cup of tea on your nightstand Honey.” He brushed a kiss to your still bare shoulder, the towel firmly wrapped around you while you rubbed some of your lotion on your face and down your neck. 

“Thanks Curtis, water should be plenty hot. I was quick.” You smiled at him in the mirror while he shed the last of his clothes and slipped in behind the curtain. 

You finished what you were doing, sure to clean the sink off while listening to the water splash around Curtis, now and then the curtain would move with his movements. You retreated from the bathroom before he finished, crawling up on the bed and letting yourself lean back into the pillows. 

There was a lot to take in over the past several hours. Something you hadn’t let yourself ponder on till now when it was all said and done. You hated the doubt that crept in, the way Curtis had gone after all those men without any hesitation or fear, then Grey making mention that Curtis had been in trouble before. It wasn’t that you thought of Curtis as being violent, not towards you in the least and you had only heard him lose his temper with Edgar at Halloween. But Jake was always such a nice guy until he wasn’t and you never would have guessed that from him. You knew him your whole life, your father and his were partners in their consultation firm. 

But then one day it started and you always allowed it to continue while lying to yourself to be okay with it. As much as you loved Curtis, more than you ever felt for Jake, you couldn’t be that way with someone again. 

Curtis came back out, this time dressed in his plaid pajama bottoms and a faded old tee, ready to crawl into bed next to you. You took an appreciative sip of the tea that he made, letting the warm liquid calm you down a bit more while Curtis slipped into the bed next to you, making a grab for the snacks he had brought up and deposited them on the nightstand, grabbing a couple of oreo cookies and flipping one into his mouth. 

“Thank you for coming to get me at the station Honey.” He finally said, breaking the silence in the room while offering you his other cookie. 

You took it, nibbling on it a second before setting everything in your hands aside. “As I said, after seeing the way those officers were acting, I wasn’t about to leave you there.” 

“They dropped the charges surprisingly,” Curtis admitted while leaning back against the pillows, his hand coming up to your back and tracing patterns in it while he started to relax for the first time. “I wasn’t expecting that.” 

You let yourself sink into the feeling of his fingers on you, making your body slowly loosen from his touch, you were soon easing back and curling up next to him, your hand sliding against his chest while he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into his side. “They had to drop them after Yona and I went down to fill out our reports against that group, Claude will be going in later today, she told me to do the same thing. Between us and Paulie pulling up his security videos, they weren't able to make anything solid stick. Keeping you overnight was just a way to hold you and Edgar for a while longer." You frowned with frustration.  

Curtis tilted forward to press an affectionate kiss to your forehead, scooping you in closer to him.

"It should have never fucking happened. You, Yona, and Claude should be able to walk across a parking lot at any time." 

You felt the tip of his fingers lift your chin so you looked up at him, the sheer concern in his expression, the way his eyes were a wide blue boring into you, you yet again felt foolish over your concern that this man would in any way hurt you. “Curtis…” You twisted to your hip to face him, letting there be a bit of space between you so you could comfortably look at him to talk. "Yes, I was scared at the moment, but I knew you were close.” 

“Mmmh, They will probably just get a slap on the wrist and nothing further than that.” He practically growled and you let your hand raise to smooth the worried lines in his forehead. 

“Unfortunately that is probably gonna be the case. I hope that they learned a lesson in what the word ‘No’ means though. You and Edgar left them quite a few reminders” You let your hand drop once his forehead smoothed out. “But Grey said that you were familiar with the cops picking you up?” You hesitated, not wanting to bring up his past like this, but you had to know. 

Curtis nodded a bit to confirm. “I can’t say the local Duluth precinct and I are on the best of terms. Of course, this was many years ago, but bar fights weren’t an uncommon thing for me.

You stayed quiet, intent on letting him continue with whatever he wanted to share. “As a young man… I was angry? Lost and unsure of myself, my grandparents did an amazing job being my parents. But I was still mad at the world for having never gotten to have that time with my mom and dad, I never got to see Tyler grow into the man he should have been. I had so many what-ifs built in me. Lillian and Wilford tried to help me, but you know when you are young you miss what is right in front of you.” 

“So all this anger, it turned into fighting?” 

“It did, I would get into it with other people. Looking for it I guess would be the best way to put it. It was the only thing that made me feel good.” He glanced at you worriedly but you kept your features neutral. “I don’t know if I’m explaining it right, I was an angry young man. I’m glad you didn’t know me then.” 

“Hey, we all have our shit, right?” You said with a gentle smile. “Keep going, what happened?” 

“I hit rock bottom. Had to spend some time at a minimum security prison. Not long, but it was several months. My Gram came to visit me several times, and my grandfather did a couple of times. But it was easy to see how disappointed he was. I hated it, I was ashamed of how low I went with it. The judge released me and I went to Nam for a more permanent job.” His fingers flowed up and down your arm, making pleasured sensations settle in you, retaining that connection even while you two were separated a bit to face each other. “Sent me to training and I started from the bottom up. Grandpa was retired by then so I worked up to his position.” 

“You must have wanted the change to work that hard Curtis.” You wiggled a bit closer. “Did all those feelings, the anger… they stop?” 

“Um, I channeled them in a new way. Grey and I were friends during this time, he was always trying to get me to go with him to his uncle's gym, just beyond the school called Big Jon Boxing.

When I got out, I finally took him up on the offer. Big Jon taught me some boxing, tossed me in the ring to punch and kick out all those feelings.” 

You half pushed up, leaning on an elbow. “You’re just sharing with me that you can box?” 

Curtis laughed, shrugging a shoulder. “Yeah, pretty good at it too, not to brag.” 

“Do you still go?” You eased down again, now back in his side, curling a leg through his. 

“I haven’t in a while, not since last summer. Grey was telling me Big Jon was asking when I’m coming back.” 

“So since you met me?” You huffed out, making Curtis chuckle again. 

“Well, I also have some equipment down in the cellar for when I couldn’t go. But yeah… I haven’t felt the need to.” 

You smiled a bit to yourself, it was hard not to feel a bit of pride that Curtis didn’t need such an outlet. Your hand slipped under his tee, tracing your fingertips on his belly, sinking into your thoughts. “Would you go back?” 

“Of course, it is like another home, much like Paulie’s is. I just… haven’t. Actually, in light of what happened, would you like to go?” 

“Me? To a gym?” You wrinkled your nose, the idea of it making you wildly self-conscious. Gym’s always felt like a nightmare, all those fit people and then there is you. You tried, in the past. You went to Jake’s gym using his membership. Always when he was at work, not that he ever said anything, but you could tell that he was embarrassed to see you struggling with the equipment. 

“Yes you Honey. We can teach you some self-defense moves in case you ever feel unsafe or have to be alone.” His hand was assuring on your side, all while his belly flexed under your fingertips. You felt him grasp at the back of your thighs, easing you over him till you were straddling him, leaning against his chest till you pushed up to a sit, using your knees folded under you to keep from leaning too heavily against him. Underneath you he looked perfectly relaxed and content, waiting on you to sort through your doubts and fears about going to the gym. “You could knock Edgar out next time he pisses you off.” He smirked at you and you couldn’t help the little amused smile you gave at your friend's expense. 

“So tempting, but…” 

“But what Honey.” His hands slipped up the bare part of your thighs to grasp gently on your hips and ease you to relax against him. “Tell me.” 

“It’s the gym, full of beautiful fit people.” 

“Nah, this is a cool gym. It’s for everyone.” Curtis said. His hands flexed against your hips, making him smirk a bit up at you. “I could buy you all those hot leggings too. All the leggings.” His eyes glinted up at you wickedly, making you feel heat flush your face and down your chest, your heart race in excitement and apprehension. 

“I have leggings already Curtis, you don’t have to buy me more.” 

“I know and you are always fucking hot in them.” He slipped a hand up your back to lightly grasp the back of your neck, pulling you in close for his mouth to find yours, drawing you into a heated kiss as he set out to prove just what he felt when seeing you in those leggings. Being tired completely forgotten when he flipped you to your back and hovered over you, chaining kisses down your neck and working your shirt up while you did the same with his to toss it away for the rest of the day. 

[slytherinboysappreciation]

LMAO here i am again 😋😋 ok love, the last request gave me another idea abt a genius reader (male ofc), but in this one he's absolutely feral. Everyone in Hogwarts knows to not mess up w him. Let's say he's from a pureblood family that got sum connections w the ministry of magic so yeah Hogwarts cannot do anything bout it.

Butttt the thing is, he's actually just a sweet guy (if u didn't count the times he got someone into the hospital wing for bullying others). I js wanna see the rivalry relationship between this fella n Tom Riddle (ofc, i love this guy) n when Tom realized that reader wasn't as bad as he thought.

Fighter - T. R. x male!Reader

A/N: Thank you so much for the ask!! 💛 I really tried hard to fulfill it, so I hope this is good. I’m really hoping the ending conversation makes sense; please PLEASE tell me if it doesn’t. It’s completely unedited with no use of Y/N.

I think I tagged everything but let me know if I missed something!

CW: fighting, descriptions of fighting, blood mention, petnames, violence, anger, Tom gets really mad at Reader, detention, bickering, Reader gets a brush thrown at him, Tom’s anxious thoughts, mentions of punishment, talk of pureblood ideals, Tom does not understand his feelings, probably ooc Tom

1732 words

Tom can hear the sounds of a fight going on.

Right outside the library, and a vicious fight too, judging by the sounds.

After spending a full moment regretting the decisions that lead him to be Head Boy, Tom gets up and goes to investigate.

The fight is in the corridor. Brutal sounds of fists upon flesh and ugly cheers from the surrounding students fill the air.

Tom thinks it’s barbaric.

He takes a deep breath and shouts, “Out of the way! Head Boy coming through!”

The students part for him almost instantly, the roar of noise starting to die down.

In the center of the commotion, predictably, is you. You’re pinning the other guy down, hitting him repeatedly.

Tom can’t make out what you’re saying to him, but he’s sure it’s nothing good.

He spots Goyle in the crowd and waves him over. The boy obeys, and Tom gestures to the fight. “Break it up.”

Goyle hesitates, then obeys by grabbing you and forcibly hauling you off the other boy. You immediately go to punch Goyle, but stop when you see Tom.

So predictable.

You smooth out your shirt and wipe a bit of blood from your mouth. “Hello, princess.”

Tom bristles. He hates your nickname for him. “Hello, degenerate. I see you’re still picking fights.”

You grin crookedly and shrug. “What can I say? It’s part of my style.”

Tom’s expression doesn’t change. “It’s another detention for you. You’re lucky the Headmaster hasn’t considered expulsion.”

It’s an empty threat. Your family is part of the Sacred Twenty-eight, as rich as they come and with enough connections to make even the Malfoys jealous. You never receive more than a slap on the wrist for your behavior.

You know it. He knows it. And yet, you’re the only two that pretend Tom has some sort of control over you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you roll your eyes and smirk a little. “Whatever you say.”

He scowls, but doesn’t say a word as you slip off into the crowd. He knows better than to try and keep you there.

Tom is furious. Livid. Angry enough to make the whole castle feel it.

You’ve cost him his evening. A valuable evening, that could’ve been spent looking in the Restricted Section.

Now spent in detention.

Not that you’re aware. You’re off gallivanting somewhere, ditching class.

Causing Tom to fail his surprise partners project given to them by Professor Dumbledore.

Tom has never wanted to murder you more.

He calms down by evening, but your appearance in detention only makes this all the worse again.

You stroll into detention, all smooth movements and smug looks. You take a seat on the other side of the room, leaning back in your chair.

Gone all day, only to reappear just in time for the wrong thing.

Tom watches you from the corner of his eye, already annoyed.

He received detention last night, after being caught in the Restricted Section by Professor Dumbledore. Humiliating, given the fact that he’s Head Boy. He shouldn’t have to deal with detentions any more.

His annoyance only worsens when the professor announces it’s just the two of you.

Scrubbing suits of armor once again.

Tom’s halfway through his set when you show up.

“Hello, princess.”

Tom grits his teeth and scrubs a little harder. “What do you want?”

“Just came to see how my favorite rival was doing.”

You lean against the wall next to him and smirk at him.

Tom glares at you. “We’re not rivals. Rivals implies equality. We are not equals.”

Your smirk doesn’t falter for a moment. “Fine. Enemies then.”

Tom rolls his eyes and bites his tongue and goes back to scrubbing.

You lean in. “How was Dumbledore’s class?”

Tom throws the scrubber brush at you. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

You catch it and laugh. “When have I ever? You’re just too cute all riled up.”

Tom refuses to react. You’re only saying it for shock value after all.

“Look,” you say, after a tense moment. “I came here to tell you, there’s a spell for the armor. You can use that instead of scrubbing all night. The teachers never care.”

Tom bites his tongue again. He’s certain Dumbledore will care, but perhaps Tom can play this off.

“Teach me,” he orders.

You grin and oblige.

Tom neither gets questioned by Professor Dumbledore nor gets asked about his unusual quickness in cleaning the suits of armor.

For the whole next week, Tom is apprehensive about it. Surely using magic in such a way qualifies for extra detention?

But nothing happens.

So Tom grows suspicious of you.

Why would you teach him that spell? What motive do you have behind your sudden kindness?

It bugs at Tom, messing up his concentration while studying and making his skin crawl with curiosity.

You had to have some hidden agenda, some secret evil plan. It just didn’t make sense otherwise.

You weren’t a kind boy. You started fistfights every other day, not to mention how vicious you are in a duel.

So why be nice?

Tom just cannot figure it out.

You were in the Hospital Wing after yet another fight.

One of the Beaters on the other team had gotten angry with you during a quidditch match and had hit a bludger right at you.

Half the other team was in the Hospital Wing with you from the extent of the fight you’d started. The Beater who’d hit you had gotten sent to St Mungos, with their family in shambles.

They’d been in tears, falling at your hospital bed, begging you to forgive them the moment you woke up. You’d just seemed amused.

If there was one thing your family took seriously, it was your health and safety. Despite all your fights and mishaps, you were still the heir.

The Beater’s family was done for, and no amount of forgiveness from you could save them.

Tom visits you on the second day you’re in. He brings your homework, strictly on assignment from Professor Dumbledore.

You look up from the bag of chocolates you’re munching on. “Oh, hey, princess.”

Tom bristles a bit. “Why do you insist upon calling me that?”

You grin and pop another chocolate into your mouth. “Coz you’re prissy and elegant like a princess. All prim and proper till someone gets under your skin.”

Tom opens his mouth to retort, then closes it again. Prissy? He wasn’t prissy. He valued being good manners and being well-dressed, sure. But he wasn’t prissy.

You laugh at the expression on his face. “See? I told you! I bet you’re coming up with some good reply about how it’s ‘good breeding’ and a mark of ‘refinery amongst the purebloods’.”

Tom’s cheeks flush. He had been thinking something along those lines.

“Haha!” You sound triumphant. Almost smug. “You’ve been around Malfoy too long. He’s rotting your brain.”

“You’re a pureblood too,” Tom points out. “Maybe I’ve been spending too much time around you.”

“Nah.” You laugh again. “I don’t preach it like he does.”

Tom doesn’t know what to say, so he just sets your homework down on the edge of your bed. “Here.”

“Aw, Merlin.” You sigh and reach for it. “I was hoping I’d get out of doing it.”

Tom scoffs softly and takes a seat next to your bed. “Why? Too hard for you?”

You snort out a laugh. “Hell no. It’s too easy. I’ve known most of this stuff since I was five.”

“Since you were— How?”

You shrug. “With our breeding, we don’t tend to last very long. Gotta have everything learned quickly so we can marry once we’re done with school.”

“You…” Tom falls silent at this. He knew about pureblood traditions and stuff from Abraxas, but he hadn’t ever applied them to you.

You were just… the opposite of everything he imagined a pureblood to be: smug and cold and overbearingly intelligent.

You were all hotheadedness and feral fights and lazy boredom.

It baffled him.

“Look, princess,” you hand him your bag of chocolates. “Don’t stress too much about it. Have a chocolate or two. Relax. If you haven’t gotten detention yet because of me, you won’t anytime soon.”

Tom takes a chocolate. He considers your words as he eats it. You’re a puzzle of a pureblood. The most eligible boy at Hogwarts, yet you act like you don’t care about your family’s reputation one bit.

Finally, he just asks one question. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you act so…”

You shrug. “My family’s full of pricks. Always going around spouting nonsense about this and that. If I’m coming to Hogwarts, I’m at least going to have some fun while I’m here.”

“And your idea of fun includes beating people up?”

You grin. “Don’t knock it till you try it, Riddle. Besides, I only hit them if they deserve it.”

It occurs to Tom that you called him Riddle for perhaps the first time since he met you. It makes a funny sort of feeling sprout in his stomach. Like a sudden weed amongst a perfect garden.

Perhaps it’s his distaste for you popping up again.

“If they deserve it?”

“Yeah. You know, bullies and cheaters and kids who pick on the first years.”

Tom gives you a deadpan look. “Oh, how generous.”

You laugh. A genuine, full belly laugh. One that makes you wheeze with pain from your injuries.

That little spark of something inside Tom grows for a moment. It makes his chest uncomfortably warm. He tries to snuff it out as fast as possible.

You’re rapidly turning around his mental image of you in his head. Yesterday, he would have pegged you as the arrogant heir to your family, a boy who just wouldn’t leave him alone.

Now you’re… something else.

Thinking about it too much makes him prickle with what must be discomfort. So he hands you back your chocolates and stands up.

“You’re odd. I’ll admit that. But you’re not all that bad either.”

You grin. A wide, warm grin that sends more prickles throughout Tom’s body.

“Glad to hear it, princess.”

Tom makes a face. “You really need to stop calling me that.”

You just laugh as he leaves.

Tom thinks about you as he walks. About your odd ways and peculiar thinkings.

You certainly are a riddle of a pureblood, and he’s determined to figure you out.

[ananxiousgenz]

MORE MALEVOLENT COWBOY AU GUYS!!!

welcome back to yet another chapter in this glorious little au of ours!! @percymawce-arts and I have been suuuuuper busy behind the scenes writing and like. we have some absolutely killer ideas that we cannot wait to share with you!! so enjoy this sad little scene for now <3

TRIGGER WARNINGS: alcohol consumption/drunkenness, fighting, references to murder, references to child death

and for tagging, @izel-reblogs @ellamenop and @platypus-with-interests I hope yall enjoy this just as much as you have with the rest <3

The moment he entered the cabin’s sitting room, John knew that something wasn’t quite right.

The shadows were all wrong. At this time of day, the sun usually cast soft shadows into the sitting room that left the table and couch awash in warmth and golden light. But the shadows were harsh, stark, cutting through the couch and leaving the table shrouded in darkness. As if the world itself knew that something was wrong. And something was wrong.

For one, Arthur was slumped over the table in the far corner, shoulders racked with either laughter or sobs, John couldn’t tell. For another, there was a bottle of whiskey clutched in his right hand, more than half empty. There was no glass in sight.

John hooked a finger over the bandanna covering his face and pulled it off, hanging it quietly beside his hat on a rack near the door. As he did so, he stared long and hard at Arthur, studying him, debating whether he should approach him. In a relatively short time, John had already seen a great many things from Arthur: bravery, conviction, intelligence, compassion. Drunkenness, however, was a new one, and he had no idea what to expect from Arthur with half a bottle in his system. It didn’t look pleasant.

After a long moment of chewing on his thumbnail, John decided he was more concerned about Arthur than afraid of him (but only by a thin margin, he realized) and took a step in his direction. He tried to step lightly, but the damn floorboards decided right then would be the perfect moment to creak beneath his feet. Arthur’s head snapped up the moment he heard the noise, clearly not drunk enough to lose touch with his instincts. John froze, like a gazelle suddenly caught in the gaze of a lion.

“John? Izzat you?” Arthur slurred, eyes darting sightlessly across the room.

“Yes, Arthur, it’s me,” John replied, forced to exhale in order to speak. He hadn’t realized he wasn’t breathing before that moment, and now that he was he tried to keep it level as he inched closer to the table, little by little.

“Oh,” Arthur sighed, and he sounded almost disappointed. “‘S funny,” he mumbled through tears (there were streaks of them running down his red cheeks and his eyes were puffy, he’d been crying for a while) as he took another swig of whiskey. “Thought you were someone else.” He clutched the bottle to his chest the way one might hold a precious child.

Despite himself (or, perhaps because of the nerves) John chuckled, “Might I ask who?”

“‘S’name was Parker.” Arthur sniffled and then stared solemnly at the tabletop, picking at a loose splinter of wood with shaking hands. “M’old partner.”

“Oh,” said John, halting in his motion towards Arthur. His fists clenched, his hackles rose and he was beginning to suspect he wanted no part in this conversation. He was about to turn tail and leave when Arthur started talking again.

“He was a good man, y’know. Reallll…. tough. Strong. Kind, too. Lot like you.” He nodded emphatically to himself, as though confirming information someone had questioned the truth of. As though he was proving something to himself.

John swallowed. “I’m sure he was.”

“Saved my life, way back when. I was…” Arthur waved away a painful memory with an unsteady hand and made a faint sputtering noise. “Back in Boston. I was jus’ drunk all the time. Made the stupid-ass decision to head out here. Thought it would be easier to die in a cattle stampede or from th’ heat or s’mthing.”

John still wasn’t sure where this was going, but it was the most Arthur had ever willingly shared with him about his past, so maybe he wouldn’t leave just yet. He, slowly, quietly, pulled out a chair on the other side of the table and sat down.

“‘Was drunk and in debt at well near every bar in town,” Arthur continued, a small smile spreading across his face as he had another swig from the bottle clutched in his hand. “Was fixin’ to get myself killed by debt collectors sooner than by the drink, I reckon. Parker found me one night. I was… inna bad way. Real bad. He said I looked like… like I’d hit bedrock, and–,” Arthur chuckled mirthlessly. “‘Course he was right. He was always right.”

Arthur went quiet for a moment as a few more tears escaped his eyes. He wiped them away roughly on his forearm and sniffled again.

“And?” John prompted gently after a long moment.

A cruel laugh tore its way out of Arthur’s throat, making John flinch. “And you killed him.”

Arthur’s gaze rose from the table to look John dead in the eye. There was a vicious fire burning in that dark and stormy expression, like a bonfire, barely contained. It left John frozen in place again, his breath caught in his throat and any words in his defense stuck along with it.

“You shot him, f’r nothin’.” More laughter bubbled out of Arthur, along with tears. “F’r a mission that didn’t even exist! Just bam–,” Arthur mimicked shooting himself in the head–, “gone. Dropped like a… like a fucking ragdoll!” Arthur doubled over suddenly, dropping his head into his free hand as giggles made it impossible for him to speak properly. “You, you killed the man who saved my life! Made it worth living again!”

John got up out of his chair and slowly began backing away. “Arthur, I-”

“You killed him!” Arthur yelled, lifting his head from his hand. The laughter was gone, now, and had been replaced by fire in Arthur’s voice that matched his expression, fueled by the whiskey and grief he had already thrown onto it. John opened his mouth to say something else, but abandoned that plan to duck instead as a half-full bottle of whiskey was hurled at his head. He managed to dodge it in the nick of time, watching as it sailed over his head and shattered against the cabin wall behind him with a crash. Glass fell in pieces to the floor and whiskey stained the wall dark, dripping and slowly soaking into the wood like blood into fabric.

Arthur’s eyes were wide and wild as he stumbled out from behind the table towards John, who was beginning to wish he had never even returned to the cabin in the first place as he continued backing away, nearly tripping over what little furniture they had as he went.

“You… you fucking… He’s dead, he– she’s dead. Gone, just like him. They’re dead, and it’s all because of you! It’s all… your fault…” And for a moment, John could have sworn Arthur wasn’t talking to him, the way he whispered it, his voice laced with a pain that John had never heard from him before. “All your fault…” he said again. But then the anger was back, the expression burning like fire in his eyes as he scowled at John. “All your fucking fault! Fuck you, John!” Arthur shouted, spitting the words out like snake venom as John felt a wall begin to close in behind him.

Behind the panicked, animal fear of the moment, John’s mind caught on something in Arthur’s drunken rambling. She. Gone just like him. They’re dead. He was no longer just talking about Parker. A woman, perhaps? An old love, a young flame put out too soon? Or… or a girl. A child re-emerging from the fog of Arthur’s mysterious past. Someone who had died… because of John? Or someone else? It didn’t make sense. John didn’t hurt women or children as a personal rule, a piece of his early life that the cruelty and anger of boarding school and Larson had never been able to fully scrub away. So then who was Arthur blaming for her loss if not him?

“Arthur, who the fuck is she?!” John finally snapped, words finally coming unstuck in his throat as his back was pressed against the wall. Arthur stumbled forward and furiously grabbed a fistful of his shirt, the sour smell of whiskey on his breath completely overwhelming this close.

“She deserved better than this, you selfish–,”

“Arthur, please. I don’t even know who you’re talking about, would you just tell me-”

“You killed her too!” More tears were sliding down Arthur’s face now. At such a close distance, John could see them glinting in the dim light as he was yanked forward by his shirt.

“Who, Arthur? Who did I kill?!”

“FAROE!”

“ARTHUR, WHO THE HELL IS FAROE?!”

It was like a gun had gone off in a crowded saloon. Arthur’s mouth closed so quickly that John almost swore he heard a tooth crack with the motion. Both of them were breathing heavily, and Arthur stared at John with an expression that melted from one emotion to the next like wax off a candle. From confusion to recognition to a look of such agonizing horror and grief that John’s heart broke at the sight of it. Arthur released John's shirt like it was a hot iron burning his hand and took an unsteady step backward, mumbling an apology about alcohol and short tempers, and John could see the beginnings of a fresh wave of tears bubbling up in Arthur’s eyes.

That name. Faroe. It clearly touched a nerve with Arthur, some old hurt he had never quite healed from, some loss that had never scarred over. It almost seemed to… scare him. John had never seen Arthur Lester so clearly terrified as he’d been in that moment, when the fog had cleared and he’d realized what he’d said. It made the hair at the back of John’s neck stand on end, made his jaw clench and his breath catch in his lungs. Anything that could scare Arthur like this… John couldn’t even begin to imagine what it might be.

Arthur swayed back and forth for a moment, a dead, brittle branch rocking in a great wind, until he finally snapped, falling gracelessly to the floor with a broken sob. John reached out, whether to catch him or comfort him he didn’t know, but stopped short. He had never been soft or gentle, never good at providing comfort to people who needed it. Never been comfortable with people crying or being vulnerable, but…

For Arthur, he would do it. He didn’t quite understand why, but it was the fact that it was Arthur Lester, a crumpled, sobbing mess on the floor before him, that convinced him to slowly lower himself to the floor beside him, listening to the choked sounds of his agony with a bleeding heart of his own.

Even then, John still hesitated to reach out. Connections only caused pain, he’d learned that the hard way. But he just couldn’t help himself. As much as he liked to be aloof and mysterious and pretend he was above human connection, he cared far too much for the people around him. For Yellow, Noel, Oscar, even Larson, in some fucked up way. For drunken, angry, grieving Arthur. It was the thing that always ended up getting him in trouble. But for Arthur…

John reached a careful hand around Arthur’s shoulders. “I… I’m so sorry, Arthur.” Even if he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, it was true. He was sorry Arthur had gone through something so painful, sorry that he was hurting now. Sorry he couldn’t fix it. Sorry he’d killed Parker.

To John’s surprise, Arthur leaned his head into his shoulder almost immediately, shivering with the force of his sobs, following the offer of comfort like he’d been starving for it. He smelled like cheap whiskey and salty tears and clung to John like he was an anchor in the white-water rapids of his grief.

It didn’t come naturally, at first, comforting Arthur. John’s spine was ramrod straight and his arms were stiff, his expression schooled carefully into something mildly pained but mostly indifferent. But Arthur took what he could get, clinging and sobbing and squeezing despite John’s stoicism. But the closer Arthur got, the more apparent it became that their bodies would fit together better if John just moved his leg here, held his arm here, shifted Arthur’s leg this way. The longer Arthur stayed, the more courage John’s hands had in moving, gently massaging the back of Arthur’s neck or running his fingers through his hair, stroking a light line up and down his spine. The same soothing motions he used for Akke, the ones he’d probably learned from a mother, somewhere, once upon a time. Some instinct buried deep in his subconscious, an instinct to care. Finally resurfaced by seeing Arthur Lester in need of it.

Eventually, Arthur had ended up halfway in John’s lap, legs thrown across John’s in a tangled sort of side saddle. His eyes were pressed into John’s neck, the last of his shuddering cries fanning across the skin there. John had graduated from soothing touches to soothing sounds, shhs and I knows and you’re alrights whispered into Arthur’s auburn hair. They’d been rocking back and forth, back and forth, slowly for the past long while. Finally, Arthur’s cries became hiccups, became shuddering breaths, until their little cabin was quiet again. There was a bluebird singing outside, somewhere.

“Arthur..?” John whispered, tentatively. Arthur inhaled sharply, his frown deepening. John held him tighter.

“Please don’t ask,” Arthur managed, near silent. “Please don’t–,” he hiccuped, on the verge of tears again, and John resumed his gentle ministrations in his hair, shushing him.

“I won’t, Arthur,” he soothed. He let his lips fall to the crown of Arthur’s head. Not a kiss, but something intentional nonetheless, punctuated by a puff of warm breath against his scalp. “I won’t ask.”