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A great deal of media will tell you that Black men can ONLY be strong, sexual, powerful beings. I’m here to tell you that Black men can be soft, can be cute, can be pretty, can be sweet, can be any adjective you usually don’t associate with Blackness and the perceived masculinity of it. It’s true, I assure you
Hero gets kidnapped by Villain and overtime Villain gets slowly freaked out by how Hero isnt fazed, and comes to learn Hero's trainers are really harsh and Hero has to do as told/directed
"Just what is the matter with you, Hero?"
Hero looked up at the villain, puzzled. "What do you mean?" They asked, annoyance evident in their voice. They just wanted to sleep, tucked into the soft, snug mattress Villain had provided them.
Villain really had the worst timings.
"Hurry it up. I'm trying to sleep."
"Exactly, and that's all you ever do these days. Besides eating, that is." The gall! When they had been the one to capture Hero in the first place!
"There's really not much else to do when you're chained by your ankle to a bedpost." They seethed. Why couldn't they just fuck off?
"That's not what I meant, dear," Hero chose to let the nickname slide. Villain could try to start banters all they want, Hero was simply too sleepy to engage.
"You've become so boring, Hero." They sighed, sitting down on the bed. "You don't scream, you don't fight, you haven't even tried to escape once," Their eyes bore into Hero's own. "Hell, you don't even ask about the outside world. What I've been up to, what your little friends have been upto."
Hero... didn't have an answer to that. The thought of their Agency, their Mentor- an uneasy feeling gnawed at their sides.
"You were so much more interesting when you actually had people to save. I have half a mind to just... let you go."
No.
"Shouldn't you be thankful?" They asked. "Why complain about a perfect captive?"
"That you are, Hero. But I don't want a perfect captive, I want you." Their face inched closer, and Hero had to remind themselves, it's fine, they still had their mask on, Villain couldn't possibly see the fear in their eyes.
Please, don't let me go back there.
"You do have me."
"I don't. I miss the tremble in your voice when you realized that you were completely overpowered, the shaking of your hands when you knew you had people behind you to protect, that mushy little brain of yours, fighting to figure out how to save them, how to escape me."
Villain was close. Impossibly close.
"Since you won't let me have those cute little mannerisms of yours anymore," they brought their hand up, "I guess I'll have to make do by seeing exactly what you hide behind your pretty little veil."
No, no, no!
Hero's hand grabbed Villain's before they could think. If the Agency found out their identity got compromised- no, anything but that!
But Villain, as always, was way faster and way stronger. They made short work of Hero- wrangling their hand out of Hero's grasp, they shoved the rattled hero down by their shoulders and pinned both their arms to their sides by their thighs. They couldn't move, couldn't think-
"Aw, no need to be self conscious, Hero," Hero could do nothing but stare at the predatory gleam on Villain's face, looming inches from their own. "I'm sure you are a gorgeous little thing.''
As the mask was peeled off, all they could feel was the cold, dreaded realization of what would happen to them once their Mentor found out.
Villain's wide eyes met Hero's watery ones.
"What the fuck?" Was all they could muster, for Hero's face, gorgeous as it was, was littered with bruises. Blue and black discoloration scattered across their delicate skin, coupled with cuts, old and new.
They tore open Hero's shirt, eliciting a strangled cry from Hero, only to realize that their body was the same, if not worse.
None of these marks were caused Villain's hand.
"Who did this to you?" Their voice was ice.
"N-no, please-"
"I'll ask you this one more time," they grabbed Hero's face, gently, and Hero had no choice but to look at the villain. "If I don't get an answer, I'll track down everyone you've been in contact with these past few weeks- no, months- every villain, every civilian, every single one of your friends, and I'll kill them all."
"So, for the last time, Hero, who did this to you?"
"M-Mentor... but p-please don't," they chocked out. "I-if you go after them... t-they'll definitely k-kill me-"
"I'll send my medics for you," they pressed their lips to Hero's forehead, and it was the softest touch Hero had ever felt.
"You've done so well for me, Hero," they whispered. "Don't you worry, they won't touch a hair on your head, once I'm through with them."
enemies to lovers but its not "who did this to you?" but its "I did this to you" bc damn in the moment it felt necessary but the cuts weren't supposed to be that deep. the lashes should have faded by now, right? why are they still limping? make your characters self reflect. burden them with guilt and regret :) imagine laying in bed with the person you grew to love, only for them to roll over in their sleep and for you to see the nettled scars you inflicted on them
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So we had my ghoap run into @mitrielle s duo from an alternate reality and then their Soap had some... interesting thoughts during a trip to the bar after said mission...
...and here´s what my Soap is thinking, also they are so drunk :3
Give me a whumpee so fierce, that when he locks eyes with the whumper and begins to slowly pull—whumper steps back, fearing irrationally that the restraints will fail.
Wes had left Seven alone in the kitchen to make coffee and breakfast for what must’ve been under five minutes, when he heard a loud shattering crash followed by a softer thud. He started, jerking his gaze up from his phone and rising from his spot on the couch.
“What the fuck did you do?” Wes’ voice boomed across the marble as he rounded the kitchen island, only to see a quickly growing brown spill sliding along the white floor. Large shards of broken ceramic scattered in the puddled coffee, and Wes’ eyes went wide when he made it fully around the corner and saw Seven, collapsed on his side, in a heap on the floor, just beyond the scene of the impact.
“Seven!” Wes called again, stepping over the spill towards the collapsed boy, but Seven ignored him. Wes kicked him harshly in the stomach, “Hey! Answer me,” he barked, but the strike only forced a low, pained groan from the servant, who had seemed to either not hear him or deliberately be ignoring him. Wes pressed a socked foot against Seven’s hip bone and gave him a firm shove, knocking his limp body onto his back.
“What the fuck!” Wes yelled, demanding some fucking answers—an apology, an explanation—something. When he got nothing but another pained sound, he leaned down, gripping Seven’s blonde hair in one hand and slapping his face with the other—once, twice—in an attempt to revive his attention. At last, Seven’s eyes blinked back open. His gaze seemed hazy and unfocused. His face was flushed red with heat.
Shit.
Wes wiped the sweat-slicked bangs off of Seven’s forehead and felt the skin beneath it with the back of his hand. The boy was absolutely burning up.
“Fuck me,” Wes mumbled to himself, heaving a deep resigned sigh as he realized the situation he’d created for himself.
Leaving the spilled espresso and the shattered cup on the kitchen floor for now, Wes hauled Seven’s lithe form up into a bridal style carry. The servant’s head lolled limply to the side to expose his neck and he groaned in that far-away sort of fashion you’d get from someone who doesn’t entirely know what's happening or where they are. That can’t be comfortable, Wes thought, upon seeing the awkward way Seven’s head dangled off the side of his bicep. Not that he typically gave Seven’s comfort much thought, but something about this felt different—it was a discomfort Wes hadn’t intended for.
God fucking dammit. Wes gave another begrudging sigh and carried his little servant back up the stairs to his bedroom.
He should’ve known the boy wouldn’t be able to handle it. Pushed him too far again, Wes. You fucking dumbass. Wes cursed that he’d have to clean up the espresso by himself now, if he didn’t want it to dry into a big sticky mess—he certainly didn’t—but he had to tend to the manner of his servant first. Wes had been the one to reduce Seven to this state after all.
Wes deposited Seven on the bed, genuinely trying not to be too rough with him this time, and Seven only gave a small groan in response. “Yeah, yeah,” Wes said with a wave of his hand, turning towards the attached bathroom.
“You feel like shit,” Wes grumbled to himself, opening the bathroom cabinet to rummage around until he found what he was looking for. A digital thermometer. A bottle of ibuprofen. He snatched a wash cloth off the towel rack and ran it under the cool tap water, giving it a firm squeeze once it was thoroughly soaked.
“Don’t… don’t feel.. good..” Seven whined softly when Wes returned to the bedroom. His limbs were all splayed out exactly where Wes had left him. It seemed Seven really had spent every last ounce of his energy—Wes had really wrung it all out of him, hadn’t he, just like he’d done to the washcloth in the sink. Wes tried to suppress the urge to mentally kick himself, but the cause and effect here was obvious. He really should’ve just let the damn kid sleep.
“Mmmnnn too hottt!” Seven whined louder, thrashing a bit, his words slurred like someone too many shots deep.
“Yeah, could you fucking wait a sec?” Wes snapped, trying and failing to keep the irritation from his voice.
He set the thermometer and the bottle on the bedside table, before folding the cool wet wash cloth in half and swiping Seven’s bangs up once more off of his face in order to lay the cloth on the servant’s burning forehead. Wes gave it a firm press to make sure it would stay in place, even if Seven moved around a bit.
Next, the thermometer. “Open,” Wes said, his voice low, as though he’d finally figured out that it wasn’t necessary nor welcome to project one’s voice at such close proximity. Seven’s lips were already parted as he panted slightly, his eyes half lidded and unfocused, and Wes took the opportunity to stick the metal tip right into Seven’s mouth.
“Close,” Wes felt his tone get a little firmer this time, and Seven obeyed, despite his distress. “Keep it under your tongue. You know the drill.”
Indeed, Seven did know the drill, for this was always the first thing to be done when he felt like this—too hot and too cold at the same time, body shaking slightly, random aches and pains all throughout his limbs. His brain was full of cotton and it hurt to think, so he just listened for when Wes’ voice told him to do something and tried to focus on doing it as well as he could. He couldn’t take any more punishment in this state and would do anything to avoid it.
Shit. The coffee—Seven suddenly remembered—he’d spilled the fucking coffee. Seven desperately wanted to open his mouth and apologize profusely, but knew if he parted his lips right now and the thermometer fell out, Wes would be even more angry with him. So he just let out a sad closed-lipped whine around the thermometer.
A few moments later, the thing started beeping loudly, and Wes pulled it from between Seven’s lips.
“Fuck my life,” Wes sighed. “Yeah, it’s a fever.” Guess I shouldn’t have kept him out all night. Wes felt a sharp tinge of regret in his chest, but he didn’t voice it. He needed Seven to believe that everything Wes did to him was always deserved. It was easier that way, to pretend it was all on purpose, all according to his design. But getting him sick had genuinely been an accident. Having Seven out of commission did nothing but make Wes' life more inconvenient.
“I…I’m sorry, I’msorry, Sir—” Seven whimpered out the string of apologies, hoping Wes would have mercy on him for once.
Wes just scoffed, and turned without a word, walking back into the bathroom to wash off the tip of the thermometer. Once it was put away, he picked up a glass on the counter and filled it with cool tap water.
“Gotta get some of these pills in you,” Wes said, his mouth full of gravel as he walked back into the bedroom. “I don’t have a straw up here, so you gotta sit up, Seven.” He punctuated his last few words so they would register as an order to his servant’s likely half-delirious brain.
Seven’s head indeed was swimming, thick and hot with fever, but he heard the order to sit up and managed to tuck a bent elbow beneath him to prop himself up. He whined a little as he forced himself upright—the sort of sound one might let out when their first morning alarm went off.
Wes put the cup in Seven’s other hand, and when he was sure the boy wouldn’t instantly drop it, he released his grip to shake three pills out of the ibuprofen container. He held them up to Seven’s face and his servant’s lips parted without being asked, tilting his head back just slightly so Wes could drop the pills into his mouth. Wes let one hand hover beneath the glass as Seven lifted it to his lips, just in case he suddenly fucking dropped it, and took it back when Seven had swallowed all the pills.
Task complete, Seven let himself collapse back down to the bed sheets once more. “Alright,” Wes set the glass on the side table. “I’ve gotta go clean up the fucking mess you made downstairs,” Wes grunted, turning towards the hallway.
“You’re fucking welcome by the way!” Wes called out on his way out the door.
Seven managed a weak “Th-thank you.. Sir…” before Wes disappeared down the hall and Seven’s eyes slipped shut once more.
༻✦༺
Some of you know what is coming next.. im excited :>
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Riley with food issues after his childhood and Roba.
He doesn't eat in the mess unless he cooked the food himself in secret, after everyone is gone. Maybe he made an agreement with kitchen staff so he can even use everything there.
He doesn't accept snacks or meals from anyone unless he trusts them (and he rarely truly trusts someone enough).
Riley who doesn't eat unless it's a pre-packaged MRE or something he made himself, because he doesn't fucking trust the food not to be spoiled or spiked. He's lived through enough, and sometimes things smell funny or look wrong when he focuses on the food too much.
If you're still accepting those oc asks; 6 17 26 30 35 for the goth boy please!
6: smth they dont like about themselves
Hm, he has that bone deep hatred that comes with being depressed. The incapability of finding happiness and just letting himself enjoy things, of feeling like he is wrapped in plastic and needs to be drunk or high to be able to escape that enjoy the time he has.
17: How did they learn to fight?
Well he can't fight formally but he can throw a punch I guess. He's just a trouble magnet, been in street fights their whole life, ignored themselves with dangerous people and, even since he was a teenager than into adulthood. Obviously Orfeu is comparable to someone with formal training in fights, and frankly he isn't even that strong, his main advantage is being very durable and vicious as hell. He doesn't hold back nor does he really worry about fighting dirty.
26: Allergies?
Cat and dog hair. He's not super found of animals.
30: their most embarrassing moment. What happened and what age
He doesn't feel that much shame or embarrassment really, just kinda shrugs and moves on.
35: ABSOLUTE LEAST FAV PERSON
Oh he dislikes so many people. His father is at the top of the list. But he also fucking loathes IF and people around them on that YouTube circle. He resents his mother too, and many of his foster families, the workers of his case, everyone he feels failed him.
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