#at least in killer mode

[melodious-tear]

"As usual, I melted the dead body. It's clean and tidy." - Zeng Shunxi as Madman in Line Walker 3 (Bull fight)

[aa-ensemble-smackdown]

ok some personal speculation here Im gonna type a bunch of meaningless tags so you have to expand them to look. pls dont look if you havent already voted in round 3

[arolesbianism]

Mid patch but on the bright side new salmon run specials and on the brighter side kraken specifically I think we've found our new best survivability tool

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic! Danny AU- Pt. 7

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4] [Pt.5] [Pt.6] [Pt.8] [Pt.9] [Pt.10]

“I’m having a child.”

Danny stared at Batman.

“…Uh, congrats?”

Batman whips out a stack of paper and a pen. “It’s you. Sign here and initial the highlighted spots.”

Danny instinctively, from years of dealing with Vlad, whacked the stack right out of Batman’s hands and into the bay. He doesn’t even feel bad about littering this time because, “Begone, fruitloop!”

Wait, no, that’s not what he meant.

“I mean- I have parents!”

“Not for long.” Batman muttered and then did a double take. “You have parents? How?”

Danny gasped, placing a hand on his chest to clutch his metaphorical pearls. He ignored Batman’s mutters. Everyone knows the vigilante has an adoption problem. At least, everyone who lived in Gotham did, as everyone who didn’t was somehow convinced that he “worked alone” or some bullshit like that. “Are you naturally this insensitive or were you dropped on your head as a baby? Obviously I had to come from somewhere.”

“They’re still… alive?”

“And kicking,” Danny said, inching away from yet another rich weird guy trying to adopt him. “Mostly the kicking part, though.” He said, remembering the sparring sessions. His mom could kick his as six ways to Sunday with nothing but jiu-jitsu and still have time to work in the lab.

“I see.”

“I’m charging you extra for the emotional upheaval. I have trauma regarding rich people trying to adopt me.”

Batman sullenly handed over a thousand.

“Sweet. There’s a group of shades down here asking if you could find their murderer. Apparently the serial killer is still at large.” Danny pointed.

“Of course. Tell me everything.”

The adoption papers disappeared as Batman went into detective mode.

Danny shoved the cash into his glowing chest and breathed a sigh of relief. He needed to make rent this month so it was a windfall running into Batman.

——

“Hey, Tim?”

Tim woke up from his Power Nap. “Huh?”

“Phantom’s complaining that Batman kept trying to adopt him.”

Tim blinked. “Uh.. what does that have to do with me?”

Danny stared at him, a patiently amused smile on his face. “Just in case the rumor about the Wayne’s sugar-daddy-into the Bats was a thing. Other than that, we might have to confront Batman to get him off of Phantom’s back. ”

“You… want to confront Batman.”

“Hey, man, Phantom’s a friend and it’s ride or die.” Danny snickered. It was literally die, with his Phantom side of things. He held two fists up, and wound them, like Popeye right after eating spinach or something. “And if Batman bothers Phantom, we ride at dawn.”

“Batman doesn’t come out unless it’s dark, though? Or for the Justice League.” Tim grinned. He mentally classified Danny under his “to go to” list. That’s where Bart, Bernard, Cassie, Kon, and Garfield were. If he starts shit, he could count on them to have his back and cause even more shit. Danny, wanting to fistfight Bruce over the man making Phantom uncomfortable? He absolutely is making that list.

“Then we ride at, like, dusk. Or uh, like 10PM. I gotta get my beauty sleep.”

“You’ll definitely need it,” Tim inconspicuously texted the group chat, which quickly blew up.

“Shut up,” Danny playfully shoved Tim. “Wait, can Batman even legally adopt? Isn’t being a vigilante illegal? And how can he adopt someone dead?”

Tim dramatically flailed and splayed over Danny’s carpeted living room. “Dunno about his identity,” he lied to Danny, like a liar. “But Gotham has a bunch of laws for the undead/restored to life people so there’s probably enough gray space there.”

Danny spluttered. “You guys have undead friendly laws?”

“Yeah, geht do you think Grundy just chills out? Plus, we have like a minor resurrection event every few years. It usually doesn’t stick but sometimes it does. Bruce pushed for those laws when Jason came back to life, except he doesn’t actually want people to know he’s like, alive.”

“Jason died?” Danny blinked. Well, that would explain the vibes. “Huh. So what’s up with his rank vibes then?”

“Rank vibes?” Tim pressed record on his phone.

Danny nodded. “Yeah, you know how Phantom’s got like a really chill green vibe?” Inwardly, Danny snickered at his pun. Chill. Yeah, he meant that very literally. “Jason’s got kind of a rank green vibe. He’s kind of stinky? Definitely never introduce him to Phantom.” Danny’s senses got worse in his ghost form.

“Jason regularly showers, though?!”

“Not smell! Like, a spiritual smell?”

“You can smell souls?!” Tim sat up. “Bro, you’re a meta?!”

“Uh.” Danny hesitated. “Yeah. I can smell souls. It’s a thing. Everyone from my town can do it.”

“What?!” Tim paused. “Wait, can Phantom smell souls?”

“Yeah. We’re, uh, from the same town.”

“Danny, what the fuck?”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that, you’re the one with a soul-sick brother! Not to mention, you’re kinda stinky too!”

“Hey!”

“Soul-stinky nerd man!”

——

“I stink?!” Jason spluttered out, extremely offended.

“The Lazarus pits. He’s most likely smelling traces of Lazarus pit on you, you imbecile.”

“We need to speak to Phantom. This instant.”

“I dunno, B. Danny sounded like he was gonna break your face if you bothered Phantom anymore.” Dick snickered.

“Yeah,” Tim chimed in, from his seat in front of the Bat-computer. “He was pretty serious.”

“Are we just gonna glaze over the fact that they’re from the same town?!” Stephanie exclaimed, practicing her moves on a training dummy.

“How does that even work? What does that mean? I thought Phantom was an immortal?” Duke asked.

“We also can’t rule out time-travel.” Barbara slammed her baton into a training dummy, twisting her wheelchair in an agile maneuver that left the dummy on the floor.

“No bothering Phantom.” Cass proclaimed.

“That’s quite right. You all have a warm dinner sitting above your cave and should it remain uneaten, I assure you that sherbet Sunday and crêpe Tuesday shall be canceled.” Alfred stepped in. The Bats, threatened, scrambled to ditch their gear and go upstairs.

[2kiran]

“CAMERAS / GOOD GHOSTS INTERLUDE”

PAIRING: Ghostface x Reader Reader and Ghostface are men. KINKTOBER CW: SMUT, filming, #1 warnings: ghostface and his casual degradation, blood mention, blowjob (receiving), humiliation kink, teeth-kiss to your d., mild praise

“Look at the camera, baby. Look. At. The. Camera.”

Ghostface huffed in response, his arms obediently staying behind his back. He angles his head in a way that portrays he was staring into the lens, and you catch a glimpse of his chin just below his eternally screaming mask. With the instrument in the palm of your hand, you had evidence of his haunting arrival.

Actual blackmail against the cold-hearted, driven-by-bloodlust killer.

But you think you won’t use it any time soon. Not that it’s currently necessary.

You could barely fathom the whole ordeal, down to the tiniest detail. It was unbelievable. Ghostface was on his knees, his lips curving into a pout as his snark dies on the very tip of his petulant tongue. Additionally, his mouth was inches away from. . .your cock. Fucking hell, have you gone batshit?

Receiving a nasty, sloppy blowjob from him out of everyone you could’ve chosen past midnight wasn’t exactly ideal. Mostly due to how blood spatter clung to his wear, and who knows if it’s his or someone else’s—

The flat of his tongue drags a looong, stripe along your weeping tip. “At least pay attention to me. Is my mouth not enough for a filthy thing like you?” He’s speaking as though you’re bringing him physical harm, but you figure that’s the way he is.

Wrenching your hand into the fabric surrounding the back of his head, you yank him forward until his lips were stretched around the top of your cock. “Shut up,” you command lowly, letting out a shaky gasp as he swallows you in repeatedly in an attempt not to gag, “Look good for me. C’mon.”

That’s the resemblance of a warning you give him, not even close, before the recording begins. Ghostface swears his heart unlocks an unknown door and flees his mortal body at the familiar click, a feeling he’s unable to identify crawling up his chest and sinks into his cheeks. Almost suffocating him with the feeling and by all means, he’s so fucking turned on.

It’s embarrassing. He couldn’t be caught like this. You won’t seriously have that file uploaded. Right?

He redirects his attention towards breathing properly. Then, he runs his tongue up and down a vein, easing himself into the taste of you. The scent of you.

Shit, what is he doing? He barely knows you—a surprising first occurrence—and yet...

Ghostface squeezes his thighs shut, trying to chase after some relief. Drool piles in his mouth, acting as a lubricant for him to take in more of your pulsing dick. He groans, sending vibrations that makes you accidentally stop the recording. It had went on for two minutes—that’s something.

You click on for the flash, letting it spring upwards in place, then you take a picture. He’s startled by the light, and you suddenly feel his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. You have half a mind to jerk, but you definitely don’t need him biting you.

Instead, you simply put on the record mode again. It certainly doesn’t take long for you to feel him slowly sucking you as an apology, his own cock throbbing in his pants when you don’t react to the pain. He probably appeared as some useless slut to you, something that he isn’t. The thought alone has a whine creep into his throat, but he’s not going to let you hear that.

You bring the camera closer to his masked face, capturing the way his saliva coats your length. “There we go,” you sigh, watching him sink more of you into his pretty little mouth, “That’s a good boy, Ghost. Mnn, hhfuck, that’s a good boy.”

The sound of your voice. . .he wonders how you’ll feel inside of h—oh, he’s hooked.

[moonydustx]

another day, another thought (a smutty one)

(Sorry for mistakes, this has been drafted for so long that I confess I didn't pay attention to proofreading)

(I added jujutsu kaisen characters because I'm still obsessed, let me know if you'd prefer me to separate the content)

MDNI | Minors do not interact

--

You were the most precious thing to him.

You were a comfort on stressful days, a breath of air every time the sea seemed to pull him under. The way you loved each other was no different. Slow thrusts, hands sliding down your body, sweet praises sang in your ear every time you felt him deeper inside you. You are like a goddess on top of him, riding him and allowing your hands to trace delicious patterns over his skin.

"You're so good, so beautiful. I could stay here all day."

"Do you have one more for me? Please, babe, just give me one more."

"Open that pretty mouth… That's it, nice and slow. You fucking love it, don't you?"

Sometimes they thought about what it would be like to ruin you, what it would be like to see your red ass slapped, tears falling from your eyes as he fucked you.

But after filling you, the way your eyes seemed lost, your body panting and a simple touch seemed to take you to ecstasy. Damn, that was already too much. You were already too much.

Killer, Katakuri, Mihawk (hear me out all goth aside, he's sweet), Sanji, Kaku, Rayleigh, Ace, Usopp (OP), Nanami, Higuruma, Choso (JJK)

You were his girl.

Hand in hand through the streets, two companions for any situation, two fearless souls ready to do anything. You were his fearless girl, except when you were alone. Alone you were his whore he dominated you and you didn't bother to complain. Asking for more and more as he left you hanging on the edge. Tears down your face as he thrust hard, your legs hanging against his shoulders as you could barely breathe.

"You can take it like a good girl, huh? Or you'd rather be a little whore. My little whore of my own."

"I want to see you make a mess, cum for me."

The sound of the slaps on your ass echoed, yet on all fours towards him you tried to seek even more contact. It didn't take long for your honey to spread all over the bed and your legs to weaken. Feeling him cum inside you, his body soon appeared on your back.

"Such a good girl. You did very well sweetheart."

Crocodile (he is the owner of this category), Smoker, Rob Lucci, Kid, Bartolomeo, Paulie (OP), Toji (JJK)

You were the apple of his eye.

For anyone looking, it was difficult to understand the relationship between the two of you. You were always in places together, but it was difficult to decide if you actually had something. But you had, at least between the two of you. There were times when, after a difficult night, you ended up in each other's beds. Sometimes just looking for a slower pace, for deep thrusts filled with wet kisses. Other times, the two of you were just after each other's orgasms. The noise of his skin against yours echoed, your hair was pulled and you moaned without worrying about who might hear.

"I missed you so much, I won't let you get out of this bed."

"Hold it a little. That pussy squeezing me, fuck… I need to cum with you. Hold it a little, can you hold it a little? I want to feel you cum with me."

Sometimes it was missing each other, sometimes it was stress, sometimes it was jealousy. There would always be an excuse, a feeling and a desire that would drag you to their bed.

"Can you stay here for the night? I'm not done with you yet."

"You're going to leave me full of hickeys." "At least that idiot friend of yours will know you have an owner." "Owner?" "You still don't understand, do you?"

Law, Zoro, Shanks, Franky, Luffy, Sabo (most of the time he goes into crazy sex mode) (OP), Gojo, Geto (JJK)

--

oh my god so many tags sorry

a/n: Would you add anyone else? Let me know!

[campbell-rose]

Alastor Redesign

Omg there’s like over 70 people following me – guys I'm o///O flattered and flabbergasted. 

Anyway, onto today’s main event, Alastor. I hate Alastor’s og design, I hate his twig waist and his shoulder pads and the way you can’t see his antlers next to his ears, and his bow tie ugh viv please and his HAIR what even is that??? Not even mentioning that nothing about his design is really like a focal point. There’s no one thing that’s particularly interesting. At least before this he had that cathedral window looking cross on his undershirt that I found interesting. Nothing about his says he’s from the 1930’s other than dialogue. 

I wanted him to be in greyscale because that’s the coolest aesthetic, and colored photos weren’t a thing until way after the 30s. Recently I saw jjk, and Jogo’s teeth threw me because at some points I thought he was just straight up toothless. But then when I started this design, that colored tooth look spoke to me. Initially his teeth were yellow to look gross like he never brushes them, but then I was like ‘ayo wait, he’s literally a cannibal’, thus his vibrant red teeth to really pop against his greyscale. Initially his undershirt was white, but I feel like that was too much contrast and white is typically innocence, so by instead having a deep red it shows he’s just straight up bloodthirsty underneath his formal appearance. I also considered it being black, but then he looked like a pastor, and I wasn’t too much of a fan of it. The idea of the red on his design is that it leads your eye down his design to take it all in, with his face being the focus. I gave him glasses because I like the way it obscures his eyes a bit and I imagine they do the anime thing where they glow and hide his eyes. I liked Viv’s idea of sinners having marks where they died, and I slicked his hair back to show it off very prominently. His antlers are larger, I gave him cute lil deer ears. Also, under his suit he is lowkey buff. I feel like a serial killer should at least look physically capable of taking someone down not whatever the fuck viv’s nasty twig men can do. Like, in that comic with the cute sheep girl, when Alastor goes demon mode his body looks so snappable I just wanna like grab his waist in my hands and break it like a twig. I also tried to keep his design simple as if this were for animation, I know pinstripes are complicated and so are antlers but other than that I tried to keep his design basic. 

If I were to rewrite him based solely on the pilot, I honestly wouldn’t change a thing. Alastor is a decent character, his voice actor gives him life, the radio filter is cool, and nothing he did made me want to break my screen (ANGELDUST). The only thing I'd change would be his position in hell. Like, viv’s hell is so wack and I hate it, she’s got the princes, then the goetia and the overlords and then sinners and blah blah, it’s a lot to keep track of, not even mentioning the rings and circles thing. I think Alastor should have had dealings with hell as a human, maybe he routinely did sacrifices or something, and he made a deal with the archdemon Alastor and when he died like... uuhhhhhhh. Maybe through connections he’s gained more power? Idk, I just know I hate the idea of his dying and then having like the bestest most powerful demon powers despite not being hellborn. It’s got this mary sue stench. I’ll figure it out, maybe, who knows. 

I’m not gonna start rewriting since there’s nothing to go off of and alter yet, so that’s gonna have to wait until the show actually drops before anything concrete happens lol. 

Also the sheep girl is a sinner that reoccurs in the show now so sorry I don’t make the rules, you can’t give me a cute sheep girl and try to take her away, I’m gonna redesign her and shove her into the plot as someone looking for redemption at the hotel

[mamawasatesttube]

ok i put a longer post abt tim's Emotional State in drafts for when my brain is less melted but re: tim and going to college im just gonna get a lil silly with it. hear me out.

i have this whole vague story in my mind for tim's college days moonlighting as red robin as he tries and figures out what he wants out of life. (it's a while after rr leaves off and all because he's like. Super Depressed for a hot minute and then has to drag himself through actually bothering to get his GED and applying to college, etc., but eventually lucius is like hey. you're great with gadgets, and you clearly love tinkering. i'd hire you for r&d in a heartbeat but you need at the least a bachelor's of engineering. i know you have a lot of the technical skills, but you need a degree. so tim goes ugh fine i'll get a goddamn engineering degree how hard can it possibly be.)

anyways. i think it's a universal experience that if you go to college and you hang with the STEM crowd, you will unfortunately get to know at least one Fucking Guy. it's like brentwood arc; tim does make friends, but there is just this One Fucking Guy he cannot stand and will never stand. this Fucking Guy is in the common room playing his guitar at midnight. he's drunk and yelling and laughing really loud when people have exams coming up. he's convinced everyone adores him. there's also a detective/supernatural plot going on. the subplot is just that tim hates This Fucking Guy.

at some point, there's a story beat where he as red robin has to rescue That Fucking Guy from a real dicey situation, and That Fucking Guy is really shaken and grateful to him, and he's like okay. maybe. maybe we are making progress. but then the next time he encounters This Fucking Guy as tim drake, the guy is just like. "ohhhh hey drake you missed it last night, it was AWESOME!!! i had to save red robin from a KILLER ROBOT. he's pretty cool though i guess. i bet you wish you could be more like him huh??" and tim is just. I Will Not Grind My Teeth About This. I Will Not. his life is a fucking joke. he dismantles the toaster oven in the common room kitchen to cope. it's definitely to cope and not just so that That Fucking Guy won't be able to heat up his pop tarts in the morning.

at another point, This Fucking Guy looks at street mode, lowkey, unremarkable Normal Car-looking redbird and goes, aw, dude, i thought your dad is loaded?? he only got you a generic-ass sedan?? that sucks lol, if you want we can take my car down to the game instead. and tim is just Say One More Fucking Word About My Baby I Dare You I Fucking Dare You One More Fucking Word.

(also i like to toy with the idea of this being a university in metropolis - he's out of gotham, but not too far. keeps him from getting antsy about what if he's needed because he can get right back over there. and in the meantime, he can hang out with kon and kara a lot, and occasionally enable and be enabled by lois lane and her snooping habits. there's another subplot in which tim and lois get up to shenanigans. at least once.)

it's sort of an introspective thing of him trying to come to terms with the way he no longer wants a fully normal life the way he always used to assume he would - he has the option to walk away from the cape now, like he always thought he would one day, but he just can't give it up anymore. he's fallen into the same black hole he watched dick and bruce dive headlong into. it's also about him finding joy in tinkering and working with his hands and getting to spend more time as tim drake first and foremost. and it's about him venting to kon about That Fucking Guy while they have a lil picnic on the green while kon loses his absolute shit laughing. all against the backdrop of a little mystery or something. <3

OH and also, most importantly. zoanne wilkins is there and laughing at him for assuming college would be easy. and kon gets her into wendy the werewolf stalker. My City Now.

[a-killer-obsession]

Doctor's Orders [Law x Reader]

🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞

Your skull-splitting headache has you coming to the ship's doctor for help, and he is happy to treat you. 

CW: sexual roleplay, doctor/patient, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, afab reader

WC: 1634

Masterlist || AO3

You flopped down onto the couch in Law's office, pinching the bridge of your nose and groaning. You had an awful headache, and pain killers just weren't cutting it. 

“I think I need a doctor,” you muttered. 

“Headache?” he asked, only glancing up from his book long enough to see the way you were holding your head. 

“Mmm”

“Have you drunk any water today?” 

“ Have you drunk any water today? ” you repeated in a mocking tone, “thanks for the groundbreaking medical info, mister surgeon of death, yes I've drunk water.” 

He grunted at you, a mixture of annoyance and amusement. He put down his book and walked to the couch, leaning slightly to put the back of his hand on your forehead.

“No fever at least,” he said, “is everything else okay? No nausea or anything?” 

“Nah just this absolutely skull-splintering headache,” you said rubbing your head, “it's like someone is crushing my head” 

“Any other pain?” he asked, he had a theory but he needed a little more evidence, “maybe in your neck or shoulders?” 

“Mmm, I guess they are a bit tender”

“Hmm, sounds like a tension headache,” he said, reaching for your shoulder and massaging it, “your shoulders feel pretty tight, does this feel like it's helping?”

“Mmm..” you were a little surprised at how casually he was touching you, it's all just practical though , you sighed to yourself. Maybe you could take advantage of this situation though. “Yeah I think it's maybe helping, maybe if it was both shoulders?” 

He definitely didn't realize he was falling into your trap as you lent forward so he could sit on the arm of the couch behind you and rub both shoulders at once. His mind was very much in doctor mode. You gave a little satisfied coo as he used his strong, tattooed hands to knead your shoulders. 

“You're probably just really in need of some stress relief,” he said, “your muscles feel pretty wound up right now.” 

“Yeah well that's what happens when the ship hasn't landed on an island with decent men in two months.”

He was quiet and his hands stopped moving, you bit your lip. Whoops, too much info maybe.

“Do you… do you want help with that?” he asked hesitantly, “I mean… it would help with the headache”

In truth, he was experiencing a dry spell of his own, and could definitely do with some stress relief. You were a little shocked that he would be so forward. You didn't even think he thought of you that way, frankly you'd given up any hope of getting your hands on his muscular body. 

“What are you saying, doctor?” you teased, turning around and kneeling on the couch, putting your face very close to his. “Is that your professional opinion? I would be silly to refuse your well honed medical advice.” 

He smirked, the doctor's brain was shut off now, and he finally realized you were definitely flirting with him. The way you were positioned he could see right down your shirt as it hung from you, and your tits were on full display for him. He took no shame in letting you watch as his eyes hovered over them. 

“Yes, definitely,” he said, moving towards you with a gentle hand on your tummy so you would fall back against the couch, as he slid himself between your legs, “tension headaches are no laughing matter, I'm going to have to treat you right away” 

“Of course doctor,” you said coyly, spreading your legs so he could hover over you, his face now inches from yours. 

You didn't get a chance to say anything else before his lips came crashing down against yours with a fiery kiss, his tongue taking no time before slipping between your lips to fight against yours. You moaned into his mouth and he grinded his quickly forming erection against you, and he grabbed your thigh and held it tight as you wrapped one leg around him. 

He finally pulled away, panting as he pulled you upright. “I'm going to need to do a full physical exam,” he growled, “take off your clothes, now” 

You grinned at how bossy he was being, it made arousal pool between your legs, and you didn't hesitate to stand and start removing your clothes. You stood in front of him, taking off each piece one by one, slowly teasing him as he sat back on the couch. He sat with his legs wide, his arms reaching out along the top of the couch. His pants sported a clear bulge as he watched you undress with hungry eyes. When you finally removed your panties he lifted one hand, and beckoned with one finger for you to come closer. 

He pulled your naked body in to straddle his lap and twisted his fingers through your hair, tilting your head slightly to expose your neck to him as his other hand held the small of your back. He nipped and sucked at it, leaving possessive marks behind as you rolled your hips against him. You felt no shame knowing the marks would probably stick, you would wear them with pride. You leaned back to give him space as his mouth trailed downwards. 

“So important to get regular exams,” he said, muffled against your breast as he took one in his hand, and the other in his mouth. Your hips jutted against him as he fondled you and played with your nipples. 

“Of course doctor,” you said between soft moans. 

After making sure both breasts had been thoroughly ‘examined’ by both his hand and mouth, he grabbed your waist and laid you back against the couch, pulling your legs up so one hooked over the couch, and the other he held up by your thigh. Your wet cunt was now fully on display for him. 

“I'm going to need to examine you here too,” he said, dipping his head between your legs and licking a fat swipe of your cunt. You whined as his mouth found your clit, rubbing circles with his talented tongue and tugging at it. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled against your pussy, “you taste so fucking good” 

He grunted as he ate you out, one of your hands threading through his hair while the other held on to the couch. 

He slipped a finger inside you under his chin, followed quickly by a second. “Internal exam,” he said coyly between licks, “gotta be thorough” 

Your hold on his hair tightened as he finger fucked you, and he looked up at you with a grin as he felt you tighten around his fingers. You came hard, keeping eye contact with him, your body shaking and your arousal soaking into the couch cushion. He pulled his fingers out and gave one last stripe with his tongue before standing up. 

You watched, breathing hard, as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off. Then with bated breath you watched as he slid his shoes off and as he unzipped his pants, pulling them down to reveal his thick erection. Precum split from the almost purple tip, the skin on the length slightly darker than the skin on the rest of his body. He walked over to his desk and pulled a box of condoms from the drawer, unwrapping one and sliding it on to his cock. 

“You keep condoms in here?” you asked quizzically as you watched him. 

“Of course I do,” he said as he walked back to you, “I'm a doctor, I've got like 20 boxes in there, I'm not about to let my crew knock each other up” 

You didn't question it any further as he removed his pants fully and settled himself back between your legs. “I'm not sure the internal exam was thorough enough,” he smirked, his lips brushing against your ear as he laid over you, the head of his cock pressing against your wet, needy entrance. “I'm going to have to use a different instrument” he said, as he slid inside you. 

He grunted as he bottomed out and your legs wrapped around him. He took no time in fucking you hard, he'd already made sure to give you your release, now he was hunting for his own. Your moans were loud, you didn't care who might walk past and hear, his marks were going to be left on you anyway. 

“Good girl,” he growled in your ear as he rut in to you, “such an obedient patient, so tight and wet for me” 

 You came hard again at his praises, squeezing your legs tight around him. A few more heavy thrusts and he hit his own climax, stilling and growling as he emptied himself. 

“Fuck,” he grunted as he laid back down on you. 

You relaxed your legs, letting one flop off the side of the couch, as he caught his breath against you. You both stayed like that for a minute, and he pulled out before he grew too soft. 

Once he caught his breath he stood up, disposing of the condom and cleaning himself off, before returning to the couch and sitting in a similar position to when he had been watching you undress. You laid back, shuffling your ass towards him so your head could rest against the arm of the couch, and resting your legs on his lap. 

“How's your head feeling?” he asked, idly stroking your leg. 

“Fuck, its actually better,” you said, rubbing your head where the pain had previously been, “damn you're a good doctor” 

“Let me know if you need a repeat on that treatment,” he laughed, resting his head against the back of the couch. 

“Oh, I will absolutely not hesitate to let you know,” you teased, raising one leg and rubbing his thigh with your foot. 

[daddy-deathslinger]

Can you do a Deathslinger / Knight / Oni / Ghostface with a thick s/o who is so strong that their perk is to literally carry their survivor friends while they heal? And during trial, when the killer sees an injured survivor, they were about to snatch them when they got accidentally lifted up and carried off by their s/o, who mistaken them due to a blindness effect perk?

Bonus if the injured survivor shout out, “WRONG PERSON” and when the effects wore off, s/o realizes they’re carrying the killer with ease

Howdy there! I hope you like what I came up with, needless to say the killers react waaay differently to this happening...

The Deathslinger/Caleb Quinn with a buff s/o

You’ve always been strong, and since entering the Entity’s realm your strength seems to have almost doubled. 

You have thus taken it upon yourself to be the protector of your fellow survivors, always putting their safety before your own.

So, as you see Meg helplessly bleeding behind a barn during one trial, you run towards her, ready to help. 

Suddenly the world seems to turn into some kind of haze, and Meg’s silhouette becomes harder to distinguish in the fog. But you find her and pick her up with ease.

“What in tarnation?!” 

That doesn’t sound like Meg at all, but you make a run for it with her on your back nonetheless. Time is running short, she needs to be healed, she needs help-

“WRONG PERSON, Y/N!”

That’s Meg.

You stop, dropping the person you held on your back to the ground. And then you see who it is.

“Caleb!” you exclaim in surprise, the killer squirming on the ground in embarrassment. “Caleb, I’m so sorry, I thought you were-”

“I know who ya thought I was”, Caleb mutters as he gets up quickly. “Let’s just… start this whole trial over, shall we?”

The Knight/Tarhos Kovács with a buff s/o

Tarhos is a strong man, but he doesn’t mind that you’re stronger than him.

Ofcourse, what he minds has its limits.

Like if he, during a trial, sends out his scouts, and they return empty handed. He growls in anger and goes scouting himself.

It takes him some time, but he eventually finds a coward that he injures! He hunts the coward, their screams of agony and fear brings him so much excitement and he can almost taste their blood and-

Suddenly, he feels himself being picked up from the ground.

The hunt is interrupted as someone, without any trouble at all, carries him away from his prey.

He shrieks in anger, waving with his arms in the air. The prey is left standing, just watching, and in the distance he can hear his scouts laugh.

“Shit, babe, I’m so sorry!”

He’s being put down, at last. His captor reveals themselves to be none other than his dear lover. 

“I-I didn’t see you, I mistook you for… Shit, I’m so sorry!”

This? Yeah, this he minds.

The Oni/Kazan Yamaoka with a buff s/o

Kazan is a strong and muscular man. He has fought many battles and killed mercilessly.

So when he met you, he knew he finally had found his equal. In strength, at least.

He likes training you, making use of your strengths to fight him.

So when, during one trial, things go a bit adrift, he’s confused.

It starts off as any trial, Kazan hunts and they run. He injures, and drinks their blood. He puts them on hooks and reap the rewards.

But this trial, things go different. He blinds them all with the perk that the Entity has blessed him with, and he has the high ground now. Nothing can stop him now-

Suddenly, as he’s about to go into rage mode and attack them all, someone picks him up with ease.

How? What? Who??

“Shit! Kazan!” he hears his lover exclaim, as he is abruptly dropped to the ground with a loud “FTUNK!”

He remains on the ground, just staring up at you in confusion. You stammer out an apology and ask him if he’s mad at you for ruining his moment.

Mad? How could he be mad? You’re strong, you’re powerful, you’re everything that Kazan admires. He’s never gonna let you go.

The Ghostface/Danny Johnson with a buff s/o

You know that Danny dislikes being the smaller person in the relationship, physically. He doesn’t feel too good about you being stronger than him, either.

And one trial, what can’t happen happens. 

It must have been the blindness effect, you don’t know what else could have caused it. You just wanted to help Kate!

You picked her up, as you always do when your friends need to heal and be on the move at the same time.

She was alot louder than usual when you did, though.

“For fuck’s sake, put me down Y/N!!!!”

Hmm…

He’s not gonna let you live this down, is he?

[jeewrites]

🌈 Sunshine & Rainbows 🌈

Pairing: Dave York x f!reader Equalizer 2 AU: What if Dave survives the fall from the watchtower?

WC: 10.1k (whoopsies) Rated: Explicit, minors do not interact

Content/Warnings: Dave is divorced from Carol (no kids), reference to previous smut, Dave gets a few nicknames, reader is also an assassin but sassy, reader has a nickname and hair that can be pulled, mention of traumatic injuries to Dave, medical jargon, discussion of physical therapy, stalking/murder/torture not described, please remember I had to google “How to preserve an eyeball” for this fic, is murder a love language?, arson, treadmill hate, use of daddy just once, no y/n

A/N: My first Dave fic and my first fic challenge! I got ‘amnesia’ to pair with Dave for @burntheedges's Roll-A-Trope Challenge! I had so much fun trying to wrap my head around Dave as someone who leans towards fluff and feels, so I hope you enjoy my take on our favorite murder daddy. Thank you to @bloviating-vy for being the best beta-reader and encouraging me to write fics in the first place. Dividers by @saradika-graphics. Roll a Trope Masterlist

It’s the pain that wakes him. Every part of his body screams. The tight stretch of skin, itchy and hot. Bruises to the bone. Bones shattered. The sun shines too bright despite the curtains. The increasing beep of the monitor is too loud. How is it possible to hurt like this?

He hears the shuffle of footsteps and the murmur of voices just above the screaming of his body before a shadowy figure appears. He can sense them to his left, but not see them. Is this how he dies? Drowsiness steamrolls him and he slips back to a blissful drug-induced unconsciousness.

It’s been 48 and a half hours and no check-in from Dave. You stare at the burner phone, willing it to beep or ring. Anything. But there is no text. No call. Just the flick and snap as you flip the phone open and close.

Dave has never, ever missed a check-in. Has he come close to the 48-hour deadline after an op? Sure. But never late. And never this late.

You’re not exactly in panic mode yet because it’s Dave, one of the most ruthless and effective killers you know. But you can’t help the anxiety starting to build in your belly and another feeling you can’t quite pin down. It’s not like you love him. But god isn’t he a good fuck, perfect for blowing off steam between covert ops. 

And he understands what you do. He understands you and you understand him. Plus, he was the only one who ever almost got a jump on you when a client hired both of you without telling one about the other. That was almost a clusterfuck that ended up being the best fuck of your life.

The burner phone stares back at you, silent. Fuck it. Now it’s time for you to do what you do best. Find people. Find Dave. 

The doctor keeps calling him John — as in John Doe. While he can’t for the life of him recall his name, he knows definitively, John is not his fucking name. He’s also tired of talking. He doesn’t have any answers, just more questions piling on top of the questions the doc, a psychiatrist, keeps lobbing at him. Everything still hurts, a dull, perpetual throb throughout his brain and body punctuated by acute pain if he happens to breathe wrong.

He’s in a different building since the last time he awoke in crippling pain. This place seems like a public-run long-term health care facility out in the boonies instead of the large hospital downtown he was in before. The doctors and other health care professionals seem harried and perpetually understaffed. While his room is relatively clean, the decor is dated, all the walls a sickly yellow or green. And everything smells strongly of disinfectant. It could be worse, he supposes, at least it’s clean here. 

The psychiatrist leans forward towards him, “Let’s call it a day and let you rest. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

He grunts in response.

Something in his gut tells him to be wary of this doctor, of sharing too much if he ever remembers a goddamn thing. He knows he can trust his gut when it comes to reading people. Watching a steady flow of doctors, nurses, aides, social workers, and janitorial staff in his room, he doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows when someone is trustworthy or a threat. He can read body language at the most minute level with startling clarity.

The head nurse Kathleen is no nonsense and won’t tolerate any bullshit. Nurse Sally does the bare minimum and has sticky fingers. Gotta keep an eye on that one. He likes the neurologist who doesn’t sugar coat things. He’s pretty sure his physical therapist, Ryan, is secretly a sadist.

The night nurse, Brian, is a steadying comfort, always checking on him, “Doing all right, boss?” in the quiet loneliness of the evening. Brian alleviates the pressing annoyance of not knowing his own name by constantly switching up nicknames for him. Calling him buddy, champ, or hot stuff much to his amusement. 

He also knows someone tried their damndest to kill him and make it hurt in the process. Gouged out left eye, stabbed between the ribs, sliced tendons, broken bones, internal bleeding, wrapped in a myriad of bruises and tossed from a significant height. He’s been told repeatedly what a miracle it is that he survived at all, washed up on the beach on the brink of death before being found.

For now he bides his time, giving his body the opportunity to heal and recover. He knows he won’t get far in the current condition he’s in after the multiple surgeries and months and months in the ICU. In physical therapy he can barely manage to walk a few steps without assistance, and he’s still adjusting to the eye patch and the use of his remaining eye. He’s relatively safe for now, he thinks, identity a mystery and off the beaten path. Although a small part of him wonders why no one has come to find him. Did he not have family, friends, or anyone who missed him? 

Dave doesn’t make it easy on you to find him. Of course he doesn’t. Before he went private, or over to the dark side he liked to say, he made sure to replace all of his biometrics in various government databases with false ones. You have to go old school and retrace his steps from the sparest details he did share with you. Brant Rock the text message had read.

You find Resnik, Ari, and Kovac in the local morgue shortly after the hurricane blew through. Kovac and Ari are identifiable easily enough, but Resnik takes a moment, having most of his face blown off. It’s a shame about Kovac and Ari, they were good enough guys and you didn’t mind working with them on occasion.

But that bastard Resnik had once joked, thinking you were out of earshot, what a good fuck you’d be and you were so vulnerable with only the four of them around for miles and miles. You had slid the safety off your weapon at the same time you heard Dave threaten to rip his balls off through his throat if Resnick dared to try anything with you. You were planning to do worse, but hey, it was the thought that counts, right? That was when you knew you could really trust Dave. Resnik, not so much. 

As you approach the next cold locker, for a moment you can’t breathe, suffocating in the thought that the next body you pull is going to be Dave. But to your immense relief, it’s not Dave. Dave isn’t in any of them. It’s not until you slip out of the morgue into your car a few blocks away that you realize you’ve been holding your breath. You allow yourself to sob, forehead against your steering wheel. Crying, such an unfamiliar sensation. Where was he?

It takes you nearly two weeks to find Dave. Listed as a John Doe at the big trauma center downtown, you disguise yourself as a nurse and sneak into his ICU hospital room late one night. Nothing prepared you for his condition. 

“Did Mac do this to you, Yorkie?” you whisper as you trace your fingertips along the ashen skin of his forearm. It seems like the only part of him that is uninjured. The only sound in the room is the hiss of the ventilator and soft beeping of the heart rate monitor reminding you he’s actually alive. Barely. He’s unnaturally still for a man always on the move. You gasp softly when you take in his face, his beautiful face marred with wounds and a patch covering his left eye. Your chest tightens as you turn away to collect yourself.

Refocusing, you pull up his chart. The more you scroll, the more your rage builds at Mac or whoever did this to Dave. Your Dave. Severed tendons and ligaments, shattered ribs, crushed vertebra, multiple stab wounds, ruptured spleen, so much internal bleeding it’s a miracle he’s even alive. What the fuck happened?

He is in no condition to be moved. No matter, you think. While he heals, you are going to hunt down who did this to him and exact revenge. Excruciating revenge. Before logging out of the system you program it to send you any alerts to changes in his condition or if he’s moved to another facility.

Before you leave, you take one last look at Dave, gently run your fingers through his soft brown hair, marveling at how peaceful he looks despite the myriad of tubes plugged into him. You almost make it out of the room without shedding a tear until you really see his nose. Broken, shattered, scarred. Even if you don’t love Dave, you love his beautiful, strong aquiline nose. The way he’d nuzzle it into your neck in rare, soft moments. Press it against your mound when he pulled pleasure from you over and over. The quiet moments after you were both sated and sleepy, and he’d let you trace his brow, the strong curve of his nose, his plush lips, as he anchored you against him.

You are going to fucking destroy whoever did this to him.

The doorbell footage at Dave’s apartment confirms that Mac is the culprit behind Dave’s injuries. 

The Robert McCall visit. The tense conversation outside with Dave and his guys and Robert. The false cheerfulness, the underlying tension bubbling underneath in the clench of Dave’s jaw, the threat from McCall to Dave and the guys, “The only disappointment in it for me is that I only get to kill you each once.” You bristle with barely contained rage at his words.

Good thing you know enough about the human body to resuscitate it. Looks like you’ll just have to give Mac a lesson on how to kill someone over and over. How unfortunate for him.

The most popular bets to his previous profession are linguistics professor or foreign service.

He discovered his fluency in Farsi when he overheard family members of another patient speaking it in the hallway outside of his room. It took him a moment to realize he understood what they were saying. Shortly after, he overheard several nurses conversing in Spanish and realized to his amazement he understood them too.

“Wonder what else you can speak, professor,” Brian the night nurse muses as he pulls out an assortment of chocolates in a gift tin. That’s a new nickname. “Here, have some French chocolate. Someone gifted them to me when they were discharged.”

He reaches for one gingerly, focusing on the pincer grip to pick a chocolate up. It has been a struggle learn how to use his entire body again once it healed enough to be subjected to OT, PT, talk therapy, and other forms of torture.

He frowns at the sweetness of the truffle as he takes a bite. 

“No good?” Bri asks.

“Too sweet,” he mumbles. “But thanks.”

Belgian is better, he thinks to himself before pausing. How does he know that?

Brian grins at him before setting down the tin and checking his chart, “That just means more for me, champ.”

Glancing at the tin, Dave stifles a sharp inhale when he realizes he can read the French printed across the lid.

Discovering or rediscovering who he is has been… interesting. Some of the discoveries raised his spirits, like discovering his impressive ability to guess who was walking into his room based on the sound of their gait or how much a person weighed within a few pounds. Some discoveries though left him questioning what kind of person he really was. An emotional rollercoaster he’s ready to get off of immediately. If only he could just fucking remember!

Aside from being able to read people insanely well, he’s put together that he’s a bit of a control freak and likes things neat and orderly. The bullseye tattoo on his left hand had one nurse guessing that he was an olympic sharpshooter, but no olympian in recent memory remotely looked like him. He knew he had been found in a camo pullover and cargo pants, or what remained of it. Another nurse guessed that perhaps he liked hunting for sport. After all the speculation around the bullseye tattoo, Brian started only referring to him as killer. Curiously, he didn’t seem to mind that nickname. The wedding band tanline made him wonder if he is recently divorced or actually married, but took his ring off for more nefarious reasons. Was he a cheater? Did he have kids? What kind of man was he? 

The strangest discovery came the first time orange slices appeared on his lunch tray. He found himself comforted by the smell of citrus as he ate them. Relaxed even, for the first time since he woke up. And also inexplicably aroused. His body had been so broken it had been months since he felt any tingle or whisp of desire, the feeling so unfamiliar it shocks him. What kind of kinky shit was he into?

That night he dreams of rain forests and citrus, relaxing in a familiar embrace he can not name. He wakes up the most refreshed he’s felt since he woke up in the ICU, body screaming in pain. And yet still he can’t explain why.

Sweat pours off of him as he grips the side rails of the treadmill. The PT room is absurdly bright and cheerful for the types of torture it routinely sees.

“You did great, man,” Ryan, his favorite physical therapist, praises. “Going to be running marathons in no time.”

He just grunts in response. He hates running. This he knows in his bones. Hates it. But he has come a long way from barely managing a step with assistance to walking on the treadmill for the first time. A stupid long painful way.

A sudden frustrated yell across the room jerks his attention to one of the newer patients across the room just as an exercise ball is flung in his direction. He reacts before can think, ducking and moving, assessing in a split second the source of the danger and prioritizing three different options in subduing the threat. He misjudges the distance of a table corner, bruising his hip as he dashes by. Damn his depth perception issues, he thinks. Just another thing to work on.

He surprises himself when he finds himself expertly pulling the patient off balance into a chokehold until security arrives. His body knows exactly how much pressure to put to neutralize the threat without killing him. Why does his body know this? Christ.

“Holy shit, man!” Ryan exclaims, helping to pull him up from the ground. “Where’d you learn to do that!”

“Can’t remember,” he groans as he feels his body protest the sudden intense movement. “Think I set myself back with that stunt.” He slumps over in a chair as sharp pain shoots up both his arms. He allows Ryan to fuss over him before one of the aides brings him back up to his room in a wheelchair. One step forward, three steps back it feels like.

It’s not until he’s settled into the privacy of his own room with a healthy dose of painkillers does he start to tally all of his mysterious abilities. He rubs the itchy scruff growing on his face with irritation. He hasn’t had a proper shave since he got here. And he probably won’t, at least not until his fine motor skills get better to do it himself. The staff are just too overworked here. He huffs to himself. He’s probably more of a danger to himself than anyone else right now. 

With all his language skills, keen sense of observation, and now apparently mad jiu jitsu skills, what did it add up to? Who the fuck was he?

In the weeks following your visit to see your Dave in the ICU, knowing he has a long road to recovery gives you the time and space to track and hunt Mac. In true Dave fashion, he didn’t give you much to work with, just one single conversation about Robert McCall, but that is all you need.

Shortly before Dave missed his check in, he let you wrap yourself around him as the big spoon after having his way with you. He was uncharacteristically spooked, he told you, after running into his former team leader while out on a run. Robert McCall, Mac, was presumed dead. Dave swore he saw him die that day over seven years ago, setting off a chain of events leading to Dave going private with his guys. The impact of Mac’s death, the grief and the disillusionment that followed after leaving the service. 

You knew about the job in Brussels—Susan—and the difficulty Dave was having tying up loose ends. Especially now with Mac resurrected from the dead and digging into Susan’s murder. He briefly mentioned Mac showing up at his apartment and confronting him and the guys a few days after the unexpected reunion. The doorbell footage you found confirmed this conversation.

You asked him if Mac was now a loose end.

Turning to face you, his eyes darkened with affirmation, “But I have a bad feeling about it, Sunshine.” 

Mentally you beat yourself up for not pressing Dave more about this bad feeling at the time because you were too busy preening at the pet name. It marked the first time Dave ever met you at your place, raising an eyebrow at your maximalist design choices. It’s like a rainbow and unicorn threw up in here, he had grumbled. Too bright, so sunshine-y. You’re just jealous your place looks like it was decorated by someone allergic to color, you had quipped before he hauled you over his shoulders into the bedroom with a growled I’ll show you jealous, Sunshine.

You tried to smooth the furrows between his eyes. “Can I help?” you whispered before pressing a kiss to the curve of his nose.

He tensed before pulling back to look at you, “No. Don’t want you anywhere near him, baby. Mac’s a killer. He — he taught me everything I know.”

You protested but the look he leveled you with ended the discussion even if you wanted to push back and insist. 

“You’re helping right now,” Dave consoled you, laying you back and slotting himself between your legs. “Reminding me I have this to come home to.”

The brief realization he had referred to you as home, quickly disintegrated at the pace he set, burying himself in you, sliding deep into the place only he could reach— the place you think of as his. He left early the next morning, pulling a black beanie over his head before kissing you goodbye. “See you in 48, Sunshine.” 

You believe Dave when he said Mac was a killer, the best he knew. So you are meticulous in your tracking. In rare form, you make sure your contingency plans have contingency plans, even if you prefer flying by the seat of your pants. You only allow yourself to feel the quiet thrill of the hunt in order to keep the raging fury that threatens to make you slip up at bay. You summon patience you didn’t know you possessed as you slowly lay your trap and draw Mac in. 

Robert McCall has a weakness for damsels in distress. And for extracting his own sense of justice in situations he came across, serving as sole judge, jury, and executioner. It rankles you to see him decide the fate of others, to right a wrong according to him and him alone. 

But who are you to judge him when you decided to be his judge, jury, and executioner? So you lure him in and give him exactly what he always looked for. In the end, he is just like any other man really. A talented man, a ruthless killer sure, but he could never match your cunning combined with your wrath, your fury at what he did to Dave. 

You keep the feelings at bay as you set the trap in motion until he is soundly in your snare. And even then, you don’t let the rage get out of control because you know your weakness in close combat. You won’t give him an opening to escape or kill you because you can’t stay cool and collected.

By the time you’d laid your trap for Mac, you got a ping from the hospital notifying you of Dave’s transfer to a long-term rehab facility. You pat yourself on the back for the perfect timing. Execute the target and then go check on Dave.

In the end, Mac isn’t that much different from any other kill you executed on the job. Just more satisfying in the end. You did it for Dave, afterall. Your Dave.

He decides that even if he doesn’t like the colorful scrubs the new nurse aide wears, she seems trustworthy enough, even if he struggles to get a more accurate read on her. It’s the first time he’s had trouble reading anyone since he woke up. So he sets aside the puzzlement as Brian introduces him to her. Maybe it’s because of how pretty she is, beautiful really, and how attracted he is to her, a pull that takes him off guard.

“Hey Killer, want to introduce you to our new nurse aide,” Brian says, gesturing to her as she stands a bit shyly next to him. “She’s gonna be helping me out so I don’t feel like a vampire all the time with these night shifts.”

“Killer?” she blurts out making an incomprehensible face before hiding behind a small smile.

“Gives me a reputation. I don’t mind.” He shrugs, smirking at the nickname. “At least until I figure out my real name, no one’s going mess with me. Nice to meet you…?”

The aide makes a funny noise in her throat as he extends his hand to shake hers. She recovers quickly as she takes his hand in hers. Something flickers behind her eyes, something warm, familiar before it fades away as she murmurs her name, Sunny, and tells him to let her know if he needs anything. The pull towards her strengthens as soon as his hands envelope hers, so soft and warm, that he doesn’t want to let go. Something feels so right at her touch. He murmurs her name before she pulls away to make the rounds with Brian.

You aren’t prepared to see Dave. You thought you were. You mentally talked yourself through it before you made your way up to his room with your new supervisor, Nurse Brian. You memorized everything from his chart, and know that he still has severe amnesia, still struggling with remembering anything at all, but nothing prepares you to be in the same room as him and not have a flicker of recognition across his face. His remaining deep brown eye levels a coolness at you that you haven’t seen since the first time you met and tried to kill each other. 

This is bad. After everything, the missed check-in, the frantic searching, the revenge-ing to avenge him, the utter lack of recognition across his beautiful face cracks something in you. You barely recover enough to shake his hand and leave his room upright, telling Brian you have to go to the restroom before meeting any other patients.

Tears prick your eyes and you try to calm your breathing, not wanting to face the tsunami of feelings crashing down on you. When did these feelings for Dave get so out of hand? 

You haven’t needed anyone since you cut off your abusive family and left home to find your way in the world. You learned to be alone, thrived at working alone in a corner you carved out for yourself. You filled your home with art and color and brightness after you realized you had the power to make your own sunshine. Who else would? Definitely not your shitty family. 

And plants. So many plants, your bedroom painted a shade of deep, lush green. Filled with plants. It was like your own personal rainforest. So what if you worked in the dark, creeping in the shadows, a killer for hire? It didn’t mean you had to make it your whole damn personality.

Oh, but Dave. He was the unexpected cherry on top, a force of nature who brought more exciting ops to your life, along with mind-numbing pleasure. Intermittently at first, then regularly. You liked the control you’d cede to him after months of dancing around each other, building trust, moving from fucking in seedy motels after ops to his place or yours. The way he could fuck your worries and stress straight out of your pretty head. Apparently something had shifted without you realizing. Pesky feelings.

Fuck. You care. More than you were willing to admit before Dave almost died. You were too full of rage to feel anything else. You convinced yourself that the revenge you sought when you hunted down Mac was exactly that. Revenge. But now that the rage and fury had ebbed, you face down the why behind your need for revenge, realizing you did what you did because you cared. About Dave. Maybe you lo — lov — Fuck. What if he never remembers what you had together? What exactly did you have with him before, anyway?

He looks good though, even with the patchy scruff and fading scars across his face. The slightly lost expression on his face. Even if you can sense his discomfort in his body, in the way he sits by the window pretending to read a book. He looks so different, skin warm and golden, so alive, from the last time you saw him in the ICU. And his nose, the nose you love healed after all, healing back into its original strong curve.

As much as you want to run back into his room, yelling his name and shaking him until he recognizes you, telling him everything, you know you have to steel yourself for this next part, to allow him to heal and remember at his own pace. Wasn’t that what the doctor had written in his chart? Pushing him too hard will have less-than-ideal outcomes. 

You sigh as you wash your face and take a deep breath. This part of the journey is going to be infinitely harder than finding Dave and killing Mac. But at least now he has you to help him jog his memory and watch his back. You lift your head up to walk out of the restroom, refusing to acknowledge the question prickling down your spine. What if he never remembers you’re his Sunshine?

It storms the first night of your shift, winds howling as you make your rounds and tend to the patients assigned to you. You do most of your menial work with one eye watching Dave, learning his routine and keeping tabs on him. It comforts you to know that he has a genuine rapport with nurse Brian, and has been making significant progress in his physical therapy. You get a sense he doesn’t trust the psych doc very much and has been frustrated at recovering his fine motor skills from the nerve damage in his arms. Must be why he doesn’t shave much, you think to yourself. The facility he’s in is fine for a publicly funded place, but you can tell the staff is overworked and underpaid. Your hourly wage is laughable. And everything is painted in this drab yellow that is an insult to the color. You’d read in his chart that the local precinct had put out feelers trying to identify the resident John Doe without much luck. You hope the luck holds out long enough for Dave to heal sufficiently so you can break him out of here before someone who shouldn’t find him does.

The bright flashes of lightning and roaring thunder keep you awake in the wee hours of your shift, strong winds whipping tree branches against the building, even as the patter of rain threatens to lull you to sleep. As you walk the sterile corridors, passing by Dave’s room you hear him yell out in panic, in fear.

It’s all you can do to stop yourself from sprinting into his room, ready to take out whoever is attacking him. You realize in the darkness of his room, illuminated only by a small night light, Dave is alone in his room, still asleep.

You realize he’s having a nightmare as you watch his eye work beneath his eyelid as he mutters, “Show yourself. Show — Show yourself Mac…” before trailing off. His face winces in pain as he jerks under the covers, panting to catch his breath before flinging his arms around like he’s trying to throw a punch.

For a moment you’re frozen, unsure of what to do as you realize he’s likely reliving his last encounter with Mac in real time. Careful not to use his real name, you put a firm hand on his arm to calm him, hey hey hey, to wake him up before he strangles himself in his sheets. As you make shushing noises he jerks the arm out from your grip, grabbing a hold of your throat before gasping awake, right eye wide in terror.

He apologizes profusely once he really wakes up and gets his bearings. It’s the same dream that haunts him every time it storms outside. Bubbling up from his subconscious every time it storms. He’s up high on a tower or lighthouse by some body of water. Rain whips across his face as the waves crash against the shore. He’s impatient, livid, but also… scared? Somehow he knows the before version of him would never admit the last thing.

He’s waiting for someone who is a danger, a threat. What’s taking so long? He remembers yelling, calling a name, Mac, — who is Mac?— before the dream shifts and he’s in indescribable pain. The most pain his body has ever felt slashes through him, punches into his ribs before he’s falling, falling, falling. It’s the icy cold that wakes him every time, shocking him back to consciousness. But this time he wakes up looking into the eyes of the pretty new aide with one of his hands clutched around her throat.

Well, this isn't the first time he’s had his hands around your throat. The dirty thought skitters across your mind, although that situation is preferable to this one. The thought amuses you, even as you start to feel the oxygen deprivation. It is a nice memory though, you think, being bent over your sink while Dave took you from behind. Arching you up with the tug of your hair to watch him in the mirror. It was after the one time you were almost late for a check-in and he was punishing you for it. For making him worry. If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late, Sunshine. Simpler times, you think. 

You inwardly sigh and try to figure out how to get out of his chokehold without hurting either one of you. You settle for anchoring one hand to the one on your throat and twisting out of his grip while leveraging his elbow as gently as you can manage to avoid setting him back in his recovery. 

He’s still gasping for breath as you try to soothe him with your voice, now scratchy from his grip. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” you comfort as you pat his back.

He starts apologizing immediately, a litany of shit, I’m so sorrys, until you level him with your best stare and quip, “I see where you get your nickname from, Killer.”

He stops long enough to bark out a laugh, before asking again if you really are okay. 

“I should be asking you that,” you respond. “Seems like a hell of a dream.” You see him retreat back into himself, at whatever horrors had surfaced in his mind.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you venture, sliding a hand over his. It’s clammy and cold. You feel him start to pull away before stopping.

“I think it’s what happened… before,” he finally answers with a thick swallow, looking away. “No one needs to hear that shit.”

You squeeze his hand for encouragement. “Try me.”

To your surprise he does. After Dave recaps his nightmare as best he can, his hand still in yours, you begin to think that you let Mac off way too easily. Shoulda tortured him more before pulling the plug, you frown internally. Because holy shit, that man really put Dave through the ringer. 

“Thanks for — for listening, I think it helped,” Dave squeezes your hand and looks at you with a surprisingly soft expression. Soft Dave, you never thought you’d see the day.

“Of course, Killer,” you squeeze his hand back before offering to get him some water. He accepts and hesitates as if he wanted to ask you something else. You stand but linger by his bedside giving him a moment.

“Will you — will you stay? Just for a bit, until I fall asleep?” 

After you get him some water, you stay — your hand in his — until he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

He decides he likes Sunny, not just because she’s pretty, but because she keeps him on his toes with her quick wit and dark sense of humor — to match his own he learns — that makes the days go by faster. Just another thing he learns about himself that just brings more questions than answers.

He can’t help smiling as she checks in with him for the day, wanting to know if he needs anything. “Brought you a present,” she smiles at him so brightly it leaves his brain stuttering to respond. “Your room is so boring, figured you could use a plant.”

She places it by the window before turning with a look to see if he approves. He does. He doesn’t know why but the little green thing feels familiar, a comfort like home. He scratches at the irritating scruff on his cheek before finding his words to thank her. 

“I have some extra time today, do you need a shave?” she asks, like she can read his mind. “Looks itchy.”

“Yes. Please.” The look of relief on his face must be palpable because she immediately leaves to grab a razor and shaving cream. 

The thought that she could read him so well, as if his mind is an open book screams to the front of his mind. His stomach twists at the thought. A creeping suspicion fills him as she approaches with the razor. What if she actually knows who he is, but he just doesn’t remember her? It would explain the inexplicable familiarity that came whenever she visited his room. What if the sunny personality is all an act and she’s actually a cold blooded killer sent to finish him off? Perhaps he should be more suspicious of her. He’d only known her for a week and she is the only person he couldn’t get an accurate read on. 

His chest constricts at the recurring fear that someone had wanted him to hurt badly before trying to kill him. It really was only a miracle he survived. And now he was willingly allowing this stranger into his personal space with a sharp object. Could you kill someone with a disposable razor? Not ideal, he thinks, but possible.

“Everything okay?” she asks him as she sets up the side table with shaving accessories. 

He hesitates, conflicted with his most recent revelations as she moves closer to him.

“Look, if I was going to sever your jugular a disposable razor wouldn’t be my first choice,” she dramatically rolls her eyes at him before looking at him for consent to start.

He lets out a nervous giggle, a sound he’s pretty sure he’s never made in his entire life.

“Not my second, third, or fourth choice either, okay?” she continues. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m not the one with the nickname ‘Killer.’” 

She has a point. And she did just bring him a plant. And comfort him after one of his ridiculous nightmares the very first night she was here. If there was a moment when he was most vulnerable, that was her chance. He pushes away the feelings of suspicion and nods, allowing her to get started.

He couldn’t help leaning into her touch as she gently washes his face and smoothes on the shaving cream. The way the fading light from the window caught the flecks of colors in her eyes as she focused on the task at hand. He couldn’t help but think how cute she looks with her furrowed brows, all her attention on him. He decides the odds are low she was there to kill him considering how careful and gentle she is. He closes his good eye and allows himself to enjoy himself. Who knew getting a shave was such an intimate experience? He could feel himself relaxing under the warmth of her touch and the delicate scent of her citrus-y shampoo wafting across his nose at this close proximity. Something tugs on his mind at the scent, but she interrupts the thought.

“So what do you think, Killer?” she asks.

As he cracks open his eye, he realizes she’s holding up a small mirror. Time slows down at the same time his heart rate speeds up as he takes in his clean-shaven reflection. It’s like he suddenly remembered why he walked into a room after forgetting all this time.

His name is Dave. Dave motherfucking York.

When he says his name out loud, you let out an audible gasp you tried to cover as true surprise.

“This is huge! Dave, do you — do you remember anything else? Last Name?” You blurt out. 

His lips briefly purse before his face flickers just for a moment, his tell, before he shakes his head no. 

Liar. You immediately know he’s lying to you. He fucking remembers. You can see the cogs whirring in his brain, assembling all of the new information he unlocked when he looked at his reflection.You busy yourself tidying up the shaving accessories, watching him from the corner of your eye, hoping that he recognizes you.

It’s coming back to him, you can just tell from the way he’s holding himself up now, even just sitting in the chair, his posture is different. The lost expression is gone. The calculated, commanding presence of the Dave York you know is emerging right before your eyes. 

Dave York is remembering.

He startles you when he speaks to you again, low and almost menacing, “Don’t tell anyone else. I’m not… ready to share yet.” His expression flashes dark at you.

Ah yes, the patented Dave I’m-telling-you-not-asking-you York.

“Of— of course. Take all the time you need,” you respond.

The next time you glance at him, he has that expression on his face where he’s assessing someone, assessing you, deciding if they are a threat or not. Great, the last thing you need is Dave trying to off you before he remembers who the fuck you are. 

“I promise. I’m not going to say a word,” you try and reassure him. 

He offers a nod, a dismissal really, before turning to look out the window, back to whatever memories may be emerging from the abyss of his mind.

You’d think that Dave remembering would be a good thing, but unfortunately the feds figure out who he is at the same time. You’re on shift, loitering by the nurses’ station when you see two nearly identical government looking guys turn the corner into the wing of the facility just after dinner. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, you think. And they reek of federal agents. FBI, specifically. Shit.

Dave has been more withdrawn since remembering his name. Brooding by the window. Typical Dave. You keep up your act, checking on him and chatting with him, hoping really for any glimpse of recognition, but still none so far. You can tell he’s still assessing you, trying to decide if you really are just a peppy aide or dangerous foe waiting to strike.

You busy yourself nearby as the feds chat with Brian, eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Wait, that guy’s wanted for murder AND treason??” Brian exclaims. “But he’s so… docile.” You quietly snort to yourself at that word being used to describe Dave York.

“And a whole list of other things, but those are the big ‘uns,” one of the feds responds.

They continue to chat with Brian, trying to determine how much Dave remembers and what condition he’s in in order to transport him.

“Psych notes still say he doesn’t remember very much. But physically he’s actually almost ready for out-patient rehab,” Brian scans the electronic chart.

“Gotta put in the transfer ’n get him to our medical facility,” Tweedle Dee nods to Tweedle Dum. “We’re going to post someone on the floor to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“Well, as long as they’re discreet,” Brian warns. “Don’t want to disturb the other patients on the floor.”

“Roger that,” Tweedle Dum responds before pulling out his phone to make a call.

The agents nod at Brian before walking back down the hallway. You see them briefly stop outside of Dave’s room before continuing on their way. 

Well, it looks like you’re breaking Dave out of here whether he remembers you or not. This should be fun. Hopefully he doesn’t try to kill you in the process.

Dave senses something is off before he even sees the two feds walk by his room on the way to the nurses station. He knows they’re there for him. By their gait and posture, they don’t seem like they’re in a particular rush to storm his room, so he bides his time, even as he slips a scalpel up his sleeve. He can’t run. All he can manage is a quick walk with a limp. There’s no way he can run fast enough or long enough to evade two federal agents, even if they look like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Fuck, he thinks. He should have pushed harder in PT. 

He resumes sitting by the window, angling himself into a better position to attack if they decide to take him in today and waits. Hopefully, it won’t come to that. 

He holds his breath when the agents walk by his door again, pausing for just a moment. He makes sure to observe them so he’ll be able to identify them again if, when, they return. Fuck, he needs to come up with an escape plan. 

He lets out a sigh of relief as they walk away. What the fuck is he going to do? Where is he even going to go? He’s sure he doesn’t have much time, a day at most. Of everything that has returned to him, he still cannot remember any of the safe houses or stashes of money/fake IDs he’s sure he has… somewhere. 

Remembering has been… more bitter than sweet. His rough childhood and divorced parents both deceased, his own divorce from Carol, the stint in the military, black ops, the DIA, before going private. Then it all gets hazy. Were the dreams about Mac real? But how could they be if Mac was dead? Was Mac actually still alive? Remembering all of the heavy stuff was like grieving it all over again, all at once. It was fucking depressing.

As he shuffles to the bathroom to splash water on his face to help him think more clearly, he hears someone walk into his room. By the sound of the light stride, it’s the pretty aide that still talks to him even if he almost strangled her in his sleep. What if she’s making the move to kill him now, after all this time, because she saw the feds coming to take him away? As she rounds the corner, he moves out of instinct, pinning her against the wall with a forearm to her neck, scalpel out and ready. 

She lets out a squeak as he expects, before he cuts off her airway. What he doesn’t expect is her to roll her eyes at him as he presses a scalpel to her jugular.

You aren’t sure when Dave got a hold of a freaking scalpel, but it doesn’t surprise you in the least. Of course he found something sharp to play with.

“Why the fuck aren’t you scared?” he demands. “You got a death wish or something??” 

He eases his forearm off of your throat, but still holds you pinned against the wall. You inwardly sigh. In another time and place, this would just be foreplay, but right now the scalpel is still just a little too close to comfort. Probably shouldn’t push it with him, not too much anyway.

“That’s what you want to ask me, Yorkie?” you croak. You decide on no sudden movements though, in case it spooks his hand to twitch in the wrong direction.

He frowns at the pet name. Right, he never told you he remembered his last name. Oopsies. 

“You’d never hurt me,” you whisper. “At least, the Dave I remember wouldn’t. Not — not unless I liked it.”

Your eyes search his brown one, for anything, any recognition, but still none comes. Why are you tearing up? It’s not like he’s crushing your windpipe anymore. 

“How do I know you’re not the one trying to kill me?” he growls. Well, at least he sounds like the Dave you love. Love? Wait, what??

“Don’t you think if I wanted to kill you, I woulda done it the first night?” You roll your eyes again. You’re getting impatient now, if anything just to have the pointy blade removed from the vicinity of your neck. Maybe you could have done without the eye roll though.

His brows are still furrowed and you are so tempted to raise your hand and smooth the double crease away with your thumbs. You miss the way he’d melt under your touch, even if he’d never admit to liking it. He stares you down for a handful of breaths before you see the moment he makes a decision that reflects across his face. 

The moment he shifts the blade an inch away, you pounce, leveraging the blade away from him and reversing your positions. Shoving him up against the wall, you flinch when you hear his head smack the wall a little harder than you prefer, even if you know you’re not strong enough to hold him there very long. You press the dull side of the blade against his inner thigh, right at his femoral artery.

“This bring back any memories, Yorkie?”

He blinks hard a few times, as if he is surprised to find himself pinned against the wall by you. He glances down at where you have the scalpel pressed against his inner thigh before looking back up again and you brace yourself because you think he’s about to fight you off. Then you realize he’s looking at the plant you left on his window sill and then back at you, really looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

His eye widens as he softly inhaless, “Sunshine?”

The citrus bodywash, the plants, all the fucking plants, the too colorful scrubs. His Sunshine. Unlike all his other memories that came back gradually in waves, with you it was like a switch was flipped and he went from not knowing you to now remembering everything. He feels a surge of emotion — relief, excitement, desire — but the most prominent is trust. He has someone he can truly trust, who knows him, again. 

All it took was a scalpel to his femoral artery. Figures. How he met you is a core memory after all. 

He feels you lessen your hold on him, tucking the scalpel away, eyes wide as you pull away from him in disbelief. But he doesn’t want you to be further away from him, he wants to keep you close. And so he tugs you flush against him.

“Say my name again,” you ask, eyes still wide.

He brushes a thumb across your soft cheek and takes in your bright, discerning eyes. “My Sunshine.”

“You really remember,” you whisper, pressing your face into his chest for a deep inhale, before looking back up at him. “I missed you so much, Yorkie.”

He just looks at you, takes you in, tracing the outline of your lips before pressing his mouth to yours.

You and Dave don’t get much of a reunion, a single kiss, before you hear footsteps approaching. By the sound of the gait heavily favoring the right side, it’s your supervisor Nurse Brian. You immediately move, pretending to prop Dave up over one of your shoulders like you’re helping him to walk before Brian turns the corner.

“Everything okay here, Sunny?” Brian calls out as he approaches.

“Yep, all good. Just helping Killer here back from the bathroom. Looks like he… tweaked his knee pretty bad in PT,” you respond, trying to hide how breathless you are from one kiss. Dave gives you the most dubious expression before you elbow him in the side and give him a look that says just go with it okay?

Dave has never been a fan of improvisation like you, preferring his contingency plans having contingency plans, all neatly laid out in his cute little spreadsheets. Which… you can appreciate. You love a good spreadsheet, but sometimes flying by the seat of your pants is just so much more… fun and exciting. Maybe this is why the two of you make such a good team, a bit of intense control and structure and, well, a lot of whatever it is you feel like doing in the moment.

You can tell the moment Dave decides to play along when he drops a chunk of his weight on you and you nearly stumble trying to keep the both of you upright. You keep up a rambling monologue at Brian as you settle Dave back into his bed while Brian shuffles awkwardly around the room, obviously trying to herd you out of the room. Your spidey senses tingle — something is about to happen. Before you leave the room, you surreptitiously slip the scalpel back to Dave and give him the most reassuring look you can manage. 

Just outside Dave’s room Brian finally spills the news that the feds got approval to transfer him later tonight. Perfect, you think. Just enough time for a bit more improvisation to break Dave out of this place. And get you out of here too. If you have to give another sponge bath or assist with another bowel evacuation you might start killing people.

“Turns out Killer is actually a killer,” Brian whispers, shaking his head. “I’ll be damned. Just make sure you don’t go into his room by yourself anymore.”

Boy, do you have news for your supervisor. 

During your next break, you comb the facility looking for something to create a distraction. A big one. As you pass by the PT room, the small row of treadmills call to you and a burst of inspiration hits you. Yorkie will be so pleased. He hates running.

The fire is a lot bigger than you expected. Apparently all the foam roller things in the PT room are also highly, highly flammable. Piled together by the treadmills you rigged to spark, you didn’t expect it to make quite the towering inferno it did. But you know what? Mission accomplished. 

In the chaos of the fire alarm and subsequent evacuation, you sneak Dave off in a wheelchair (and the plant you brought him, gotta save the little guy too!) and into a car you had borrowed before you started your very brief career in healthcare. Parked in an alleyway cleared of cameras, you almost giggle at the getaway going so well. The only person you had to kill was the fed left to watch Dave’s floor. Yorkie, on the other hand, is still tense with apprehension apparently.

“We’re not clear yet,” he growls as you flip on the radio and peel out of the alleyway.  

“Don’t make me tranq you,” you threaten with a smile. “Raining on my brilliant plan.”

He grumbles something unintelligible while pinching the bridge of his nose, but keeps quiet as he looks out the window as Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car comes on over the radio. As the miles roll by, it occurs to you that it’s the first time he’s been outside of a hospital or facility in almost a year and the uncertainty of the future, now on the run, sobers you up a bit for the rest of the drive. 

It takes a subway, a bus, and a boat, and another borrowed car, before you make it back to your place. You didn’t want to give the feds a chance at tracking either of you, so you took the extra long, long way home. You’re both quiet most of the journey, only communicating when necessary when switching modes of transportation. 

The only time he asks you anything is when it starts to rain, water streaming along the wide windows of the bus. He whole body jerks when he remembers something he wanted to ask you, “Mac. Was he the one who… Is he — is he alive? Or dead?” You can hear the absolute terror in his whispered confusion.

You slide a hand over his to calm him, “He was alive. He didn’t die all those years ago.” You can feel his entire body tense even more. “He’s gone now though, Yorkie. Can’t come after you anymore.”

He stares at you, stiff as a corpse.

“I took care of him for you, baby.” You pat his hand, willing him to take a breath and relax. 

He continues to look at you, wanting an explanation, but you’re not about to confess to murder and torture on a bus, even if it is mostly empty. 

“Later, Yorkie,” you murmur as you snuggle up next to him, hoping he will finally relax. There’s still a way to go before you both get home.

He crashes immediately after getting to your place. You can tell he’s overexerted himself and is likely in more pain than he’s letting on. Still too wired from being on high alert and making sure Dave was okay on the long trek home, you curl up in an armchair by the bed and just watch him sleep. Perhaps you’re afraid if you take your eyes off of him for a moment, he’ll vanish again. 

There’s a warm shaft of light emanating from the bathroom, casting soft shadows around the room, highlighting the outline of his form, those broad fucking shoulders and soft brown hair. He’s so still you’d rush to check for a pulse save for the slow steady rise and fall of his chest.  

Even with all the progress he’d made in physical therapy, he still has a ways to go. You push aside the concern and anxieties of tomorrow to appreciate that he’s warm and safe in your bed right now. Your eyes trace his face, those plush lips you’ve only gotten to kiss once since he remembered you. Following the arch of that nose you love to the two deep furrows between his brows. How does someone look so grumpy even in their sleep? It delights you.

When you can’t take the distance, however short, from Dave, you slide into bed as slowly as you can. He’s usually such a light sleeper, but he doesn’t move an inch. You gently smooth a thumb between his brows until you feel him melt. You close your eyes and allow his steady breathing to lull you to sleep.

“You’re going to cook? Breakfast?” you almost fall out of bed as you try and untangle yourself from the sheets, still half asleep. Who is this man and what has he done with Dave York?

He grumbles something before raising his voice, “I miss real eggs. That place only ever made the powdered shit.”

You shrug and gesture at him to knock himself out, while you busy yourself with making coffee. Coffee always first. Then food. This is the correct order of things. As you hear the fridge door swing open, you feel Dave freeze, standing stock still while letting all the cold air out. Ugh, Dave.

“Sunshine…” he seems to be at a loss for words. “Why the fuck do you have an eyeball in your fridge?”

“Oh, I forgot!” you exclaim. “It’s your welcome home present, Yorkie.” 

His head pokes out from behind the door and he frowns, “You know it can’t replace the eye I lost right?” 

“Oh, I know. It’s what’s left of Mac,” you explain as you slide by him to grab the oatmilk for your coffee. The eyeball stares down at you, suspended in formalin, from its clear jar on the top fridge shelf. “Eye for an eye right?” 

He just looks at you and then at the jarred eyeball in the fridge, and then back at you, speechless.

“Well, except he’s dead and you’re not.” You smile and shrug as you finish stirring the milk into your coffee and take the first blessed sip, extra pleased with yourself. “You’re welcome, Yorkie.”

“Fuck baby, sometimes you scare me you know that?” 

You just smile at him, looking so at home in your colorful kitchen with his tousled hair and grumpy expression before you go to sit on one of the kitchen island stools. “I think that’s exactly why you love me.”

He rounds the island counter and cages you in with his arms. You take in his handsome face, so handsome it’s sometimes hard to breathe, as he just takes you in. He finally rumbles, “Yeah, I guess that’s why I do.” 

“Yeah?” you look at the floor at the admission, swiveling back and forth on the stool, not quite ready to look at him again.

He tilts your chin up with one hand, “You really take care of Mac for me? All by yourself?”

You consider reminding him that you offered to help in the first place, but somehow an I told you so felt like it would ruin the moment. You just bite your lower lip instead.

“Mmh hmm.”

“Why, baby? I — I almost died,” he presses. “He coulda killed you! You didn’t know then if I was even going to make it or not.”

You frown at this. Did he not understand?

“And I’m still so — so broken. Never going to fully recover and be who I was. Not worth anything to anyone anymore.”

He definitely does not understand. And you haven’t had enough coffee for this conversation. You quell the urge to roll your eyes as you grasp the front of his shirt and pull his face down level with yours.

“Yorkie, that’s exactly why I killed him.” Your words are firm even if you feel yourself shaking at what you’re about to admit. “He doesn’t get to try to kill the person I love and get away with it.”

His eyebrows shoot up at your disclosure, that pesky L-word. Should it really be a surprise at this point though? After everything? Even if it terrifies you to admit out loud. You did all of this because you love him. Your Dave.

“After I — I saw you in the hospital, everything Mac did, there wasn’t another option,” you murmur. “You mean everything to me, Yorkie.”

Dave forgets about the stupid eggs as he drags you back to bed and reminds you exactly why you love his nose so much. Fuck, you missed this. 

You suppose from one assassin to another, there’s no declaration of love like getting all murder-y and revenge-y for them. It might as well have been a proposal of marriage. Even with so much uncertainty about your futures and how much rehab Dave still has to go, you figure as long as he doesn’t start trying to back seat assassinate, you’ll both be fine. You’ll take care of your Yorkie until he can be Murdah Daddy again.

[woeswrites]

Yandere Will Graham

Warnings: Yandere themes, Obsessive behaviors, Brief mention of rape/rapist, Dubious consent (mention of sex while under the influence), etc.

Notes: I am trying to be active again (fingers crossed). Headcannons are a really easy way for me to get the creative juices flowing. Don't be surprised if a few more come out after this one lol.

You were a recent survivor of an attack

No, it wasn't the Chesapeake Ripper

It was just some other wannabe serial killer trying to get his rocks off

He had a dumb, stereotypical name too

The midnight slasher? midnight butcher?

Something like that

The media wasn't very creative with it

Whatever his name was, he'd clearly had a type

Young men

All of a similar stature

With the same hair and eye color

All known to known be up at all hours of the day

It was a pretty open and shut case in Will's eyes

He was a plain and simple lust killer

Most likely white and in his 30s-40s

Classic closet case turned homicidal

He hadn't seen why the FBI was so stumped on the whole thing

The only real trouble was the lack of DNA evidence

He'd been real good at cleaning up after himself

Will knew he'd slip up eventually

This wasn't the type of guy to be so well organized for long

Well--

Does being murdered by your most recent victim count as a slip up?

Because that's exactly what happened

He was called to the scene with the rest of the team

The sight of you trembling, covered in blood, and standing over top of that creep was his first impression

You met his eyes and he was unable to pull away

Something about your tear blotched face held him captive

Jack tasked him with asking you questions about the events at hand

Normally this would have annoyed Will

He wasn't the talking type

Let alone someone sensitive enough to make such a traumatized person feel comfortable

But something in him didn't mind so much

Maybe it was the way you looked so vulnerable

Or the fact that no matter how much he pushed the idea away, he saw himself in you

An innocent man turned murderer under the right circumstances

"I'm Will Graham and I'll be asking you some questions."

"God, okay. I'm Y/n. Can't really say it's nice to meet you."

Will tried to start off slow

Ask the basics before moving onto the more pertinent information

You'd answer to the best of your abilities (considering the circumstances)

It took Will a second to jot down your responses

He'd get a little too caught up in your features to notice you'd stop talking

"Sorry, what was that? You got off work at 9?"

There was something admirable about your attempts to infuse your story with a bit of dry humor

Likely a coping mechanism

But Will found himself smiling a bit at your quips

By the time he'd finish up with you he'd felt a little attachment form

Sure the case was over on his end

But it didn't stop him from asking Jack about you

At least a couple times a week

"How's things going with that self defense case? Y/n's...?"

Will showed up the next day with your case fill on his desk

The sticky note stuck to it warned about annoying Jack with too many questions

He'd spend all night re-reading the details

Without noticing he began slipping in and out of re-enactment mode

Imagining you on top of him

Knife in hand

Crazed look in your eyes

He tried to shake the image away

He shouldn't be doing this

It wasn't right

You could've died that night

His guilt ridden thoughts did nothing to lessen the tent that had formed in his pajama pants

He tried to push the idea of you out of his head

Usually he'd have more control over himself than this

His resolve was strong at first

He'd hidden the manila folder away in the depths of his lower drawer

Telling himself he'd drop it

That worked for a couple of days

That was before he started dreaming of you

Events that he hadn't preformed himself took ahold of him

He became your attacker that night

He chased you

He ripped apart your clothes

He was the one who you fought off

He's the one who you thrust that knife into

And he loved every second of it

Wait--

No, he couldn't

This was just his empathy disorder

Yeah!

He was just in character

This definitely wasn't him

He would never want to do any of that stuff

And he'd prove it

He had memorized that file from front to back at this point

It wouldn't be weird that he'd known your address

He was an FBI consultant

It was basically warranted

Will found himself picking out his best clothes that night

His newest jeans, tailored shirt, the works

Not for any particular reason

And his bed was definitely not littered with rejected articles of clothing

This was just going to be a simple checkup, it's not like it really mattered what he looked like

He showed up on your doorstep with the nicest bottle of wine he could find

"Will? Is that you?"

"Uh, yeah it is. Would I be able to come in?"

You welcomed him in, albeit a little confused

"I thought my case was cleared..."

"That's not what I'm here for. I just wanted to check in on you."

You smiled at this

And Will felt his heart ache

You'd invite him to join in on your sorry excuse for a dinner

He'd never accepted anything so fast before in his life

It didn't take long before the two of you got into the wine he'd brought

It was innocent enough at first

Just drinking and talking

You'd mention how life was after the attack

Will shared a little about his experience with GJH

Its the first time he had ever felt so utterly connected with another person before

But then the two of you got a little more than tipsy

And Will found himself leaning in

One kiss turned into another and another

Will felt a sense of static overtake him

Every touch between the two of you sent shivers up his spine

He felt the strong urge to consume

Before either of you knew it your clothes were now in a heap on the kitchen floor

You woke up the next morning with a splitting headache

Oh-- and an FBI agent in your bed

Shock was an understatement

That was when the memories of the previous night flooded back

Will woke up at the loss of warmth

Last night was the best he had slept in years

You wrapped tight in his arms, bodies perfectly intertwined

His heart sank at the look of regret on your face

"We definitely shouldn't have done that. I think you should leave Will..."

He couldn't just leave now

Not knowing what he did

That you two were made for one another

He'd try to calm you down

"Y/n let's talk about this."

You weren't having it

Mentioning how inappropriate this all was

You'd shove his clothes into his arms

Will tried to console you

Not realizing why you were so worked up

You both did just have the best night of your life after all

You'd back away but he'd continue approaching

"C'mon I know you don't really want me to go. Let's just take a second before we make any rash decisions"

"We aren't doing anything. I want you to go. Now."

Something about him coming over while you were still recovering from your distress and it all leading to this...

It just didn't feel right

Will tried to approach once more but you pushed him away

He couldn't help the smile that made its way onto his face

"Push me. Go on, make it hurt."

You were absolutely bewildered

He reached out and grabbed ahold of you

His grip was almost crushing

Like he was holding on for dear life

"I won't leave you alone that easily. Fate brought us together for a reason. You feel it too right? We're one in the same. We're each other's destiny."

He looked crazed, sweat slipping from his brow

It felt just like that night all over again

The knife in your hand as your attacker bled out

Only now Will took his place underneath you

[pep-rambles]

Lucifer is a Swiftie headcanons because I kin this man so much I am projecting my other hyperfixations on him

But also I mean c'mon,

Look at him

yes there is RadioApple in this

-It probably started from Charlie. When she was in high school (post emo phase obviously) she may have enjoyed Taylor Swift (maybe Fearless got her through her senior year because I can't stop projecting) Lucifer started listening to try and have something to bond with his daughter about. But about the time Charlie kind of lost interest is about the time Lucifer doubled down on his obsession.

-He has been to basically almost every Eras concert, usually in really good seats because many a swiftie has offered to sell their soul for tickets. He said keep your soul just let him tag along.

-He is definitely an Evermore stan mostly because of relating too hard to the divorce narrative of it.

-Speaking of, Charlie has threatened to lock him out of his Spotify after catching him on the floor crying to “Champaign Problems” on repeat too many times. She never would but most definitely tried to ban him from listening to it for a month.

-She then caught him crying to “You’re Loosing Me”

-Angel Dust is most definitely  Beyhive (killer bee probably) and though initially joking that they are rivals the two men bond over their love for the two queens of pop, recommending songs and videos to each other.

-Angel is a Reputation Stan though 

-After one of Lucifer’s many tiffs with Alastor,  Charlie is expressing her frustration asking her dad why can’t they just get along and Lucifer explains that he doesn’t trust Alastor because “I think his ever-present grin is a little troubling” and is a little upset when she doesn’t get it 

-One day, Luci is sitting in the Lobby doing his work while listening to Taylor on shuffle. He’s casually minding his own business jamming out to one of her poppier love songs and Alastor wanders in commenting on the “Obnoxious trite little diddy” Lucifer doesn't even hesitate to take the bait

L: HOW DARE YOU! SHE IS A TALENTED GODDESS!! A DOWNRIGHT MUSICAL CHAMELEON! You are such a snob Alastor! Good music didn't stop getting made after your tiny little lifetime.

A: I never said it did but it's certainly not this frivolous noise!

L: Oh, you uninformed uncultured cur! She is a fucking poet!

He then proceeds to play examples for Alastor of her most creative and heart wrenching lyrics (he absolutely makes Al sit through all 10 minutes and 13 seconds of ATW) 

After all that though Lucifer will never get Alastor to admit that he finds T.S. musically talented (or that Lucifer did in fact catch Al tapping his foot a couple times)

        -Alastor does come to Lucifer, after a bit of research, admitting that though he does not find her music enjoyable, he respects her business cunning. Luci figures that's good enough. For now. 

-because I bet my non-existent Eras tour tickets that Lilith was a hater. I’ll leave it at that.

-OP works at Barnes & Noble and let me tell you there are about 80 different Taylor Swift magazines that even my swiftie ass thinks is excessive but Lucifer has every single one

-including the Taylor Swift paper dolls magazine (yes this is a real thing). He probably gets a few because he convinces Charlie to use them as a team building activity.

-He has at least 3 copies of each of the covers for the 2023 TIME Person of the Year magazine. 

-Also all cardigans. On a casual day he definitely lounges in them and has a set rotation of when to wear each one (and I am totally not gonna draw that nope)

-Well, it seems Lucifer is no longer crying to the depressing break-up songs on repeat but now he seems to be angrily listening to “Gorgeous” on repeat. Charlie asks him about it and he goes full denial mode “No no Charlie I'm not thinking of anyone specific, I've just been really into this song lately.” Everyone else in the hotel, besides Alastor, has already figured out what's going on

Alastor: If I have to hear that obnoxious noise one more time I will reduce that tiny maniac’s room to rubble as well as the abode of whatever sad sack is making him play it.

Angel: *knowing smirk* I'm gonna hold ya to that one, Antlers. 

-Al may very well hear it one more time if Lucifer uses it as his confession song (I don't fully commit to this headcanon, I just think it's funny) 

-Anyway boy’s probably in his Reputation stan Era b/c LWYMMD is like his long overdue big F-YOU to Heaven song 

btw this is NOT gonna end at these headcanons I am running with this idea like scissors.

@nunalastor

@julsiemagne

@nose-nippin-fun (I know you're not a swiftie but we talked about this so idk if you care I can un-tag you if you want)

[stellocchia]

I absolutely adore the fanon Nightmare Gang found family stuff but... If one of these suckers gets sick they're gonna struggle.

Like, okay, I don't think Nightmare can reasonably get sick. It would make no sense for any virus, bacteria, or parasite to have evolved to survive and thrive in a goop that literally only he posses. He's fine.

But he's also gonna be completely useless when it comes to looking after his team. He would fall for the good old paranoia-inducing mistake of googling the symptoms and finding only death-sentences. And then he's just gonna be miserable and mope until his boys are better.

Killer meanwhile, would logically get sick, but also he would definitely hide it. Like, he was still conditioned by Chara to be a killing machine, no way my guy would just share such a big vulnerability. The others would only find out once he's already in really bad shape and most of the time they wouldn't find out at all.

On the other hand, while I imagine he'd be adept at setting broken bones and the general basic field medicine (again, because of his past he probably had to learn the basics to survive and remain functional), his solution to deal with any actual illness would be "just ignore it until it goes away".

I'm pretty sure Horror is technically already dead, so I don't know if he can get sick... Though I'd say probably? I mean, his body doesn't seem all too different from that of other monsters. Regardless, when sick I say he'd go in full survival mode, build a nest somewhere and be completely unapproachable unless you want your hand chewed off.

On the other hand, being the only one with a living brother and with both of them living in really harsh conditions, he probably has had to handle sickness rather often. Of course, with the lack of resources back in his universe, he mostly had to go for the basics, so his solution is a warm broth and some wet pieces of cloth. At most hot water to disinfect wounds. He's still at least doing something.

Cross is basically like Killer. He doesn't want to appear weak (with a father like his I highly doubt weakness was allowed) so he hides any minor sickness. Though I do think he'd tell, like, Horror if things are getting really bad. If anything, ao he doesn't become a burden for the others during missions.

And, again, much like Killer, I think he definitely would know field medicine. He was trained as a Royal Guard after all, they must have taught him things like that. But actual sickness? Yeah, they probably had medics that handled it when it got too severe. He doesn't know jack shit. His solution is just going to Horror and hoping he's got it handled.

Dust would straight up gaslight himself into thinking he's not sick and that's just his body punishing him for his sins. He literally would not believe it's anything else until someone (again, most likely Horror) pointed it out to him.

And the worst part is that, once he knows, there's no fucking way he'd let anyone treat him for it. That self-loathing fucker would rather suffer through it in some pointless attempt at receiving some form of redemption. He's cooked. Horror would need to tie him to the bed just to force him to get some rest.

So, anyway, this is my propaganda to say let's get at least one Sans who is mentally healthy enough and knowledgeable enough to keep these guys from dying in here.

My vote is for Lust Sans. Just because I love him.

Though someone like Color could also unlock some very fun dynamics. And he may actually get Killer to stop hiding his symptoms like an idiot. And perhaps Cross too. Literally, those guys would lie about getting bit in a zombie apocalypse

[ghost-bxrd]

PROMPT

Jason - in any AU - after the League brainwashing, is in full Red Hood mode and about to storm Gotham to put his plan into motion.

Only, due to some shenanigan or the other, a dimension shift happens, and Jason finds himself in an alternate timeline - one where Bruce did kill the Joker.

In that timeline, Jason's death convinces Bruce and Dick to ditch the no-kill rule. They basically adopt Red Hood's ideology - if you are a killer, you don't deserve to live. Let the punishment fit the crime.

After all, Joker isn't all that special when you come to it. There are plenty of Rogues with a similar kill count. So once they have killed him, why hold back on the others?

Commissioner Gordon can no longer afford to turn a blind eye to the vigilantes. Not now that they have started to kill. The Bats lose their ability to coordinate with the GCPD.

Batman burned down Arkham. He allowed the staff to get out, and stopped anyone from going in to rescue people.

Poison Ivy tried to go in there to save Harley who was within. Batman let her go in, but blocked the exits after. Anyone who was out of Arkham at the time is killed brutally.

Nightwing is shot dead by GCPD.

The shots are fired by corrupt cops, but the 'bring the bats in by all means' order was issued by Gordon. Bruce loses what little restraint he had, kills the officers responsible, and anyone who tried to keep him from them.

Catwoman doesn't kill, so Batman doesn't kill her. But she is still a criminal and cannot be allowed to continue. He cripples her.

Rogues no longer surrender or hold back. They all know they are doomed, so no more holding back. Civilian casualties exponentially increase as the battles become deadlier. Cops are shooting at Rogues, Bats, and civilians who are at the wrong place, wrong time.

Gotham is a war zone. New Rogues keep popping up. Mostly people who have lost loved ones or livelihoods in the Bat rampage, and now have nothing left to lose.

When Damian arrives, Bruce finds in the young assassin a suitable Robin.

The image of superheroes in general take a plunge. One group has already started to kill, people say. What is to stop Superman or Wonder Woman from doing the same next?

JLA tries to stop Batman, but is hit by brutal contingency plans. That also causes major collateral damage. People are starting to agree with Luthor - superheroes are too dangerous. They should no longer be allowed to take the law into their hands. Anti-Meta legislations and protests begin.

It is in this point that Red Hood enters. Jason is horrified by what is happening, by the realization the no-kill rule exists for a reason.

He ends up joining the Resistance in Gotham - led by Tim, Stephanie, Duke - against Batman. He is struggling against his own mental issues, and trying to talk Bruce down, though it is too late for that.

Basically a role reversal of the UtRH argument. Jason has to think up reasons to talk Batman down, finds himself picking holes in his own ideology.

It is after that experience where Jason actually returns to the Canon (for me Wayne Family Adventures is my canon, please let Bruce be a good dad) Timeline...

Geez that’s… that’s dark. I‘m pretty sure I saw a fic onxe that had a similar premise.

But at least Jason probably goes straight home once he‘s back in his canon universe

[httpscomexe]

Barnes has to protect the new girl which he despises but after spending time with her he realises he loves her.

Okay this isn't EXACTLY what you asked for, I changed it up a little, but it works.

Pinky Promise

Summary: Barnes is set up on a mission by Steve Rogers with the person he claims he hates so dearly. Everything is fine until after they realise everything is about to set fire, and the soldier is once again awakened.

(Find what I'm currently writing by checking my pinned post)

Parings: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Smut, light choking, fighting, yelling, nothing too big in this chapter. P/V sex, mentions of drugs, mentions of child trafficking. One of my first times writing smut, it's bad.

Word Count: 3798 (Find all chapters HERE)

“Barnes.” Tony Stark approaches the soldier, his hands in his pockets, and the expression on his face unreadable. “Now, I know we’ve been through some tough times, hating each other back and forth.” He pulls his hands out of his pockets and crosses them in front of his chest. “But we have a job for you. It should be easy.”

“Just spit it out already, Stark.” The soldier carefully drops the heavy load he’d been holding with his left hand, and his arm hums as it recalibrates.

“Your mission is to protect the new girl. My daughter.” Tony spits out, hating even the thought of James Barnes, the famous killer, to protect his little girl. “She has a mission where she needs to steal a phone, she's a master pickpocket and the phone is in the pocket of a man who’ll be in a very crowded room. A masquerade ball, to be specific.” He sighs, shifting on his feet uncomfortably.

“Okay. When?”

“Tonight.”

“Well thanks for the short notice, Stark.” Barnes says angrily before grabbing up his package again and turning away to leave.

“You have a suit sitting on your bed ready for you. Be ready by seven thirty!” Stark calls after him. Worried for what the outcome of this mission would be.

Hey, I’m Y/N, Mr. Stark's daughter. You must be Bucky? Was the first thing you had said to him as you had stuck your hand out for him to shake. Yea. Was all he had said as he stared down at you, observing your face and body as you awkwardly shoved your hand back into your tactical pants and he walked away, getting seated in the limo that your dad had rented so you followed after him, still craving to be friends with him.

“Stark, your target is about 6 '2, his hair is black, curly, and is usually tied up. He was last seen 15 minutes ago at the ball wearing a black tuxedo and his masquerade mask.” You made sure your weapons were concealed as you shifted in your seat, your long pink dress hides your thigh holster well.

“You look good in pink.” You giggle quietly as you look up at Barnes, dressed up in the pinkest tuxedo you’ve ever seen, and he was visibly angered by your constant teasing and taunting of his apparel. “F.R.I.D.A.Y? Did you not receive a picture of my target?”

“No ma’am. The only thing we have as of now is a description of your target. He’s normally crowded by women, so I believe you should approach him with a false attempt in seducing him, and then pickpocket him. But you are the professional.” The led lights above you flash as F.R.I.D.A.Y speaks.

“We’ll see what the best approach is when we get inside.”

“Do we have to wear these stupid masks?” Barnes finally speaks to you, holding up his matching pink masquerade mask, but instead of answering him, all you can do is laugh to yourself, his face doesn’t even attempt to curl into a smile as the limo finally pulls in front of your location. A large mansion, at least three stories with a pool and multiple fountains in the front. You want to be impressed, but you know the riches come from drug and child trafficking, so you can’t even force yourself to be impressed as you take Barnes’ hand, playing your parts as lovers well as he gently takes your hand and helps you out of the car, then you both place your masks on your faces, putting you into work mode as you hook your arm through his, then make your way into the mansion, your heart skipping immediately when you walk in as your eyes are met with hundreds of people already dancing and drinking, each of their identities concealed with a mask, but your eyes know exactly what to look for.

“Stark? What-?” The food. You leave his side, casually speed walking to the long tables that are filled with desserts and drinks that you’ve never even heard of until now. Your needy fingers immediately reach out and pick up a small bowl of strawberries that were covered in white chocolate and sprinkles, and just before you put the sweet mouth-watering strawberry into your mouth, you feel an iron grip around your wrist, preventing you from biting into it. “What are you doing?” He growls in your ear, his left hand gripping your left hand to the point where your fingers went numb.

“I’m hungry…” You whisper to him, looking up at him through your lashes as he stares down at you with a hard expression, then hesitantly, he releases his grip on your wrist and wraps his arm around your waist instead, gently guiding you towards a different direction to continue looking for your target as you munch on your strawberries. “That's him.” You say quietly, nudging him gently as your eyes catch sight of a taller man, his fingers and wrist covered in golden jewels, and he has tattoos reaching up from out of his suit, creeping up his neck. You’d recognize a drug dealer from anywhere. “Hold my strawberries.” You hand Barnes the bowls, and work your magic…

“See that was easy.” You tell him, holding up the man's phone in your right hand before Barnes snatches it and shoves it into his pocket. “Hey!”

“Don’t fucking flaunt it are you stupid? What if someone sees it?”

“Like whom?” You stop in the hallway you were walking in and face him with your arms crossed. The hallway is completely empty. You were told the restrooms were in this direction, but you swear the hallway never ends. But your heart skips as you hear approaching footsteps. Realistically, you weren't supposed to be back here.

“Shit.” Barnes grabs you by the back of your neck and pulls you towards him, then opens a random door and steps inside, the automatic lights turning on, causing you to jump. “Fuck.” He mumbles, knowing the light would give you away, so he drags you over to the far wall. “Play along.” He grumbles, quickly undoing his tie and loosening his shirt just slightly before reaching towards you and messing your hair up, then he leans forward and his lips land on your neck.

Your whole world was suddenly spinning as you felt his lips touch your skin, it was like your body was on fire and your eyes rolled slightly as his hands squeezed your waist and he kept you pressed to the wall with urgency.

“Hey, you two aren’t supposed to be in here.” A man walks into the room, and you could see three others behind him. One of them was your target.

“Oh, we're sorry, we just needed some…” Barnes looks down at you, you couldn’t make it more obvious how dazed you were. “Privacy.” He tells the men before gently brushing your hair back and fixing his suit. “But we’ll get going, sorry.” He takes your hand and you both brush past the men, who were most likely planning their next attack, which you’d get all of the details on from the man's phone.

“But I want to drive.” You whine, trying to push past Barnes to make it to the driver's seat, and he was becoming more visibly frustrated with you.

“I said no-!” He grumbles, his teeth clenched to prevent himself from yelling and catching unwanted attention. His hands had gripped your upper arms, tight. Then he slammed you against the pink sports car that was parked a little way away right next to some other sports cars, including a black tesla with dark tinted windows and an orange Ferrari, but still close enough to not be suspicious. It was your 16th birthday gift from you dad, and you loved it. Even if the pink suit and dress for tonight's mission was in spite of making Barnes look bad, your dad still knew you loved all things pink.

“Okay!” You squeal. “Okay… I’m sorry Barnes… please let go, you're hurting me.” You ask him, his grip tightening, and his face mere centimetres from yours, you could smell the hint of peppermint on his breath and the cologne on his clothes. Then he slowly lets go and backs away from you before opening the passenger door and watching you slip into the car, then he rounds the car and gets into the driver seat before starting the car.

“Get comfortable, it’s a long ride to the hotel.”

“Okay…” You mumble, shifting in your seat and getting comfortable as you remove your dress so you’re only in your shorts and a tank top.

The next few hours fly by like they were nothing, and your eyes are continuously focusing on anything it could be occupied by. One moment you're focusing your eyes on passing trees and the next you're pretending there's a little ninja jumping over little obstacles and swinging from power lines, moving your fingers in your peripheral to enhance your imagination.

But that's when your eyes turned and focused on Barnes, and the way his hands gripped the wheel. His left arm hung out of the driver window which has been rolled down since you’d gotten onto the freeway, and he was focused purely on the road. As you approach a red light, you observe how when he flexes his hand, the veins in his hand move in the most attractive way possible, his muscles growing under his pink tuxedo as he stretches a little.

“That car looks familiar.” He snaps you out of your trans and you turn your head in the direction he's looking in only to see an orange Ferrari, behind it was the black tesla with dark tinted windows.

“Yea, they were parked next to us at the ball.”

“What’re the chances they’re going to the same hotel?”

“Not likely considering we’re going to one that's four hours away. Why wouldn’t they stay near where the ball is?”

“Because they’re following us. Where’s the phone?”

“In your pocket.”

“Get it out, I’m going to take some random ass turns to see if they’re following.” You listen, immediately reaching over to take the phone from his right pocket, but when you reach in, it’s not there. Shit. 

“It’s in your other pocket.” You say before unbuckling and reaching over his lap as he moves his arms to make room for you to crawl around him, then you dig into his other pocket and pull out his phone. As soon as your back up straight with the phone in a hidden compartment, you buckle and Barnes presses on the gas, allowing you to move ahead of the Ferrari, who's speed doesn’t change, but the tesla continues to follow, both of them taking the same exit as Barnes turns the wheel, still going in the direction of the hotel. “Yea no they’re definitely following us.” You point out as if it wasn’t already obvious. “Are you sure you can drive well? I mean you were dead for like-”

“Shut up. I’m gonna pretend I’m getting gas.”

“What-?” He turns the wheel, pulling into a 7/11 before parking next to a pump and getting out of the vehicle with his gun concealed in his dress pants, then as expected, both of the cars pulled into the gas station.

Shit, shit, shit… You watched as a man steps out of the Ferrari, dressed in a suit as he begins to press buttons for the gas pump, and then suddenly all of your worries leave your body, replaced easily by hunger and thirst, so when Barnes isn’t looking, you leave the car and make your way into the gas station.

“Welcome.” The man at the front desk says as you enter the store, and immediately head to the chips and soda.

Back at the car, Barnes finishes pumping the car with gas, and he gets back into the driver seat, feeling the threat isn’t serious anymore, until he realises you’re missing. “This fucking girl Stark.” He mumbles to himself, then looks around the parking lot until his eyes land on you, innocently searching the candy aisle inside of the gas station.

Should I get starbursts, or Twix…? You ask yourself with your arms crossed, the candies sitting side by side as you make the hardest decision of your life, almost as hard as the hand that wrapped around your waist.

“He’s taking pictures of you.” You turn and look up at Barnes as he also pretends to search the candies, and your eyes dart to his right where a man in a hood, which you could tell he was huge from his frame, was looking down at his phone unashamedly, and you could see him scrolling through different pictures he had just taken of you with his thumb. You felt Barnes hand tighten around your waist, warning you to look away before you were suspicious. “And I don’t like it.” He whispers, sending chills down your spine that felt amazing, so you grab the starbursts, the pink pack, then you walk to the registrar, Barnes presence never leaving you as he presses his front against your back and places a drink on the counter, then slips the man a twenty before grabbing both items in one hand and your hand in the other, practically dragging you out of the store and back to the car.

Arriving at the hotel, you could see the visible frustration on Barnes’ face, almost like he was written in anger, but you weren’t sure what was wrong. The mission had gone well with no casualties, and you stole the item that your mission had listed. So why was he so angry?

“Barnes.” You say his name peacefully, as if you were about to make an offering. “Barnes?” You repeat when he doesn’t answer as he throws his bag of clothes on the floor and plops onto a couch. You toss your bag on the couch and sit opposite from him in the recliner. “Why’re you mad at me?” You finally ask. His head looks up at you slightly and his eyes flash with anger

“Why? You really need to ask me that? After everything that’s happened tonight, you just fucking disappear. No explanation, no warning.”

“I was just getting a snack… It’s not a big deal. We had the situation under control.” You explain bluntly, and a frustrated growl comes from his throat as he looks away from you before slowly standing up from the couch, and you copy him, expecting a heated argument, but of course, you didn’t know James Buchanan Barnes, and he wasn’t for any arguments.

“That’s not the point!” He yells, his posture becoming stiff and angered as he approaches you, and you back away in fear, you're back hitting the wall and your hands pressing flat against the wall as well as you squish yourself against the flat surface.

You can see him trying not to lose control. Why would you approve a mission with me and him as partners dad? You wondered as Barnes sighs and leans in closer to you, his face only mere centimetres from yours as he whispers, aggression still clearly in his voice. “You have no idea… what could’ve happened to you, or what I would’ve done if something had happened to you…” You don’t respond, only staring at the floor to avoid his eyes as you keep yourself compressed against the wall. “I was scared, Y/N.” He says softly, and you feel his hand reach up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his gentleness was something you never saw in him. “You know what it feels like to be scared, don’t you?” You only nod, you try to speak but your lips only part before his thumb rests on your face, gently stroking your cheek as he leaned in closer, trying to coax you to just look into his eyes for once, and to get rid of your fears of him.

So, you do.

Your eyes meet his and both of your lock. Your heart skips a beat as you feel his arms wrap around you, pulling you close and flush against his body and his forehead rests on you. “I’m sorry…” He whispers, hurt in his voice.

Did he just apologise?

All these years, your father and so many other people have made him up to be a monster, but he just apologised to you. But for What? He didn’t do anything wrong.

“Why are you sorry…?” You say finally, and you feel his arms wrap around you more protectively.

“I just…” He sighs. “When your dad gave me the mission to protect you…” Protect me? That’s not why he was given the mission… “I wasn’t happy about it. Not because I don’t like you, but because I was scared you wouldn’t like me.” He says, gently letting go of you, then he holds your face in his hands and stares into your eyes. “I know everything that people say about me. Some are brave enough to say shit to my face, but others prefer to fear me behind a phone or a computer.” He begins to gently stroke your cheek again, and you realise it's a comfort method of his. “I might seem like it doesn’t faze me, but it does. It really does, Y/N. So, I took the job in hopes that at least one person wouldn’t see me as a monster. I was hoping we could even get along.”

“Barnes.” You interrupt. “You are not a monster. Hydra is. And I know they are, I’ve experienced it myself, but you’ve gone through so much worse.” You gently pull his hands off of your face and hold his hands in yours. “I don’t know you as the Winter Soldier Barnes. As a matter of fact, I’ve looked up to you ever since you joined the team. You’re my role model, I used to dress up as you for halloween for fucks sake.” You chuckle, recalling your costume from last year that you’d perfectly tailored to your size, and you see a smile creep up onto his face. “You’re not a monster, and anyone who says you are, haven't met you. You’re misunderstood, and that's it. But I want you to explain something to me.”

“What?” He asks, his voice so soft you might start crying yourself.

“What do you mean you were assigned to protect me? On my assignment it says you’re only my driver.” You watch as his face contorts into confusion.

“If you needed a driver then they would’ve assigned you with someone else… Not me, I’m not a professional driver.”

“Exactly, that’s weird.”

“Who assigned the mission?” You ask, then you both let go of each other as he reaches for his bag, pulling out a printed paper slip with every mission detail.

You both examined it. Your eyes peeled on who assigned the mission and what his mission details were.

“Why would Rogers assign me with you? He never creates anything but when he does it’s this?” Barnes remains quiet. He knows exactly why.

“Hey… Y/N?”

“Yea?” You watch as he shoves his mission slip back into his bag, most likely crumpling it.

“You really don’t see me as a monster?”

“No, of course not. I think you're actually kinda cute. Just misunderstood.” You tell him again, as honestly as you could.

Then he walks closer to you, your arms crossed loosely over your middle as his hands reach up and gently cups your cheeks before leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. And you feel yourself explode.

His lips explore yours, softly and with care at first but then he becomes more hungry as his hands find their way around your waist and one of his hands cup your ass, pulling you up closer to him as you hold the back of his head. What the fuck are you doing? You think as his lips trail down to your neck, lightly biting your skin and he gently hooks his hand behind your knee as he lifts your leg to hang over his hip, your centre now against the growing bulge in his pants. The pink pants and suit that he still hasn’t taken off.

You reach up, easily undoing his tie and unbuttoning his suit and then he continues to kiss you, pushing you gently against the wall as his hands reach up behind you to unclasp your bra and he left it fall from your top as he brings his hands up to gently massage your breasts, drawing moans from your lips.

Your hands find their way into his hair, pulling gently as he begins to remove your clothes, tossing your top to the side before quickly removing your pants and panties, leaving you completely exposed. Not long after did you begin to remove his clothes, working until you were skin against skin, but the only thing that ran through your mind was dad would kill me if he found out I was about to fuck the Barnes of people. 

“Fuck I need you.” He groans, lifting you to gently lay you down on the couch before making his way between your legs, but just before he’s about to pound into you.

“Wait!” You shout suddenly. “Do you at least have a condom?” 

“We don’t need one, it’s fine.” He argues, but before you can argue back, he’s already inside of you. He still for a moment, savouring the feeling of being inside of you, and your legs wrap loosely around his waist like a koala. “Fuck…” He growls, then he begins to move inside of you. Slowly at first, but then his pace picks up until the couch is basically rocking, and part of you feels bad for whomever is below you, but the rest of you feels amazing. It’s total ecstasy and probably the best feeling sex you’ve ever had as your eyes are already rolling because he pounds into you like it's the best feeling he’s ever had.

With your legs wrapped around his waist and a growing feeling in your stomach, you gasp and moan as he moves so he's able to wrap his metal fingers of his vibranium hand around your throat, squeezing just enough for it to feel amazing. As he reaches between your bodies, gently rubbing your clit, you feel your stomach tighten and he groans as you tighten around his cock.

“Fuck…” He groans, then you both cum. The best orgasm you’ve had in your life as he spills inside of you and you clench around him, milking every drop of his cum.