#hunter gets to take the brunt this time )

[adelheidvonschicksal]

Nsfw scenarios/hcs for the LADS boys with their MC in ABO!AU (Idl if I wrote this right 😅) please? Like how they marked their mates, how they treated their mates during the rut and heat, etc.

+ Omegaverse, sexual content, alpha boys/omega reader, female reader

General

9/10 possessiveness level

Xavier is the most possessive of the main boys and gets jealous the easiest. He may seem calm about other alphas standing a little too close or talking a little too long to his mate, but the tension in the air is thick and unpleasant. There's a specific eery calmness to his face and falsely polite tone to his voice when he happens to cut into the conversation. He always wants to know the topic of conversation when you talk to anyone who has his suspicion. Xavier suddenly gets a little needier than usual, always trying to figure out a way to draw your attention back to himself. Or, purposely sliding an arm around your waist and holding you close in a silent hint that whoever is talking to you should back off, or he will drop his head against your shoulder, saying he’s tired, and asking you to hurry up so you can go home together,  he emphasizes. His last resort isn't pretty. 

While calm, he has a little of a competitive streak with others, whether that means scoring higher in your hunter team battles or building the largest snowman together. He is competitive for your attention against those he thinks are interested in you; and when he has you alone, he insists on scenting you or mating you. You better be prepared to hide large bite marks or hickeys by the time he’s done claiming you.

Protective Level: 6/10

Xavier has no problem with you running about your daily life. He has confidence that you’re strong and don’t necessarily need much protection. He only insists on coming with for two things: (one) if he’s jealous of the person you’re meeting or (two) if you’re going somewhere to fight on your own.

As long as he’s around, he’s confident that things will work out fine. However, he gets extremely protective when you’re hurt, asking for you to stay behind him, rushing ahead to be the vanguard, and trying to take on the brunt of everything himself. And if you get hurt being rash, prepare for him to be upset with you and insist that you allow him to protect you more.

Scenting

Scent: Fresh Linen

Xavier smells good, but there isn’t something to pinpoint about his scent that is unique to him. Simply put, he smells clean, like freshly dried laundry with a touch of lavender.

Xavier loves covering you in his scent, cuddling and sleeping with you until you’re no longer entirely sure what your scent smells like not mixed with his. He scents your things, like your plushies, before you even need to ask. 

He likes to tease you, asking if you want him to scent his hoodies even more since you take them so much, and he’s always happy to oblige. His first instinct to calm you down consists of three options: scenting, cuddles, and food, in that order.

Mating

Xavier already likes to mate with his partner a lot, like a constant rut minus the attitude that comes with it; always wrapping his arms around you, nudging the back of your neck, and lightly coercing the situation to where he wants it to end up whenever the opportunity shows itself.

In a rut, he’s twice as easy to rile up and much more direct about wanting to be alone with you, wanting to hold you and shove his head into the divot of your neck, and audibly inhaling your scent. You can already feel him against you in more ways than one.

He doesn’t waste his time trying to play games with you during this time, choosing to show you exactly how much he wants you before taking charge. You’re burnt out by his energy when you’re used to him napping right after a round or two. This time he isn’t letting up, but he promises that he’ll treat you so well, promises that he’ll get you there twice in exchange for letting him have one more time, as if you're aren't already overstimulated with jellied legs.

He asks if you're already tired. He'll let you sleep but can he at least squeeze and kiss you while he uses his hand. He promises to clean his mess if it gets on you. He'll be good, he swears, and he's so puppy eyed that you let him.

When he finally is tired, he’ll fall asleep while inside you. His knot stopped swelling a long time ago, but he enjoys your warmth around him as he nuzzles the back of your head.

Xavier does his best to tend to his mate when they’re in heat. He’ll get warm compresses and try his best to cook for you (most likely failing) and offer to nap with you when you’re in pain. He’ll let you use him how you want as long as it makes you feel better, whether that’s using his hands, mouth, or knotting you.

There’s a small bit of worry from him, with the way he asks,

“Where do you need it?” “Like this?” “Are you sure you only want my fingers? It’s okay to ask for more.” “Open your legs wider. You don’t have to be embarrassed. It's only me." "Next time, I'll let you take care of me, deal?

You’re so cute like this, needing and wanting him, but he hates how it causes you pain.

General

3/10 possessiveness level

Rafayel tends to have confidence that he can have you before anyone else, trusting your judgment to take care of yourself. He also has pretty high esteem of himself when it comes to the social world. A few properly chosen words is usually enough to get any seducer to back off. Rafayel can’t believe someone else could possibly think they’d have a chance with you when you have him.

As repentance, he wants you to do things for him after little incidents like that. It’s so exhausting chasing lesser alphas off, after all. Whether he’s serious or not when he says he could use some affection after his omega so cruelly ignored him for another alpha remains to be determined.

If there ever is a time where he feels insecure or jealous, he isn’t above trying to cut off someone’s relationship with you. If it comes to threats so be it, but it will end. It doesn’t matter if it’s from your side or the pursuer. It’s an ultimatum, either him or the other person, but not both.

He has a bigger concern about you not needing or growing bored of him than falling in love with someone else. Otherwise, he tends to have faith in you.

Protectiveness Level: 8/10

Rafayel knows you’re strong. Trust him—a twisted arm and playfights abound—he knows. But you are also bulledheaded and naïve. He worries you might end up getting yourself injured; or worse, killed.

So, he’s observant as always, watching for any suspicious activities with the people you’re around, whether warranted or not. He wouldn’t just do that for anyone, only for his precious mate and also for his precious peace of mind. He tends to operate from the background to not be too overbearing, but he doesn’t mind being the one to step in—to get hurt—if it means keeping you safe.

Scenting

Scent: Beach Sand with a Hint of Citrus

Rafayel smells of white beach sand and tropical fruit. He smells like the first hint of salt air and the ocean breeze and mineral. It reminds you of family vacations and old memories. He insists most Lemurians have scents like these, but his is special! It's the only one that mixes so lovely with yours.

He does scent you when you ask, but he requests that you do the same. It’d be much better for you to scent each other. He loves to tease you when you ask him to scent things for you.

“If you like it so much maybe I should make it into a perfume.” But he’d hate it if you actually agree. “Wait, let’s not be too hasty. A perfume really can’t compete with the natural source.”

Mating

Rafayel dislikes his mating cycle only because he dislikes losing his sense of control over himself. But when you’re there, with your scent clouding his mind, it’s all bets off. He’s so needy and HAS to have you. He feels like he’ll die if he isn’t burying himself in your scent, your presence, in you. He needs to feel your hands on him and isn’t below demeaning himself or being more forceful than usual to get it.

He’ll constantly seek you out, calling you late at night. He has nothing to say. He just needed to hear your voice, just keep breathing for him, he’s almost there. He needs you to come over to his place right now. It’s all your fault he’s burning like this. You need to get there immediately and take responsibility before he goes insane. He's already dizzy and his hand isn’t cutting it anymore.

In person, he grabs your hand, and the look in his eyes is begging in place of his mouth that’s too heavy with pants to talk straight as he savors your touch, desperate and gluttonous. 

“Right there...don't make me beg…just a little bit longer.” “I need to feel you. There. You feel incredible.” “If you want my knot, you can have it. Say you want it for me, and I’ll give it to you. Say it.”

When it’s your turn to go manic, he’s going to have his revenge for all the bullying and petting you did while he was rutting. He’s going to coo and fawn over how much you need him, and make you ask him nicely for his touch, but he’ll always give in to his little mate. He knows what’ll make you feel good, and he’s going to give it to you in due time. He thinks you look so pretty when you’re about to cum, covered in sweat, body tensing, the shallow, quick breaths.

“I wish I could paint you like this, but I don’t want to look away.” “Do you really want me to breed you that bad? Don’t say you didn’t ask for it.”

Rafayel is going to make sure you have an easy time, clearing out your schedule for you and letting you stay in the studio with him. Thomas' calls are going to go unanswered for a while.

General

6/10 possessiveness level

Zayne is able to get jealous; however, he isn’t one to distrust you. It’s other people he doesn’t trust. He’ll drop hints he doesn’t like something you’re doing, a sarcastic jab here, a polite warning there, and even a “you should be careful of the company you keep.”. He always introduces himself as your mate to ensure there are no misconceptions about your relationship with him.

Zayne occasionally has to remind you that he’s your partner especially when you insist on teasing him and being a brat, poking at that jealous side of his to rile him up. It doesn’t take long for you to get the idea after having him between your legs. It’s really more of a funny thing, seeing him possessive, because he becomes a lot more short-tempered but absolutely refuses to admit he’s being possessive.

However, he calms relatively easy with some reassurance, and he doesn’t care as much if someone likes you after he knows you have zero interest in them. It’s more of an annoyance than something for him to fear.

Protectiveness Level: 10/10

Zayne is always so worried about you. He always has to tell you to be careful, to watch where you’re stepping so you don’t trip, to not drink too much without him there to take you home, and to watch for injuries. It might be a bit of his doctor attitude coming out, but it’s so much worse when it comes to you. You know no one else who adds the weather of the city you’re in to confirm you’re okay.

He’s also protective of your mental wellbeing; he tends to be the rock you rely on. If someone is bothering you, you can tell him, and he’ll be sure to handle the issue immediately.

Scenting

Scent: Bamboo Forest

Zayne smells like bamboo forests, a mix of floral and earthy. It kind of reminds you of him, calm and quiet but strong and solid like the earth. Fresh, green, and slightly woody. It smells like nature.

He scents you when you ask, and he quietly scents you when he wants, always overthinking if it’s something you want him to do or appropriate at a given point in time. It doesn’t take long for him to become better at knowing when you want it, when to leave something with his scent for you when you’re upset, and when to simply cradle you against him. His mood improves exponentially whenever you shove your face into his chest and mumble about how good he smells.

Zayne loves the way you smell. It’s a familiar and comforting thing to have your scent greeting him after a hard day at work. It lets him know you’re doing okay, and he gets worried whenever your scent is off. He can usually tell the slightest changes of your mood, and it makes him agitated whenever you try to pretend you’re fine when he can clearly tell different from smell alone.

Mating

Zayne tries his best to control himself and avoid you during his ruts. The last thing he wants to do is hurt you, which leads him to being too restrained whenever he’s with you to the point where you can tell he’s not handling himself well.

It’s going to take a few times to convince him that you can handle it, that he can let go and give you everything before he finally allows himself to dive into his hormones, throw you against the bed, and kiss you hard. It's almost like a completely different side of him. Sure, he could always be dominant in the bedroom but there was always a control to it. Instead, he's instinctive, running off the rush of endorphins to reach the peak he desperately wants to tumble over, harsh and tunnel visioned as he chases the sensation of you clamping down around his knot.

“Hold it there, we’re almost there. You can handle it.” “Let me have you a few more times. Then, you can rest.” “Good girl. You’re doing so well. So good to me.”

During your time, he is meticulous. Zayne knows you almost as well as you know yourself, knows what sweets you like to eat, what positions make you the most comfortable, and tips on how to keep yourself together.

That only works so long, however, and soon he takes a more hands on approach in helping you through your heat cycle. His fingers curled up inside you, pushing that sweet springy spot inside you that has your juices pouring over his palm. He shushes you as you beg for him to give you more and more, to please stop this edging and fuck you already.

He promises he’ll make it good, but he has to slowly work you up first, so you won’t get overstimulated. Then, he’ll give you what you want until you pass out.

“Hold still, or do you want me to stop?” “Does it feel that good? I’ll be sure to remember that for next time.” “See what happens when you follow directions?” “You’ll have your reward soon. Which do you prefer to have—my fingers or my knot?”

Zayne also takes special care of you no matter the situation, making sure to wipe you off and hold a warm rag to your swollen and puffy cunt as he makes out with you. He scents you heavily afterward and lets you fall asleep against him until it all starts over again.

[dissevered]

     fellas, are you ever just the literal embodiment of an existential crisis

[wttcsms]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ if you love me right, then who knows !!

ᝰ.ᐟ you decide it's time to let your beloved bodyguard relax. ( fem!reader )

pairing jinchul woo x reader word count 2.4k content contains breeding kink, creampie, roleplaying domesticity (pretending to be husband&wife), bodyguard!au, rich girl!reader, size difference/size kink kinktober masterlist

It’s been a rough day, give or take. 

From the moment Jinchul Woo steps into the office, he’s been slammed with work. Hunters not returning, hunters looking to sue because of jobs gone wrong, new gates opening up at every other second, coworkers who are so swamped with work that they’re looking to pass it off to anybody and everybody — and as the chairman’s right-hand man, Jinchul gets the privilege of taking the brunt of it. How lucky is that?

And it’s because he’s the chairman’s most trusted employee (and the strongest A-Rank he has in his arsenal), that when all is said and done, the working day isn’t over for Jinchul. 

Instead of coming home to his stark apartment, empty save for the essential pieces of furniture, like a couch he put purely for its functional purposes instead of aesthetic reasons, he finds himself pulling up to a gated estate, opening the clicker so the gate opens to allow his car inside, and then he’s parking in a garage full of luxury vehicles. 

For the past month and for the foreseeable future, Jinchul Woo has been given the assignment of a lifetime: watching over the only granddaughter the chairman has. Even if Jinchul didn’t respect Go Gunhee, there would have been no room for Jinchul to deny the chairman’s request. Him asking to take care of you was just a formality. And as a formal man himself, Jinchul can respect that.

The only issue is that you’re not one for formalities. As a college-aged girl with more money and privileges than most, it’s no surprise that you’re a bit of a brat. The moment you saw Jinchul and learned that he was to be at your beck and call, Jinchul knew he was in trouble.

He just never knew just how far he’d go to reprimand you. 

It all starts off innocently enough; he supposes that’s how most things go. Gentle scoldings here, a few lectures there. But ever perceptive, Jinchul would catch the way you clench your thighs and rub them together every time he gets onto you. He notices the way you decide to walk around the mansion in pajama sets that get more revealing by the day. The way you start asking him to open jars for you and to build furniture that you don’t need. He knows better than to ever act on your desires, but his resolve to remain unaffected crumbles the second you practically pounced on him, batting your pretty lashes slick with tears, asking him why he won’t fuck you. Is it because you’re not pretty enough? Smart, driven? What is it? 

No. He thinks you’re absolutely perfect the way you are. And he spends that night fucking you, showing his devotion to you, all while reprimanding you in a way that will certainly leave an impression: spanking you for teasing him, for constantly disobeying him on purpose. 

That’s how sex usually initiates between the two of you. You decide to push his buttons and wait for him to snap. 

But Jinchul is pleasantly surprised when he walks in, slipping off his shoes and tossing aside his briefcase, only to be greeted at the sight of you on your knees, wearing an apron, smiling up at him sweetly. 

“Welcome home, husband,” You chirp cheerfully. 

For once in your dynamic, it seems like Jinchul’s the one in trouble now. 

He swallows hard, looking down at the demure sight of you. 

“Wha- what is this, exactly?” Jinchul stutters, unable to remain composed, nervously tugging at the tight knot of his work tie. 

“Can’t a wife greet her husband when he comes home?” You pout, and it all clicks. 

The guys at work always say it’s easy for Jinchul to pull in overtime and work himself to death; after all, it’s not like he has a family or a wife or even a girlfriend who’s going to stay up late, worrying about him. One night, when Jinchul decides to grab a drink after work and comes back to you, you help him onto the couch, worried. He had been too drunk to realize it at that moment, but the fact that you stayed up because he hadn’t come home to you yet makes his heart ache. (It’s why he doesn’t pull in as much overtime as he used to, no matter how hectic work gets.) That night, he admits that it’d be nice to have a wife and start a family, to have something distract him from work, to pull him out of the misery of paperwork and other people’s troubles. 

He didn’t realize how that drunken confession would impact you. 

He runs a hand through his blond hair, messing up the styled strands, disrupting the hair gel. “Get up, honey.” He tacks on the pet name, trying it out for the first time. It rolls off his tongue easily, a little too easy, really. He pats your head, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by him how much larger his hand looks when it’s anywhere near your body as opposed to his own. 

“That’s not fair. I wanted to treat you to something special.” You get up, though you’re still pouting. 

“Oh, yeah?” He’s walking to the kitchen, wondering whether it would just be easier to order takeout, before the scent of a home cooked meal hits him. “Did you cook?”

“Of course, I did.” You cross your arms, bringing attention to the pink apron you’re wearing. “Why wouldn’t I?” You seem happy that he’s surprised about this. “Now go to the dining room, and you’ll see that I already have your plate ready! Just wait a second, though. I have to reheat the soup.” 

Jinchul doesn’t go to the dining room, though. He remains rooted in his spot because he’s frozen at the view you’re giving him when you turn around. Underneath the apron, you’re wearing nothing. Not even a pair of panties. You’re crouching down a bit to bring your mouth closer to the pot of soup, and you’re sipping from the ladle, testing to see whether it’s warm enough or not. 

“Ah!” You let out a squeal when you feel the muscular body of Jinchul, the only thing separating him from you being the stiff fabric of his suit. Quick with his reflexes, Jinchul reaches from behind you to catch the ladle before it falls into the pot, potentially splattering you with hot soup. He places it gently in, before shutting off the stove entirely. 

“Jinchul.” You whine, bending awkwardly to try to look at him. “The food will get cold.” 

“I know, but can’t a husband just take a moment to appreciate his wife?” You love it when Jinchul’s voice gets all low and husky like this, every word he says coated in his dark desire. His large hands grip your waist, squeezing you gently but firmly, and you feel the growing bulge of his cock straining against his suit pants. “If I knew you went through all this trouble, I would’ve told the guys at work to fuck off so I could come home to you sooner.” He whispers this in your ear, leaning down. The strands of his hair tickle your cheeks, and before you can tell him that it’s okay, he’s spinning you around to face him. 

You look up at him, and he’s grinning, licking his lips as he stares down at you. “I’m sorry, honey, I know you worked hard but dinner’s going to have to wait. I need to fuck you.” His tone lowers a bit more. “Can I fuck you, honey?” 

“Of course.” You choke out the words, too caught up in just how hot Jinchul looks when he’s unbearably horny. He’s so careful, so put together, so stoic in his everyday life. It suddenly occurs to you that when he’s with you, this is the only time he gets to be a little unhinged, to relieve his stress. 

He’s easily picking you up, placing you right on the granite island of the kitchen. Even sitting on the elevated surface, you still have to look up at Jinchul, and he still has to lean down to crash his lips into yours. You moan into his mouth, enjoying how messy and sloppy Jinchul makes out with you. It’s a stark difference from how he handles everything else in his life, and you want to unravel him just a bit more. 

While he’s sloppily kissing you, swapping spit and swallowing up your moans, he’s making quick work of the bow of your apron, untying the knot and slipping off the tiny strip of fabric from your body. The cold air of the mansion hits you in full force, and you shiver a bit. 

“Spread your legs for me.” He grunts out, when he momentarily separates from you, and you comply. He takes a sharp breath, admiring the way your folds are already glistening, how you’re already wet for him. “Were you this wet the entire time?” He asks, dragging his index and middle fingers against your slit. 

You nod, knowing that anything you say will only be caught in between your little pleasured mewls. 

“You got wet waiting for me to come home? What were you thinking about?” 

“I-I wanted to welcome you home with a blowjob before you ate dinner.” You confess, more slick being produced when the fantasy re-enters your mind. 

His eyes darken at the sound of that. “Yeah? Fuck — you’re such a good wife, you know that?” The tips of his long fingers tease your soaked entrance, and he leans down to whisper in your ear. “We’ll have more nights for you to do that, don’t worry. But tonight, I’m going to be a good husband and treat you so well. You know what good girls like you deserve?” 

You shake your head, not knowing what filth might come out of Jinchul’s mouth.

“You deserve to have me fucking a baby into you. You’d like that wouldn’t you?” He chuckles, feeling the way your hole clings to the tips of his fingers, eager for more, desperate for it. “Yeah, I knew you would.” 

Jinchul makes quick work of his pants, undoing his belt and unzipping his trousers, pushing down the layers of fabric ‘til his cock can finally spring free from its confines. He pumps his cock once, twice, but he’s too starved of you to do much more. You’re so wet, the need for prep has long since disappeared, and besides, Jinchul’s fucked you like this many times before. Before you took on the role of wife, you were the brat he had to babysit, and to teach you a lesson, he’s fucked your cunt with no courtesy orgasm to prepare you. 

And you love it. 

You’re already writhing, laying down on the cold granite of the counter as you spread your legs, inviting Jinchul in, gasping and moaning at the way he taps the head of his cock teasingly against your slit before inserting the head in. He’s in love with the sight of his long cock disappearing into your wet, tight cunt. 

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, honey.” He grunts out, sliding his cock further into you ‘til he’s balls deep. You haven’t stopped moaning the entire time. 

He leans down to capture one of your breasts in his mouth, sucking and biting at the soft flesh as he starts steadily pounding into you, getting into that quick, jagged rhythm of his that he’s particularly fond of when he’s in a rush to cum. His mouth moves upwards, sucking and kissing at your collarbone, moving further up until he’s planting a kiss right on your lips, inhaling your moans of pleasure, keeping up with his same, quick pace, battering away at your cervix. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it, honey?” He asks you, feeling the way you tighten up. “Yeah, I knew my little wife would love this. You ready for me to get you pregnant, sweetheart?” He coos, and you can’t help but nod. A little Jinchul running around wouldn’t be too bad, right? In fact, right now, with his dick making you see nothing but stars, you think several tiny Jinchuls would be a dream come true. 

You can’t answer him using your voice, but you do wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him in place as if he was going to run off. He smiles at your reaction, taking a calloused thumb to rub circles against your clit, relishing in the feel of your walls tightening around him. 

“Ah, ah, ah!” You squeal out, before letting out a jumbled stream of syllables that sounds distinctly like his name. You’re creaming all over him and his cock, the cock that’s splitting you open, the cock that’s going to get you fucking nice and bred, all for him, only for him. His grin is feral as he continues with his thrust, now content to chase after his own high. The ring of white circling around his cock only motivates him further, and he’s shoving himself deep inside of your messy cunt as he cums. 

Shooting copious amounts of thick, white cum right at the entrance of your cervix, practically straight into your fucking womb, Jinchul still keeps rutting his hips until you let out a weak whine. 

“Aw, are you too tired, honey?” He asks you, giving you a forehead kiss. “Just give me a second, okay?” He tells you, waiting for the pleasure of your walls clamping on his dick to subside. Even after his cock gets too sensitive and begs for relief, he remains inside of you, still wanting to enjoy the feeling of your cunt twitching around his cock, swallowing up his cum. 

He rests his forehead against your own. “You feeling alright, honey?” Even though the act should be over, Jinchul is still calling you by that pet name, and you love it. You don’t protest it, but you try not to draw attention to it, out of fear that he’ll realize he should stop pretending and shatter the illusion. Despite his cock plugging you up, a trickle of the mixture of your shared cum is trickling out of your cunt, and you let out a mhm. 

“Ah, I should get up and reheat the soup for you.” You mumble, struggling to lift yourself from the counter. He only pushes you back down, shushing you. 

“You should rest. Let me heat it up.” Jinchul’s hand finds your own, and he’s entangling your fingers together. “But let’s stay like this just a little bit longer.” 

You don’t complain, letting the warmth of Jinchul blanket you. You want to stay together like this forever.

(And he does, too.)

[mamayan]

★LOVE★

Darling! Hisoka Morow x Yandere! Reader

cw: NSFW • Obsessive/Possessive Themes • Fem! Reader • Noncon turned Dubcon • Yandere Themes • Murder • Emotional Instability • Yandere! Reader • Drug usage • HC • PIV

This is not “reader” inclusive as I’d assume nearly 99.9% of you do not exhibit true yandere traits. This is written with a female yandere in mind. No other physical descriptors will be used, but “reader” will have psychological descriptors and habits which will likely not match the majority. Please keep this in mind while reading. Thank you!

To become so obsessed with a psychotic mass murdering clown magician like Hisoka, you’d need to be a special breed. Harley Quinn style if you will, but incorporating an even more massively unhealthy level of adoration and blindness.

Since Hisoka is a whimsical sociopath and amoral character, it’d likely attract someone that is… surprisingly selfless and mildly antisocial. His attitude and way of life likely trigger feelings of envy and jealousy at first within you. Why does he get to be so carefree? Why can’t you just slaughter your entire place of work when they piss you off?

So starts the morbid curiosity. Who is Hisoka Morow?

You’d see him in passing a time or two, maybe you’d even witness him kill or target an individual in battle. You’d stay undetected by Hisoka. This requires great skill in nen-ability and you’d likely be a pro-Hunter or something along those lines. You’d need to be incredibly powerful and a good strategist to have Hisoka as a darling. Specializing in stealth/tracking/spying would all do you well in aiding to observe stalk Hisoka.

He’d take a life so easily it’d stun you. His lack of remorse after even more. How does he feel so little? Why is he so easily aroused in battle? Why can’t you look away? Rationality will need to take a backseat in this budding crush you have. It won’t bloom into what you call “love” until he does something that speaks to you personally.

It’ll be entirely mundane too.

He’ll do one thing that will capture your heart. Maybe it’s when he spares Gon and Killua. He’d claim it’s because they’ll make worthy opponents later. You’ll see it as something else.

Once your feelings for him are established, it’s impossible to find fault with him anymore. Everything he does is perfect, utterly adorable and fascinating, and he’s a silly kitten who can do no wrong in your mind. His clawed finger nails are proof that the most harm he can do is claw up some curtains.

Hisoka is constantly on the move, traveling often and usually very light. He does have a few spaces he uses more like storage than actual living quarters. This where you spend time when you aren’t observing him. Going through his things, envisioning a future with him, imagining him tied to the bed.

You’ll be delusional but no so much you believe you can have him without force. Wild cats are hard to tame after all, and a superiority complex over Hisoka will begin to develop the longer you watch and learn about him. You’ll likely have dug up all the skeletons of his past. You believe you know him best, who else understands him so well but you?

This dig includes any lovers or even potential lovers. They’re in the way and need to be gotten rid of. You can’t let them ruin him now can you?

Finding all of his past lovers isn’t easy, especially without alerting him to anything suspicious at first. Thankfully, despite his track record of murders, his love life is stale at best. A few hookups when he was younger, no long term relationships, but he does have a notable relationship with a female from the Phantom Troupe.

Machi, a beautiful woman which Hisoka blatantly flirts with. More than the usual too, it holds a level of sexual tension which invokes unparalleled rage inside you. It’s ironically not directed at Machi, but she’ll bear the brunt of it anyway.

Hisoka is given both a sick and delightful surprise when Machi’s severed head is delivered to his hotel suite in a box. A love poem hand written by you in it, but it’s a warning for him too.

It’s a grotesque combination, but it’ll most certainly catch his attention. A bouquet might’ve sufficed too, but Hisoka will now know of your existence. He doesn’t think this is a love note though, he thinks this is revenge. He’ll be angry too, because whether Machi was ever a real love rival or not, she was someone he wanted to fight. His designated prey was caught and killed before he even had a true chance of tasting victory over them. That must mean you are an even better treat.

It’ll drive you wild seeing how desperate he becomes to track you down and find you. He comes close a few times too, but always just out of reach. His real niche laying in combat unlike you. It feels romantic in a sense, and it’ll drive the fantasy further that you two are meant to be together. He’s meant to be yours isn’t he? As you begin leaving even more obvious hints of your presence in his life, he’ll realize it’s not revenge you’re seeking.

He’ll figure out he’s got a perverted little stalker when he finds your cute lace panties left for him to find. No need to mention you’d touched yourself on his bed to the thought of him and came in them. It’ll be fairly obvious from the fact that he hasn’t been to this particular hideout in a while and it’s spotless. No dust. Everything perfect, but he didn’t clean before he left this one. Then he’ll see on the unmade bed, a clear sign of a woman having intruded and marked the area. Strands of your hair. Your scent. Your clothes.

Still, he won’t catch you. He’ll bait you too, and sometimes you wonder if you’ve been caught only to realize he just knows he’s always being watched now. He doesn’t know your exact location or if you actually are there. “I liked your gift… hmm, but it would’ve been a nicer surprise to see you in them~” he’s flirtation and goading. It’ll be difficult to resist him, when he’s seemingly speaking straight at you. You know the moment you reveal yourself though, he’s not going to drop to his knees and offer himself to you. It’ll be a battle on sight. Though the thought of him getting aroused because of fighting you… makes you itch to throw caution to the wind.

Instead you clear any and all traces of your presence for several long months, until Hisoka grows avidly annoyed and then slowly disinterested, moving on to other opponents and amusements. Being in your line of work means a very much endless cash flow, the resources available to keep up with your favorite pass time of just watching him in all his glory. He’s perfection, even as his face twists up into a manic monstrous expression as he slaughters his victims, you see nothing but an angel. Never mind the screams and begging for mercy, isn’t he so cute when he plays a magic trick for them? It’s easy to become overwhelmed with jealously occasionally, but you’re good at being patient and reminding yourself that person isn’t special, Hisoka is just entertaining himself.

It’s also hard to remind yourself you aren’t special either. While it takes a certain sense of superiority over a darling to develop yandere tendencies, you’re also affected by an inferiority complex about the world. This means you’re isolated in how you interact with the world, no close friends or relatives, no real hobbies outside of what assists you with your work, hardly any social interactions that aren’t required. This is what makes Hisoka so fascinating, and it’s also what starts your real downward spiral to depravity.

What makes you truly snap and lose control to your yandere tendencies , is nothing other than Hisoka himself.

He’s coming down from a recent high of a fight in Heaven’s Arena, only showing up due to being challenged as a floor master, but the fight had been surprisingly up to his standards. His opponent was both entertaining and thrilling until their end. He was in a good mood, a very good one, so when a spectator approached him batting their lashes and hinting at spending the night in his suite… he said yes.

That was strike one.

Strike two was the audacity of the piece of shit throwing themself at him. You carefully followed, silent and untraceable as sexual tension began to rise in the elevator all three of you shared. Only they thought it was just them.

Strike three. Wasn’t your presence at least somewhat obvious? It’s highly delusional on your end to become enraged at other’s ignorance to your presence despite your mastery of hiding it. It’s what allowed you to watch Hisoka so long after all, but illogical as it is, you were still pissed. Furious at both of them but now mostly at Hisoka. Who was leaning over them, letting his height and teeth aching sugary tone seduce this common stray off the street like they were his personal favorite. They weren’t. He didn’t have any real favorites. Only toys that were disposable and this was no different but it didn’t matter because he was yours. And it seemed he needed to learn this.

Even Hisoka can be taken off guard, especially with his pants feeling too tight and the piece of ass before him being all to eager to please.

He’s unconscious when you finally reveal yourself. The deafening scream echoing throughout the elevator as it finally reached Hisoka’s designated floor and opening. Unfortunately for the poor soul screaming who was just looking to get laid, you weren’t in the mood to grant them anything less than a brutal death.

“Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up shut shut up!” Your fist broke bone with each strike, until your victim lay unrecognizable and very dead. You’d released your nen, and every nen user in this entire Arena now knows you’re here, all because anger got the best of you.

It didn’t matter, because even with the corpse at your feet, you were still furious.

You took both Hisoka and the body out of the elevator and swiftly worked to clean up the damage and fluids. You didn’t need the Arena fining you again. Hisoka was out cold, but he’s quick to recover so you work on getting him into his suite and bed, working his wrists into nen blocking steel cuffs. He’s spread like a star fish, each limb hooked to the fancy bed posts. You muttered anxiously as you dug around your bag, hands shaking as you pulled out a small leather pouch about the size of your palm.

It might seem overkill, but chaining and drugging ensured your personal safety once he woke up.

Never mind the fact that you could just leave after disposing of the body. Your heart fluttering and cheeks flushing as you looked upon his unconscious body on the bed prevented you from acting within reason. No, you wanted him to see you, if for no other reason than to establish where he was.

Beneath you.

Hiding your presence and that of the corpse, you quickly left the building with Hisoka’s key card to properly rid yourself of the responsibility and allow yourself to fully focus on Hisoka.

Returning was quick and painless, this time not revealing your presence until back in Hisoka’s suite.

His face was angelic while he slept, though his head would likely ache from the powerful blow you landed to the back to get him in this state. You contented yourself with just watching him for the next hour or so, until with no warning, he woke up. It was odd how he didn’t even twitch. Just suddenly aware of his situation and surroundings, alertness to his features immediately. You wished it was a sleepier and cuter wake up, but you still found it adorable how on guard he was instantly.

Those lovely gold orbs landed on you and narrowed, despite his sly smile. He might appear relaxed and languid for someone chained up and hardly able to move their body due to relaxants circulating their system, but you knew he was furious. Hisoka, as much as he loves playing with others, hates being played with. You stayed silent, letting him observe and calculate, allowing him time to run through his options and every plausible scenario.

“Well… good morning Ms. Stalker.” His airy words sent visible shivers down your spine, his eyes and focus, for the first time entirely on you. He also seemed to note your reaction, his smile sharp and predatory. “Oh? You like the nickname? Bad girl… don’t you know not to play with magic?” He tested his restraints, with surprisingly more strength than you thought he’d have after injecting him. He’d require another dose then. You were quick to work on that, his eyes tracking your movements and realizing your objective.

“Not even going to let me play?” He didn’t resist as you sterilized his arm before injecting him with a fourth dose. Three should’ve been enough to tranquilize an elephant but Hisoka wasn’t a normal human. He flexed his hands and twisted his wrists, copying the same with his feet and ankles. The cuffs were made specifically for him. You’d kindly taken off his shoes and socks, but his shirt and pants remained on. You felt your throat constrict and thighs clench at the thought of him naked. You’d already seen it a multitude of times but he hadn’t known you did. Watching him shower and change so shamelessly.

“You look ready to eat me. Is that what this is dear? You got jealous when I brought another up here?” His nickname for you threw you off, your eyes widening and meeting his teasing gaze. He looked sinfully beautiful like this, at your mercy yet still so him. You licked your lips, feeling mildly nervous now that you were about to speak to him. This was too good an opportunity to pass up though.

“Yes,” he paused when you finally answered, “I…I was very jealous.” Your hands gripped the bottom of your shirt, the material bunching as the earlier annoyance was brought back to your attention. You grimaced, “This wasn’t really how I intended for you to meet me for the first.”

“Oh? But we’re here nonetheless aren’t we?” His tone was a bit snarky, but he was correct. What did you do now? Make every little fantasy you had come true?

“How about this, yes? You take these off and I give you a painless death. Isn’t that nice of me?” His words have your eyes snapping up to his face, his words not matching his sweet expression. He wanted to kill you? Not even fight? You frowned, a low boiling of rage in the pit of your stomach.

“You think you hold any power here?” You sneered back at him, walking to look down at his sorry figure chained up and at your mercy. He was being a brat. You backhanded him swiftly, his head cracking to the side at the force and momentum. His pale skin already reddening as a small trail of blood tricked down his chin. His gaze was on fire as he turned back to look up at you. Defiant and piercing, but his smile never wavered. “How about this, Hisoka, you stay right where you are, and maybe I’ll be nice and let you finish tonight.” His eyes widened, a small moment of shock taking over his features but he quickly schooled them again.

You began undressing swift, throwing your clothes to the floor until you were only in your underwear. Your chest heaved, nipples tightening under the cool air of the room and Hisoka’s gaze. You couldn’t place his expression exactly, a combination of desire and rage most likely. You climbed atop the bed and thus him, knees on either side of his hips as you made light work of his shirt. Shredding the garment and tossing it to join your clothes. His pants were next, now both of you almost completely naked and staring at one another.

“Is this your idea of a good time Ms. Stalker? Tying up innocent magicians and having your way with them?” You laugh at this sentence, because it was silly to think too much about. He was still being light and teasing but he was exuding a little bit of bloodlust.

“No Hisoka, my idea of a good time is just you in general.” You placed a cold hand on his abdomen, sliding it up gently until it reached his throat. “Watching you, hearing you, smelling you…” your eyes trailed up his naked torso to his lips for a moment, before connecting your gazes. “This is your fault really. I didn’t ask to be haunted by you, I didn’t ask to feel like this, I didn’t ask to want someone so badly I’d gladly watch this word burn if it meant you’d be entirely mine.” It was a deeply disturbing confession. You sat down, right over his erection where you could grind your pussy against him and elicit a beautiful hiss of pleasure and pain from him. “I can’t, oh, I can’t decide if I want to own you or be you really,” you panted, beginning a slow rock of your hips as your arousal soared. The object of all your affection beneath you, looking so much like a cat being bathed it brought a small smile to your lips. This was all turning you on, and he seemed to also be enjoying himself somewhat.

“I very much would love to humor you dear, but I really do recommend you remove these.” He dropped his facade, his expression turning dark as he realized how unlikely you were to release him. You were clearly deranged, maybe more so than himself. He tugged against his chains, the rattling echoing around the room but it only served to make you amused. Despite his words, his hips had begun to lightly buck up into you now. Both of your underwear soaked through, a combination of your slick and his precum. His voice and tone sent your hormones flying to cloud nine, your face starting to look intoxicated as you gazed down at him with obsession.

“You say you want them off but do you really want this to end? I could just… leave you here. All night. Maybe I’ll come back just to make sure you, haah, stay hard?” You were panting and a little sweaty, breasts heaving as you became more intoxicated by the moment and him. You looked spelled bound and he looked downright menacing. Of course, because out of all things, Hisoka likes control. His flirtatious attitude can not be mistaken as submissive, but here you were forcing him into such a role. Threatening him with a punishment if he didn’t behave like a dog.

It made him want to bite you like one.

“Pretty Ms. Stalker could’ve told me she wanted her little pussy filled, no need to go to such lengths-tss!” He flinched when you finally fished his cock free, your soft cool hand a striking contrast to his pulsing hot shaft.

“You’re so pretty Hisoka.” You were lost to your own fantasies, not really registering his words anymore. He realized it quickly as you focused all your attention on his leaking cock, impressed by the size and girth. It would hurt, taking him, but the thought of stretching around him was driving you wild.

But first… you dropped your chest low and opened your mouth. Your tongue had him groaning low, the sound of his teeth grinding together had you even wetter than before. You licked from base to tip, slow and sensual. He tasted sweet. Not salty or bitter like you imagined and it had you quickly and messily taking him into your mouth.

For all you were, you weren’t experienced. This was your first blowjob but you prayed not your last, because as you choked and gagged to take more him, he was losing it himself. What you lacked in experience and skill, you were making up for in enthusiasm and pure need to please. Observing his reactions as you let his tip finally sink into your throat even as tears pricked your eyes and fell down your cheeks. It burned and ached, but you pushed the pain down as you watched him. He finally gave in and kept your gaze as you worked to make him cum, sucking and taking him as deep into your throat as you could. You were making an absolute mess of his cock and balls, slobbering all over him. It was erotic and truly enticing, and the only indication he was close was the twitch of his lip and his hips trying to make you take even more of him.

You tried to get all of him in your throat when he came, but you failed by an inch or so. You stayed still as his hot cum coated your throat and mouth, moaning at his musky sweet flavor and making sure to suck and milk him for any leftover until he was choking on his own moans for you.

You made sure to clean him up nicely, licking and making sure even his balls weren’t missed. When you finally pulled back to look at him, you nearly passed out at the sight.

He was slightly sweaty, breathing a little heavier with half lidded eyes glaring and grinning viciously at you. His cheeks flushed, the left slightly bruised from your earlier hit. His lips red and bitten, a bit of blood still leftover on his chin. He looked gorgeous. You couldn’t be blamed when you were stumbling off the bed to grab your camera from your bag. No need to turn the flash off since he knows of your presence now.

He scowls as you snap his picture, looking beautiful and ruined just for you.

“I- sorry- I just need this okay?” You set the camera down, eager to return and continue touching him and exploring.

He snorted, looking at you in disbelief with mild amusement. “Is that so? You needed to photograph me naked?”

“What? No. I have lots of those already. I wanted one of your face after I made you cum.” He seemed flabbergasted at your answer, but you couldn’t help your eager hands from cupping his cheeks and leaned down over his face. “You’re just so pretty I can’t help it.” You told him honestly, his expression relaxing into something neutral as he observes you. Fine by you, as you begin kissing his face, hair, cheek you hit and then his neck. You lick and suck over his pulse, enjoying the masculine groan as you mark him up and lick his sweat. You’re trembling as you wiggle down to his chest, playing with his nipples. Swirling your tongue elicits the best response, his back arching lightly and proving your theory that his nipples are sensitive.

His hardening cock beneath you all the proof you need, your own nipples pebbled and aching as you drag your chest against his while you work.

When he bucks up again underneath you, you finally release his nipple with a pop. Looking at his tossed and adorably fucked appearance, you shiver. His hair messy from throwing his head into the pillows. You licked your lips, finally clumsily trying to get out of your underwear but failing because of your position. With a huff of annoyance you just tore them off, finally completely naked and slightly embarrassed by his stare.

It hardly mattered if he liked what he saw, you weren’t so far gone that you thought you looked anything like his earlier willing catch which you’d crushed- “Pretty thing aren’t you?” You paused your internal rambling when he spoke. His voice low and husky, not as flirtatious and teasing like his usual tone. You’d never heard him use this voice before, you eyes meeting his with curiosity.

He chuckled, but his bloodlust from earlier was gone like it had never happened, “What’s wrong? You were so eager just a moment ago, don’t tell me you’re shy now? Is Ms. Stalker a virgin?”

His goading voice was back, covering up his earlier tone like it’d been a mistake. Though you were surprised he hit the nail on the head. You were a virgin. Not because you lacked people willing to fuck you, but because you lacked interpersonal skills to have a normal relationship. Intimacy terrified you before you’d fallen for Hisoka, but after it was all you seemed to want. To touch him, feel him, make him feel good. You wanted him desperately.

“I won’t be much longer.” You looked away and solidified your resolve as you moved to hover above him again, your dripping cunt begging to be filled. You balanced using one hand on his hip, the other gripping his once more hard cock and lining him up with your entrance. You let his tip brush through your sensitive folds as you shakily released a breath. You took one small peak at his face, his eyes watching you like how a hawk might watch it’s prey.

You let his tip breach your entrance, no surprise that it stung. You didn’t prep yourself at all, and though you were wet enough, you wished you’d thought to carry a little lube in case this scenario ever occurred. It didn’t matter though because even if it hurt you were being connected to him and it made your chest swell with pride and happiness.

“Fuck, you’re tight- ah” he threw his head back and grit his teeth again, your gummy walls simultaneously sucking him in and pushing him out. It had him close already embarrassingly enough. The pleasure and pain mind numbing.

You’d only taken half of him but it was leaving you breathless, “m’trying” you could only gasp as you struggled to push more of him in, tears pricking your eyes once more as the pure stretch of his cock inside you was turning your brain off. It hurt but it felt good too.

“If you take these off, I’ll happily finish the job you’ve started dear~” Despite his tone, his face looked just as aroused and strained as your own. It was tempting, but deep down you really didn’t trust him. It came from knowing him that you didn’t trust him in the least. You shook your head, denying his prompting. His laugh is dark, even as his hips surge up to force another few inches into you. You cry out, bracing against his chest as you fall forward a bit. He does it again, sinking into you until finally you feel your hips meet and his tip kiss deeply into your cervix. You lay panting against his chest for a moment as his cock pulses inside you, your body pathetically struggling to adjust to his size.

“Take them off while I’m being nice.” He’s not asking, but still you shake your head and push yourself up, moaning as he sinks even deeper. Your hips take on an unsteady rhythm, testing the depth that feels the best but his hips throw you off each time you find the perfect angle. The stretch and friction drive you wild, your mind numbing to the pain and pleasure as you feel the coil inside you close to snapping.

“Feels good~” your moaning loudly, face fucked out and teary eyes locking with Hisoka’s. His eyes are burning, face scrunched up in frustration because your pace isn’t quite fast enough, nor is he hitting as deep as he’d like. His chains clink against the steel posts, you’re too distracted though to pay attention as you desperately work your hips towards your finish, bouncing on his dick. “M’gonna cum Hisoka” your deliriously close, the coil right about to snap-

When his chains do first.

“Huh,” You only get a split second to panic before he’s on you, breaking each steel bedpost and freeing his movement up again. His cuffs are still secured for a second but it’s meaningless a moment later when they shatter. His nen stored up enough to cancel their purpose of restraining him despite how much you’d paid that specialist who guaranteed no one could get out of them. Never mind that he should still be drugged up enough to he struggling to move at all.

You find your positions switched, your back hitting the mattress as you gaze up into his eyes now.

It’s silent for a moment, save your own pounding heart and icy fear now filling your veins. He just… looks at you. His face blank, eyes calculating but just when you decide it’s best to fight than let him slaughter you like this, he laughs.

Not like normal. This is borderline hysterical laughter, his hand wrapping around his torso as he howls with laughter.

Before you can activate your ability, he’s got a hand wrapped around your throat and squeezing just enough to warn you. “Did you think this would all just work out how you wanted dear?” You were scared, that was true, but as he nudged your thighs apart and dragged his still hard cock through your folds teasingly, you realized you were also horrifically aroused too.

All of your fantasies had you on top, because you didn’t trust him not to kill you if he was, if he even wanted to willingly touch you at all.

“Look at you~ poor thing,” he’s mockingly sweet as he leans over you, long tongue coming out to lick your tears off your cheek. As he leaned back, you truly didn’t expect his hand to leave your neck and slap you across the face. The sting follows after his hit lands, but it shocks you silly more than it actually hurts. You don’t have too long to think before he’s shoving himself back in, and your too far gone to stop the orgasm that slams into you. “Wait!” It too late even as you cry out, hands desperately grabbing on to something to anchor you. Him.

He hisses, face vicious as he stares down at you, “Did you really just cum?” His voice somewhat incredulous as he feels you twitch and writhe beneath him. He stayed still, letting you shakily come down from your high before he’s rocking into you.

Then he’s fucking you just how he likes. Hands gripping your hips in a death grip as he slams himself into your overstimulated cunt over and over. He leaves you mewling and fucked stupid beneath him as he mercilessly thrusts into you like a rag doll. You can’t keep up. Can hardly speak besides useless babbling, only making him laugh and sarcastically mock you for it.

“What’s wrong dear? Isn’t this what you wanted? Am I just so deep inside you~?” Cooing as you nod and cry harder.

It’s when he kisses you that you cum again. He tastes like bubblegum and you’re gone, creaming his cock as his tongue tangled with you own messily. It all feels too good, your arms wrapping around his neck, legs around his waist, while you just struggle to take it. His tip pounding away in a spot that has you gasping and sobbing below him, because despite everything, this is the most pleasure you’d ever felt. It was disorienting and left you mildly numb, his sharp claws trailing down your chest softly to settle his thumb over your clit and press until you came again.

This one was slightly painful, your muscles constricting so hard Hisoka finally fell over the edge himself. His moans so pretty, soft and deep as his hips still move despite him emptying himself inside you.

He recovers first, staring down at the pretty thing in his arms struggling to catch her breath.

You’d given quite the headache for a while now, but tonight really took everything up a notch. You certainly weren’t halfhearted, something of which he respected. You weren’t a weak thing either, his thrusts harsh enough to break a normal human’s hips, but you just looked fucked stupid. It was cruel of him to be so rough, but then again you’d really brought it on yourself hadn’t you?

You’d brought all this onto yourself, and whatever happened in the future too.

Because now he was a little hooked as well, and you were just too cute and interesting to leave alone now that he’s tasted you. Had you first.

He easily reached over to snag your camera, switching it on and snapping a picture of you still shaking and twitching with his cock still buried inside you and beginning to grow hard again.

Realization dawned on you, but even as you tried to move and get away from him, he had your wrist locked above your head to stop that nonsense.

“Nu-uh dear, I’m not finished. Not even a little.” His lustful gaze and sadistic smirk had you looking like a frightened animal, but it only served to rile him up further.

It’s after all, your fault for loving someone like him, right?

It’s important to note that once Hisoka becomes interested, he treasures it. But something he treasures one day can become trash the next… until you.

Hisoka is surprisingly a willing darling. Don’t think this reverses any roles, he’s not submissive to you in the slightest. He acts like a total brat but he’s dominant through and through, don’t expect to ride him unless he’s got full control to just fuck up into you.

He’s needier than you’d expect too. Not just with sex, that’s constant, but also in just having your company. He likes when you talk to him, interact with him, don’t expect to go back into observing from the sidelines. He’s all to happy to give you front row seats.

He’s just as jealous as you are, but he’ll purposely play into your jealousy by flirting with other women to rile you up. He just likes how you look enraged, finds it cute. If you do the same, he’ll make that individual sit tied to a chair while he fucks you in front of them until you can’t even apologize anymore. Then he’ll kill them. He welcomes the same treatment. You get a bit shy acting it out.

Bonnie and Clyde duo!

He’s not a yandere, though he gets jealous, he’s just a psychopath in general. He’ll still be Hisoka no matter what. While you can interact normally with others when necessary, your fixation on him will remain an outlier. Hisoka is just trash to everyone, and surprisingly decent to you. By your low standards.

He likes ice-cream and ice-cream dates. He’s an ice-cream date man.

Illumi doesn’t understand your relationship but respects your devotion. Wonders why more women can’t be like you. Hisoka likes that his friend is envious of what he has.

Enjoy your darling, he’s frustrating and difficult but all yours now!

Dividers by @benkeibear

[max-hubris]

@dreamsaremywords posted a dope prompt for a Clexa Mandalorian AU a while ago, and I own enough Star Wars RPG books for it to be embarrassing, so of course I had to write something. Please enjoy this meet-ugly between a moody bounty hunter and a reckless idiot. Title from a Perturbator-song that I was listening to on repeat when writing this.

She Moves Like a Knife

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Clarke thinks as she blinks furiously to clear the blood from her vision. Her helmet took the brunt of it, but there’s definitely a cut on her forehead, sending rivulets of crimson streaming down and directly into her left eye.

She hadn’t seen the shock baton coming before it literally hit her over the head, and though her armor ensured the electricity coursing through it wouldn’t send her into a spasming pile on the ground, the impact still fucking hurt.

“Fucking Cartel dicks,” Clarke mutters, readjusting the grip on her blaster. She’s a long way from Nal Hutta and Nar Shaddaa both, but the Hutt Cartel’s slimy tendrils are longer. And though she doesn’t speak much Dosh, in-between the harsh hissing syllables from the Trandoshans, she hears the name ‘Cholta’ repeated a few times.

She’s not going to let these amateurs take her anywhere, and especially not to some Hutt Cartel Lord who decided to put a bounty on her for no other reason than, in Clarke’s opinion, to be a real fucking asshole. Can’t even let her subtly loiter at a cantina in peace.

Another volley of blaster fire chips away at the makeshift cover, and she knows the durasteel crate she threw herself behind after kicking her initial assailant in the face isn’t gonna hold much longer. She chances a quick peek out of cover, managing to get eyes on all three of them. They’re all holed up behind the half-oval that makes up the cantina’s bar, a far more fortified position than what Clarke is working with. But… These older cantinas have their quirks, and her helmet’s HUD is still doing its job despite the impact, indicating the small fuel tank hooked up to the drink dispensing system. Clarke grins, happy to have her hunch confirmed.

Thankfully, everyone else had fled once the shooting started, so there’s no collateral other than structural to worry about.

Probably.

It’s gonna take a couple of shots to break through the plating, and Clarke is once again immensely grateful she managed to ditch the E-11 and its shitty accuracy as soon as she hit Elrood. As a manufacturing planet, it had a thriving black market filled with various things that went ‘missing’ from its gargantuan factories, and it hadn’t been hard to talk her way in, though she had obviously opted to forego her armor for that particular excursion. The Rodian manufactured heavy carbine she’d traded for had cost her both the E-11 and two thermal detonators, plus a couple of credits on top, but it was more than worth it for the upgraded precision, plus the extremely satisfying thump-noise it made when fired. Clarke has never been much for subtlety anyway.

To drive that point home, Clarke takes a deep breath, holds it, and pops out from behind her cover. Ignoring the shot that whizzes a little bit too close to her head, she follows the tracking on her HUD and finds the most vulnerable part of the tank easily. She exhales and pulls the trigger once, twice, keeping her wrists tense and elbows locked to manage the stronger recoil. Both shots are good, hitting in almost exactly the same place, and the three mercenaries have no time to react as the tank ignites and a fireball engulfs them.

The ensuing blast is probably the final nail in the coffin for the already beat-down cantina, and Clarke dives for a nearby window as the force of the explosion starts making the walls around her creak ominously. There’s screams from her would-be captors as they’re caught in the flames, but Clarke spares them no sympathy as she tucks and rolls, kicking up sand as she leaps to her feet and starts sprinting.

The air is scorching hot at this time of day, with Elrood’s arid climate and two suns quickly making Clarke’s armor feel like a sweltering cage, its bright white color not doing much to alleviate it. The commotion and ensuing explosion has drawn a crowd, even here in the slummier part of the planet. Clarke grits her teeth and pulls the long, raggedy cloak tighter around her, despite the heat.

It’s really no place for a lone figure clad in Stormtrooper armor to be seen.

She knows she needs to find her way off-planet soon, because even though Elrood isn’t under Imperial control, she’s seen a few of their ships coming and going from the modest spaceport lately, and though it’s unlikely that they’re here specifically for her, it’s still getting a little too concerning to ignore.

She makes it back to the little abandoned hovel she’d found on the outskirts of the slums, and as soon as she slams the door behind her, she wrenches the helmet from her head, wincing a little bit as the coagulated blood makes it stick to her skin for a moment.

“Eugh,” she grimaces as she sees the mess inside the helmet. She’s gonna need to clean that out somehow. Not to mention she has to take care of the cut on her forehead. She heaves a sigh and drags her feet through the little two-room building, throwing the helmet and her carbine onto the bed as she passes it.

Despite its state of disrepair, the house is very much livable. It stands in the middle of a little cluster of three other houses of similar shape and size, and Clarke’s assumption is that it housed factory workers, once upon a time, based on the logo still emblazoned on the doors. When she’d tried to look up the name of the company, however, she’d found nothing. Most likely, the company had been bankrupted, and its houses left behind. The other three houses were stripped bare, and it’s anyone’s guess why one of them still held its furniture, but Clarke isn’t complaining. The bed, though obviously cheap, is miles better than anything she’s ever slept on. Certainly much better than the shitty beds back at the Imperial barracks. There’s even a little table, and a chair, and a washroom with a sink, hooked up to a water tank outside. It had been dry when Clarke first got there, but figuring out how it worked hadn’t been hard, and she’d bartered two barrels of water from the nearby cantina to fill it up.

Unfortunately, that cantina is the same one she blew up today.

“Nothing good lasts forever…” Clarke mutters to herself in the cloudy mirror. She turns the sink on and leans down, cupping her hands under the faucet to gather water before splashing it against her face to get rid of the blood. She does this twice and tries to move quickly; she can’t afford to waste water now that she doesn’t know when she’ll get more, and—

Something cold presses against the back of her neck. Clarke’s hands immediately shoot out to the sides and stay there.

“Up. Slowly,” a voice says, distorted as if filtering through the voice-box on a helmet much like her own. Clarke curses inwardly, realizing this is it, they’ve found her. “Keep your arms just like that.”

As the voice commands, Clarke slowly comes back up, straightening at the waist first, then her neck. She mournfully glances down at the water that’s disappearing into the sink from the still open faucet, then looks up into the mirror.

And realizes that the person who has the muzzle of a blaster pressed against her neck isn’t who she thinks at all; because it’s not the Imperials come to haul her ass back to the nearest base to beat the shit out of her and put her right back into a squadron.

It’s worse.

“Mandalorian,” she hisses, lips pulling back into a snarl as she sees the all-too recognizable helmet shape, and the silver gleam of beskar plating.

The helmeted head tilts, and Clarke swears she can read amusement despite the lack of facial features. “Stormtrooper,” the voice retorts calmly.

“I’m not a fucking Stormtrooper,” Clarke bites out.

“That’s funny.” The hand not holding the blaster raises and a padded knuckle raps against her shoulder guard once, mockingly. “Because I think you might be.”

Clarke tips her chin up and stares down her foe, hoping her glare is hitting wherever the eyes might be. “I found this. Took it off some idiot I killed.”

“Being an idiot must be contagious, then, because only an idiot would voluntarily run around in that if they are, indeed, not a fucking Stormtrooper.”

Clarke opens her mouth, but whatever she’s about to say is drowned out by a rapid burst of blaster fire, and both of them immediately whirl away from each other, pressing flat against the wall by the door, each on either side of the opening.

“Oh come on!” Clarke shouts as she spots the very thing she was expecting when she was first accosted in her bathroom; that all to familiar white armor, as well as a gray uniform.

“Of course you have backup,” the Mandalorian grumbles, stowing the sidearm blaster and trading it for a much more formidable rifle hanging from their back, something surprisingly sleek though altogether vicious looking. 

“Surround the house! We’ve found the deserter!”

Clarke can’t help but feel a surge of vindication as the Mandalorian’s helmet snaps to look at her, and she grins, despite herself. “Fucking told you.”

“Great. Just an idiot.”

Deciding that doesn’t really qualify for a response, Clarke sets her eyes on the carbine still leaning against her bed. “Cover me,” she says, and absolutely does not wait for any kind of confirmation before she dives through the doorway, towards the bed and her carbine. 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, no covering fire is provided, though Clarke manages to snatch the carbine from the bed and drop into a low crouch behind the bed frame in spite of the uselessness of her new not-quite companion. 

Undeterred, Clarke blindly fires a few shots over her shoulder, ignoring the painful jolt of the carbine’s kickback from firing one-handed as she glares back at the faceless figure. "Some help you are! I thought Mandalorians were good at fighting!" Clarke complains, and squeezes the trigger a few more times for good measure. A yelp of pain tells her she might have gotten in a lucky hit, and there's more shouting from outside as the sound of the small unit regrouping can be heard. It buys her enough time to scramble back to her original position, next to the Mandalorian that seems perfectly content to let Clarke do all the hard work around here.

Fuck, and the fucking sink is still running.

Having grown up around faceless comrades, heads encased in white plastoid for the majority of their time spent together, Clarke is plenty used to relying on body language to discern emotion. Which is why it's so frustrating that she can't quite seem to get a read on this person, no, this woman, Clarke is pretty sure. Normally, she's not so bothered by not being able to see someone's eyes, hell, she prefers it most of the time. But now, she is irked by the fact that she has no idea where this annoyingly cocky bounty hunter is looking.

"And why would I help you, exactly?" The Mandalorian drawls. "You're clearly more trouble than you're worth."

Clarke grits her teeth at the unexpected ice-cold rush that courses through her chest and down into her stomach at the words. It's certainly not the first time she's heard almost this exact phrase, and while there's absolutely no reason it should hit her so hard, coming from a perfect stranger that had a blaster to her head a few minutes ago and knows absolutely nothing about her, it triggers painful memories, starkly reminding her of just why she's even on the run in the first place. All the things she's done that still weren't enough.

She fights down the unease and fixes the Mandalorian with an unimpressed look. "That officer out there has already reported back that a Mandalorian has been seen with me. Even if you leave me to get captured, you'll be a loose end, and the Empire does not leave loose ends. They'll start flagging ships in the spaceport looking for yours, and haul you in without a second thought. You're not getting off this planet now."

There is a subtle flex in the gloved hands where they wrap around the blaster rifle. The tiniest crack in the wall. Clarke is almost certain that they are now staring each other down, heedless of the smattering of blaster fire and shouting from outside.

"This isn't making me less tempted to shoot you," the Mandalorian says finally, and Clarke tips her chin up defiantly, feeling victory within her grasp.

"That'd make you the idiot then, because you need me. If you want to get past their sensors, you need someone who knows how to fool them. I do."

There's a beat of silence. Then two. Then, without any warning, the Mandalorian surges out of cover and has kicked open the front door and is in the middle of the fray faster than Clarke can blink. Clarke watches, jaw slack, as she moves forward, completely ignoring the hail of blaster fire that goes completely wide. With a powerful roll of one shoulder, the carbine in her hands is hefted and then three precise shots ring out, ventilating three Stormtrooper helmets in short order.

Without a second's hesitation, the Mandalorian strides towards the last man standing; the officer who is now fumbling for the small blaster sidearm he has forgone from drawing in favor of yelling orders instead. He stumbles backwards just as the Mandalorian raises her arm, and two wires shoot out from the grappling device strapped to her wrist.

With a sharp yank of her arm and a show of strength that Clarke was wholly unprepared for, the officer is pulled through the air and collides with an awaiting fist. The crack of a beskar reinforced gauntlet against his jaw echoes off the walls, and he slumps like a bag of space debris.

A high-pitched whistling noise, the wires retract back into the wrist grapple, and the helmeted head turns to look directly at Clarke as the carbine is smoothly exchanged for the sidearm again, and Clarke feels the eyes on her as two shots are fired directly into the unconscious officer's chest.

There is absolute silence for several moments as they stare at each other. Clarke has no idea what the face underneath that helmet is doing, and she honestly isn’t sure what expression her own face is wearing at the moment. There’s a non-zero chance it’s some form of wide-eyed awe.

Still. They can’t stand here staring at each other.

“Where’s your ship?” Clarke asks, with more courage than she’s feeling.

Heaving a full-body sigh, the Mandalorian steps over the dead officer. “C’mon. But if you bleed all over my seats we’re gonna have a problem.”

[evolutionsvoid]

While the hair fields offer valuable resources for any household or village, like any wild place, one should be wary of danger. Even in a place as luscious as this, caution should be taken. For stalking these fields are predators, with one of the most common being the Razorbacks. These large fleas are on the hunt for prey, using their thin bodies to slip through the thick hairs with ease. They are quiet and they are fast, usually traveling in packs of three to five. Usual targets are beasts like the field louse and demodon, which they sneak up on and take down in a flash. Their powerful hind limbs allow them to pounce with great speed and strength, and their modified fore limbs are like giant fangs to pierce prey. They typically try to blindside their target and attack where they cannot reach. For the likes of demodons, they try to get them from the side, targeting between the rows of legs so that these large limbs block the brunt of the spiny tail's attempts to thrash them.

Their weapons and numbers make them efficient hunters, and their packs are highly coordinated to pull off these attacks. Pack leaders are typically signified by having the largest bladed crest upon their back, usually grown due to receiving more food than the others. These same sharp growths can also serve as weapons in a pinch, particularly against predators who would threaten them. They will launch themselves at their foe and spin their bodies, turning them into a razor disc that can cleave deep into flesh. Due to the spinning and the use of their own body as a projectile, their aim is not the greatest. This is why it isn't used for hunting and more for fighting off attackers, as often the mere threat of being sawed in half by this is enough to drive away foes, which means they don't have to land the hit for it to be effective.

As predators who can down a variety of prey, Razorbacks don't hesitate to put man on the menu if there are no better options. Obviously a nice juicy demodon would feed them for far longer, but one doesn't always have the luxury to be picky. Thus, folk who go into these fields to harvest keratin or eggs need to be wary and armed. Keep an eye on the hair, and watch for any movements that don't match the natural flow. With a sharp eye, you may be able to spot the tips of their blades poking out in shorter patches. If one does suspect they are being stalked by Razorbacks: do not panic and do not run. They are counting on fear driving prey to blind escape, and they are most certainly faster than you. Instead, have your group go back to back, so that you have no blind spots. If they charge, stand your ground, as it is often a fake out that is meant to make you run. Stand tall, try to make yourself look bigger and make a ton of noise. Razorbacks rely on ambush and striking weak points to drop prey, so if this stealth and surprise is taken away from them, they are less likely to attack. And if you are by yourself in the hair field without anyone to watch your back.....well that was a mistake you shouldn't have made today.

Though Razorbacks tend to be seen as scary predators of these fields, there have been instances where they can be trained as hunting companions. Beastmasters obviously are capable of such a feat, but some more regular folk have been able to rear them from larvae and develop a partnership. With strong senses, quick speed and sharp blades, they serve well as trackers and ambushers. Some fools have suggested that trained Razorbacks are finer hunters than hyaenas, which may be true in some areas, but one must remember that these bugs are not fully domesticated like those beasts. As social creatures in need of a pack leader, there can be times where even trained Razorbacks begin to wonder about their status in this strange "pack." Running into others of their kind may awaken a need within them, or the stumbling of their owner may present an opportunity of "advancement..."

------------------

"Razorback"

Alright, last of the hair field denizens! For now at least. Also, this is like round two or three of me turning fleas into wolves.

[soaringthroughthegalaxy]

Gentle Hands

Back on Kamino after successfully rescuing Echo and retaking Anaxes, you know just how to soothe Wrecker��s lingering back pain.

Pairing: Wrecker x f!reader

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: established relationship, pet names, little bit of angst and comfort, flashback to how Wrecker got his scars, minor mentions of blood, fluff, soft love, light sprinkle of the hots for this giant mans size/strength, slight suggestiveness.

A/N: saw a headcannon that Wrecker doesn’t have a cybernetic eye and is instead partially/fully blind in that eye, and now I can’t get that out of my head.

Translations: ner kar'ta – my heart

“Urgh.” Wrecker’s grunt echoes through the barracks as he flops face-first onto his bunk. You’d just arrived back on Kamino from Anaxes, another successful mission accomplished and a new squad member onboard.

Tech had disappeared off with Echo in search of better armour and weapons for the ARC Trooper. Crosshair had slunk off in the direction of the shooting range – not that he needed the practice - while Hunter had remained on the Marauder, needing the peace of the empty ship to finish his mission reports.

That had left you and Wrecker alone, and your man had wanted nothing more than to nap.

“At least take your armour off first.” You gently nudge Wrecker’s shoulder, earning a grumble of protest. He pushes himself up, big hands prying his armour off his body, depositing it with various clangs beside his bunk. You loved him, but Maker above, he could be messy.

Back on the bed, face pressed into the mattress, Wrecker winced, feeling a tweak in his lower back. “Babe…” He called for you, turning his head to watch you take your armour off, stacking it neatly on the large table in the middle of the room.

His gaze roved across your body, admiring the soft curves of your frame as you turned back to him, hands on your hips and an eyebrow arched. He couldn’t help but feel lucky to have you. You’d started as their civilian handler, feeding them missions and making sure they came back safely – the Kaminoans couldn’t have anything happen to their prized experimental unit, after all – but somewhere along the way, you’d stolen his heart, with your soft smile and easy nature. You laughed at his jokes, stayed up to watch holofilms with him, cooed over Lula the first time you saw her, and were always happy to hand over a detonator or two when he had the urge to blow something up. At times, you tempered the big kid in him, while other times, you let go of the reins and let him run wild.

“Yes, ner kar’ta?” You ask, taking a few steps over to his bunk. For the sake of appearances, you had your own bunk, though it was never used. The rest of the squad knew of your relationship, but it was a well-guarded secret, not wanting to risk the Kaminoans finding out.

As you draw closer, Wrecker drags an arm out from underneath him to gently snag your hand, tugging you in. He’d always been hyper-aware of his size and strength, but he was especially cautious with you. Hurting you was something he never wanted to do, even if it was an accident.

“Think I’ve tweaked my back,” Wrecker admits, offering you a sheepish smile.

You can’t help but smile in return, the corners of your lips curving as your loveable giant gives your hand a soft squeeze. For a moment, you admire him, still in awe that he’s yours. But as usual, a flicker of guilt passes through you as your traitorous eyes slink to the web of scars across half his face, his damaged ear, and the milkiness of his right eye. It was your fault he was partially blind.

You’d only been with the boys a handful of months when you’d missed a tripwire as you’d been pushing forward through a cave, setting off a nearby explosive. You’d been out in the open while the others could duck for cover. Wrecker had decided to protect you, turning you and pressing you to his chest, shielding you from the blast, taking the brunt of it himself. The memory of the dust settling, the blood as you pulled back from his chest and looked up, the panic and fear that had consumed you as you’d taken in the damage he’d sustained right before he passed out... all because you’d forgotten for one moment to look where you were stepping.

He’d been medevaced to a nearby Venator. You’d gone with him, his brothers insisting on it while they finished the mission, knowing it would upset Wrecker if they lost their 100% success rate. Washing his blood off your hands in a small fresher as you waited for news from the medics almost broke you. You’d been so close to handing in your resignation and retreating back to your quiet home planet.

But then he’d woken after surgery, after his brothers had successfully completed the mission and returned, and you’d all been briefed on his condition. His first questions to the medics had been about you – were you safe or hurt? Tears had rolled down your cheeks as the medics had relayed this to you all, Tech subtly pressing a tissue into your hand, and you’d known then in your heart that you could never leave.

“You’re doin’ that thing again,” Wrecker says, having watched a faraway look cross your face. He knew you still struggled with the guilt of his accident. “You’re thinkin’ too much.” He tacks on, gently bringing you down to sit sideways on the edge of his bunk, big arm sliding around your middle. “I don’t blame ya. It was my choice, and I’d do it all again.” He reiterates, pressing a kiss to your body. He said it every time he saw you slipping back into the memory, and he’d keep repeating it until you believed it. 

Pulled back to the present, you offer him a soft smile, one of your hands moving to rub across his broad shoulders. “Sorry, ner kar’ta.” You murmur, focussing instead on the quiet noise of delight falling from his lips as your hands stroke his tense muscles. “Those tri-droids are probably the cause of your back pain.” You comment, watching his eyes flutter shut at your touch, the peacefulness of his expression chasing away the lingering guilt.

“They were stronger than they looked, but I wasn’t gonna let ’em crush the locals.” He comments, feeling himself melt into the mattress the more you rub at his shoulders.

You loved seeing him work, the effortless way he shoved assault tanks around or pried blast doors open, lifting up gunships like they weighed nothing, and how his thick fingers somehow nimbly managed to disarm explosives. “It was hot.” You admit, feeling warmth in your cheeks.

A rumble of laughter leaves him, the deep noise setting off butterflies in your belly, but he winces again as it jostles his back.

“Here.” You shift, gently easing the top of his blacks up. He helps you remove the garment, settling back on the bed as your hands return to his body. Broad shoulders taper down to his narrow waist, scars crisscrossing his warm, tanned skin. Evidence of a lifetime of war.

You get up momentarily, moving silently to your bunk to snag your unscented lotion – constantly aware of Hunter’s senses – and return to Wrecker a moment later. He shifts over, and you sit at his side, squeezing some of the lotion onto your hands. Rubbing them together, you warm them up before you press your hands against his back, dragging them across his body in firm, even strokes.

Wrecker’s moans of appreciation fill the barracks, and you stifle a giggle. Your hands keep working across his body, feeling solid muscles give with every pass, the knots loosening. Pressing your thumbs into his lower back, he grunts, hips rutting against the mattress. “Not until your back is better.” You tease, giving his butt a playful swat.

He grumbles in protest but knows you’re right – he’s too tired for anything anyway. The ache in his back is easing exponentially under your soothing touch, and he smacks his lips together as sleep beckons him, shifting on the mattress into an even comfier position.

The first drag of your nails across his warm skin makes him shiver, the corners of his mouth curving upwards as you start lightly scratching, fingers drawing patterns across the vast expanse of skin. The patterns shift to words, Aurebesh spelling out how much you love him, how handsome he is, how strong he is.

“I love you. You’re so good to me.” He mumbles, feeling the weight of your adoration, his eyes heavy with sleep, his mind struggling to focus on the words you’re scrawling across his body.

A warm smile passes over your lips, and you dip down to kiss his cheek softly. “I love you too.” You whisper back, fingers still moving lightly over his back as you hear his breathing turn deep and heavy, face going slack as he falls asleep.

You scoot to lay beside him, drawing his arm over your body. A nap wouldn’t hurt you, either.

[lewiscarrolatemybrain]

Me, vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass: I wanted a Koby-and-Luffy-Childhood-Friends AU and that turned into a Koby-grows-up-with-the-ASL-brothers AU and THAT turned into me imagining Koby still becoming a marine (Garp is THRILLED TO TEARS. Ace and Luffy give him a lot of grief for it but they're still lowkey proud of him) and one day, completely by chance, he stumbles across the Chief Of Staff Of The Revolutionary Army.

Wanted posters for the Revolutionary Army aren't passed around like the posters for pirates and criminals are, because it's actually very common for a would-be bounty hunter to get recruited to the cause if they seek them out, and the government doesn't want that, so only ranked officers are allowed to actually have them. And Koby, who recently made rank, did find himself staring for a very long time at the slightly blurry black-and-white picture of Sabo(?), Rank Unknown -- but a picture doesn't do a face justice, and he's been carrying that ghost with him for years, so he ultimately set it aside. Told himself not to wish for impossible things.

Only to, less than a week later, end up helping Sabo (Sabo, it's Sabo, holy shit it's Sabo) escape from a marine base. Koby will go to the gallows for this if he gets caught, but both of his other sworn brothers are pirates. He became a marine knowing that if he had to make the choice, he would chose family over duty. Granted, he didn't expect to have to make that choice for at least another few years, but here we are.

The two don't speak much -- there isn't time. Koby gives hushed orders and Sabo whispers clarifying questions and they breathe warnings back and forth, both of them stretching their observation Haki as far as it will go as they tiptoe out of the base.

This boy feels familiar. Sabo can't explain it, but he felt it the second he laid eyes on this young captain. The pink hair, the big eyes. It's worse now that they're standing right next to each other, Haki signatures pressed so close together it's impossible to ignore. This boy feels like feathers and steel, like something soft and warm and earnest wrapped around a core that is solid and steady and unfaltering. He is the waves that erode the shore, patient and gentle but inevitable in their quest for change. Sabo shouldn't be able to read the soul of a stranger this clearly, but he can, somehow. It feels good next to his own roiling storm clouds and piercing cliffs, it feels grounding, but he can't help the strange thought that there should be fire and forest here, somehow. There should be sunlight.

The boy feels familiar, and Sabo hates that he is the one following behind. Which is stupid, because he doesn't know where they're going and obviously the one who does should take the lead, but every corner they turn and patrol they dodge has the spaces between his shoulderblades winding tighter. He wants the captain tucked safely behind him, with Sabo in the lead where he can take the brunt of whatever danger they face. This, too, is strange.

They make it out of the base and down to the docs, where Koby gets Sabo set up -- the guards change shift in thirteen minutes, if Sabo waits there'll be an opening for him to steal a boat and get out of here -- and Sabo takes the opportunity to ask "Are you... sympathetic to the cause?"

The boy stills.

"You aren't on our books, is all. I don't recognize you as an officer. If this is you looking to join, I'm afraid I don't have time to vet you right now, but I can arrange for you to meet with a recruiter--"

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" It comes out a hoarse, furious whisper. Koby wants to scream.

Sabo blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"Is that how you justified it? Oh, it's been so long, they probably forgot about me? Is that what you told yourself?" He needs to keep quiet, he needs to get back inside before he's noticed missing, they can't do this right now -- "Or maybe you just figured out of sight out of mind, right? Since clearly that worked out fine for you!"

Koby waves a hand up and down Sabo, a gesture meant to encompass -- this! All of this. His fading grin and his fancy coat and his fucking wanted poster.

"Chief of Staff. That's impressive. I'm not surprised you're some big shot, it suits you. Are you having fun, Sabo? Is your grand adventure treating you well?"

"I don't know what --" but Koby can't let him talk, because Koby can't breathe, because Sabo is here and he's alive and he's acting like Koby is a stranger to him and if Koby doesn't spit out the words he's suddenly choking on then he's going to collapse into screaming sobs instead and they can't afford that right now.

"Let me guess, secret identities? Code names? It's all so hush-hush, so cloak-and-dagger, you were sworn to secrecy? I don't care. I don't fucking care what reasons you used to justify letting us think you were dead! For ten years! It was selfish, Sabo. It was cruel. And I--" He gasps. Coughs. Sucks in a heavy breath until the salt of the sea breeze settles in his lungs and he can tell himself the wetness on his face is ocean spray. "We mourned you. Ace and Luffy are still mourning you. Dadan and the bandits and Makino and Gramps. Everyone, all of us -- we have all been carrying this grief and you just--!"

Breathe in. Breathe out. Stay quiet. "If this is the life you want, then okay. Okay. But don't you stand there and pretend I'm a stranger to you, and expect me to play along. Don't you do that to me. Not to me."

[scoobydoodean]

Do you have siblings, and what order are you in?

How do you view and feel about Sam running away multiple times, and then in 5.16 Sam running away are the only memories he's given? (and do you think angels did that purposefully?)

I am the younger of two and I understand how Sam can run away and how it would only be about getting away from their, but that Dean would feel the brunt of it all. But I can totally imagine my older sibling understanding Dean, but not necessarily Sam's pov.

I also don't think Sam's reasoning is ever fully explained, at least in 5.16, it makes him seem much more selfish and uncaring. I think he assumed Dean was better equipped to handle living with their dad alone simply because he behaved, it just happened to be that Dean and dad were linked - and I don't really know how much they talked about their relationship with their dad till they were older.

I wonder if Dean ever would've considered leaving John and living somewhere near Sam, or even running away with Sam.

I have three siblings. I'm in the middle. Two older siblings and the caboose is 7 years younger than me. So I remember what it's like to be the baby but I also know what it's like to play older sibling to a sibling several years younger than me. My younger brother and I are also very close.

If this was all prompted by my comment the other day that I wasn't looking forward to watching "Dark Side of the Moon", I don't dislike the episode because it shows Sam running off. I do have issues with the episode, but a large part of my distaste for it is that it is generally very depressing. It being depressing in of itself isn't a criticism of the episode—it's supposed to be depressing because it's about total loss of hope and belief for Dean (and then Cas as well losing hope at the end of the episode). It's doing what it's supposed to do in that sense. It's just hard to watch. Unfortunately, a lot of people take the bleakness of it and the idea that Dean is a burden and etc as truth and not manipulation meant to drive him to say "yes", and that also makes me rather sour about it.

I don't care that Sam wanted to go to college, or that he was happy at another family's thanksgiving at one point in his life. The Flagstaff memory bothers me a little because Sam's fond recollection of it, unmarred by any negative associations, clearly suggests he didn't face any consequences for running off once John found him. The fact that he never even into his adult life considered that Dean might have faced consequences does feel rather self-centered, and that's on purpose. I don't care that Sam went to school or that there were points as a kid where he wanted to run off.

I do disagree with the premise that Sam still desires some normal core Thanksgiving. I simply don't think that would be a favorite memory for Sam anymore. Just a few episodes prior to this, in "Swap Meat", Sam sat down with someone else's family for a normal, family dinner and he hated it. He found Gary's parents absolutely obnoxious. He told Gary afterward that he envied his life, only to turn to Dean and say he lied.

SAM I totally lied. That kid's life sucked ass. All that apple-pie, family crap? It's stressful. Trust me – we didn't miss a damn thing.

Or observe earlier in the episode:

DEAN You ever think that you'd want something like that? Wife, rugrats, the whole nine? SAM No, not really my thing anymore.

In fact, it's Dean who envies the normal life in "Swap Meat" and several other episodes (ex: 2.20, 4.19) whereas Sam indicates several times that a normal life is not something he wants (2.02, 2.10, 2.20, 4.08, 4.19, 5.12). In 4.08 and in 2.20, Sam in fact overtly states that he would not go back and choose a normal life now if he could go back. In 3.01, 4.19, and in 5.06, Sam also heavily emphasizes the importance of family within the hunting dynamic. I track a lot of this within the tag #sam the hunter.

I think there is a strong argument to be made that Zachariah ran them through heaven like rats in a maze in 5.16, directing them toward certain memories and not others in order to make Dean believe that Sam doesn't care for him (I have a separate post to make about this in more detail). However, I don't believe Zachariah forced in memories that aren't "greatest hits". I think he just drove them away from any happy memories Sam has with Dean and toward ones where Sam grasped independence from John, misappropriated to make Dean feel Sam doesn't care about Dean or appreciate/recognize his sacrifices (the former is not true, but the latter is in fact true in many cases).

Note though that when Joshua arrives and takes them to heaven's garden:

SAM: This is heaven’s Garden? DEAN: It’s-it’s nice… ish. I guess. JOSHUA: You see what you want to here. For some it’s God’s throne room; for others it’s Eden. You two, I believe it’s the Cleveland Botanical Gardens. You came here on a field trip.

So right there, we have a shared favorite memory, right after (presumably) any potential influence Zachariah had on what memories they were seeing was eliminated.

What primarily irritates me about this episode and many other Dabb/Loflin episodes is their perpetual need to insert the narrative that Sam wants a normal life he explicitly states he does not want over and over and over in everyone else's episodes, while they write Dean as someone who says things like "I mean, we’re supposed to be a team. It’s supposed to be you and me against the world, right?" It implies a sort of desperation vs apathy that, even when contradicted in subtler ways, I just don't find interesting... And yet they seem to harp on the same dramatic "misunderstanding" over and over and over for all eternity. And Dabb continues it after cutting ties with Loflin. In fact he continues to toy with these obnoxious dramatics to the very end of the series in a way I find unbelievably tired and obnoxious and I resent it. He's the same one-trick pony when it comes to his ideas on Dean and Cas conflicts in the later seasons.

As to your last bit there: Dean did consider running off. We see this in "Bad Boys", and in that episode, we also see that Dean doesn't end up abandoning their family because he felt Sam needed him. We hear a similar narrative in regards to John in 1.06 from the mouth of the shifter—that Dean had dreams of his own, but Dean felt that John needed him, so Dean stayed. John echoes this when he says that he was an emotional wreck and Dean took care of him (2.01). We see Dean also taking care of Mary in "Dark Side of the Moon" after she gets off the phone with John, upset. 5.16 casts Dean as someone perpetually sacrificing his own needs for his family, but unappreciated all the while. In fact, Sam doesn't recognize any of his sacrifices. Dean is nothing more than a blood offering on the altar of family. Zachariah intends this narrative and leans into it heavily in the scene where he explicitly manipulates what Sam and Dean are seeing.

MARY: Don’t you walk away from me. I never loved you. You were my burden. I was shackled to you. Look what it got me. The worst was the smell. The pain, well. What can you say about your skin bubbling off? But the smell was so… You know, for a second I thought I’d left a pot roast burning in the oven. But… it was my meat. And then, finally, I was dead. The one silver lining was that at least I was away from you.

Zachariah has Mary speak about Dean being a burden to his family and to her, but it's potentially more layered than "Dean has abandonment issues". What Mary says about being shackled to Dean—being burdened by her child—firmly recollects Dean's claim to Cas in 5.03 that he's chained to his family through responsibility, and that finally being away from Sam is a relief. This fake Mary says death was her escape from similar chains of responsibility to her loved ones. It was the only escape. Burned up and dead but finally free. There's an implication there that Dean can finally escape responsibility in a similar way, and in two episodes, Dean is going to try and escape by saying "Yes".

[divinehedons]

BABE, babe, i need more of Din in Fallen Gods, PLEASE

thank you so much for reaching out! this bounty hunter lives on my mind rent free, so here's what's been on my mind:

cw: pregnancy, implied non/dubcon, implied predator/prey dynamics, i just really needed to get this out of my head, okay

no thoughts, just overbearing din djarin and pregnant reader post the events of fallen gods.

upon finding out about your pregnancy, the mandalorian would absolutely spoil you. adi'ka, come have some fruit. so much of it, day after day after day, following your every move, monitoring even the air that entered your lungs. all for our cyari'ka. our little one is too precious for anything dangerous.

you'd run, of course, you're perfectly capable. you leave him a message that you just want to be left alone. only that makes it worse. he hears your voice, and it sends him on a rampage across the galaxy, the bounty hunter on your scent like the shadow you can't quite shrug off. you know how the mandalorian works. you know how capable he is. and you know he's chasing after you. it's almost so easy for him. everything is too easy when he thinks of the life growing in the warm cradle of your flesh- little heart beating and calling for him across the galaxy. he had found you once when all signs pointed to your death. finding you again was child's play.

it still takes time. when he does find you again, your womb has filled out with your unborn child. you left without the bump evident against your skin, and now, your steps are stilted. by the maker, you waddle now. he sees the way you sit, the way your breath comes out in shaky intervals as sweat bead your forehead.

it's all the more easier, then. all the more easier to lay you on the nearest surface, chuckling at the way you groan at the relief it brings your back. cya're, how could you bear all that when you obviously needed my help? he tries to imagine how you must have borne the brunt of such a pregnancy. the morning sicknesses, your changing body, the desires and cravings you could not have afforded on the run. dank farrik, you probably couldn't even reach around to touch yourself in those long, lonely nights.

he smiles as you whine, kneeling down before you- his divine little creature, the very fount of existence from which he pictures future warriors are born. sweet darling, an angel on such a cursed galaxy, still strong to do battle with the days.

you haven't even given birth to this child, and he already imagines fucking another in your willing womb.

it's alright, adi'ka. i'll take care of you, now.

he fucks his tongue between your folds, tastes your sweet nectar, and swore he saw the maker. so begins a night that you would feel for days after. you would come twice by his mouth, once with his fingers fucking you as he delighted himself in the taste of your tight, untouched, puckered little asshole. even so, you'd cum three more times on his cock, until everything hurts and you're begging him to stop.

he'll hold you in the darkness, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as your child kicks against his hand, letting him know you foster a warrior in your belly.

it's alright, cya're, i'll keep the both of you safe from everything. no danger shall touch you as long as I stand.

you try not to wonder. and yet the thought is there. what if he's the one you should be protected from?

[alexanderlightweight]

Wednesday prompt :) what if the reason Valentine made Luke a wolf was that a wronged nephilim in a parabatai bond can declare the other an oathbreaker, to trigger divine judgement, and if the judgement finds fault with the other you get back your soul piece and the other is punished? What if Alec, faced with another entitled and selfish rant, just snaps and declares Jace an oathbreaker?

okay so I couldn't figure out a way that would work like you were wanting but i did really like the idea that traditionally, a ritual with the silent brothers as a conduit to raziel is the only one allowed to judge and break a parabatai bond

this is actually an au of all your cracks i'll paint gold. because my thought is that an alec who didn't have the faith or hope to wait to give jace till the very last minute (because until the first rune is taken, some part of alec still believes jace is coming). this alec knows he's about to be deruned and he wants to lose his parabatai bond on his own terms. because fuck if he's going to let the clave tear him from jace, he's going to ask raziel to judge them and whoever ends up taking the brunt, so be it. because only raziel can judge the bond between him and jace.

also a part of alec expects to be the one judged as an oathbreaker. he's really tangled up in his own thoughts at this point and he knows he's not thinking straight which makes him doubt himself.

alec wants answers and to fuck the clave by not letting them get their way.

also tbh, for parabatai, i think the loss of the bond itself, especially not knwing what is happening would feel like divine punishment itself. especially for two peple who are so devout to the bond.

i hope you still enjoy <3

lumine

-

Alec doesn’t know what to do, but there is only one thing left to try and Jace is going to lose him either way. This is the most selfish thing Alec’s ever done in his life and he almost doesn’t do it, until he thinks about how long he’s been sitting here, alone.

Jace isn’t coming. Alec knows that at this point. Wherever his parabatai is with Clary, it’s far beyond anywhere that Alec can reach him in time.

And Alec can’t stay sitting here, waiting to be deruned whenever Imogen gets bored of making him wait.

Treated like he isn’t a Commander and not even given the choice of someone as a witness of his own to keep watch.

“I demand the presence of a Silent Brother for an oath.” Alec rasps to the next shadowhunters who pass, and they wince, looking at him with concern but they shake their heads.

Imogen has scared them all with his imprisonment and Alec is paying the price. Alec is normally the backbone of his Institute, the shield between him and the clave and while they trust him to do that, Alec’s never been their official leader or had the chance to make these hunters completely his.

It’s with a snarl and the determination of spite in his heart — because what was the point of any of this? Of denying himself and Magnus even a moment of anything if this is the way things end — and Alec spits his blood and saliva onto the ground.

It’s grueling work.

Alec was already tired from patrol and the mess with Meliorn when they dragged him to a cell and pronounced him a traitor.  There’s been no soul sword and no trial. They want an example and they’re not afraid to use Alec as one.

Where once, Alec would have assumed he had the protection and privilege of the Lightwood name, he knows now that none of it is true. He’s protected himself and his siblings by his own merits, despite their name, all of these years.

So, Alec reaches deep within himself and calls forward the blood magic that every nephilim is told about but rarely any ever attempt.

It’s a brutal, vicious magic that can turn even the simplest of magical desires into an onslaught of eldritch curses.

Alec uses the blood from his split lip and cut cheek and paints a series of runes before placing his hand down and willing it to activate.

His fingers shatter from the pressure he’s using t push down at the same time the array activates and Alec smiles in satisfaction, copper thick on his tongue.

—

“The Silent Brothers have been summoned and so will remain, especially for a trial we were not notified of.”

“Because this isn’t a trial.” Alec rasps out, “I’ve been asked no questions and offered no recourse. I request two things of the Silent Brothers, one of each.”

“Your requests?”

“I declare a broken oath between parabatai. I wish to let the angel judge my parabatai and I’s bond, not the clave.”

Alec isn’t going to fight his deruning, he can’t.

But he’s not going to let the clave strip away his bond, the angel himself can do that.

“The second request?”

“After the first is finished.” Alec says firmly, not about to let them know that his request depends on how the ritual goes.

“Very well. You will need a warlock to maintain your vitals.”

Alec hates to do it, but there isn’t a warlock who he trusts more than Magnus and Alec is very tired of being betrayed.

—

“What is going on?” Magnus asks tightly, because the Institute is full of strange nephilim and there isn’t a single one he recognizes. Which normally isn’t strange, except it wasn’t like this even a week ago.

“You’ve been requested to monitor and maintain the vitals of the nephilim, Alexander Gideon Lightwood, during a ritual.” The Silent Brother escorting him informs him with their invasive way of communication.

Magnus freezes, because this sounds dangerously close to the idea that he’ll be holding Alexander’s life in his hands.

“And he knows I am the warlock working with him?”

“You are the only warlock he would agree to work with.”

Magnus wonders at what that means and curses the flare of hope in his chest. As he enters the room he frowns, noticing it’s heavily guarded by what are clearly clave guards.

They sneer as he passes and Magnus lets his glamour drop, smirking as they flinch from him.  The cell-like quality of the room means he’s not prepared for Alexander when he enters, though he should be.

Alexander looks exhausted and worse than Magnus has ever seen him, and his eyes are dull. There’s a small spark, the softening of Alexander’s gaze on him. When their eyes meet there is wonder and curiosity for a brief heartbeat before Magnus’ glamour goes back up and Alexander’s eyes drop to the floor.

“Well, this is not how I imagined seeing you again.” Magnus says, trying to soften his words but he’s surprised, and he can’t help it and the hope makes him coy. “In my dreams, I imagined crashing your wedding. Not being summoned here to keep you alive.”

Alexander lets out a hoarse, defeated laugh and shakes his head. “There’s not going to be a wedding to crash, Magnus. I’m being deruned for treason. If I’m alive in a week, it’ll be considered impressive.”

Magnus feels his heart crack with the icy hands that have suddenly grabbed it.

“Tell me, everything, Alexander. Now.”

Alec sends him a weary, hopeless gaze and then shrugs, his hoarse voice forming words that tear into Magnus’ cracking heart.

—

Alec recites the words of his oath, the one that will allow Raziel to judge the bonds of his and Jace’s soul.

If he’s to lose this, then he’s going to do it by his own choice.

He expects the pain, when it comes, but it’s more excruciating than he thought it would be. 

The part of Jace’s soul that is melded with his own is burrowed tightly. It writhes and tugs and fights leaving, and Alec is too tired to do anything but accept the pain and the struggle. He doesn’t even have the energy to fight for himself, he certainly doesn’t have the energy to fight for Jace one last time.

Instead, he lets him go and wonders, whose soul will be returned to who.

—

Magnus has never seen such a gruesome, intimate ritual in all of his life, and it galls him at how many are watching it.  He’s keeping Alexander’s heart beating only through the strength of his magic, or Alexander would be lifeless on the flat table they’ve laid him on.  There is nothing to comfort him or ease him from the cold marble and Magnus seethes that he wasn’t allowed to add any kind of magical cushioning.

It’s as if they want Alexander to feel the most discomfort possible.

He can see it in Alexander’s eyes, the surprise and confusion of waking up and it breaks apart the walls he tried so hard to hastily rebuild.

Alexander didn’t expect to wake up and Magnus was the only one he trusted to make sure that if he did die, he was properly taken care of. Death is an intimate affair for shadowhunters, and Magnus knows the honor he’s been given, but every part of this except keeping Alexander alive feels like a curse.

Because what could have happened in the mere days since they last talked and saw each other, to send Alexander spiraling so low? When he was so proud in his own misguided beliefs the last time they saw each other.

“His soul and bond have been judged. Alexander Lightwood’s soul has been returned to him; he has not broken the oath of his bond.”

Alexander doesn’t look pleased by the pronouncement, if anything the distress and grief grow before they’re hidden away.  It’s then that Magnus realizes, while there are a variety of important shadowhunters, there isn’t a single person there connected to Alexander. 

“Is family not allowed?” He asks casually, smirking at the Silent Brother, because all of their order know Magnus’ reputation enough that it’s better to indulge his curiosity.

“There was no family willing or available to come.” Is what he’s told instead of something like, ‘they’re not allowed’ and Magnus, Magnus itches with the urge to destroy something.

“And Alexander?”

Whatever information Magnus is about to learn, is interrupted by Alexander himself.

“My second request, to the Silent Brothers. To request the right of severance. A trial of law.”

Magnus is curious and he raises an eyebrow imperiously at the Silent Brother standing near him.  Magnus hears the mental sigh before he’s told, “to request such a thing, means the clave has first betrayed the nephilim requesting it. There is no risk besides the soul sword knowing it is a lie and he is still due to be deruned. If he cuts himself from the clave, the clave cannot destroy first destroy him.”

“Does he need a magical aid?” Magnus asks without thinking, because of course he wants to help Alexander get away from the people doing this to him.

“Only comfort, when the strength of his own will finally fails him.”

Magnus wonders what that means but he has no further interest in what is being said and he takes the five steps that separate him and Alexander.

“What will happen, when you succeed in the next ritual?”

“I might fail.”

“You won’t.” Magnus assures him, his fingers light as he boldly places his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. Alexander stiffens for a moment and Magnus almost moves, before Alexander visibly relaxes and leans even closer.

“I’ll be allowed to leave the clave, though I doubt any Institute will take me. I wouldn’t trust them either, not anymore.” It’s a bitter thing for Alexander to admit and Magnus can tell. “I’ll still have my runes; I won’t be hunted. I can hide in the edges of the mundane world if I need to. I’m sure Night Markets have some use for what I can hunt.”

Magnus tsks and tightens his grip on Alexander’s shoulder and sends a soothing, warming pulse through Alexander’s muscles. His shadowhunter has been shivering since the ritual and not a single shadowhunter has offered him a blanket.

This entire time he’s been dressed in thin clothes, the kind nephilim are buried in, as if his fate is already decided on. Magnus is going to burn the horrendously white shirt and pants Alexander is wearing and never let him wear the color again.

After Alexander agrees… of course.

—

Alexander’s voice is low, but strong as he speaks his truth upon the soul sword. It carries across the room as he grips the soul sword and speaks.  He looks at no one but Magnus as he talks, repeating line for line the various laws the clave have broken in his case. Even Imogen looks a little pale when he’s done, as if hearing the truth of her own crimes is worse the committing them.

Alexander seems stunned when he’s finished.

As if he didn’t really think it would work, as if he thought he might actually be in the wrong and Magnus heart breaks.

“Alexander—” Magnus murmurs as he walks towards him, for his shadowhunter’s eyes haven’t once looked away from Magnus’ unglamoured ones. His dark eyes are weary as he watches Magnus, there’s no satisfaction in having one.

Hazel eyes widen in shock as Alexander watches Magnus reach out and wrap his fingers around the hilt of the soul sword.

“None of it has ever been a game. I would cherish you, darling. Far more than the clave, your family, your parabatai or even your exalted angel, Raziel.” The sword doesn’t stop him from speaking, because it isn’t a lie. Raziel cares little for the race he created and what Magnus is starting to feel for Alexander can’t be matched even by a divine being.

Let alone the petty, hateful mortals that have brutalized Alexander’s heart and soul so badly.

“What if you get tired?” Alexander asks and Magnus knows he’s too worn to voice the ‘of me’ aloud.

“I will keep you for every moment of your life.” Magnus tells him, swearing upon an angelic relic that croons temptingly to the corrupted blood in Magnus. “I will never throw you from me. Or give up on you. Whatever exists between us, it can grow to whatever we let it and no matter what that is, I will never abandon you. You, just you, would be enough, Alexander.”

Alexander wraps his trembling arms around Magnus and nods, “then take me away. Please, Magnus. From all of it.”

Magnus smirks at the one Silent Brother who never approached him and Jem nods in return. If his friend hadn’t told him about the properties of the soul sword in detail, this never would have worked.  However, Jem isn’t afraid to toe the line of nephilim law and Magnus has never seen him so enraged as he was when he pressed against Magnus’ mind in secrecy earlier.

The clave cannot refute Magnus’ words, not when sworn on the soul sword or witnessed by two Silent Brothers and that means that this is binding.

The clave no longer has any say or power over Alexander, only Magnus does.

[ravenquingvax]

thinking about Vex and Vax protecting each other in their own little ways

Vax takes the physical brunt of everything. Nothing ever touches Vex if he can help it, but he often gets severely injured while shielding her

Vex stands up for Vax in arguments and shuts off her own emotions when he needs her to hold him together, stunting her own emotional development so that Vax never has to hide his tears

Vax making dodgy deals that keep Vex safe, but that puts his own life in jeopardy without a second thought

Vex running in with reckless abandon to save Vax with no thought for anyone else, endangering everyone to protect her twin

Vax redirecting Syldor's anger onto himself to protect Vex from as much of it as possible, ultimately hurting her more because she has to watch him suffer for her

Vex growing to hate their mother for letting this all happen to her kids, to Vax, and Vax being hurt by it

the twins would do anything for each other, including killing others or actually dying

Once upon a time they were somewhat carefree kids with a safe, loving home

Now they are trained hunters relearning how to live after surviving many horrors

But don't think about hurting either of them for a second

Because where one goes, the other is never far behind...

And they will do ANYTHING for their beloved twin

[moon-0f-m4rs]

im late, hi

CIG AND OTHER MERCS INTERACTION YAYYY

Scout: She'd very much help him prank spy, often. SImmilar age as he is so just 2 lousy children lmao. She also would take from him alot cuz i feel like scout would have lots of silly trinkets and thingys, but outta respect, just the unwanted things for a change from others. Both r yappers so it always results in some idiotic ideas

Solider: She isnt too ecstatic when he spots her. I mean, she never really tries to be careful to not be seen, but when she hears HALT MAGGOT! she rolls her eyes and sighs. She likes to mess with him, but not too badly like she could. Sometimes when she sees hes makin a medal would give him some stuff she has stored, just cuz why not

Pyro: Arson buds. Crafty buds. Buds. She often goes to him for lighters for her cigarettes. Would like to accompany him in battle once but no respawn chip :( Finds tiny pretty things or even bugs if they're not hostile to her and brings them to him. Poses for his drawings. 1# GUEST AT EVERY TEA PARTY. 10/10 friendship.

Demoman: Cig likes to keep him company. Whenever shes bored and theres nothing else to do hes 3rd in list of ppl she goes to. She did try scrumpy from him, brunt her throat, would try again. Most often steals from him cuz shes sure he wouldnt mind, or even notice <33

Heavy: Would sometimes sneak up on him and idk jump from a shelf and land on his shoulder. She finds it funny he gets anxious around tinys as she picked it up from pocket (pocket is canon, i am valve). But shes not doing it like every other day, maybe once a month when she remembers about it. But overall they wouldnt interact that much.

Engineer: Takes things from his workshop alot too, knows hes mad about it, dosent care. Whenever engie sees her, she just says "Shhhh no you didn't" and leaves. If he does catch her, she just starts her yap session which probably results her in just being let go. She doesn't fight him, she just acknowledges him and goes about her way cuz she knows he wouldnt do anything drastic.

Medic: Oohh yeaah thats what we've been waiting forrr!!!!! Their interaction would go like:

cig (stands by an apple): an apple a day keeps the doctor away

medic: i lost my license

cig: oh, L lmao

She would always find a way to escape him. Why? I said so :D Cig is actually so confident about herself she would just sit on a shelf and watch him work, maybe even step into his arm reach willingly and mock him. I feel like that tactic would overtime just have him give up on her entirely lol

so yeah she isnt scared, or hates him, shes there to make fun of him

Sniper: Both don't see eachother often, and honestly, she finds sniper boring. He barely socializes, sleeps outside the base in some van, idk odd guy. One time she was just sitting out in the open like nothing and sniper noticed her, both stared and said nothing, and went their ways.

Spy: oooh.. ooooh... they both DESPISE eachother. Hes the 1# hunter for her ass because of the amount of cigarettes she steals. Whenever hes around or when she just feels his presence, she actually hides. Every now and then she will figure out a way to annoy him more. She actually dares to enter his smoking room and mess in it. Spy is also very annoyed by the fact she has managed to avoid him for so long when hes the worlds greatest spy. Cig likes to point that out alot.

aaah.... im done... i did this in one sitting.......2 am hitting hard.. well, back to drawing now

@bluespace-skull cuz u wanted a tag :D

[thesweetnessofspring]

You mentioned you had thoughts on how Mr Mellark's play into Peeta feeling unwanted and unneeded, I was wondering if you wanted to share them ?

Because I just never know what to think of him (except that it is kinda funny to me that he is essentially "the Gale" in the parents's love triangle), he seems very kind like Peeta but also incredibly passive in his own family.

and also if you had any other headcanon surrounding the Mellark's family ?

TW: domestic violence, child abuse, physical abuse, verbal abuse, emotional abuse

Right this is going to get long 😂 So, my headcanon about the Mellark family/Mr. Mellark is sort of a mix between a family I have a personal connection to and a few families I've had to call child protection on. One physically and emotionally abusive mother, and one father who is caught up in domestic abuse himself, but would be labelled as failing to protect his children.

First, I'm going to clarify that I think Peeta believes he isn't loveable, which makes him feel unwanted and unneeded, but that is his core childhood wound. (see more about Enneagram Type 2, which is how I read Peeta's character).

There are a few components to Peeta getting treated the way he was. First is that while I do think the Mellark parents started their courtship and marriage believing they were in love, they both lacked the ability to effectively resolve conflict. She's aggressive and he just wants to make peace, which often leads to him placating her rather than standing up for himself. Their fights will often turn into Mrs. Mellark verbally and emotionally abusing her husband (he's bigger than her, so she doesn't physically abuse him, but the verbal and emotional abuse do damage). It doesn't help that they've both struggled to get by financially their whole lives and getting married doesn't solve that problem.

This brings in the boys. They're ecstatic about their first baby boy, but parenthood brings more challenges and there's more strain. Their first has a preference for Mr. Mellark, so when their second baby boy comes, Mrs. Mellark lays her claim on him and he's her golden child who can do no wrong. The stress of running the bakery, being parents to a toddler and baby, and their consistent fighting continues with Mr. Mellark getting the brunt, cruel end of his wife's words and emotional violence.

Despite her reputation, Mrs. Mellark doesn't enjoy this dynamic, she's stuck in patterns from her past. She gets especially unhappy when that hunter comes by to trade squirrels and Mr. Mellark asks after his wife, a girl he used to court. So when Mr. Mellark wants a little girl, Mrs. Mellark agrees to have one more to try for a girl. To try and save the marriage.

And then Peeta comes. Mr. Mellark has a big heart so he loves him anyway and Mrs. Mellark loves him as any parent does, but Peeta isn't the magic solution to her marriage that she wanted. And a couple months after Peeta's born, Mr. Everdeen comes by and boasts about his new little girl. His wife, the one her husband once wanted to marry, had a girl where she had failed. All of this gets redirected to Peeta and he becomes the scapegoat child. While Mrs. Mellark gave her older two corporeal punishment (spankings) she goes harder on Peeta than the other two, especially her golden middle boy. The older two take their mother's lead at times, though their feelings are a little more complicated. Sometimes Peeta's one of the brothers, but when Mother gets in one of her moods, they'll use Peeta as a shield.

Now Mr. Mellark tries to make up for all of this by being Peeta's buddy, giving him all the love his mother doesn't give him. That makes Mrs. Mellark more resentful, who wants her husband to love her like he did when they were courting and first married. And it also confuses Peeta more, because when Mrs. Mellark comes after him whether verbally and/or physically, his father never fights her. He might come in-between and try to calm her down, but if that doesn't work, she'll press on anyway and go after Peeta. His father doesn't even chastise her for what she's done to him. Time after time, Peeta gets the message even from his father that he's not worth protecting, which means he's not loveable. His personality, though, is convinced that if he learns to appease Mrs. Mellark and not anger her, and if he keeps doing helpful things for his father, and make jokes with his brothers, that they'll come to love him and treat him that way. The way he sees that miner's daughter love her little sister and the way he's watched her parents love each other. And he learns how to keep a lid on his mother as he gets older and bigger, but there are still days her anger has nowhere to go but with her hands on him or calling him names.

And still, all his father has is empty words his mother never listens to. Because if Peeta left the family, he wouldn't be missed, because he'd never truly been loved by them.

So yeah. That's how I headcanon Mr. Mellark and the whole Mellark family dynamic affecting Peeta and his subsequent relationship with Katniss.

Thanks for the ask and letting me explain all of this!

[throughtrialbyfire]

WIP Wednesday lets goooooooo

man, i'm glad it's wednesday!! it's been a tough one on my end, but it's the best day of the week, and i've been having a blast reading through/looking at everyone's wips today!!

thank you to the phenomenally skilled and talented @mareenavee @skyrim-forever @dirty-bosmer @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @umbracirrus and @thequeenofthewinter for tagging me!! i love seeing what you're all up to this week, expect unhinged tags on your works soon!! <3333

i'm passing the beacon to @gilgamish @orfeoarte @caliblorn @aphocryphas @totally-not-deacon @wispstalk @your-talos-is-problematic and anyone who'd like to hop in!!

this is from chapter 25 of "Cycle of the Serpent" and fresh off the presses! this is shaping up to be the longest chapter since chapter 10 at 3,132 words as of right now, and this snippet contains most of it. of course it's going to go through the editing ringer before it gets posted, but i'm pretty satisfied with how it's turned out!

the dragonborn trio is tackling fort hraagstad in hopes of acquiring an imperial pardon, and things take a bit of a turn…

have fun. ;3

quick content warning for canon-typical violence

The first to fall. The first to bleed. Wyndrelis watched the arrow make its mark squarely in the jugular of the nearest bandit. Clean. Quick. A hunter's trained kill. He watched another fall, this time an arrow to the chest. This time, not so quick, and another did them in. Emeros slid forward in the snow and up the incline, finding the path and his footing along it. Wyndrelis followed, Athenath rushing behind, swinging their blade at the first bandit to get near enough to him to try an attack. One. Two. Three, now. Wyndrelis kept count. The sick crack of a skull against his summoned mace added four to the tally. Another cadaver. He slipped along the mud and felt Athenath wrench a fist into the back of his armor, the same armor they'd snagged off the bandits in Bleak Falls Barrow. Jarl Balgruuf's gift was very kind, the armor of Whiterun, but they were in Haafingar, and they were no guards. So, his gifted armor lay in a chest in the Winking Skeever, finally off their backs, along with any items they wished to spare the hell of battle. As soon as he was on his feet properly again, he felt the brunt of a shield crash into him. Wyndrelis barely had enough time to get his wits about him when he flopped over onto his back, the bandit above him about to crash one enormous boot into his chest when Emeros drew his dagger, the ivory handle stark white against the dull grey forts stone, driving it hard into the neck of their foe. He clasped Wyndrelis' hand and pulled him from the mud before he continued, firing arrows into the bandits scrambling along the high walls of the fort. Five. He hissed in pain and ran a Restoration spell through his shoulder, the muscles unclenching, the tension melting away, magicka running down his veins like High Rock chocolates under a hot sun, the kind he'd shared long ago with someone whose name he refused to speak aloud. He shut the memory off as quickly as he could, looking up, watching Athenath walk backwards along the higher pathway of Fort Hraagstad, a bandit inching closer and closer. "Come on, little elf," called the bandit, "you're good as gutted now." Athenath narrowed his gaze, stray curls forcing themselves into his vision. He did not reply, breaths coming out in shaky, harrowing gasps. Wyndrelis watched. His chest tightened. Something was deeply wrong.

Emeros noticed before he did, as the moment the Dunmer spun to communicate this, Emeros had flown halfway across the courtyard and up the walkway, curling his fist into the bandit's cheekbone. Athenath shoved himself forward and drove his sword deep into the armored stomach of the bandit, and once he could sense no life in them, he pulled it off, boot to their hipbone. "Gods," Athenath spat, Emeros' attention drawn to their surroundings. Six. Wyndrelis waited. He listened to the hiss and whistle of the winds, the waving of the pines in the breeze, the snow tufting off the surface of the stone and powdering his figure in the muddy courtyard. He didn't want to think of what the mud contained now. He dismissed his spectral mace. Holding up his hand, he cast Detect Life. Emeros and Athenath glowed. He looked around, scrutinizing every corner of the courtyard and hoping for no signs, and when none came, he breathed a shaking sigh of relief. "Come down, let me treat your wounds before we go further." "What further?" Athenath shot back, throat creaking slightly, "I thought we were done." Wyndrelis shook his head, gesturing with his thumb to the doorway that no doubt led further into the fort. "This way. Now, come down."

Wounds treated, the trio gave a long, hesitant look to the door leading down into the fort. Wyndrelis, reaching for his corporeal mace, furrowed his brow. It wasn't ideal, he couldn't funnel his magicka into it to make it stronger, to ensure it lasted, but it was better than using up his magicka in the event they ran into any more bandits. Which, of course, he was sure that they would. Athenath leaned against the door. "We ready?" He whispered. Wyndrelis looked to Emeros, who nocked another arrow. "Open the door slowly, I think we need to take some precautions." He watched as the Altmer shuffled to the side, kneeling down, and slowly pressing their hand to the door. Wyndrelis stood to the side of the stone, heart hammering in his chest. He'd never been a fighter. He was a mage, a scholar, moreso. This was in complete opposition to how he liked to handle his problems, but it was all in the name of being able to traverse Skyrim safely. So, he would fight. As soon as the door parted, Emeros spotted the figure of another bandit, and his arrow found purchase in the man's skull. He motioned for the others to follow him, which they did, creeping low to the ground and carefully in the stone dark. Another fell, up the stairs. And the moment a third bandit became alerted to the commotion, Emeros took them down, Wyndrelis clutching his mace. The dark encroached on them, summoning all the anxiety in the mage's body, nothing capable of shielding him from the emerging fears that boiled in his heart. He kept his form steady, his breath even, but the chill from the outside could not be eliminated by the burning hearth on the lower level. All it took for his fears to be validated was the door swinging open beneath them, and someone spotting the bodies. The call for more bandits, more of their kin, to come running and to search every crevice for the trio.

In an instant, chaos erupted, the three elves hopping from the lower level and sprinting out the door, deer in flight from a lion, the cold shattering against them as they flung themselves down the stairs of the other door, a prison of sorts, and through it's winding depths. The twisting, the turning, the thunder of feet against stairs, the shouts of people calling for their intruders to meet the end here, to fall into Aetherius here, here of all places- Wyndrelis sprinted behind his friends, Emeros looking back- for what? Keep running, Wyndrelis mentally hissed as he followed. The churning the rolling the dark shadows meant to cloak them doing nothing, nothing, gods damn it all, they had been cornered. Gods damn it all, he wanted to do something, anything, petrified, the stench of rot coming to him through the prison's iron bars, his spine now to one cell containing the half-rotten remains of some poor soul he was soon to join. Dead end. Dead end. It was a gods damned dead end. He felt his spine against cold metal through his armor. Athenath to one side. Emeros to another. Outnumbered, how could they take down this many and expect to survive? The steps, slow and readied, down the stairs echoed in the room. The bandits knew that they had their prey in their clutches. No need to rush things. What could three little elves do? What good were they in this fight? Wyndrelis inhaled deeply. He exhaled. His heart thundered in his chest and his eyes cast sharp, terrified glances around the room. He met Athenath's round, panicked eyes. Emeros' own, stone-cold, dread in his stomach as he tried to figure out just how much time they had until the group was either eliminated or would face one of their hardest battles yet. The courtyard had offered open space. Better odds. This offered nothing but a grave. A grave. Wyndrelis tightened a fist so hard his nails dug into his palm. If only he had that book, if only it hadn't been taken from him the moment he became a prisoner, but he didn't and he wasn't able to get it back yet, he didn't even know where it was, if he did he might be able to get them out of this mess, but no. No, no, he knew there were other options. And as much as he didn't like it, he knew what he had to do. He gave Athenath one last look. Emeros, too. Calm settled over the Dunmer's features. He pushed magicka into his palm. The fist glowered a purple, the scowl of a work that he'd too-long left dormant. The College of Whispers had given him much. His fondness for the group and their cynosures did not outweigh his experiences, but it had given him something that no one, not the law, not the gods, and not his terror could take from him.

[fakegingerrights]

Walk By Faith (7)

[A/N: We're finally starting to get somewhere with this! TW for mentions of Concussions and physical violence (choking)]

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Crosshair was silent on the ride back to Kamino, not a word to his squad except a muttered thanks when ES-03 gave him a water pouch.

He knew he looked awful, but most of the damage was surface level. His armor took the brunt of it. With his newly fixed helmet, he examined his injuries, noting the faintest outline of dusty handprints under his shoulders and similar dust drag marks on his legs and presumably his back as well. His whole body was covered in what felt like a minor sunburn, with some more scaly bits on his right side that stung and were beginning to itch.

Tech had known he needed his helmet to see. Had known how to fix his helmet. He had also, presumably, dragged him away from the blast of the ion engine or his burns would be way worse.

"An anonymous contact. I... don't think they're too fond of the empire. But they were willing to help you. More than willing."

"My contact was the one who came up with this, one of the first implantless neural networks of this scale."

Tech was the genius. Hunter was the strategist. Kriff, even Wrecker was brilliant when it came to weapons and explosives.

But Crosshair was no slouch either, and right now several pieces were falling into place. Tech was currently on the run from the empire. Tech was stupidly sentimental in his own right when it came to his brothers. Tech helped build Echo's upgraded hardware.

Tech knew enough about neural networks to devise a helmet like his.

Tech loved him enough to do this.

Tech lead him on a wild krayt chase

Tech was looking out for him still.

He didn't need Tech's protection.

Damn it you Cha'kaar, just admit you miss them!

Crosshair shook his head roughly, wincing as his vision glitched and flickered. He was getting a headache. But he had just figured out something more important than his current discomfort. Tech was your contact. You had been working with traitors.

You were a traitor. You had to be. You had to have known.

The white halls of Kamino jittered and glitched as he stalked down them towards the medical bay. He knew he needed to get checked out, but he was looking for you.

Traitor. You were a traitor. Was he a traitor?

Crosshair’s breathing was unnaturally loud in his ears as he staggered and fell to his knees. When had his vision cut out?

He ripped his helmet off. Salt stung his raw, burnt face as he gasped for air. Distant footsteps echoed around his head, muffled words, a familiar voice, was saying something. To him?

“-ss, vod, you’re hyperventilating.”

Echo? Was that Echo’s voice? No. Different reg.

“Bev?” He croaked, turning towards the sound. Hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him to his feet by his breastplate. His balance was strange. Bev was solid beside him, taking most of his weight and helping him to an exam room, shutting the curtain behind him and guiding him to a cot.

“Can I get you out of that armor, Crosshair?” Bev asked, keeping his hand on his shoulder.

Crosshair shook his head, murmuring your name softly as he tried to get his addled brain into focus. Bev kept his hold on Crosshair's shoulder as he paged you discretely. He checked him over for a concussion and started getting bacta on the burns on his cheeks. Crosshair flinched every time the cold gel touched him, still staring vacantly into the distance. Well, even more so than he normally did.

"Crosshair?”

He gave a start. Bev was tapping on his shoulder, against the grey-coated plating. “I really need to examine you.”

Mutely, Crosshair nodded. Bev’s quick fingers caught the catches of his breastplate, making quick work of the plates. A knock on the door startled both of them.

“Maker, what happened to you?” You breathed, stepping into the room and taking in his soot covered and burned face and the littered injuries around his body. You moved to help Bev with your patient’s plates, but as soon as your fingers brushed him he snapped into motion.

His hand wrapped around your throat as he slammed you into the medical bench, cutting off your airway. His eyes were glazed over and his face stony. Even blind, his eyes bored into yours with frightening intensity.

Bev was quick to react, yanking Crosshair off of you and stepping between you two. Crosshair snarled, his face a mask of fury.

“Traitor.” He snarled at you, moving to lunge but Bev held him back.

“Your Doctor is no traitor.” He hissed, holding Crosshair away. Crosshair went limp, all the fight draining away as fast as it had come. His knees buckled and Bev was quick to catch him.

You were sitting up, rubbing your throat and coughing weakly. Dark bruises were forming, but it could definitely be worse.

“What’s going on?” You demand, your voice croaking and hoarse.

“Not sure. He’s been off the whole time.” Bev said sharply, draping him back on the cot and jabbing a port into Crosshair's hand, holding him to the bed with his off hand as he paws through his bag looking for a sedative that wouldn't be too dangerous if his outburst was caused by a concussion. Crosshair didn't fight, just laying limp where he was left, his eyes wide and empty as his chest heaved. Hyperventilating.

Slowly, whatever Bev managed to give him took effect and his eyes slowly drifted closed, his panting slowing into the slow, metronome steady rhythm of sleep.

"Let me see your neck." Bev asked quietly, pulling out a tube of bacta.

"I'm alright." You rasp, but tilt your head to the side and let him apply a thin layer of the stuff, even though it wouldn't do much since there were no open wounds. Still, the pleasant cooling sensation was a relief on the fresh marks. "I'm... more worried about him, honestly."

"I know. I'm... anxious, about letting him back into the field. I was before but this confirms my worries even more. He needs help. Those chips alter your thought patterns and hormone levels to reduce trauma and depression symptoms, as well as any underlying mental illnesses. You saw how much of a mess I was after removing mine, but the special units go through literal hell in training." Bev rambled a bit, pulling out his datapad.

"I'm going to fudge his papers a bit. He needs rest. I'm marking him down as concussed and confused, explaining his violent outburst and get him put up in his current quarters with a 'treatment' plan. How's renovations coming along?" He looked up at you expectantly.

"...Better. I have the bed put together and everything, but I got a little distracted on my latest project." You explained, glancing back at Crosshair's pale form. Even asleep and drugged, there was a tension in him that hadn't quite left. A crease between his brows that never quite smoothed out.

You startled at your name, Bev placing a hand on your shoulder. "I know that look. You can't save them all. Doctor, I'm not even sure you can save him."

"Bev I can't just... I have to do this. This isn't..." You shook your head in frustration. "Where's his helmet. His face is damaged so his helmet must be too."

"He had torn it off in the hall. I left it there in favor of getting it to you. I'll go retrieve it." Bev offered, leaving you alone in the room with Crosshair. You took it upon yourself to get the thin blanket pulled up over him and arranged him in a more comfortable position.

As you went to adjust his thin pillow slightly, his eyes fluttered open, staring right through you. As if sensing your hesitation, he rolled his head towards you, a sigh catching in his rough throat as his temple connected with your hand. Some of the tension left his face.

"I forgive you." You murmur, not sure how aware he was. "We'll talk later, but I forgive you." You stroked his hair gently, fine silver curls soft under your fingertips. And sooty. Grey streaks were left on your fingertips.

"Here's his helmet, Doc." Bev called from the doorway. "Go nuts."

You caught the dirty gray helmet, instantly seeing where part of it had been smashed in and torn away. Wires had obviously been repaired after coming loose.

Tucked under them was a note that made your blood freeze.

"To the doctor in charge of CC 9904, otherwise known as Crosshair. And to me, I call him 'Brother.'....."

Crosshair ached all over. There was a strange weight on the forefront of his face, across his nose and around his eyes. He felt bruised and burned across his entire body. There was the sound of soft snores nearby, higher than a brothers' and feminine.

On instinct, he opened his eyes as he sat up wincing at first from the sharp pain in his ribs and back then blinking in the dim light of his room.

Oh. That was new.

A trembling hand reached up to investigate the weight on his face he couldn't see, fingers bumping against smooth metal and glass an inch from his cheekbones. Glasses? No. Goggles. They felt remarkably like the ones Tech wore.

The ones that pressed into his nose as he pressed his forehead against his brother's, the brother who had taken a shot meant for him

Ones that had often ended up digging into his shoulder as he and Wrecker wrangled Tech from his workbench to sleep

Goggles that-

Crosshair dug the heel of his palm into his forehead in an attempt to stop the haunting memories. He instantly hissed and lightened the contact, flipping his hand over to press the chronically icy backs of his fingers against his too hot face.

At his hiss, the snoring stopped and there was the sound of shifting fabric off to his right. You were curled up in a chair that hadn't been there before, stretching and rubbing your eyes. Now that he could see it, the entire room was different from when he had been here last. His bed had been changed, the mattress soft and thick beneath him. The blankets still smelled like sunshine rather than bleach, but there were more of them.

The closet doors had been pulled off, and now he could see a well stocked with civilian clothes. Male, civilian clothes. The desk by his bed had a lamp on it, off currently. There was also a window that he hadn't noticed, high above his bed. For once, it was sunny out on Kamino, lighting up the room without the need for lights.

"You're awake..." You yawned, stretching your arms over your head and running a hand through your hair, making a face as your fingers caught on a snarl from sleeping in a chair. "How're you feeling?"

"... Tired. Not... I don't know. And sore." He grumbled, wincing at the sound of his own voice. "What time is it?"

"Early morning. You've been asleep for a day and a half or so. Even after whatever Bev hit you with wore off." You explained, popping all your joints you could reach as you stood up, sighing in relief as the cracks sounded in the room.

"... I hurt you." He admitted, glancing at your neck. The bruises were faded thanks to the bacta, but he could still see them. "I... " He fumbled for an explanation, icy fear prickling at his neck. He could be decommissioned for that.

"You're forgiven, Crosshair." You broke him out of his building panic. "I know why you did it. Tech... left a note tucked into your helmet."

"Oh..." Crosshair wasn't sure how to respond to that.

"It... explained a lot of things. I thought I was a loyal citizen of the empire. I was so sure... The jedi had been traitors. That we had done the right thing. But those chips... I saw how it affected Bev. They're horrible. I don't know what to believe now."

Crosshair's hackles rose as he stared at you incredulously.

"I'm... me and Bev had a conversation. Bev and I. Whatever. I'm going to give you a choice."

You held up three fingers.

"One. You stay with the empire. Me and Bev will vanish, marked as traitors to the Empire. Neither us will fault you for that." You ticked off one finger, stepping closer. "Two. We tell the empire you're dead. You're sent back with your brothers. You go home with them." Another finger, another step. You're standing right next to the bed. Crosshair stares at you, pupils wide behind his new goggles. He looked so much like his brother right now. Your eyes traced over his tattoo.

"Three. We go with the plan Tech suggested. You stay here with us. We work to take the empire down from the inside out."

Crosshair starts, eyes going wide. He quickly looks down at his lap, fidgeting aimlessly with his hands.

Tech's plan.

Tech had a plan for him.

His brothers had a plan.

He wasn't alone.

"... I like option three." He muttered down at his lap. He jumped slightly as you put a hand on his shoulder.

"Welcome home, Commander Crosshair."

Crosshair hesitated, then leaned into the touch. "... Glad to be back." And he was. For the first time in a long, long while, Crosshair felt like himself.

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