#so today in thicker than blood

[where-does-the-heart-lie]

Water is Thicker Than Blood Chapter 80

Good job Ace and Luffy. You did good work uwu

{Start} {Prev Next} {MasterPost}

I didnt have shit to do yesterday so i pumped this entire thing out Hallelujah. Worked on it way too late cuz i have shit to do today but. C'est la vie.

[writersdrug]

Give me Alpha!König and Omega!Reader, but they both kinda hate the situation. You were gifted to Kortac as a 'thank you' from your family for protection, because what else are they going to do with an omega? Too risky to have you there already, you'd be an easy target for a diplomatic family like yours.

So they bounce you over to Kortac. Who decides giving you to the grumpy, stressed overworked Alpha might just fix him.

But... it doesn't really (yet). He doesn't like having something that relies on him, something that his superiors said he "needed" to help soothe him (soothe him? What is he, a child?!). And you're not happy about being handed off like a gift from your family. Blood is not thicker than water, apparently.

So there you sit, opposite ends of the table with König, a scowl on each of your faces. You're supposed to be scenting each other, but all you're doing is stinking up the room with your angry scents. The poor beta has their nose pinched and their eyes watering with how sour the room is, looking back and forth between the two of you as you stare around the ground, arms crossed, and König stares at his phone, tapping his meaty fingers on the table.

"Could you two please just get this over with so I can-"

"No." You both say in unison.

The beta sighs. "You both reek. I'm getting Commander." She says, slipping out of the room.

Finally, for a brief second, you both look at each other. König huffs and you scowl, looking away. You ignore that feeling of your Omega, latching onto the one thread of curiosity in your mind. You are NOT interested in this oaf of an Alpha.

(yes you are.)

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

How do we feel about developing this? Got a lot on my plate I'd need to start hacking away at but this project has been on my mind for a while. Also got the A/b/o dynamics/processes/setup (idk the words aren't wording today, the "happenings" of how this universe works?) From @soaps-mohawk, so any "this is how it works" stuff is all credited to them!

[viperify]

AU |��ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

˚.☾⋆✧ Blood Lust.

Short Summary: When you stir awake in the middle of the night, you notice Tom hasn’t come back home. Strange noises downstairs lead you to investigate, but what—or who—will you find as you do?

Warnings: 18+ only! Vampire!Tom, hunter and prey, biting, marking, blood play, nipple play, incredibly feral Tom Riddle, breeding kink, choking, praise, unprotected p in v, implied murder (side character).

A/N: FINALLY it’s out. Thank you so much for your patience, life’s a mess atm. Love you, always <3

wordcount: 3,2k

You wake.

Not by choice, but rather from the sound of a window shutting forcefully somewhere downstairs. You still, holding your breath as you listen intently, however, you are left waiting. All you can hear is complete silence. Silence that feels almost eerie now, in the dark. When you hear nothing suspicious for another minute, your focus shifts.

It must be around midnight, you think, and a quick look at the clock confirms your assumption.

It’s 23:50.

Then you hear it—the wind. You exhale sharply, closing your eyes again. It’s just the wind, you tell yourself. The wind must have shut a window downstairs. And just as you are about to drift off to sleep again—

Your eyes shoot open.

You had checked all the windows before going upstairs.

Your arm searches for something next to you—someone. However, a few taps later, and you realise the bed is cold and empty, sheets in the same place as they were when you went to bed.

He isn’t here. 

Or better—he hasn’t come back.

You sigh in defeat, sitting upright on the soft mattress, the silky sheets crumpling under the shift of weight on them. Your palm covers your mouth as you yawn, slipping into your slippers you placed next to the bed. Your legs carry you towards the nearby window, and you rest your hands on the ledge as you glance into the starry night sky, which is clearer than usual today.

In that moment, realisation hits you.

It’s a full moon.

Another loud noise has your body tense involuntarily, tearing you from your thoughts—this time it’s something shattering on the ground, similar to a glass. You walk towards the door, about to turn the key when your arm drops again.

Every fiber in your body tells you no—stay in bed, don’t go and check. Why would you? Tom isn’t home, and if there really was someone, he wouldn’t want you to get yourself in danger. Right?

You shake your head. But there is another voice inside of you, clearer than your own, telling you to check—

So you do.

You turn the key in the lock, pushing the handle down before peering through the gap.

Darkness.

A sense of relief washes over you, and you step outside, a small candle in your left hand lighting your way. The wooden planks creak under your feet, and you stop every few steps to listen—but all that greets you is silence, silence that carries an intimidating undertone.

Even as you walk down the stairs, there is nothing too unusual. The dim glow of your candle does little to illuminate your surroundings, and it really does a better job exposing yourself to any possible intruder than the other way around, but it’s better than nothing. Finally, you reach the lowest level of your shared home, stepping onto the cold marble floor tiles.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

A shiver runs down your spine as the ticking of the living room clock has you stop momentarily, an eerie tension forming in the air, growing thicker the closer you get to it. You have been wanting to get rid of the clock for a while, telling him how irritating the ticking is, especially when you pass it at night—but he is oddly attached to it.

So you kept it.

With the help of the flickering candlelight, you are able to make out an object on the floor near the living room—your favourite vase—that had dropped and shattered into a hundred small pieces. You sigh softly, crouching down to pick up the pieces, however, soon the inevitable happens—you cut yourself.

A sharp hiss spills over your lips as the porcelain breaks your skin, a drop of blood running down your finger. You curse yourself for not being more careful, looking around to find something you can wrap around the wound.

The emergency kit. In the kitchen.

Standing back up, you make your way, though you don’t get far before your breath catches in your throat and your body freezes in place. A pair of glowing, scarlet eyes advances towards you, their intensity burning through the night’s darkness better than any candle in your possession would.

You shouldn’t be scared. It’s Tom.

However, something about his presence feels different today. The energy he radiates seems stronger, needier. More feral, more unhinged. More dangerous.

Before you know it, he is there, right in front of you.

Though the light of your candle dims when he stands before you, it doesn’t take long for you to take in the state of him. Pupils dilated wide, intently focused on you, his breath coming out in short, ragged huffs. And there is blood. So much blood. The crimson color staining his lips and chin, seeping into the white cotton fabric of his robes. His eyes wander, stopping at the bleeding cut on your finger before they trail back up—slowly.

“Tom?” you whisper, eyebrows drawn together in confusion—and fear.

He doesn’t reply.

Instead, he reaches up to your cheek, brushing over the soft skin ever so lightly, barely even touching you at all. His thumb then wanders under your chin, slowly tilting your head up so you are met with his glowing red eyes. Still, he doesn’t speak—instead, he leans in, his lips meeting yours just to place a singular, feather-light kiss on them. Enough to make you taste what he’s been up to—although you’d rather not think about it. His hand leaves your cheek, grazing over your jaw and throat until he stops at your neck, pulling you in closer.

When his fingers press down on your pulse point softly, feeling your elevated, rushed heartbeat under his touch, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. Tom’s head dips then, his hot breath skimming over your ear, the tension between the both of you building rapidly. And then, a small, an almost too silent huff leaves his lips—

“Run.”

Now, obviously, this isn’t meant to be a game for you to win. It has never been. With his heightened senses and supernatural strength, you cannot escape him, and you never will. Both of you are aware of that. But the thrill of it all—it is intoxicating for both of you. So whenever he does tell you to run—you are more than happy to obey.

So you take a step back, and his arm drops to his side. One more quick glance at him, how his chest rises and falls in anticipation, how his lips are slightly parted, revealing his sharp fangs—

And then you run, as fast as your legs carry you.

He gives you a head start, knowing you won’t make it far either way. It’s dark, but he doesn’t need light to find you. The smell of your fresh blood in the air is enough for him to locate you, even if you were a mile away. He could distinguish your blood from a thousand others, and God, he would always find you.

After all, you are still his favourite prey.

With that thought, he turns to leave the kitchen, following the soft sound of your heartbeat. He can feel how quick it beats, trying its hardest to supply your body with enough oxygen. The closer he gets to you—now walking up the stairs—the stronger the scent of your blood becomes. The more he craves you.

You shriek quietly as the door to your shared bedroom flies open, your breathing stilling in an attempt to keep him at bay for just a little longer. Though you know it’s over when you hear a low scoff from outside of your closet, the door opening as a strong hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you out.

“Too easy,” he growls, lips crashing onto yours, capturing you in a heated kiss. “Too fucking easy.” Suddenly his hands are all over your body, practically tearing your clothes off your body. The buttons of your blouse pop off the fabric, clattering as they hit the floor, rolling off. You barely have time to complain before you stand bare before him, and his hungry eyes are drinking you in.

Tom takes a step closer, and you squirm slightly as his cold hand softly trails over your delicate skin, pulling you in as he reaches your waist. “Been thinking about you all day. Now you are mine.” He purrs, smirking against your lips before he kisses you again, biting down on your lower lip, drawing a soft gasp from you.

“Who— who was it?” You breathe, gaze lowering to the bloodstains on his clothes, a sly grin forming on his face at your question.

“Remember Knockturn Alley? How his eyes lingered on you?” He answers, trailing kisses along your jaw.

Of course. What else.

You sigh. “Yes, I do.”

“Mhm.” He mumbles, lips back on yours, not giving you the chance to question him further.

Never breaking the kiss, he pushes you backwards until you are sprawled out on the now cool, silky sheets, not wasting another second before he joins you. One hand softly wrapped around your throat, he tilts your head to gain better access to your neck, his ragged breaths hot on your skin as his head dips, greedily trailing kisses along your jugular vein.

Your soft moans only seem to spur him on, sucking marks into your skin, your neck, collarbone, and breasts until you are nothing more than a whining mess beneath him. Only then does he pull back slightly, humming lowly in approval as his glowing eyes wander over the artwork of bruises he’s left behind on your skin.

He savours the way you melt under his touch, so good and pliant for him, anticipation building at the thought of finally tasting you. “Doing so well for me,” he mutters, brushing a strand of hair from your face, before dipping back down to continue his ministrations.

Then, for the first time that night, you feel his fangs on your skin, grazing over your neck ever so lightly—a gentle reminder of what’s to come, of the flaming hunger beneath his composure. Your body twitches at the contact, breath coming out shakily as you cling onto his shoulder, feeling his muscles under your touch.

A smirk creeps onto his face at your reaction, placing an open-mouthed kiss directly onto your pulse point. “So afraid,” he drawls, tilting your head just a tiny bit more, before you feel his pointed teeth again, not yet piercing your skin, but lingering, waiting.

“I am not—“ you try to defend yourself, however, his palm closes over your mouth, cutting you off.

“No more talking back.”

As his instinct takes over, you feel it. The familiar sting of his fangs sinking into the tender flesh of your neck, drawing the first drops of blood with a breathy groan as he tastes you on his tongue, some of it trickling down onto the sheets and your cleavage. A cozy warmth spreads through your body, easing the pain, intensifying the pleasure he is providing you with.

“Tom— oh God—“ you whimper, hands tangling in his brunette locks, softly tugging on his roots as he continues feeding on you, soft sucking noises filling your shared bedroom as he greedily drinks your blood, a tingling sensation spreading through your body.

But before he gets too lost in the ecstasy, he pulls back with a low growl, fangs forcefully retracting from your neck. For a moment he just glances down at you, chest heaving with ragged breaths. “Taste yourself,” he breathes, head dipping down until he’s a mere inch away from your lips. “I want you to taste yourself. How fucking sweet you taste for me.”

He doesn't give you much of a choice, because as soon as you open your mouth to voice your complaint, his lips are on yours, the metallic taste of your own blood flooding your senses. His hand tightens around your throat, cutting off just enough air to leave you dizzy, while the effects of his bite send your mind spiraling. Your knuckles turn white from how hard they are gripping the sheets, your body struggling to process the overwhelming sensations all at once.

But there is something you do notice. Very clearly even.

How painfully hard he is. How he can’t help but grind himself against you.

“T-Tom, please,” you whimper as he slowly pulls back, admiring the mess he’s left on your lips, thumb shakily swiping over them.

“You are ovulating.”

“I know, I—“

He groans. A low, almost desperate sound somewhere from the back of his throat. “Fuck, sweetheart. You know I can’t— fuck— hold back. Not when—“

Merlin help you.

Your hand is on his neck, never breaking eye contact as you pull him closer once more. Shaking your head, you place a kiss on his tensed jaw. “Don’t hold back.”

Another sharp inhale, and his hand is back around your throat, pressing down, not to restrict your airflow, because you can breathe very well—as well as you could breathe under the effect of your vampire’s bite—but rather your blood flow.

“Don’t wish for something you cannot handle,” he warns lowly, but you shake your head again. “God, Tom, please— I need you, just— take me.”

“Fuck—“

With your mind already blurry as a result of his bite, you only faintly notice the sound of his belt hitting the wooden planks of your floor with a thud, followed by the rest of his clothes. Before you realise it, he slips between your thighs, body pressing flush against yours. His lips wrap around your nipple, gently dragging his sharp teeth over the sensitive bud, drawing a sharp gasp from you at the intense sensation, which sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

It doesn’t take long until you feel him prodding at your soaked entrance, pressing another kiss to your lips before he pushes inside of you with a low groan, and it’s rough, it’s careless, mirroring his burning hunger for you. He doesn’t wait, no, he buries himself to the hilt with one singular, powerful thrust, tip brushing against your sensitive cervix, your brows drawing together at the sudden, sharp yet delicious stretch on your walls. A choked moan rips from your lips, body arching beneath him, which is apparently sign enough for him to pull back slightly, only to thrust back inside harder.

His head dips, breath hot against your neck as he continues sucking and biting marks into your skin before his fangs break through your flesh once more, a low, satisfied hum falling over his lips as he stills his hunger on his favourite human—you.

He soon sets a steady rhythm, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as his tip brushes over your most sensitive spot with every thrust. The flickering candlelight in the otherwise dark room illuminates the sharp features of his face each time he raises his head to take a breath, your blood dripping down his chin over the sides of his neck.

“Can’t get enough of you, fuck—“ he groans, picking up his pace when he hears your soft moans, his fingertips sinking into your waist, hard enough to leave bruises as he pulls you back into his thrusts, stopping your body from moving forwards with every snap of his hips.

Few things in this world can make Tom Riddle lose his self-restraint.

But the way you squeeze him so tight, walls fluttering as you try to accommodate his length, soft whimpers falling over your lips, all while the flavour of your blood has his mind spinning with pure ecstasy—certainly has him on the verge.

Because fuck—you are just so gorgeous, he thinks. Covered in his marks and his only, painting a canvas of his lust on your body, he just needs you to be his, forever. The bite would come, the bite to turn you into a vampire yourself, but for now—he’ll still savour the irreplaceable taste of your blood. Instead, he’ll make you his in other ways.

Tom’s eyes darken at the thought, lips slightly parted, and suddenly he has a desire other than satiating his primal hunger for your blood—he wants, no, needs to fill you—stake his claim on you.

You can practically feel the last bits of restraint he has left fading, messily feeding on you while he buries his cock deep within your walls with every sharp, perfectly angled snap of his hips into yours, deliciously dragging over all the right spots as he pounds into you relentlessly.

“Too much, Tom— please—“ you whimper, just as your consciousness threatens to slip, ears ringing and vision growing cloudy. He is barely able to stop himself in time from draining more of your precious blood, fangs tearing from your skin with a low, guttural groan. He tilts your head then, having you meet his strict, intense gaze. “Not yet, look at me. Fuck— look at me as I fill you up.”

Only with half-lidded eyes do you manage to do so, legs weakly wrapped around him as he takes what he needs, mercilessly slipping in and out of you, his brunette curls sticking to his damp forehead as he chases his release.

“You are going to be good for me and take it,” he pants, thrusts growing more erratic as you feel him twitch inside of you.

“Every.” thrust “Last.” thrust “Drop.” thrust

“Yes— fuck please, Tom.” You gasp, and with a few more sharp snaps of his hips, he spills his release deep inside of you, groaning lowly as he paints your walls with thick, white ropes of his cum.

You too come undone with a weak shudder of your body, your walls fluttering around his length, hands slipping from his shoulders. Pleasure and pain melt into one, stars dancing in front of your eyes as your vision grows blurrier with each passing second.

Tom lets you regain your consciousness, staying situated between your thighs, his cock still buried deep within your walls as he gently laps his tongue against the puncture wounds on your neck, cleaning most of the dried crimson liquid from your skin.

The next thing you remember is his fingertips tenderly massaging shampoo into your scalp, warm water surrounding your sore body as he has you resting against his chest in the bathtub. The scent of fresh rose petals and orchids fills your nostrils with a deep breath of yours. You hum softly, eyes fluttering closed again, letting him take care of you.

A flicker of satisfaction sparks in his eyes as he dries you off in front of a mirror, gently patting the towel over the bite marks and bruises he’s left all over your cleavage.

“So gorgeous, covered in my marks. And all mine.”

“All yours.”

tags: @belladonnaheartsthemoon, @riddlebella, @jo1818

—

thank you for reading! <3 feedback and reblogs are appreciated. 💜

[mapis-putellas]

𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader

Words: 1500+

Warnings: blood

Summary: You’d never seen Alexia lose control on the pitch before. At least, not until today.

The match had started off just as you and Alexia had planned. Barca was up 1-0, with Alexia scoring the opening goal off a perfect assist from Aitana. She'd celebrated with that smile that told everyone in the stadium she was exactly where she was supposed to be. She looked so happy, so calm, and you couldn't help but beam at her across the pitch.

But the second half was where everything went wrong.

You were just about to intercept a pass when Arsenal's captain, Leah Williamson, came in with a rough tackle, her elbow catching you hard in the face. You barely had time to react, feeling the impact before you were sent sprawling to the ground with a gasp, pain shooting through your nose as you hit the turf. Everything went a little fuzzy, and you felt a warm trickle of blood start to run down your face.

Before you could even process what had happened, your teammates had gathered around you, waving for the medics to come out. They knelt beside you, one of them pressing gauze against your nose to stop the bleeding. You winced, struggling to keep your focus through the pain, but then you heard a voice that cut through the haze of it all.

"¡Oye! ¿Qué te crees que estás haciendo?" Alexia's voice was unmistakable, laced with anger in a way you'd never heard before. You turned your head, catching a blurry glimpse of her marching up to Leah, her expression thunderous.

Leah crossed her arms, standing her ground. "It was a fair tackle, calm down," she shot back, but Alexia was having none of it. She shoved Leah, her jaw clenched tight.

"¡No tocas a mi chica así!" Alexia's voice was low and dangerous, and you could see her fists were balled, her entire body radiating fury. Your heart skipped a beat; you'd never seen her like this, not in all the time you'd known her.

"Alexia..." you murmured, trying to sit up, but the medics held you back. "Wait, please—"

But the two captains were locked in a fierce standoff, teammates from both sides rushing in to pull them apart, voices rising in a chaotic jumble of English and Spanish. You couldn't make out the words, but the tension was thick, the lines between the two teams blurring as everyone tried to defuse the situation.

You couldn't just sit by and watch as Alexia's temper flared, though. With a determined look, you pushed away the medic's hand, standing up despite the dizziness that washed over you. Ignoring their protests, you made your way over, weaving through the bodies until you were right behind her.

"Alexia," you called, reaching out to grab the back of her jersey, giving it a tug.

She whipped around, her expression still fierce—until she realized it was you. Her face softened immediately, her hands lifting instinctively to cup your cheeks as she took in the blood smeared across your face. "Mi amor... you are bleeding," she whispered, her eyes filled with worry and anger all at once.

You managed a small smile, placing your hands over hers. "It's okay, I'm fine. But please, calm down, alright?" you said gently. You could feel the tension in her grip, the way her jaw was still tight, and you could tell she was struggling to keep her composure.

"But she... she hit you," Alexia said, her accent thicker than usual in her frustration. "I cannot let her do that to you."

You squeezed her hands, leaning in a little closer. "I know, I know, but it's just a part of the game. Please, just come with me to the stands so they can clean me up. It's not worth it."

Her gaze flickered between you and Leah, hesitating, clearly torn. She opened her mouth, no doubt ready to launch back into the argument, but you tugged her hands a little closer, stepping into her line of sight.

"Please, cariño," you murmured, letting your voice soften. "Walk me over to the medics. Just... just focus on me."

Alexia looked over your shoulder at Leah, her eyes narrowing, but then she glanced back at you, her expression softening. "Okay... okay, for you," she murmured, her thumb brushing gently against your cheek.

You let out a relieved breath, giving her hands a reassuring squeeze. "Thank you."

She wrapped an arm around your waist, guiding you gently back towards the sidelines. Her touch was firm and protective, her fingers pressing into your hip as if to shield you from any further harm. You leaned into her, feeling a sense of comfort despite the throbbing pain in your nose.

When you reached the bench, she helped you sit down, crouching beside you and reaching out to gently wipe a smudge of blood from your cheek with her thumb. "You scared me," she admitted softly, her voice laced with concern.

You managed a weak laugh, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her face. "I didn't mean to. But you really didn't have to go after Leah like that. I'm alright, Alexia."

She shook her head, her gaze intense. "No, no está bien. She should not touch you like this." Her hand moved to your shoulder, holding you as if to ground herself.

You cupped her face in your hands, making her look at you. "I'm okay," you repeated softly. "Just... stay here with me, alright?"

Her eyes softened, and she leaned into your touch, her thumb grazing your cheek. "Always, mi amor. Always."

*

After a visit from the medics to pack your nose, you managed to convince them—and Alexia—that you could head back on the field. She was fuming as she followed you back, shaking her head the entire way.

"I don't like this," Alexia muttered, her Spanish accent thickening as her irritation grew. "You shouldn't be playing."

"Lexi, I'll be fine," you said, giving her a quick, reassuring smile. "They're just making me get an X-ray later as a precaution, but it's nothing serious."

She didn't look convinced. Her fingers grazed the edge of the bandage on your nose, her brow furrowed. "But you are hurt. What if you get hit again? I don't like it."

You gently took her hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Trust me, okay? I'll stay out of trouble.”

Alexia gave you a reluctant nod, though you could still see the worry etched in her expression. She stayed close to you as the match resumed, shooting daggers at anyone who so much as came near you, and by the time the whistle blew, her concern had shifted into a steely kind of protectiveness.

Barca had won, 1-0, and despite the soreness, you couldn't help but smile, hugging Alexia in celebration. She held you close, whispering, "You are too stubborn."

"Only because I'm dating you," you teased, and she rolled her eyes, though her smile gave her away.

As the celebrations wrapped up, Leah approached, looking slightly nervous as she rubbed the back of her neck.

"Hey," Leah started, glancing between you and Alexia. "I wanted to say sorry about earlier. Really didn't mean for it to be that rough. Are you okay?"

You nodded, giving her a forgiving smile. "It's alright, Leah. Things happen on the pitch. I'm all good now."

Leah let out a relieved breath, smiling back. "Glad to hear it." She paused, looking slightly sheepish. "Also, any chance you'd want to swap jerseys? As a bit of a peace offering?"

You blinked, a little surprised, but after a quick glance at Alexia's thunderous expression, you gave Leah a reassuring nod. "Yeah, sure."

You slipped your jersey off and handed it to Leah, who smiled gratefully as she passed hers to you. But Alexia's glare hadn't let up, and the second Leah turned away, you felt Alexia's arms wrap firmly around your waist from behind.

Her fingers spread out across your bare stomach, pressing against your skin as if trying to shield you from the world. She lowered her face to your ear, her voice low and annoyed. "She has no shame, coming up to you like this."

You laughed softly, leaning back against her. "Baby, she was just being nice."

"She hurt you," Alexia muttered, her arms tightening slightly around you. "And now she asks for your jersey? It's like she doesn't understand who you belong to."

You couldn't help but laugh again, turning slightly in her arms to look at her. "She knows, trust me."

Alexia's gaze softened slightly as she looked down at you, though her annoyance was still clear. "Maybe I should remind her."

Rolling your eyes, you reached up to cup her cheek. "Alexia, I'm okay. And she apologised. I promise, I'm yours."

Her expression finally relaxed, and she leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Good. Because I am not sharing you."

You grinned, wrapping your arms around her neck. "I wouldn't dream of it."

She pulled you even closer, her lips brushing your ear as she whispered, "Then let's go celebrate properly. Away from everyone else."

You laughed, letting her lead you off the pitch, her arm still wrapped possessively around you the entire way, her touch never leaving your skin.

**

Tags:

@ceesimz @marysfics @codiemarin @girlgenius1111 @silentwolfsstuff @goldenempyrean @xxnaiaxx @liloandstitchstan

[slightly-knot-insane]

Safe and Sound

[ m!wolf hybrid x fem!rabbit hybrid ]

a/n: had to make this a separate post, thank you again @corvid-brain content: light biting, piv, knotting, creampie, pregnancy

The wolf hybrid and his pack had built a lovely community in the mountains, and their village was starting to blossom. Families grew rapidly, and they prospered in peace. But some hybrids were jealous of their happiness...

Today, the wolf hybrid and a few of his friends went to help their new neighbor fix the roof. The owl hybrid had broken his wing a few days ago, and his wife was heavily pregnant, almost ready to lay her eggs. It was a difficult job, but fun nonetheless. Even though it took them all afternoon to finish it, they were rewarded with a hearty dinner and delicious wine. The wolf hybrid and his friends stayed a little bit longer to help the owl hybrid family clean everything up, too.

Finally, the wolf hybrid started his walk home. His village was scattered on the side of a mountain, and his home was a bit farther from the rest of the houses, which provided him with peace and space for his growing family. It was perfect! Well, almost always.

An ominous scent crawled inside his nostrils as soon as he got close. Metal. Blood.

His hair stood up, he dropped to all fours and ran toward his house, barely holding in a terrified howl. Nononono! Not his family! Not them! The sun hadn't set yet and, clear as a day, he saw footsteps. Paws. From another pack. Going toward his home. Fast fast fast! The smell was growing thicker and more bitter. Tears welled in his eyes. Maybe he's not too late!

He almost screamed when he saw fresh blood on the window. Many footsteps marked the dirt around his house, different smells mixed in the air, and a splatter of blood ruined his wife's flowers. And the front door was slightly ajar. NonononoNONONONO!

He barged in, ready for the worst, but his wife shut his mouth with her tiny hand. "Shhhh, they are sleeping." Her beautiful soft face was covered in blood, and her left ear was cut.

"Wh-Wh-Wh—" He just couldn't form any words, his legs shaking and throat shut down.

"We are all fine. They ran away, the cowards! We are all safe now. The girls sensed trouble in time, and I could get ready. Thank the gods I insisted you teach me how to handle a knife."

"But..." The wolf hybrid gently touched her long rabbit ear. "But you are hurt... The blood..."

His beautiful mate touched her wound and flashed him a bright smile. "Oh! Don't worry! It's a scratch! The blood is theirs. You know how fast and tough I am!" She flexed her arm, and a small bump showed just above her elbow.

The wolf hybrid gazed at his wife, speechless. Her face was stained with the disgusting blood of their enemies, and her dress was ripped and soiled, and yet she was victoriously grinning. She was so weak, her strength but a fraction of her husband's, but she was so brave to fight alone and defend their babies. Their pups. So small. So incredible.

Wolf hybrid got lost in thought, barely listening to her describing the foul deed. He will ask her to tell him again. And again. And many more times. But now - he grabbed her around her waist and lifted her up - now he wanted nothing more than to love her and show her love.

He kissed her and muffled her voice inside his mouth. She was surprised by his sudden affections. His tongue quickly invaded her, and he pressed her firmly against his chest, hating that no hug could be big or strong enough for her right now.

She somehow pushed herself away. "My love!" she gasped. "Are you okay?"

"Me?" He stared into her eyes, hunger overtaking his features. "I've never been better, never been more prouder, never loved you more than right now."

The rabbit hybrid's eyes widened in shock. Not that her husband wasn't always a caring lover and a doting partner, but she truly wasn't expecting a hard-on against her blood-soiled clothes. But they had done stranger things before, and right now, all their pups were blissfully and safely asleep in the next room. She smiled and kissed her husband back.

Her husband growled impatiently, grabbing her clothes. "It's ruined, anyway," she said while pulling his shirt over his head. He happily used his claws to shred them to pieces, revealing her beautiful soft body. He immediately pulled her nipple with his teeth, carrying her toward their bedroom and their cozy little bed. They fell down, his large body pinning her against the mattress. He could barely contain himself from pushing his cock and entire knot immediately inside her. He had to be gentle; she had been through a lot.

"Fuck me now!" she moaned spreading her legs and pulling his hips toward herself. He looked at her soaking wet pussy and drool dripped from his fangs. "Fuck me hard. Now."

He grabbed her long rabbit ears and pulled them back to expose her neck. He bit her below the jaw, making her whimper. With his other arm he positioned his pulsating cock and immediately plunged into her cunt.

"Yes," she moans quietly, hoarsely. "Yes, harder, harder."

Their pups were asleep, but unless they were outside somewhere, far away from them, they never got fully vocal. The rabbit hybrid loved to say obscene things and scream in pleasure, so her husband immediately put his paw over her mouth. Only then he started fucking her little pussy will all he got.

Her eyes quickly rolled backwards, and her legs pulled him closer. Her body worked with his thrusts as she was chasing her release. The wolf hybrid bit her neck again and felt her cunt contract around his cock, reaching her peak already. He didn't slow down and barely contained a howl inside his throat from the rushing desire in his blood.

He lifted her hips upward, and smothered her moans with his tongue, pounding her cunt. It was so warm, so moist, so familiar. It was home. The smell of blood was overtaken by the smell of their mixed sweat and juices. It's making him feral.

"I'll... knot you..." he said. "I'm so close..."

"Yes, yes, yes..." She put her own hand into her mouth to silence herself, almost breathless.

Just as the wolf hybrid felt the pulsating climax heating up, he pushed his knot inside his wife pussy, and the sensation of her soaked walls around his entire sex made him cum almost immediately. He bit his wife again, grunting into her skin, holding in a fearsome howl as the rabbit hybrid reached another climax, pulling his knot deeper.

"My love..." he said. "You are safe." A wave of late worry and relief washed over him as he layed on top of his gorgeous wife, enjoying his knot resting inside her.

"Safe." She held him tight, blissfully enjoying his hot cum dripping down her ass, but mostly poolling inside her womb. "Another litter, perhaps?"

Her husband smiled. "Would you like that?"

"Conceiving them on this day to compensate the stress would really make us more than lucky, wouldn't it?

The wolf hybrid nuzzled his soft wife's fur. "That it would."

[butterbabyflapjack]

✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

The Ice Truck Killer’s back in town, and somehow he's stuck babysitting you; Miami's newest would-be killer.

Helping you out wasn't at all his original intention–he'd rather see you dead, you know far too much–but he supposes he could spare an evening to undomesticate that hungry beast inside you. Show you how to really live your life.

In which Brian helps you kill someone who utterly deserves it, and the kill room turns into a horny sex-fueled bloodbath.

✧˖° wordcount (chapter 2): 17k

✧˖° chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six

✧˖° ao3

✧˖° taglist: @Impala1967 @fan-goddess @ireallydontknowohcrabs

✧˖° warnings: serial killer fem!reader, reader insert, explicit sexual content, rough sex, passionate sex, fucking in a kill room, dark romance, dark comedy, canon typical depictions of blood and gore, enthusiastic consent, mutual pining, impact play, playing with your food, serial killers in love, banter, dirty talk, voice kink, trauma bonding, babysitting a serial killer, implied sexual abuse of a child (you're killing this mf don’t worry), torture (you’re torturing this mf don’t worry), Brian is his own warning, enemies to lovers, biting, daddy issues?, blood play, a bit of angst a dash of bloodlust & a heavy splash of spice, Brian loves to fluster you and he won't shut the hell up going about it, Brian survives season 1 in this house

✧˖° author's note:

im having too much fun with this, but also editing chapters this long inflicts psychic damage so please forgive the inevitable rough spots. i’m sure there are some but i’m so over editing. i tried making it shorter but every time i tried it just got longer its 17k 😭😭

anyway hope you’re ready for your date with a wanted serial killer💕

(there’s a few nods to the books throughout, including Brian’s little red car)

✧˖° chapter 2

You still can’t believe you’re actually doing this.

Accepting Dexter’s brother’s help–the Ice Truck fucking Killer, which you can still hardly believe. Begging for it, even; for him to help you kill someone.

The Ice Truck fucking Killer…

Even now, you have a hard time wrapping your head around it.

You’d dedicated so much time and energy into catching that serial fiend, and now he was practically your mentor. So unlike his brother, yet so strikingly the same. Dexter was hungry to know everything about a person before killing them; performing weeks, even months of diligent research on every facet of their beings. 

But Brian…

He hadn’t asked a single question about who he’d help you kill. It could be your own mother, for all he seemed to care. A wolf with a scent for blood. He gets a whiff, he doesn’t hesitate, he comes running.

He’d agreed to help you so much more willingly than Dexter had, and for that, at least, you’re grateful. It remains to be seen if you’ll be grateful for anything else.

It doesn’t matter that this man that you’ll kill’s not a killer. He still has this coming. Has it coming from you, and doubtlessly deserves so much more, so much worse, and–

The whirlwind of thoughts inside your addled head will not settle, will not calm; battering the walls of your mind into harsh, jagged edges of unease and doubts and questions upon questions and–

Struggling to swallow, you once more do your best to ignore that storm inside you. Sucking down a deep breath. Forcing yourself to.

You can do this.

The cards of it are already falling out of place, all around you, and you can’t pick them up again, can’t shove them back into their previous shape.

You don’t want to.

This is happening.

You’re killing this prick tonight.

It’s too late now, not to, and you don’t want to turn back–

You can do this.

You can do this.

You…

You’re at the precinct…

On a Saturday…

Today is already going so wrong.

You just needed to submit a slew of paperwork for a court case early on Monday. Just in and out; it wasn’t supposed to take long. Yet now it’s nearly noon, and your partner–a thick man with a thicker mustache named Pérez–well he’s here, too. The pair of you without lives, always working. And he’s droning on and on about something–probably where the two of you should stop for lunch, as if you’ll be here that long (you already are), but you can’t hear him. Anxious eyes flitting from him and Masuka, who’s joined in on whatever this conversation, in checking the time on your phone.

Your anxious eyes grow wider.

Shit–!

You were supposed to meet Brian at the hardware store twenty minutes ago…!

Ignoring Masuka’s lame attempt at a joke, you focus fully on your computer. Sending off a few last emails, finger nearly breaking through your mouse with every click, before you’re grabbing whatever papers you were working on and even some you weren’t, scraping the mess of them off your desk, shoving them into your bag and you’re sure they’re all crumpled but fuck it, this can’t wait, Brian can’t wait, you should have left already–

“Hey!” Pérez calls as you abruptly stand, his deep voice following after how you speed-walk through the glass-enclosed walls of the precinct. “I was talkin’ to you!”

“Gotta go,” you shoot back bluntly. “Talk to Masuka.” 

“Bullshit,” he calls as you continue speeding off. “You don’t got nowhere to be!”

And you don’t know why you say it. You’re panicked, maybe–haven’t thought out a decent alibi like you really already should have. But either way, you blurt back on harried instinct, “I’m going on a date–you know, trying my hand at a social life? You should try it sometime.”

The surprise of that must shut him up–as it should, you don’t date–because he doesn’t yammer after you any longer as you push out of the room’s heavy glass doors. Impatiently stabbing the silver elevator button before you so you can fully escape, all while inwardly smacking yourself because now Pérez is definitely going to grill you about a date that never happened first thing on Monday–about a date with a serial murderer both he and you chased after personally, along with everyone else on your team–about a date where you’re going to fucking kill someone and fuck–fuck–!

You’re bad at this. You’re so bad at this. You’re a homicide detective, you should know better, know what you’re doing, know what to look out for to not get caught, but instead you’re leaving threads that anyone could stop in and pull at–

You need to calm down.

Why are you so nervous– you weren’t this tense before last night.

This is Brian’s fault, somehow, you just can’t place exactly why. Doesn’t stop you from blaming him, though.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

Slipping into your cheap, little car.

Driving out of the precinct’s lot.

In.

Out.

You’re meeting the Ice Truck Killer for a date where you’re picking out murder weapons. 

It’s not that big a deal.

Breathe.

In…

Honestly, you don’t even know why you’re doing this. The shopping part, at least; not the murder part. You have all the reason in the world to murder that vile excuse for a human being, but a shopping spree? 

Dexter’d left you a few of his knives. Not all of them, mind; just a select few, which was hard enough for him to do, you could tell as he left them. Those knives, what they do, what they have done… They’re an extension of himself. And you were grateful to him for having lent them. But when you’d received a call from an unknown number after leaving his apartment last night, you’d heard Brian’s deep, smoothly serrated voice on the other end.

“I’m surprised you pick up calls from unknown numbers,” he’d immediately teased, and just as suddenly you’d wanted to hang up on his smarmy, cocky ass. Only resisting because you do really need his help.

He’d said to pick a hardware store of your choice. To meet him there tomorrow, at twelve PM sharp.

“Why?” you’d asked, helplessly suspicious of him. Maybe because you knew what he was. Maybe because of something else you couldn’t quite name, just out of reach, its murky outline barely untouched.

“You want my help, don’t you?” he’d returned instead of answering, and you hated what his voice did to you. What it still does to you. Its silken roughness instilling fear and something else so very warm, unraveled and cloying and copper-sweet in the back of your turbulent mind. 

Luckily, your stifled lack of response must’ve been enough of an answer for him.

“You only get to kill a man once,” he’d purred in your ear, and you were glad he couldn’t see you worrying your lower lip. “You may as well do it right. Twelve PM. Don’t forget, my lovely protégé.”

But you did forget. Till twenty minutes past. And now you’re here, at Miami Lumber and Hardware, at 12:37 PM on the dot.

He’s going to kill you.

You’re halted a stuttered step whilst rushing through the parking lot as you think it, since it was only a figure of speech–but this is Brian Moser. He might actually kill you. It’s certainly not an improbability.

Once again reminding yourself to breathe, it still takes concerted effort to actually drag the air into your lungs.

You can’t help it.

Brian makes you nervous. This is just an unfortunate fact.

The man, is…

Cold. Calculated. Ineffable.

And yet, the way he’d held his brother last night, when Dexter had greeted him home…

Once you’d learned that Brian was Dexter’s brother, you couldn’t fully blame Dex for letting him escape Miami, not even after everything with Deb. It was fucked, but they were brothers; they were blood. But their closeness in that moment last night made you see, very clearly, that even monsters can have something resembling a heart.

And yet that heart is nowhere present when Brian looks at you. You can see that, too. The darkness of that viscid void which crafts him, reflecting light as a mirage, as a distraction; a light which from his dark cannot exist.

It certainly doesn’t make you any less wary around him. Not to mention how he might have some unpleasant feelings toward you for being part of the task force that ran him out of town, that even now would apprehend him. But it’s not like Dexter wasn’t part of that task force, too, so… 

Maybe he’d forgiven you.

You weren’t about to ask.

In any case. He’d agreed to help you. So maybe you should just be grateful for that and stop questioning everything ; just focus on the arduous task at hand instead of spiraling once again into doubt.

As you quickly approach the hardware store, you catch sight of a looming shadow standing just outside its wide, automatic front doors. A shadow you soon realize is Brian. Black buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up his lithely muscled forearms. Hands in the pockets of dark slacks. Onyx, browline sunglasses shielding his likewise onyx gaze, like he’s just too cool to give a damn, though really you suppose it’s just part of his disguise.

He looks good, just standing there. Effortless, modelesque. And the longish mess of curls that tease his jawline, along with the dark scruff of beard definitely suit him.

It somehow makes all of this so much worse that he’s attractive, and for a second you wish you were blind, just sightlessly bumbling into him.

His dark eyes must flit toward your slowing, cautious approach from behind his shades, because a cheeky half-smirk takes hold of one corner of his lips. Especially as his focus feels to drape over you.  Dropping languidly to the motion of your hands, unthinkingly clenching at your sides, which you immediately force to stop upon his notice.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he observes as you finally reach him, low and smooth as ambrosia on an unpolished blade, its edges always rough. “Thought you might’ve stood me up. And on our first date, too.” His brows are tugged in a light crease of woe above his handsome shades. “I was this close to having my heart broken.”

It’s ironic that his ‘cover story’ for whatever the hell this is the two of you are doing is that it’s some sort of ‘date’, too. 

Does that make it official?

God, you hope not. You can’t break your dating dry spell with someone you’ve tried apprehending.

“Pretty sure that’d require something inside your ribs to actually break,” you return; his smirk rubbing you the wrong way. Like he’s endlessly amused by the tragically Shakespearean comedy that is you. “Unlike whatever cobwebs are probably hanging there.” And, brushing past how he idles there watchfully, you’re already halfway through the automatic doors beside him when calling, “You coming or what?”

You barely hear his little chuff; half amused, half something darker, as the tower of him turns to swim within your wake. So much like a shark stalking after you that you’re tempted to drop the ‘too cool to turn around’ act and instead keep your vigilant eyes on him.

You’re still debating whether to turn or not when instead you’re physically jolted by him suddenly appearing right beside you; his smooth and lengthy steps easily outpacing the rigidity of your own. 

“So, little killer…” he slowly muses down at you, with a glint to his side-long smirk. Slipping his shades from off the bridge of his nose, before folding and tucking them in his breast pocket. All while you do your best not to look at him since every time you do you seem to lose your train of thought like some kind of idiot. “Where shall we start?”

Steps slowing to a halt, you peer about the overwhelming vastness of the giant store around you.

You have no idea where to start–wasn’t this whole thing his idea?

“You’re the one who wanted us to come here,” you mutter. Biting the inside of your cheek to somehow steady yourself before meeting the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t know what we’re looking for.”

He seems to assess you a moment, before he’s sliding one hand gently around your waist, which straightens board-stiff at his brazen touch. 

His smile grows as he eyes you, though by all appearance he’s just cordially guiding you by the small of your hesitant back toward the slew of bright red shopping carts bunched up near the front of the store. And though you’d like to think you’d smack his unwanted hand off of you, seeing as how you don’t need his help to grab a goddamn cart, you don’t really know what to think anymore. Somewhere, just… secretly glad? That he’s taking your reins of uncertainty? Leading them through whatever daytime fever-dream this ‘date’ is turning out to be.

Whatever makes this nightmare end more swiftly.

“Your teacher to the rescue, then,” he says, oh-so-helpful. Ushering you toward a cart, which you’re too mired by worry and doubt not to grab hold of obediently. Following where he steers you further into the massive store, and he’s won you over that easily, you guess. He’s your shepherd; you’re his sheep. But what are you supposed to do? Deny the help he’s giving? At this point there’s nowhere to go but down whatever darkened hole he leads you. 

Still. You won’t follow him down undefended. Stealing a glance, as innocuously as you can, at the Glock openly holstered at your right hip as he leads you deeper into the store, past the rows of registers. Its weight resting on your jeans a boon against that ongoing storm howling within you.

Brian seems to like the whole ‘obedient sheep to his shepherd’ thing, much to your chagrin. He smiles, anyway–a dusky crudeness to its soft shape–as his hand at last leaves your back, and instead he strolls alongside your cart casually.

You imagine the two of you probably look quite cute to someone who doesn’t know what the fuck is happening behind the scenes.

“Dexter told me he lent you some knives,” Brian says, conversationally. And he does make it sound so normal–like you’d borrowed them to fillet a fish, not a person.

This is the most fucked up small talk on a ‘date’ you’ve ever heard or hoped to be a part of.

He tsks his tongue in your silence, leading your way past a few aisles after glancing at their header’s above. And you don’t know what he’s looking for, but he’s your shepherd–you’re forced to trust him in wherever he’d guide you.

“Not exactly inspiring,” he muses. “He does get more creative, from time to time.” A shade of amusement hints his lips. “Very creative, really.” Though at length, he hums as if the state of Dexter’s a shame. “But he doesn’t play nearly enough with his food.”

“Is that why we’re here?” you finally find your voice. “Because you want me playing with my food tonight?”

He spares you a glance from how he otherwise scans all the inventory you pass. 

“It matters, how you kill a person,” he says. “At least, as I surmise, it does tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

He looks away, like he doesn’t actually care about this conversation.

“This person,” he says at last, as he leads where you’ll follow. “That you’re taking care of. He deserves this. Right?”

“Yes,” you respond without hesitation.

At that, he smiles his low, warm smile down at you. Allows its shallow warmth to burn through that storm you feel.

“Well… I don’t know the details–don’t need the details–but I’d venture further this is punishment…” The idea seems somehow amusing. “Am I wrong?”

No. He’s definitely right. Though you refuse to think about exactly why you’ll punish that bastard tonight. It always makes you see red, steals away everything else, and you’re already hopelessly distracted in Brian’s presence. So perhaps it’s lucky he doesn’t care, doesn’t ask, so that at least you’re left undistracted by that.

You’ll worry about making that fucker pay for what he’s done when you face him tonight.

How you strive to steady yourself is disjointed as Brian takes a loose hold of the front of the cart; escorting you down an aisle of hammers and other blunt-edged tools. 

“So shouldn’t however you kill this person be a punishment,” he offers mildly, “in and of itself?”

You don’t realize you aren’t responding; haven’t spoken in a while. Have stopped your cart from rolling for who knows how long while your knuckles begin to go numb with how tightly they cling to its bright, shiny handle–not until Brian’s shadow is suddenly so close to your side. And, blinking rapidly, you twist up just in time to see him lean down to your ear. Murmuring hushed words, just for you.

“Fuck Dexter’s knives,” he breathes, the heat of it sparking each hair on your nape to attention. “Whoever this bastard is, he surely deserves the worst end you can give him. A quick death is far too nice. Don’t you agree?”

He’s the devil on your shoulder, but you’re in no position to disagree.

A flash of that man you’ll kill, Gary, flashes through your mind before you can stop it. Shoved away with such nauseating hatred that you push forth your cart with enough newfound purpose you’ve left Brian behind. Vindictively eyeing each item as you pass, before settling on a box on one row. Judging its label with a tense jaw before tossing it into your cart.

Brian’s caught up in no time, though he strolls in no decided hurry. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he seemingly eyes the box of the belt sander you threw in.

“Well, that’s certainly creative…” he approves with a side-long grin.

“I’m not sure I’ll use it,” you admit, keeping your momentum forward. Focusing as best you can before his mere presence distracts you again. “I’m keeping my options open.”

And though you try desperately not to look at him, hindrance that he unwittingly is, you hear his smooth smile as he says, “A woman after my own heart. Maybe you’re not such a horrible student after all.”

Your cart wheels stop just long enough to glower up at him; annoyed by how his height always towers over you. “Since when was I horrible? I’m doing everything you ask.”

“After showing up here late,” he says, maintaining the affable bedside manner of the prosthetist he used to parade as. “And asking far too many questions.” 

Reaching for the small of your back again, his fingers steal away your objections as they curl so slightly into the curve of your waist, speeding your heart with their gentle pressure.

He leads you toward a row of rubber-ended sledge hammers. Leaving your side to take one off the rack. Testing its massive weight between his surgeon’s hands. Speculative, before breezily tossing it into the cart, which rattles beneath the bulk of it.

“So…” he drawls, too politely; changing the topic to something else. “Were you on the task force to bring me in…?”

The answer lodges somewhere in your throat. Caught there more and more the longer he passively watches you. And okay. Maybe he didn’t forgive and forget the whole ‘you trying to apprehend him’ thing after all.

“So was your brother,” you point out in lieu of answering, which in truth is answer enough, just the version with you too chicken-shit to answer directly.

You focus on moving forward; gripping your cart like a shield that doesn’t help at all against how you feel his little smile crawling over you. Focusing on your feet–on his feet, striding alongside yours. Staring at those burnished leather Elkans he wears, nearly black, clipping mute vinyl floors, and though you have no idea how a man on the run from the feds has the means to pay for shoes that nice you make a point of not asking.

“True enough,” he says. “Doesn’t make either one of you less of a hypocrite.”

Disgruntled, your gaze turns sharply up to him. “Would you rather I just cuff your ass right now and take you into the station?”

He seems to find the idea of that funny; suppressing a hum that’s not quite a laugh. 

“If you think you can drag me in.”

Idly, he unhooks from its post in the rows and rows of tools a pair of small, yet sharp needle-nose pliers. Eyes alight with something as he regards you; thumb roaming the instrument’s blunt, metallic edge.

“What do you think, detective?” he asks. “Could I have these jammed in your trachea before you pulled your gun on me?” 

The weight of your Glock feels to burn against your hip, itching for you to grab it, though you stiffly don’t move. 

“Maybe,” you admit. Not daring to pull your gun right now to even the odds of a hypothetical–or at least you hope it’s hypothetical. “But it wouldn’t kill me right away.” Your voice is hard. “I’d still shoot you in the back as you ran away in those fancy shoes.”

He does laugh at that. Strong and warm, as he steals a glance at his leather Elkans.

“Don’t you like them?” he wonders with a sly little smirk.

And of course you do, they’re handsomely crafted, but he doesn’t need to know that. So instead of answering, you just push off down the aisle with the cart.

“Can we just focus on the task at hand?” you ask as you hear his footsteps closing through the distance after you. Turning out of one aisle and into the next, with no destination in mind other than creating more distance between you. “I don’t exactly want to be caught in public with you.”

“Yes, that might ruin your reputation down at the station, wouldn't it?”

“Just a bit.” You toss a few items into the cart whilst assuring yourself that you’re making this rich bastard pay for everything. Tossing in a few more pricey-looking tools you probably won’t even use at the thought. “Especially when I told my partner that I was on a date right now.”

No sooner have the words left your mouth that you vehemently regret their utterance, cause why did you just admit that? And just like you worried, like you expected from Brian at this point, he smells the chum of possibly humiliating you on the water and slips forward for a bite.

“You’re already telling your friends about us?” he asks, a cunning fox, and maybe you will go for your gun. “How cute… It’s a little soon for me to be telling people about our relationship, personally, but… I’m glad you’re so enthused.”

Your ears burn for reasons unrelated to severe embarrassment, you’re sure. “He asked where I was rushing off to and I panicked, okay?”

You hear his little sigh. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

The cart rattles as you toss in a few more tools at random. “I’m new at this.”

“Yes,” comes Brian’s musing. “You’ve made that painfully clear.”

Desperate to ignore the awkward heat crawling up your face, you slow past a row of different saws. The wheels of your cart dragged to a sudden halt before a vast array of chainsaws, which admittedly seem a little heavy for you to wield, seem a little much and are surely overkill, but...

Still. You’re oddly drawn to them. One hand already reaching to test the sharpness of a bright, hornet-yellow one’s row of exposed teeth.

Time feels to slow as you study it. With you so distracted that you don’t even notice how Brian’s stopped his ever-incessant, clever commentary behind you; merely enjoying the merciful silence.

“What do you think?” you ask at last, unturning, as you mull the idea of you with a chainsaw inside your head. And it’s not a terrible image… “Too messy? Or…”

Silence, from your ever-yapping, homicidal mentor. And at last you glance back at where he stands, just behind you. His dark eyes, shadowed by dark lashes, trained to the blade-teeth you touch, yet as though he’s staring right through them.

As your expression grows inquisitive, he blinks, dragged from the seeming depths that leave him lost inside his own head.

“Hm?” he absently hums, like he hasn’t heard you.

Your interest curiously traces what little his expression ever betrays to you. “What?” you ask of his uncharacteristic silence, though he just impassively eyes you.

“What?” he returns; innocuous, mirroring you.

Your brows furrow up at that leaden mask he wears.

“Don’t what me,” you counter. “I saw you thinking about something. And if you don’t tell me what that is, you’ll swiftly learn how annoyingly persistent I can be when my bloodhound brain grabs scent of something.”

He regards you down the length of his strong nose. Seeming taller than he actually is, which is already imposing. Eventually carding back his hair; dark curls tangled in his fingers with his incensed glance away. “You really are a headache, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely I am. Now tell me.”

With mild exasperation, his dusky eyes return to you. Their grievance soon to fade in place of muted speculation. “I was just lost in memories. Private ones, I might add. Ones I’m guessing Dexter never told you.”

You’ve never seen him so… tentative. Not even in this miniscule amount. And your confusion, just like your interest, slowly rises. “What are you talking about?”

He eyes you a moment more. Unreadable. “I’m talking about our mother, Detective Nosey,” he says. Gaze assessing yours, as if searching for something there, weighing if he should tell you. And you’re not sure what he looks for, if he finds it, though eventually he continues.

“She was butchered with a chainsaw,” he says at last, far too casually. Reaching past you to drag one lengthy finger along that chainsaw’s serrated edge in the absence of your touch. His eyes gaining that faraway look again. “Right in front of us, when Dex was three and I was four. Dismembered limb by limb, as that engine echoed off the walls, along with her begging us not to look, to close our little eyes, and we were left in the mess of it. The blood of three addicts and our mother–two inches thick by the time that engine finally stopped.” 

His finger slowly drags down the jagged length of the blade, while you listen on in growing horror. 

“They didn’t find us huddled in that blood-damp, hellish dark for two days, and by then the only reason I cared was in protecting my brother.” He exhales a little laugh with zero humor to it. “Apparently that’s all anyone cared about. ‘Cause he was adopted by the first cop on scene, and I–decidedly–was not.”

His dark gaze turns to you, and you cannot comprehend what lie beyond its blackish surface.

“So, to answer your question,” he says, so nonchalant in your speechless shock from responding, “It’s not a bad choice. Though certainly messy.”

You can’t seem to think. The story he’s spun sinking a weight in you, dragging your stomach right through the floor. Left with not knowing what to say, blown away as you are by the cruelty held within such an offhand confession.

“Brian, I'm…”

Your tone is raw. Quiet. And he smiles at you unhappily; hand falling loosely to his side, away from the blade that dismembered his mother.

“Don’t,” he cuts you off bluntly. “What’s done is done. Pitied apologies never help.”

“I know they don't,” you counter, voice stricken, and you swallow with the effort to make it more firm. “But that's… That's fucked, Brian. And… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that happened to you.”

For a moment, he merely eyes you. Every line of his handsome face meticulously sculpted in place, held perfectly still.

“Are you expecting me to thank you for that?” he wonders at last.

You hate how vulnerable you feel, when he’s the one confessing something so traumatic that it surely formed him. His and Dex’s extracurricular pastimes sure make a lot more sense now.

“No,” you say, feeling stupid, feeling childish, that you’re so unwound by such a ruthless tale while he clearly is not. And maybe you should just let it go, should just stop talking, but you can’t. “I just had to say it.” You meet his watchful gaze, your jawline hardening. “And if I could kill the fucks who did that to your mother, I would. I’d hunt each one of them down. And I know I’m not the one who should make them pay whatever price for what was done, but I’d still make them pay it.”

Some part of you’s already planning how you might, how you could–if they’re even still alive, or if indeed there was more than one person involved–it doesn’t matter, you’d kill them all, assuming Brian hasn’t already. Almost tempted to ask if he has, all while Brian just observes you in a silence which draws on. Something beyond the indecipherable veil of him fixed on you, keen at your edges, as if gauging your scent; toying the curious touch of his attention across your unseen depths.

Eventually, he subtly smiles, and you cannot comprehend that smallest stir half-buried within his gaze.

“C’mon,” he says, taking your waist again; hand warm and smooth across your lower back and he steers you further down the aisle. “We’ll save the chainsaw for next time. I’ve something more easily controlled in mind for a first-timer like yourself. And if you don’t like that, you’ll at least appreciate what we’re grabbing at our next stop.”

And surely you’d halt if he wasn’t more-or-less forcibly guiding you forward.

Next stop…? 

This nightmare date isn’t over yet?

Your arguments that there won’t be a ‘next time’ where you’ll be swinging around a chainsaw are effectively snuffed by the way his knuckles idly trace up the length of your spine as you walk together. The contact light, yet utterly fatal in regards to your ability to think in anything more than jumbled sounds that resemble language. And as he gauges a few items as you pass, he lightly ‘ ah ’s’ whilst nabbing a box one-handed; tossing it carelessly into the cart atop your already mountainous treasure trove of murderous hardware.

You glance from that box to him, already questioning, “A reciprocating saw?”

“A Moser favorite,” he says, roguish. “Electric. No outlet required. Perfect for when working remotely.” And yeah, it’s pretty obvious he’s done just that before.

He guides you toward the checkout counter up front before releasing you from the seeming hypnotism of his touch. Smiling at the college-aged girl ringing up your vast array of items, and let me tell you, your stomach shrinks upon seeing all that gear laid out in front of you, like a line-up of your potential crimes laid bare. Your insides cinching tighter with every item slowly rolling down that sluggish conveyer belt as he lays them all blasély upon it, like it moves that slow just to mock you, to shame you.

Pliers, hammers, a hacksaw. The sledge hammer you saw him throw in. Some sort of hose, a nail gun, a hatchet, a multitude of various saws and drills. Tarps, of course, and some kind of large metal clamp (what is that for?), a dremel, bolt cutters, the belt sander (you regret picking that out now), a motherfucking chain? A chain? What, are you beating this guy to death with a chain now?

It’s like a loony toon assortment of bullshit, only missing an anvil, that you’re sure will get flagged if the body is ever found hacked into a million pieces by every piece of hardware known to man. ‘Cause, oh, how convenient–someone purchased a million kill tools the night before the mysterious thousand-tool killer took someone out, and that person’s definitely been recorded on the store’s many security cameras.

You should’ve worn a disguise. You’re such an idiot.

By maybe the tenth item, the cashier seems to think this purchase is becoming somewhat odd. Go figure. And she eyes each item that she scans whilst stealing more and more weirded out glances at Brian and you. Which probably isn't a good thing.

You try to squeeze yourself out of existence behind Brian’s towering form. Let him take the fall for this.

Meanwhile, Brian flashes her his most charming grin. 

“We’re taking up woodworking,” he says, without a care in the world. “Gotta make sure we have all the right tools of the trade.” His dark gaze lowly glimmers. “What do you think? Did we get them all?”

It’s the lamest excuse, and yet the girl’s cheeks visibly warm and she giggles at whatever look he must be giving her.

The following conversation is perhaps the most shameless and painful thing you’ve ever had to stand there and witness; a form of torture in itself, when it’s supposedly you who was to do the torturing.

“Y-yeah,” says the girl, scanning a bit more absently. It takes her five swipes to get a claw hammer with a giant and completely obvious barcode to register, what with how her eyes are glued on the ‘date’ you’re hiding behind. “What kind of woodworking do you do?”

“Mostly construction, but I dabble in the arts. Walnut and pine sculptures, that sort of thing.”

“Oh really?”

“Really.”

“That sounds hard…”

“You just have to know what you’re doing~”

“You must be good with your hands, then.”

“Oh, I’m good with lots of things.”

“O-oh, like… like what? For, um, example?”

“I could offer a demonstration… You’d have to come out from behind that counter, first, though...”

She titters again and you think a vein on your brow might be close to bursting, though admittedly you’re not exactly sure why–her laugh must be annoying. Luckily that’s when he swipes his card for the outrageous bill–the front of which you note bears a name that’s not his, so as far as covering your tracks goes there’s at least that.

You lug what feels a million heavy bags into the cart whilst patiently smiling (grimacing) at your flirtatious construction partner.

“C’mon, David ,” you read the name on his card, already pushing the filled-up cart to go. But not before seeing him toss the flustered cashier a little wink before following after you.

Ugh. 

Gross. 

You’re storming out of the store, out into the parking lot as the cart wheels rattle before your way. Barreling forth in no particular direction and for no particular reason other than what you just witnessed inexplicably making you sick, when Brian’s hand suddenly latches around your wrist, arresting you solidly in place, jerking you gruffly to a halt right before the speeding blur of a giant, blue truck flies past the front of your cart by maybe an inch; the speed of it whipping wind against your startled face.

Frazzled, you merely stand there while your racing heart tries to escape your chest. Blinking far too quickly, before twisting your gaze back to Brian. Undoubtedly relieved by how he just saved you from slamming into a car–seriously, he just saved you? Yet even then, you force annoyance to your tone; perhaps to hide your embarrassment at just how irredeemably unfocused you really are right now.

“What?” you ask him sharply.

His eyes trace your face. Seem to note how your molars are grinding. And as you glower, he slowly starts to smirk.

Gods, you hate him.

“You’re walking in the wrong direction,” he says.

Which maybe you were, though you find you’re not fond of him correcting you right now. “Where am I supposed to be walking?”

He nods toward a little red car parked off in the distance through the lot. Pristinely polished. Expensive looking. “That one’s mine.”

“Of course it is,” you nearly roll your eyes at him. Twisting your wrist from his grasp in heaving the heavy cart forward again–after glancing both ways in ensuring you aren’t about to be flattened by a truck, this time. 

“You know,” you grouse as he walks right beside you, “you didn’t have to make sure that cashier’s still daydreaming about you tonight, considering the actual boat-load of homicidal gear we’re carrying.” And seriously, he didn’t have to lay it on so thick. “There’s no way she won’t remember you after that performance.” 

He keeps up with you so easily despite how desperate you are to outpace him, until eventually you just give up and push the cart at a normal pace. 

“As distracting as you awkwardly standing there was, I thought I’d better step in,” he says. “I was worried you might blurt out some sort of confession for a crime you haven’t yet committed under the scrutiny of her tiny-minded gaze.”

You feel yourself scowling. “I’m not an idiot.”

His soft lips purse like he somehow doubts that. Though all he says is, “Would you rather I have just let her keep forming ideas about everything she was ringing up amidst your incriminating, nerve-bitten silence?”

You bite your lip. Finally reaching his expensive car. “I guess not,” you admit.

He smiles down at you as you do your best to ignore him. “Good. Then stop being jealous.”

Your brows cinch hard at that, with you tearing your gaze directly toward him. Scoffing immediately, “Jealous of what? ”

With the way he scarcely seems to register your overt revulsion at the prospect, you wouldn't be surprised if nothing in life ever bothered him.

“Of me flirting with our cashier,” he says. Fetching from his pants pocket the keys to his flashy car, which chirps before you as its doors are unlocked, its small trunk automatically popped open.  

You take the opportunity to distract yourself by cramming bags into the trunk as though doing so were a timed olympic sport.

“You’re so full of yourself,” you say over the sound of shifting plastic bags, the thud of metal on car-trunk floor. “I barely even know you. If anything I was trying not to cringe out of existence hearing how shameless you are.”

You’re unprepared entirely for how he takes your waist from behind in both his hands; spins you around without warning. Nudging the backs of your wavering knees against the bumper of the car while he smoothly steps in, cornering you there, with little room left between your body and his.

He smirks at whatever your floored expression, trapped beneath the looming of his. Leaning down to your ear, pouring wicked words inside it.

“So what if I’m shameless?” he asks, amusement curled through his inflection.

When his lips just barely graze your ear, purely accidental, it's like a basilisk's spiked you with venom. Turning all of you to stone, your lungs helplessly forgetting to function.

“Don't be jealous,” he murmurs. “As delightful as that is, I’ll spare you the torment. You need to be focused, my woefully inept student. And besides…” he sounds to smile, “she’s not my type.”

He leaves you there just as suddenly as he’d pinned you. So effortlessly snatching away your ability to speak, as he turns instead to filling up the trunk you’re still teetering weak-kneed against. Left with the realization that his dark, graveled voice is as much a weapon as any in his arsenal of toys.

You’re still reeling as he pauses loading to instead open the passenger-side door for you; the sound of it drawing your flustered attention. Looking at you expectantly as you just stand there, trying to dislodge your heart from where it’s leapt into your throat.

“I’ll load the rest,” he says, careless as ever. “Get in.”

But you still won’t move. By choice, this time, not due to his unwanted effect on you. Warily glancing from opened door, to him; the leashless animal offering it for you. 

“I have my own car.”

“I told you, we’re not done shopping,” he lightly puts forth. “And it’s easier if we drive together.”

But you can’t shake how that seems like a really bad idea. Being alone with him. But what are you supposed to do? If he finds you too difficult to deal with, he might rescind his help from off the table, and you are partners in crime for the foreseeable future… 

Perhaps most convincing of all, in the end–what has you finally ungluing your apprehensive feet from off the asphalt–is the comforting weight of your gun, still strapped at one hip.

He can pry that from your cold dead fingers should he ever mean to take it from you.

Masking your hesitance, you drag yourself from where he’d pinned you against his fancy red car toward the seat he now offers. Cautiously watching that little smirk of his that spells trouble in half a million ways as he graciously closes the door after you, with you running one hand across the cool steel of your firearm the second the car door blocks it from his vision.

Gods, what are you doing? Getting in a car with the Ice Truck Killer?

You shake yourself–no– no –you can’t keep questioning everything. He’s Dexter’s brother–you’re fine. You’re doing what needs to be done–what you have to.

You tell yourself this, yet still nearly jump out of your skin as the driver’s side door is eventually opened, with Brian sliding right in.

“Hope you don’t mind a little breaking and entering,” he says whilst revving the car, shifting it into gear. 

Perhaps you’re too distracted to outright ask what that fucking means. “I think as far as potential crimes go, I’m a bit past a misdemeanor.”

“Wonderful,” he returns, with all the charm of a murderous Disney prince. And it’s clear Brian Moser’s a bad influence on anyone and everything trapped within the incessant pull of his orbit. 

No wonder Dexter drove him away. He’s too much of a risk.

And now he’s back, helping you –Christ, maybe this whole thing really is a terrible idea. And again, a war’s waged within you; one that results like it always does, in you reminding yourself for the hundredth time not to bite the dangerous hand that offers to help you. 

The song Brian flips on the radio is about as cheerfully opposite a song can be from someone who bleeds their victims like cattle. And as he pulls out of the hardware store’s lot, you glance back toward the trunk of the car; envisioning the cartoonish haul of bloodshed tucked away inside it.

“Are you sure we need to grab anything else?” you ask, with a glance at him. Which you immediately regret, because his rugged profile is…

Goddammit, why does he have to be hot? 

You tuck your traitorous gaze toward the window, staring at the world rushing by outside it. Spared for a moment from whatever this offensively attractive man does to you by merely existing.

“I could likely make due with what we have,” he says to the road; thankfully otherwise ignorant of you. “But I’m not going to. Our current haul’s for you, my impromptu protégé. This next trip’s for me, though you’re welcome to play with what we’ll grab there. I need tools to dispose of the body, à la Dexter’s requested style.” He tosses you a look, one brow quirked as if to dare you. “Unless you’d like to fetch me my old ones out of wherever you stashed them away in evidence for me…?”

Which– no– you would not. There’s too much risk involved in digging through the many boxes of the Ice Truck Killer’s things, even when you don’t know what else he has planned instead, where he’ll otherwise take you. 

“Would the barbies we confiscated be part of the required hardware you’d need me to steal?” you taunt instead of answering.

He simply exhales a small hum of amusement at that. Eyes on the road as a faint smile toys his lips. And in the end you suppose that playing with dolls isn’t really the strangest thing about him.

“Can’t we just see what Dexter has at his apartment?” you ask, assuming that’s not where he’s already headed. “I’m sure he has the right tools laying around somewhere.”

And it seems, in the maze of his mind, something’s chewed before being left unsaid.

“This’ll be a whole lot simpler if you just learn to stop questioning me right now, instead of making me steamroll your objections over and over again like you have been,” he says. Glancing away from the road; challenging you with a look. “I know what I’m doing. Unlike all others present.”

And though you fold your arms against him, you don’t otherwise protest. He’s not wrong, after all.

It isn’t until the pair of you near a mountainous scatter of buildings, erected high with white stone and sea-hued windows, that you realize the next destination of your homicidal ‘date’ is Miami’s Jackson Memorial Hospital–how romantic. Which you don’t really have an opinion on, until shortly remembering, like a kick to the gut, that he intends to steal god only knows from its highly secured, extensively monitored halls.

Your limbs are all stiffened with nerves as you turn to him while he breezes in through the hospital’s lot, one hand on the wheel whilst carelessly searching for a vacant place to park.

“We’re breaking into a hospital?!”

“We’re walking into a hospital,” he returns, smooth as sin. Though his merriment’s short-lived as he looks at you; dark eyebrows squinching up at whatever your expression. “Stop looking so paranoid.”

“I am paranoid,” you shoot right back at him; like it’s impossible that he doesn’t feel the same. “There’s a lot of security here, way more than some random hardware store. And although your little–” somewhat erratically, you gesture at his entire person, sitting there with one brow raised in watching you, “– disguise –is okay, it’s not that okay when there’s an ongoing manhunt for you by the fucking FBI–! ”

After weaving his car effortlessly into a spot, he watches you for a moment. Though when he should be slowly nodding in agreement, instead his lax expression falls unenthusiastically dull.

“You’re overthinking this.”

“You’re under thinking it!”

“Just follow my lead,” he more or less commands his ‘protégé’. Already stepping out of the car. Standing just outside it, for dragging moments; door remaining ajar, with only his long legs and dexterous hands in view. Before eventually he dips his height in glancing in at you as you stare across the middle console staunchly, refusing to get out.

“The longer you sit there pouting, the longer this will take,” he patiently says.

“I’m not pouting,” you argue, though you’re already riled enough into stepping gruffly out of the car. Unbuckling your belt as you do; stripping your holster off its length, before hiding your gun on your person; tucked away at the small of your back. All before making your way to the front of the car alongside where Brian waits for you. “I’m trying to make sure we don’t get caught.”

“Let me worry about that part,” he says; smiling as you unwillingly fall in step with him as he leads you toward that high-reaching tower in the distance, its glass shimmering like azure gems in the afternoon light. “Just focus on playing your part. We’re headed to an appointment. You, my timid, bumbling girlfriend, and I your dauntless, dashing prince.”

“I think you’re closer to a homicidal imp on my shoulder.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” 

The closer the two of you draw to the hospital’s broad and bustling entrance, the more cameras you begin to spot at the corners of your vision. Hidden lenses high on light beams, tucked near the corners of what seems like every wall. This place doesn’t take its security as a joke, and more and more it feels your panic forms a fist within your stomach, its fingers slowly tightening.

“Look…” you hear yourself saying, as offhanded as you can muster in that moment. Trying not to sound like you’re panicking, which you are, more and more with each step ventured forward. “I appreciate you helping me in whatever morally questionable way this is, but…”

Uncomfortably distracted, your words cut short as you spot through the crowd an overweight security guard, meandering just outside the hospital’s doors. A guard who glances at you and Brian, pausing just a moment, before idling slowly on.

You don’t know when you stopped walking, but by the time you tear your eyes away from the potential threat of him, Brian’s no longer beside you. It’s like you’ve only blinked, and he’s gone.

For some reason that’s even worse than having him near you.

“Brian…?”

Shit– should you even say his name out loud…? It’s a common enough name, and you two didn’t discuss using aliases, but–

What if someone puts two and two together upon spotting you and him? Hearing you say his name? Internally prying the longer hair and dark scruff off him, leaving only Brian fucking Moser behind?

Airway feeling tight, you scan the loose crowd of people before you until catching sight of Brian’s dark, wavy curls looming over everyone else's heads, and for once you’re glad he’s so freakishly tall. But as you spring forth to catch him, your steps start to drag once more, as the closer you draw toward those impending hospital doors the more it feels the world shifts out beneath you, and…

You can’t really think… You can’t breathe, you…

Are you having a panic attack…?

Are you seriously having a panic attack right now…?!

“...Bri… David…?!” 

You say it like you may otherwise drown, like he’s your lifeline, but there’s no way he hears you from his place so far ahead, even in such a thin crowd. And you need to just breathe, you’re overreacting–need to rein in your tenuous gaze from how it darts from lens to lens of every security camera, as if they’re all watching you, piecing together the company you keep.

“This isn’t… This isn’t a good…”

You’ve started backing up, now. Still staring at those hospital doors that loom before you, all while your heart slams into your ribs.

“–Brian–?!”

All at once, a large hand wraps around yours, leaving you no time to react as you’re brusquely swept aside before you can call after him a second time. And you choke out a little noise of surprise upon seeing Brian there, expressionless, dragging you toward a less crowded side of the hospital’s entrance.

He hauls you toward a small, manicured cluster of flowers and small palms, before steadying you within what seems a disapproving gaze, which certainly doesn’t make you feel any less like a panicking idiot.

“You’re entirely hopeless at this.”

You bite your lip to keep from biting something out more spiteful at him; still struggling to breathe. “You think I don’t know that?!”

At your heightened tone, he steals a glance at the foot traffic beside you before ushering you a little further away, further into the quiet. His hand grasping yours sliding slowly up the length of your arm, finding purchase near the crook of your neck.

It’s an oddly comforting motion, and you find yourself helpless but to peer up into the stillness of his eyes.

“Calm down,” he says, slowly, like he doesn’t fully comprehend why you’re so anxious. Like he’s never felt the dragging claws of nerves in his life. And though you’d normally expect him to mock you for falling apart like a moron, as you undeniably are right now, he at least seems genuine in talking you down. That, or you really are just that desperate to believe it. 

“Take a breath.” His thumb draws a single line just below your clavicle, whilst you struggle to do as he says. 

And, oh, lovely; here comes that mocking part you were so worried about, accompanied by him hiking a none-too-subtle brow at you:

“Not to make a tense situation worse, but if you’re this much of a mess just strolling into a hospital, exactly how are you expecting to follow through with your plans tonight?” But that’s not all. “And how do you work in homicide, for that matter? Aren't detectives used to working under pressure? Or did you blackmail your way into getting what you want there, too…?”

You’re not sure if you're wincing, bracing for the impact of his words.

…Is that it…?

…

That’s it.

For now, at least.

And you find yourself scowling. Hurt, which is of course ridiculous; you don't care what this bastard thinks. Though as you try to upsetly twist away, he only tightens his grip in response, keeping you captive before him.

Your scowl deepens before you’ve given up. He’s a lot stronger than you, and the last thing you need right now is to cause any more of a scene by punching him in the throat.

“I… Look, this… This is just… A lot,” you weakly defend. Warbling. You hate yourself. Feeling even more small than you already do with the way he’s always towering over you, and so you look away, pretending he isn’t currently holding you hostage. “Everything. Tonight. You, especially, I…” Struggling, you shake yourself. Frowning at the ground. At the sturdiness of his lithely muscled chest. “All of it. All Dexter’s and my week’s of planning. It’s all coming to a head so much quicker than I realized it would, and there’s already so many loose ends, nothing is as foolproof as I wanted it to be, and…” 

Breathe.

Again, you struggle to shake yourself. To keep your voice lowered and calm.

“I can’t… I can’t fuck this up,” you allege at last. Willing yourself to sound firm in this. “I feel like I fuck up so much, but I can’t mess up right now–not with this. There’s too much on the line, and not just for me. I can’t… My sister, I can’t…”

You don’t even know what you’re saying, not any longer. Fail even to realize you’ve stopped talking at all, until Brian’s thumb smooths along the skin exposed just above your neckline.

Your eyes, as if with minds of their own, are suddenly trapped in the hanging darkness of his. And you cannot for the life of you read his watchful expression.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he asks you quietly. 

After moments more of wavering beneath him, you slowly grit your jaw.

“I told you we had a deal, didn’t I?”

His hushed gaze passes across yours. “You did…”

“And what was your end of it?” you ask him–quiet enough to escape other’s attention, yet honed with accusation. “That if I changed my mind, you’d sit there and laugh at whatever that rotten bastard twice my size wants to do to me?”

He doesn’t respond. Merely watches, without denying, and doesn’t stop you as you finally succeed in shoving his hand away from you.

“I’m fine,” you allege; willing it with all your mustered strength to be true. “Sorry to disappoint you.” And with that, you’re already walking out from under the looming shadow of him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The hospital’s lobby is a bright, massive dome poured through with natural light, filled by the bustle of so many people. Patients, doctors, nurses, social workers… Security guards…

You catch sight of the portly guard you spotted outside, now lazily surveying the trailing crowd of people who surround you in the lobby. Your footsteps halting upon once again spotting him, hands wringing helplessly at your sides, until you nearly chirp out some sort of half-choked shriek to have Brian abruptly swoop in, scooping your hand in his. Entwining his long fingers with yours like a lover in leading you forth before you can nervously dawdle there a second longer, deeper into the sunlit bowels of this place.

“Relax,” he says; guiding you toward a little gift shop. To a small, vacant table just outside the sandwich café that’s attached at its side. And as he pulls from it one of its metal chairs, ushering for you to sit, you obey only out of confusion whilst your mouth peters open to object.

“What are we doing?”

“Stay here,” he says, as gradually you bristle against how he watches you.

“You dragged me in here just to ditch me?”

He looks away. Barely paying you any mind as instead his interest travels across your surroundings. Seeming to take note of everyone and everything that passes through his vision.

“Would you believe me if I said I’m trying to protect you?” he asks at last, with barely a glance.

You stare up at him as he continues to ignore you. Not knowing what to say to that. Not sure if you believe him.

In the end, it doesn’t matter whether he’s genuine or not.

“I don’t need protecting,” you mutter at length. 

He’s studious as his gaze returns to yours beneath him. Weighing something unsaid behind the veil that leaves him such a mystery, before eventually offering you his graceful hand.

One corner of his lips hints up at how surprised you apparently look to have so easily convinced him.

“As the lady insists,” he says, quite simply. His hand remaining offered. “Off to our appointment, then, my love.” 

Even then, when he’s agreeing with you, you find you hesitate before actually accepting his help. Something just feels off about him, always – in some way hidden, with almost everything he does or says. But you have a part to play in whatever his plan in this hospital. The part of his girlfriend, so you take his hand like a girlfriend would and allow him to whisk you to your feet, his pianist’s fingers intertwining again with yours as he leads you through the lobby. Toward a broad, offshooting sunlit hall.

Down one hall, and then another, with your grip squeezing more and more tightly with every step he leads you toward some unknown end; one that might see you both arrested.

“Are you trying to make my fingers go numb?” he finally asks you, and you belatedly realize just how dry your mouth is, how tight you’re squeezing. Struggling to swallow just so you can speak.

“Where are we going?”

He slows a step in glancing at a directory on the wall, before ushering you down another hallway, and at this point if you were asked to escape this maze on your own you’d be too lost to succeed. 

“You’ll see.”

“Or you could just tell me.”

“That’d spoil the surprise. Besides, what did I tell you about constantly questioning me?”

Something changes in his gait, just a hitch, but it’s enough for you to follow his pensive eyes toward a man at the end of the hall; a man who is swiftly approaching. Wearing teal scrubs and surgical booties, and it’s clear he’s in some sort of hurry.

“Speaking of not questioning me…” Brian muses, eyes on the man and his brisk approach. “I promise I’ll make this up to you–”

“Make what up to me?” you already question beneath how he hasn’t stopped talking–

“–but in the meantime just try and trust me with this next part, won’t you darling?–”

And you definitely don’t trust him, that’s maybe the last thing that comes to mind when you think of him, but you don’t have a chance to say that before Brian abruptly pivots the both of you toward the bend of an offshooting hall; effectively slamming the two of you into the man rushing toward you.

The man grunts out in startlement as you choke back a cry of surprise–the brunt of impact tearing your hand from Brian’s, sending you careening to the floor. But before the tile floor can harshly catch you, Brian’s snaked his lengthy arm around your waist; scooping you up against his side again, like a small, baby bird beneath his wing. Coddling you there as though you’re hurt, as though you’re fragile; turning your harried face up to his with a gentle hand steering your cheek while he asks, with such a visage of worry, “Babe, are you alright?”

You blink up at him stupidly. So surprised to see such a convincing show of emotion you still somehow find hard to believe.

Brian searches your expression as though for wounds he might mend, before tossing a vindictive gaze at the frazzled man before you. “What the fuck was that?!”

He’s pissed. You’ve never seen him so irate. And the man in scrubs blinks just as stupidly as you do. His confusion transformed to concern, then shortly shifting till he’s tight and defensive. 

He doesn’t say a thing. Biting back, you soon guess, on arguing with a supposed patient.

“You need to watch where you’re going,” Brian again berates him, and the man at last succeeds in swallowing what seems his objections. 

“‘m… Sorry,” he puts forth gruffly. Like he’s too impatient to mean it; raring to hurry off again. 

Brian’s harsh expression eases just a touch whilst his hand around your waist gives your side a little squeeze, and you can’t deny you don’t exactly mind being this close to him…

“You know what,” he extends at length, exhaling a tautened breath. “...This place is pure chaos. I think we might’ve turned right into you–I’m sorry, man. It’s been a hell of a day.”

The man’s expression loosens somewhat in relief as Brian turns in gently assessing you. “You’re not hurt, are you babe?”

Gods, you hate whatever ingratiating, carebear-tone he’s using. But you roughly swallow down distaste before forcing out flatly, “I’m fine.” Very much hating whatever this supposed plan of his is.

There’s a glisten in his gaze, just for you; lost before he looks to the scrubbed-up man before you again. “You good man?”

The man nods, “Yeah,” clearly in a hurry to see this awkward situation end. And Brian, ever courteous, sweetly sends him on his way.

“Well…” he says, with a smile a touch too clever, his tone a touch too cloy. “Off you go, then~” 

The man’s jaw stiffens, though he doesn’t argue what sarcasm bleeds through Brian’s otherwise kind dismissal. Just biting it all back before bustling off again, weaving his way past the both of you, hurrying once again down the hall.

You glance back over your shoulder, watching and waiting for him to turn out of sight, before raising a glare up at your supposed prince charming. “What the hell, Brian? That hurt. ”

The curve on his lips is devilish. As, with the theatrical flair of a seedy magician, he presents to you a keycard with the scrubbed man’s picture on it.

“Borrowed this from our friend,” he says mischievously.

You kind of want to laugh at how proud he seems about that, but you stuff that down along with how you might be somewhat impressed with how quickly he was able to nab that while also catching you before you hit the ground.

“After throwing me into him,” you grouse instead of applauding him. “Like a human smoke grenade.”

He smiles at your pouting, not even denying it. Cooing in that fake boyfriend voice, “Baby, I said I’d make it up to you.” Regarding you with all the playful craft of the devil himself as you wriggle and twist out from how his arm’s snaked warmly around your middle, creating some much needed distance between yourself and him. 

“You’re the worst boyfriend I’ve ever had,” you sourly comment, to which he charmingly grins. Taking your hand again before you can stop him, steering you closer once more; your naval beneath his own, such is the height of him.

“Oh… Baby…” he croons, like he feels so bad for you. Smiling so dark and sticky and sweet down at whatever your flustered face is doing beneath his. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Our date’s barely begun, and I’m only going to get so much worse.”

Releasing you from the near-fatal enchantment of his grip, he wanders further down the hall without you. Tossing back a little look across one broad shoulder as you just stupidly stand there, too frazzled to move. Hiking a brow expectantly.

“Better hurry up,” he spurs you. “Wouldn’t want our scrubbed-up friend to find you here after realizing his keycard’s walked off all by itself, now would you?”

It’s enough to prompt your reluctance into moving. As, no, you certainly don’t want a stolen keycard being found in either of your possessions.

The further Brian leads you through the hospital’s inner catacombs, the less natural light there is, until there’s no light at all beyond the buzz of fluorescence overhead, washing out everything until your world is stale and lifeless. And as more and more employees brush by, all wearing surgical scrubs, the more querying glances you receive as you’re passing by. Yet still, no one stops you. No one questions beyond a glance. Something about Brian’s confidence stopping them. So it would seem you’re still allowed here.

That is, until you reach a set of heavy, double doors hewn of metal, slotted with miniscule square windows. A dead end, at which Brian flashes his stolen keycard without a moment’s hesitance; completely second nature to breaking in. Holding it flat against the little black box of the doorway’s electronic lock, which beeps and flashes green before those heavy doors drag silently, automatically open.

Stepping through them after Brian, who steals carelessly in, your nerves are met with a wave of cold air as you wrap your arms around yourself to keep from shivering. Trying not to look as apprehensive as you feel, to be inconspicuous. All while Brian skates down these sterile halls like a lizard on ice. Like to pretend is a familiar second skin, perhaps even more familiar than donning the suit of himself. 

He nods you toward a drinking fountain near a pair of wooden doors; one on either side of it. Pausing in ushering you near.

“Now, listen, my lovely pupil,” he says; a flute-playing charmer to his spiteful, sharp-fanged snake. “I doubt our friend has access to the women’s dressing room.” His voice falls to a low, gentle murmur as some type of surgeon walks by, though it doesn’t stop him from continuing. “And loathe as I am to leave you fidgeting in the hallway by yourself, potential mishap that you are, I need to fetch us our costumes.”

Your gaze darts nervously about. “Is all this really necessary?”

There’s no way this is necessary.

His eyes are on the passing surgeon’s back as he gently takes your upper arm, guiding you into that little crook within the wall which houses the doors and fountain, before he steals a glance about yourselves ensuring you’re alone.

“All these questions,” he lours, his deliberation back on you. “Sit. Stay. I’ll be right back–try not to miss me too much.”

You’re left to insipidly grumble, “Wouldn’t dream of it,” as he leaves to scan his keycard at the door for the men’s dressing room. Though he twists a clever grin across one shoulder before he departs.

“Oh, I think you might.”

You don’t have time to bite back with something witty before he’s gone, and he’s gone for much longer than you expected or are at all comfortable with, preferring to’ve never been dragged in and ditched here at all. Left with pretending to get a drink every time someone busily passes so they can’t see how out of place you probably look. Unable to come up with any clever reason for why you should be here, in what you guess is the OR. If anyone asked what you’re doing, if you work here, you’d have no way to prove whatever lie you’d spin that you do.

You’re about halfway convinced to just ditch this handsome fuck to whatever devilry he’s up to while you instead hide in the car, when the door he passed through is suddenly opened, and with a sharp glance at the sound of it beside you, you almost don’t recognize him.

He’s wearing cerulean surgical scrubs, which billow yet somehow accentuate his tall, leanly muscled frame. Sky-hued booties are tugged over his overly expensive shoes. A laptop-sized black bag beneath one arm, which you assume was thefted from some poor someone in the dressing room, the bulk of it stowed with something. And you can’t help but stare as he ties on the blue surgical cap around his messy web of curls, the jawline-lengths of which stick out at mussied angles. Because it's kinda dorky, but also kinda…

Cute. 

Okay? 

He’s fucking adorable right now. 

And you stuff away your thoughts on this disastrous fact as you can’t help but gobble down an unhealthy eyeful of him, before staring at the wall as though its blank canvas is the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen.

He seems to take a moment to remember you’re even there. Though eventually he’s raised a brow at whatever your face is doing. 

Luckily, he doesn't further question whatever your discomfited expression.

“C’mon,” he says, leading your way down the hall. “Need to find you a place to get dressed.”

A small frown tightens your lips before you’re hurrying after him. “Why can’t I get dressed in the bathroom?”

“They’re attached to the dressing rooms,” he explains as you bustle to reach him. “I’m afraid we’ll have to get a bit more creative than that.”

Great.

Wandering through those chilled, barren halls, you try not to steal too many glances through the tiny windows of each operating room you pass, not wanting to look any more like a tourist. Morbid curiosity having you catch a few glimpse of surgical teams surrounding unconscious patients; short tapestries of teal and white and red.

Brian tries his keycard at a door opposite the rows of operating rooms, which flashes red, before he’s fluidly moved on to the next, which lightly beeps as he’s allowed entrance.

He sidles in just a step; gazing up, glancing down. And as you shift forth alongside him, you see a poorly lit stairway that seems a constructional afterthought. Quiet, empty, cavernous.

With a satisfied hum, Brian gives a small nod in motioning you follow him in. Leading your way down the stairs to a small, center platform. Both your footsteps echoing for many flights up and down this towering room, and the door feels to slam behind you with how hushed it is in here. And though you’re not exactly enthused at the idea of getting undressed in here, you suppose it's better than nothing, and does seem relatively unused.

Brian’s already shuffling through his leather bag as you meet him on the center platform, and he’s shortly offering you a pile of pilfered clothes the same color as his.

“Scrub up, doctor,” he says, with a playful lilt. “We’re expected in surgery.”

Though as you take the costume he presents, waiting for him to look away so you can do just that, you find he doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn from how you slowly, cynically eye him by even an inch. Appearing more expectant with every second, perhaps just as expectant as you, though clearly you’re expecting different things.

“Are you going to turn around?” you finally ask him.

His smirk’s so slight you barely notice it teased upon the softness of his lips. 

“What,” he says, like he’s harmless. “I’m surveying the scene. Making sure no one stumbles across you with your pants down. You’d probably tangle them ‘round your ankles and fall right on your face if that happened.” His handsome face dons a mockery of concern. “I’m protecting you.”

Heat rises up your cheeks. “Go survey the scene somewhere else!”

You’re both at once distracted by the sound of a door opening high above you, both your gazes jerking up as it sounds to creak open, then heavily shut. Echoing about these vacant halls without anyone actually sounding to step in. And after moments of you both still and silent, tautly listening in ensuring you’re still alone, Brian finally looks back down at you.

“Relax, will you?” he states. Grabbing the loopholes of your jeans; tugging you just a step closer as your eyes grow all wavery and big. 

Words are honey on his tongue as he asks, “If I turn around will you stop being such a baby about this?”

You bite your lip, hard, before grousing up at him, “Let go of me before I pull my gun.”

It might’ve been a joke, if you didn’t sound so serious. And though you’re not sure how a gunshot going off at Jackson Memorial is the best way to continue laying low, you could scrounge together some story of how you followed someone you suspected might be the Ice Truck Killer into this very stairwell, if you had to. Of how you had to kill that certain someone in defending yourself.

His expression doesn’t change as he seems to weigh your words, the possibility within them. The merest glint, like sun on black ice, reflected from the recesses of his ebony gaze.

“So touchy,” he slowly remarks, before eventually releasing you. Finally turning away; broad shoulders and slender waist facing the wall opposite you. “Hurry up.” And you take full advantage of the absence of his dangerous gaze to change your clothes as quickly as you can–shedding your pants down hasty legs, wriggling into the lower half of your scrubs and tying them round your waist. 

It isn’t ‘till you have your top pulled up over your head, bra fully in view, that Brian speaks again.

“You need to learn to loosen up, detective,” he says to the empty space before him. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

“Don’t quote James Howell at me,” you say, tossing your discarded shirt on the dirty floor before slipping the teal one over your head. 

He sighs. “Can I do anything without you being a bitch about it?”

When he glances back at you, it’s lucky for him you’re fully dressed, seeing as otherwise you would have slapped him. And you despise how your cheeks start to burn as his dark eyes trace over you, slowly down your form, stirring unwanted heat in their wake. As slowly, slowly, they fall to the bulk of your gun, tucked awkwardly beneath the waistband of your pants.

Eventually, his eyes return to yours. Somewhat playful as he asks, “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

“The gun one,” you return without pause. “I’m not happy. Not to see you. Any more questions?”

He merely raises his brows like one might to an ill-behaved child. “You can’t bring that; it’s completely obvious you’re carrying. Someone will notice.” He offers his hand, nodding toward the clothes on the floor. “Give me your clothes,” he says softly. “And the gun.” He says it like an afterthought, but his eyes are intently on yours. “I’ll hold onto them for the time being.”

Yeah fucking right.

There’s no way you’re letting this wolf in sheep’s clothing disarm you.

“Not happening.”

His handsome smile transforms to something else. Something with less warmth reflected on it, though still genteel enough. “You're going to get us thrown into hospital prison,” he mildly jests, before adding more carefully, “Don’t make me take it from you…”

You're not even sure it’s a threat. It could just as easily be him joking. It’s impossible to tell with him, or with any beast who doesn’t bare its teeth before lunging.

You thumb up the hem of your shirt in snaking your fingers round your Glock’s grip. 

“How about I hold onto the gun,” you plainly suggest, “and you lead us the fuck on so we can get what we need and get out of here, hm?”

His gaze is a shadow. Something lurking in ice-carved trees, a prowling aura you cannot see through darkness. But eventually, that snow settles with the seeming warmth of his smile. The corners of his eyes gently creased.

“Can’t wait to see you on stage tonight,” he says. Giving you a courteous amount of distance as he’s smooth to brush right past how you warily watch him. Heading back up those steps toward the door you came in, taking them easily two at a time. “At this rate, you’re bound to give quite the performance.”

He lazily scans the keycard at the electronic lock pad near the door, which gains you access once more to the OR.

“After you, little killer,” he says; hands slipped nonchalantly in the pockets of his surgical pants as he leans back on the opened door in holding it open, carefully regarding you as you remain for a moment down the steps. 

His eyes never leave yours as you dip down to grab your clothes off the floor in stiff, wary hands. As you make your way slowly up after him, impatiently tucking away your hair within the sheer, blue hairnet he’d previously bequeathed you.

One lithesome hand is offered at your approach, to which you hand over your clothes, and you assume he stuffs them away inside his bag before following after you as you hurry out into the hall, anxious to have him too close at heel.

His prowling, lengthy steps easily catch up to you, and it’s clear you could never outrun him.

“This way,” he says, before leading you further down the hall. Mildly checking what lie past the windows of a few doors, while a surgeon and anesthesiologist pass making small talk. He pays them no mind, while you avert your gaze nervously, until at last he’s humming out a little, “Ah… Here we are.” Flashing his stolen card at a door which obediently chirps and pops open at his request, and he holds its way open for you.

“Ladies first,” he says, with the watchfulness of a wolf.

You wish you could grab your gun as you pass him, but you’ve made it this far without being caught, so you just swallow your never-ending nerves and hurry past him. Hearing his low, throated chuckle right behind you as he follows you in.

Even that drags its claws down your nape, leaving trickling trails of gooseflesh down your skin that tingle and tease until you haphazardly paw them off you.

You wander into some sort of sterile supply room; one with several operating rooms attached to it, divided off by heavy doors. Rows and rows of metal, rolling carts with shelving are laid out before you, along with white cabinets lining each wall.

Brian wanders in past how you stand there uncertainly like he owns the place. Like he’s been here before, though he hasn’t. Or, at least you don’t think he has. It’s impossible to tell with him; he's a night-drenched enigma.

He tugs open one metal drawer, which rolls fluidly forth, before he’s swiftly closing and opening another.

“Tell me if you see any hardware,” he says as his eyes take quick inventory of everything he sees. “Saws, drills–that sort of thing.” Pausing just a blip to regard how you’re just standing there instead of obeying your murderous shepherd, instead wavering in place, not knowing what to do. “Go on,” he spurs, the patient teacher. “Get looking.”

You glance around the cold, fluorescent quiet, before questioning in a whisper, “What if someone comes in here?”

“What if someone comes in here?” he returns, rather dull. Already focused once more on the hunt. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but you look like a surgical tech. That was kind of the whole point. Just tell them you’re looking for saline flushes or a bag of dextrose or something.”

Saline flushes or dextrose?

…How many times has he done this before?

Cautiously, you get to searching, seeing no quicker way of seeing this perilous mission through. Unable to stop how you furtively glance around the too-bright silence at every little noise that isn’t Brian searching through drawers several shelves before you.

“Are you so familiar with this because you’ve worked in a hospital before?” you ask to distract from your nerves. “Or because you’ve made a habit of breaking into surgical units?”

You hear him slide closed a drawer and stride toward another. Completely heedless to the fully scrubbed male nurse who suddenly pushes into the room from one of the attached operating rooms.

The nurse glances at you both, before fetching a vial with a red lid from a cabinet right beside Brian. Walking back out again while you watch after him in anxious paranoia, and Brian seems not to notice him at all.

“Do I have to choose?” he muses, nonchalant, before exhaling a low and exclamative, “Ah- hah~ ”

You suppose he’s hit the jackpot, thank god–and, closing the cabinet you were sifting edgily through, you make your way over to see what he’s so happy about. Spotting him spare a short glance about before stuffing some sort of… is that a saw? –inside his opened bag.

He smiles at your questioning look.

“Oscillating orthopedic bone saw,” he explains, as though answering what you’ve failed to ask. As if that will suddenly make sense to you, when you still have no idea what an oscillating orthopedic bone saw is other than it’ll obviously make quick work of dicing marrow.

Why he couldn’t just use a regular saw for that, you fail to grasp. Then again, there’s apparently far more types of saws in this world than you’d ever realized before your adventures today. 

You see him grab a few scalpels. Some forceps of various size, along with some different metallic contraptions. One of which especially appears like some kind of torture device, and you expressely don’t question what it’s all for.

But he’s not done yet; by all accounts not having stealthed all this way just for nothing. He bags another sort of saw, like a thick wand with a small, circular blade at its fore, and something else you barely see beyond the tail of its electrical plug, before buckling closed his bag at last.

“I think we’re all done here,” he says. Motioning with his dark-scruffed, angular jaw back toward the door you came in. As if this endeavor was all so damn casual and not potentially life altering. “C’mon.” 

Your heart’s a skipping drum; your path from the hospital a restless dream. Neither one of you really talking as you follow him making his way so apathetically out of the hospital’s surgical unit. 

It isn’t until you’re out of the OR that he makes what you assume is the allusion of small talk whilst the both of you retrace your steps through this sprawling maze, which you do your best to keep up with as though not anxious at all about the slew of stolen medical gear you’ve got currently stashed away. And about halfway back to the gift shop (you think, such is your lack of direction), he nods you off to a patient bathroom to change, while he saunters off to do likewise.

You throw your scrubs in the trash, not knowing what else to do with them. Adopting once more your role of twitterpated girlfriend as he holds your hand and guides you, while you ignore how much comfort you draw from his touch. And by the time you’ve both finally breached the hospital’s doors, are tucked safely within the confines of his candy-red car once more, you’re so relieved you’re nearly giddy.

“Fuck I never want to do that again,” you exhale, while he gives you that little look you suspect is once more questioning why you’re such a headache about everything, which you promptly ignore. “Alright, drop me back off at my car.”

“Not yet,” he returns. Smirking at your incredulous glance. “We've still got some time to kill, amongst other things…” Gods, he thinks he’s so clever, doesn’t he? “And this isn’t a proper date if I don’t take you out to dinner before our show.”

Your stomach clenches at the mere mention of food, whilst he starts up the car beside you. “I’m not hungry, and this isn’t a date.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he says, lighthearted. “You can’t work on an empty stomach.”

“That’s precisely how I’d like to work tonight, thanks.”

“Why?” he asks, far too coy. “Afraid you might lose your dinner?”

Yes.

“No.”

A smile slowly spreads across his face as he shifts the car out of park; eyes on the road. “I know just the place. Reclusive. Romantic. ”

You feel yourself sinking lower in your seat as you stare desperately out the window.

Just what you need….

More time alone with this annoyingly good-looking freak.

“Fine,” you say flatly, but he lowers his lashes like that’s the most romantic thing.

“Are you always this in love with me?”

“I told you I’m not hungry.”

“Then you can watch me eat,” he returns, promptly ignoring your complaints. “I’m starving .”

The sun’s just beginning to set, molten hues burned against palm tree skyline, as Brian pulls into an alley lot beside some warmly lit restaurant and bar you’ve never heard of. The car wheels rumbling across old, cracking asphalt, before he weaves into a spot. Shifting his expensive car into park before getting out, and you sit there–tensely, silently debating in that war within yourself–deciding if you should just refuse to follow him on inside, only to jump as your door is abruptly opened for you.

How does he keep sneaking up on you like that?!

Lofting from on high, Brian offers you his hand, and he’s really going in hard on the date angle, isn’t he?

“Madam?”

Yeah. He really is. And he looks so cheeky about it, too.

But you just unbuckle your seatbelt and take his offered hand; adopting his beguiled tone as he helps you to your feet. “Thank you, darling.”

There’s the smallest blip before his smile spreads wider, showing teeth. 

It’s so disarming when he smiles like that. Like he actually means it.

“C’mon,” he says, good-natured. Ushering you on his arm through the dim-lit alley, out to where the front of the small establishment is radiating warmth and low, Cuban music. Its walkway strung rafters-to-lamp posts with strands of fairy lights that dazzle against the oncoming night. Muted laughs and clinking glasses gliding out into the night from inside.

It’s homey, this place. Like a hole in the wall where everyone’s a regular, and you just know the food is worthy of licking your plate. But it’s hard to enjoy the comfortable, intimate ambiance when it’s the Ice Truck Killer leading you toward the elderly hostess who pleasantly greets you both; who leads you toward a secluded corner of the room, to a booth procured for you at Brian’s request.

He doesn’t glance at the menu as he slides in opposite you, one arm spread along the ruby-pillow backrest of the seat you share, curved as it is around the darkwood table. “Ready to order when you are.”

You pick up the menu as if it might contaminate you, the idea of food so presently revolting. “I take it you eat here a lot?”

“You’d be hard pressed to find better Cuban food,” he says. “The pollo sofrito’s good if you’re in the mood for chicken.”

You never thought a wanted serial killer would be so casually recommending you meals like it were the daily special. And you don’t want to order a thing. But when the waiter arrives and Brian orders two pork cubano’s (guess he really is starving), you just read the first thing off the menu you see, not really registering what it even is.

It takes a long moment to notice the way Brian’s cleverly smiling at you across the table.

“What?” you ask, but he only shrugs. Arm still comfortably outstretched along the curving seat’s backrest.

“Nothing.”

Yeah fucking right he’s thinking nothing. You’re starting to suspect this man is always scheming. But instead of calling him out on it, you find you’d rather pick his labyrinthine brain about something else. Something you’re surprised you’re so curious about, the more it presses upon your mind, though you don’t know fully why. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow…

You’re just curious.

“Can I ask you something?” you wonder across the table, and he quirks a raven brow in your direction.

“Seems to me you already are.”

It’s enough of an invitation.

Still, you uncomfortably rub your arm. Tuck away a strand of hair to steady yourself, before pressing onward. All while he watches you with what seems a gentle, mounting interest.

“I barely knew who you were,” you say, “before… Well…” 

Before you were branded as the ‘Ice Truck Killer’.

You glance around, as if someone might be listening, might be privy to even your thoughts. Brian, meanwhile, doesn’t shift an inch from how his focus lies on you. And when at last your eyes return to his, it feels his own have never left you.

“I was at the hospital when Tony Tucci was fitted with the prosthetic you made him,” you say, in a slightly more hushed tone. Just in case someone might hear you, though you must admit Brian chose this table advantageously for a pair of would-be executioners like yourselves. “The grand reveal party, or whatever that was.”

His interest is visibly piqued; the curve of his rounded lips twitched in thought. “You were…? Huh… I don’t often forget a face.”

“I was only there for a few minutes,” you say, “and we never spoke.” Watching him closely as you add, “I saw you flirting up Deb, though.”

You pause, not sure if you’re waiting for him to respond to this, but he doesn't say a thing. And for a while, neither do you. The two of you merely observing one another from across the silent table. Attempting to peer inside one another, it would seem; to glean what secrets one’s words would keep out of reach.

“You guys seemed so cute together,” you murmur at length. 

His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t deny, doesn’t agree with you. 

So you continue; left with no other recourse than to do so. 

“Was any of that real?”

Far-off dinnerware clatters lightly outside your mutual intensity. The soft chatter of restaurant patrons mingled with the low hum of Cuban music, drifting slowly past your ears. And it’s all you can hear for a while, as the man before you remains in watchful silence.

Eventually, he scarcely inclines his head.

“Not even remotely,” he says, with such bare conviction you find it hard to doubt his words are true. “She was a means to an end. Nothing more.”

Still, some part of you doesn’t believe that. Doesn’t want to believe that. You saw how much Deb loved him. What his betrayal put her through. Hell, she was engaged to the murderous bastard–was never the same after meeting him. 

He didn’t care at all for her? Not even in the slightest, most incomprehensible way?

“Why?” you ask, instead of denying what he’s told you. 

He barely moves. Scarcely appears to even breathe in how he watches you. “Why what?” 

Worrying the inside of your lower lip, you try again. Aren’t sure why this is even hard for you to word. “Why… How… How could you not care about her…? With how much she cared about you? She was completely in love with you.”

As you wait for him to respond, his expression slowly tilts into a frown. 

“She didn’t care about me,” he lowly says. “She cared about Rudy. A man who doesn’t exist. She cared for a ghost, whilst despising the animal hidden inside myself. The only thing she loved was my leash; the bars of my cage, and I don’t like hiding inside it.” His umber eyes trace across your expression. Calm. Unreadable. “I don’t want Dexter to hide, either. Nor you. Why lie to ourselves about what we are? It goes against the laws of nature.”

Some shade of discomfort, something sinister and tight, creeps up along your nape upon him placing you in the same league as he and Dexter.

“I’m not like you,” you faintly protest, and he smiles; a cruel, bare curve.

“Sure you’re not.”

You don’t know why that ties so many strings inside you, wrenching them all into knots. And as the food arrives, with you and Brian accepting your plates in polar opposite displays of enthusiasm, you’re still hopelessly unsettled. Toying with the pasta you apparently ordered, far from anything resembling hungry, while Brian picks up one pork cubano and eats in giant, animalistic bites like a man half starved, and if there was ever any reason to doubt he was a relative of Dexter, seeing him eat was all the proof you needed–better than a DNA test.

“You know,” he muses between wolfish bites, undisturbed by your previous conversation. “You keep saying you have to kill this guy.”

“I do,” you mull at the table, stirring your directionless fork across your plate, before glancing up at him. Seeing his dark brows lightly pinch for a moment.

“Why?”

For a moment, you can’t even register the question; confused, and surprised as you are that he’s asking. He’s always professed he didn’t care.

But now that he is asking, you’re hesitant to explain. Not wanting to relive what makes you see that vicious, unforgiving red; that makes you hollow and hateful and nothing else. 

You don’t want to talk about it. But words are already falling from your lips.

“My nephew is the cutest kid,” you say, sounding very far away to yourself. Still stirring noodles you no longer seem to see. “She’s six. Ava. Quirky in this dorky, fun-loving way.” Your little smile at the thought of her fades. “Honest. Trusting.”

Too trusting; you push the thought away. Try to focus past that red which already bleeds along the edges of your vision, poisons your every heartbeat until you can hardly think.

“Her mom, my sister,she… She’s a single mom. Always working. And I can’t babysit as much as I’d like.”

Your fork stops stirring; words ashen in your mouth. And you can’t seem to go on. Lost in a void of yourself.

In your silence, Brian’s nothing if not perceptive.

“What’d the babysitter do?” he quietly asks.

Your eyes flit up to him. Hand numb around your fork. 

You don’t want to think about it. Not until tonight.

“Does it matter?”

“Seems to matter to you,” he calmly returns; dark eyes never leaving you.

There’s a stone in your chest where your heart once lived. A foreign, ugly thing that doesn’t belong there.

“I found out he was… redefining the meaning of ‘story time’,” you hear yourself say, unwilling to go into detail. Such vile disgust raising its hands round your throat, smothering you, that feels like they could at any moment consume you. “Turned it into a game she didn’t like. One where he took all her clothes off...”

You’ve already said too much you don’t want to think about; you won’t continue. And Brian, ever watchful, doesn’t press for more. Though, after moments of dragging silence…

“You’re a cop,” he says. Hushed, yet quite bluntly. “And you and Dexter have been planning tonight for... what? Two weeks?” His expression is carefully unmoved. “Why didn’t you just arrest him?”

It’s like he already knows the answer. Just wants to hear you say it out loud. And though you’re loath to give him what he wants…

“Because I broke into his house, instead,” you find yourself admitting. 

Brian’s eyes are hawk-like. Perceptive to your every shift in expression. “Were you armed?”

You don't immediately answer. Or really answer him at all.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “He wasn’t home. But I found a bunch of hard drives under one of his floorboards while I waited for him.” You’re surprised your lip doesn’t bleed with how harshly you bite the inside of it. “One had my nephew’s name on it.”

You don’t know when you dropped your fork, only that you’re no longer holding it, and as you glare at the table it feels your jaw might snap.

“Turning him in is too good for him,” you murmur, so lowly you almost can’t hear how every word’s afflicted by hate. “I want that bastard dead. I want to feel the life stripped from his pathetic body, piece by excruciating piece. Want to hear as he chokes and sobs and gags and begs for mercy he never gave, and make him feel all those terrible things he made all of those little girls feel, and then I want to personally ship what’s left of him to hell.”

You stare at the table for a long time. So long you forget where you are, who you’re here with. And when again you look at Brian, it feels his study never left. Remaining ever-watchful as he takes another giant bite of sandwich.

It’s almost funny how he can eat at a time like this. There’s no way, in this moment, you could register what hunger even is.

“The belt sander’s starting to make a lot more sense now,” he remarks between hungry bites. 

He’s so calm…

You should stay calm, too. Like he is. You’ll have to be in order to get through what you’re going to do tonight. But even knowing this, it still takes substantial effort to somehow shake yourself from this ugly beast that’s crawled inside you. To shed its cruelly comforting skin and continue being human, instead of whatever vicious creature it would see you transformed to.

He seems to notice you struggling, or perhaps he’s just bored of your strangled silence. Either way, he swallows his next famished bite before you feel him reach beneath the table. His fingers just barely brushed across one of your knees, soft across the fabric of your jeans.

It makes you jump, not expecting his sudden touch; your eyes darting sharply up to his.

He smiles slightly to receive such rapt attention.

“Don’t worry,” he says. And you find the stillness of him, the firmness, oddly soothing. Infecting your nerves and rewiring them into something more at ease. “He may not know it yet, but his road to hell is coming.” Slowly, he smiles as he watches you. “So long as you don’t chicken out on me, that is.”

For a moment, you can only stare. But gradually, his taunting scratches through that stifling weight which feels to press on your every surface, until you don’t know whether to cry or laugh, to scream or scoff or slap him, it’s all so overwhelming. But in the end, you’re somehow smiling, just like him. Its barest curve a mirror of his own.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you venture softly. “Seeing me fail. Watching what happens.”

You’re surprised when he doesn’t immediately agree. And you can’t deny in him a sort of avid curiosity. A sort of hunger. A primal thirst, as he eyes you quietly from across the table.

“Not as much as I’d enjoy watching you work,” he says at last.

There’s only you and him. This room, it’s noise, it’s chaos–all of it sinks away, far and deep into a void, until there’s nothing left. And all you see is Brian, watching you like that from across the table. And all he seems to see–right now, and since first sitting–is you.

[krystalisedsoul]

I started my period today, which means it’s time to think about how Illumi Zoldyck would act if you started your period for the first time in the house.

Morning comes, and for once, you’re up before him. It doesn’t take him long to notice the bloody stains where you lay. As for where you are? He doesn’t have to think too hard about that either, your sniffles from the bathroom are hardly as muffled as you think they are.

You refuse to open the door, stubbornly sobbing and insisting that nothing is wrong. He holds onto the handle firmly, left with no choice but to force it open. There you are, curled up in nothing but a navy lace nightgown—one of many he’s filled your wardrobe with.

“You’re only embarrassing yourself further by locking yourself away. We both already know you bled the bed.”

He’s so mistakenly rude I can’t help but love it. But don’t get it wrong—he means well. He just doesn’t know how to say it without looking down on you. You’re not a Zoldyck (yet). You’re not an assassin. You weren’t raised with the training he had. You both know you are very much below him in practically everything, he doesn’t shy from constantly reminding you about that every day somehow.

And yet, he cares for you—in his own, twisted way.

“You don’t have pads.”

“Huh?”

”…Where are the pads?”

For the first time, you think you might have seen Illumi completely frozen. It didn’t last longer than a few seconds, he made sure to compose himself but his eyes turning to the cabinets let you know enough. A cold-blooded killer, sure, but when it comes to women’s health, he is painfully uneducated. It’s not exactly a topic his mother would have bothered to discuss with him. She was always too preoccupied with talking about him or his brothers, not about her menstrual state.

“A butler will take care of that after you shower.”

And just like that, you’re scooped into his arms and carried off to a separate room. Don’t worry, before stepping out, he made sure to tell the butlers to avert their eyes from my body. Could he have let you change into something else? Sure. But what’s the point of dressing you just to undress you again?

Surprisingly, Illumi isn’t the worst at helping with a shower. He’s respectful enough to let you clean myself, but that doesn’t mean he leaves. He stands right in front of the tub, his eyes locked onto your body, more specifically, the blood trailing down your thighs, swirling into the water. He watches intently, as if studying something foreign.

By the time you’re done, he’s already set out fresh clothes for you, another gown, this time black, with thicker material. It’s warm. Comfortable, even. It’s something you might’ve worn before he took you away. And to your surprise, he’s also brought out a pair of fluffy black knee-high socks.

“I don’t want to wear them.”

He doesn’t speak at first, just clenches his jaw. His hands twitch around the socks.

“You have no choice. You need to keep your body warm on your period, including your feet.”

I suggest not arguing again.

For one, Illumi really wants to see you wear those socks.

And two, he doesn’t mind teaching you a lesson about denying your fiancé’s wishes.

If you thought being on your period would earn you a little mercy, you were dead wrong. He knows you’re already in a lot of pain, and that’s exactly why the lesson would be more impactful.

Later that day, he has a job. An assassination, obviously. You don’t ask details, and he doesn’t offer them. But before leaving, he gives the butlers strict orders regarding your care, things they were probably already going to do, but now it’s no longer a suggestion. It’s an obligation.

And unbeknownst to you, while he’s out, he’s checking his phone in between the job. He’s reading their updates.

“She’s eaten only three bites of her food.”

“She’s gone to the toilet.”

“A used pad has been disposed of.”

Each message is clinical, precise. The way they talk about you is similar to how they’d report on a mission. Cold. Efficient. And Illumi prefers it that way.

You, on the other hand, have no idea he’s watching over you like this. You go about your day in pain, curled up in bed, pressing a warm water bottle against your stomach, trying to will away the cramps. You barely eat. You don’t move much. And eventually, the pain, the discomfort, the sheer exhaustion, it gets to you. You cry and lock yourself in the bathroom again.

That’s when Illumi comes home.

A butler must have informed him because he doesn’t waste any time. The lock on the bathroom door is meaningless to him. He forces it open just like he did this morning. He doesn’t speak, nor does he waste time in moving after quickly scanning your body.

You barely register it when he pulls you up and into his lap. His arms encircle you in a stiff, calculated embrace, comfort, if you could even call it that. There’s no warmth in it, no soothing words, no gentle hushes against your ear. Just silence. Heavy and suffocating.

And yet, you cling to him.

Not because he is soft, or safe, or kind—but because he is here. Because there is no one else, nothing else, no arms but his to fall into. It is an instinct more than a choice, the way your fingers grasp at him, the way you burrow into his shoulder despite the rigidness of his hold.

Like a moth drawn to a flame, not for warmth, not for comfort, but because it is the only light in an endless dark. Because even as it burns, even as it consumes, it is still better than being alone in the cold.

[agoodflyting]

Good Omens Historical Trivia That's Haunting Me Today...

So we all know A.Z. Fell & Co is located on the fictitious Whickber Street in Soho and was established in 1800.

Aziraphale has run the shop ever since then and was in contact with Crowley at least until the 1820's when they took their little jaunt to Edinburgh and Crowley got sucked down the tube slide to Hell. They meet up again no later than the 1860's, when Crowley asks for Holy Water.

Stands to reason that between the 1820's and 1860's Aziraphale was in Soho doing Aziraphale things. Running his bookshop. Eating tiny cakes

Yeah... you know what else was going on in Soho during that time?

The worst cholera epidemic in London history.

If you don't know, cholera is a deadly bacterial infection caused by drinking contaminated water. Prior to the 1850's humans weren't really sure what caused cholera, but they knew it was terrifying and also that it was absolutely epidemic in big cities.

TW: this is gross - The main symptoms of cholera are agonizing stomach pain and non-stop watery diarrhea, eventually leading to the skin turning blue due to the thickening of blood from severe dehydration. Patients can lose more than 20% of their body weight in hours as they quite literally evacuate every drop of water in their bodies until they die of heart failure. - OK gross part over

Cholera symptoms show up as short as 5 hours after infection and could kill within as little as 12 hours. Cholera was especially terrifying because of how quickly and painfully it killed you, and because the patient maintained mental clarity up until the point of death. More than half of the people who contracted cholera died within a few days after consuming the bacteria-contaminated water.

And guess what water had cholera bacteria in it?

The public water pump on Broad Street in Soho in August of 1854

And this wasn't one of those epidemics that starts slowly and drags on. It hit like a bomb. It killed 600 Soho residents in ten days.

That's roughly 60 people a day in a 3-4 block area. Most of them died at home because the disease struck too quickly for them to to make it to a hospital. Survivors described hearses stacked with coffins 4-5 high going down the street nonstop all day long during the outbreak. Entire families were wiped out overnight.

What does that have to do with Good Omens?

Aziraphale's book shop was right in the epicenter of this outbreak.

Neil Gaiman has been pretty free about the fact that Whickber Street is a thinly veiled expy of the real Berwick Street in Soho.

This is a famous map showing the 1854 Soho Cholera epidemic. I highlighted Berwick Street and the public water pump that was the center of the contagion. The black bars (I circled a few in blue) on the map designate deaths. The thicker the black bar, the more people died in that particular house.

51 people died the week of the cholera outbreak on Aziraphale's Street alone.

Cholera was one of those diseases that provoked a lot of panic, not just because of how fast and painful it was, but because of the way it didn't follow common conventions about class or age. Children died while the elderly survived (often because the elderly had no one to gather water for them). Lower class houses were spared while their middle class landlords died. Churches were packed that week, because people in Soho had no idea who would get sick next. The epidemic pretty much burned itself out in a week and a half, since by that point everyone who drank the water had already died. I have to wonder what our resident Angel was up to during that time. Obviously cholera can't hurt him, but that's his neighborhood. There's no way hundreds of people, including entire families with children, are dying painfully in his neighborhood and Aziraphale doesn't notice. That means that in between this scene:

And this one:

Aziraphale would have watched one of the worst disease outbreaks in London history play out right outside his front door. I feel like there's great potential for a good story there if anyone better than me wants to write it.

[bitter-me]

Platonic Boothill with a male reader who is like Arlecchino from genshin impact

Male reader is Boothill's long lost brother

The Water is Fine

Boothill | M. Reader as Arlecchino [Genshin Impact] (Platonic)

----------

"Blood runs thicker than water.."

----------

The children gather in one room as they hear their mother's story. They all look at her in awe, she had told them the story multiple times, but it never gets old. Their mother's story was always wonderful. Once she finished her gaze scanned the children before furrowing her eyebrows. "Where's [Name]? Didn't he want to hear the story?"

"'Scuse me, mother! He's doing a funeral for his spider!" One of the children raised her hand, answering her question. She lets out a sigh at the child's words, her expression showing her concerns. "That child... maybe his curse is flaring up again."

Meanwhile, [Name] crouch down in front of the makeshift grave he had for his beloved spider. How sad.. he looks at it with a blank expression until suddenly someone put a hand around his shoulders. "Hey, [Name]! I bought us cake!!" The other claimed, grinning from ear to ear. In his hand was a box filled with two slices of cake. It looks delicious. "You must know spiders don't eat cake.." "Of course I know that!"

The days spend in the orphanage were always nice, peaceful, quiet. One of the siblings favorite activities were playing tag in the garden. The trees makes great terrain for free running and parkour. Always trying to one up the other. The younger was always full of energy, seemingly excited to explore the world, while the elder was reserved, cold, maybe even cruel but he will have a soft spot for the younger.

Stealing cake from the kitchen, picking fruits straight from the tree, playing tag. Life is.. simple.. fun. The world felt so big..

"Look!" He pointed at the shooting star from their window. His eyes seems to sparkle with joy, his gaze never leaving the starry skies. "One day, we're gonna explore the universe! Travel through the stars! Just you and me!" He says happily, hugging his older brother's arm, the two gaze upon the stars with hopes and dreams. What a beautiful sight.. the sky looks so mesmerizing. The world felt so vast and filled with the unknown. "The two of us could be like Rangers through the vast space! Exploring the universe and upholding justice!"

The elder can't help but smile at the other's words. It's sweet. The though is certainly wonderful. To explore the stars with his younger brother. That truly sounded like a dream. "Yeah, we could do that." "And we could find something for your curse too! Oh just imagine what we could find!"

A child's dream..

..is always so sweet..

So... sickly... sweet..

----------

"Run! And don't you dare look back!"

"But--!"

"GO!"

He ran.. he ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

He run and run.

Like the gingerbread man...

Why...

Why are they fighting..? And for what..? For the title "King"? What is that for? It's just a title. But it seems it means more than that... with his older brother's words. He run.. run as fast as he could. He's fighting isn't he? He's fighting the others isn't he? Why.. why must this be their reality..

He doesn't know what to do.. he wanted to stay with him. But he can't.. his brother told him to run and to never look back.. it's like a game of tag isn't it? Run as fast as you can.. and try not to get caught.. it's just a game.. a simple game... and yet.. and yet...

----------

"The Knave.. may I know why you're at Penacony?"

"I heard Aventurine had caused quite the trouble.. so I'm here to make this up with the Family. Though it could officially be considered a diplomatic conference, I prefer to see our meeting today as an ordinary tea party. I assume you see it the same way, Mister Sunday?"

"Right, of course. It is an honor to have you here.. Mister Knave.."

"Please.. call me, Arlecchino."

.

.

.

.

.

"What in the cosmos are these kids doing here?" The question come out as harsh, his accents sounded thick as he dodge an attack from one of them. Those three children.. fighting for what? Father was it..? That's who they're fighting for? What a load of Wubbabbo.

"Careful now.. you can't reason with an outlaw.."

"..Father..?"

A man steps out of the room, his gaze is cold, carrying himself in an elegant way that just screams absolute authority. Their gaze locked on each other for what felt like an eternity, a sense of recognition wash over them, until finally..

"You.. why are you with them?"

"Why? I thought you already know.. leave Penacony. The dreamscape is not meant for outlaws like you.."

Gritting his teeth, the other look at the man with betrayal in his eyes. How could he.. how could he side with the enemy? After what they've done... how could he just.. he could shoot him.. he could shoot him now.. he could kill him now.. and yet.. he can't... he can't just..

Even if he sided with the enemy.. he's still.. they're still..

"Come you three, our work is finish."

'Yes, Father."

The days spend in the orphanage were always nice, peaceful, quiet. Stealing cake from the kitchen, picking fruits straight from the tree, playing tag. Life is.. simple.. fun. The world felt so big..

The House of the Hearth...

.....that was their home...

..until it wasn't...

...it all happened at the same day...

where his older brother...

.....was crowned as "King."

...

Blood runs thicker than water...

..is that why it felt heavy when he saw his older brother walk away with three children by his side? One he had turned into soldiers for the House of the Hearth? For the IPC? Because ultimately....

They too once stand in those three children's positions.. soldiers.. unknowingly, that is..

And now... the "King" is continuing the cycle..

His own flesh and blood that he had looked up to.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Fremen Girl: Part 3

Feyd-Rautha x fremen!reader

Notes/Warnings: mentions of blood, injury, death.

Words: 1460

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Feyd POV

He can’t recall a time when nerves have taken over his body the way they do now. Normally, fighting, or the thought of fighting, or witnessing a fight pumps fire through his veins. The anticipation of bloodshed and screams of pain are like the crescendo of a good high, but today, he can’t grab hold of that euphoric feeling. It’s not there, there is nothing to grab hold of, because today, it’s you fighting. 

Feyd sits beside his uncle in the stands as he watches you enter the arena, and immediately, he recognizes his first mistake. The hand not holding your blade is raised to shield your eyes from the brightness of the sun. He should have found a way to train you outside. He should have gotten you used to an environment that is much brighter than your home planet. Though he has no idea how he could have arranged that, if the blinding sunlight is the difference between your life and death, he sees no road to self-forgiveness. 

“You think to take that one for a wife?” the Baron asks as your opponents join you in the arena. The six prisoners enter from three corners, honing in on their prey, but you’ve yet to step into your fighting stance. Your body anxiously twists in all directions to take in the men descending upon you and only you, your hand still acting as a vizor from the light. “She hardly seems capable. She’ll have a blade run through her before five minutes have passed and you will have gathered the masses to witness a bore of a show just like your useless brother.”

Feyd ignores his uncle, knowing the old man speaks only to agitate him. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as you finally prepare yourself, spreading your legs, bending your knees, and dropping your hand so it may join its twin around the blade’s hilt. 

One of the men is bolder than the others and he runs ahead. He takes the first swing at you, but you dodge him, ducking under his knife and throwing your arm out as you pass his legs. The sharp edge slices through the back of his thigh, and he instantly drops to his knees. You turn to face his back and thrust your blade downward into the crook where his neck meets his shoulder. When you yank steel from flesh, blood sprays, splattering your thin clothes, and drains down his bare chest. Feyd can see the body heave before it falls. 

There’s the girl who killed my men, Feyd thinks as a rush of claps roars through the crowd at the first death. He knew you hadn’t shown him everything you’re capable of during training. Maybe you just needed the threat of imminent danger to display your full potential. If that’s the case, then fine. Feyd doesn’t need you to prove yourself to him, he needs you to show the people of Giedi Prime the woman they will soon be bowing to. 

The next is the smallest of the six. Skinnier, shorter, but filled to the brim with fury. His anger is his mistake and it’s clear you know it. You don’t fortify yourself. Instead, you watch as he leaves behind the other fighters and charges with a scream that echoes through the arena. A side shift of your body and a quick swipe of your blade and he pauses, his arms go limp, and he stumbles past you. A wash of dark red flows from his neck.  

You rid yourself of three more. Not without difficulty, but you manage. Their bodies are littered around you, the evidence of their demise soaking your form. Your shirt sticks to your figure from the amount of blood weighing down the fabric. Your arms are dyed scarlet from layer after layer of the red fluid. With each of your steps, scarlet prints are left behind. Exhaustion is evident, but you’re not done yet.

The final man is broader, thicker, taller than you and some of the now-dead prisoners combined. He could crush your windpipe with a squeeze from one meaty hand. He could break your bones with a sharp flick of his wrist. All you have to do is stay out of his way. You’re faster and your limbs are leaner; you should be able to outrun him, but you need to move, now, before he traps you against a wall. 

You jump back from his swing, barely evading the sheer power and force that could have cut you right down the middle. Before you can recover from the attack, he leaps at you. You fall onto your back, blade skittering out of reach. Feyd swallows hard. He refuses to blink. 

“Well, this doesn’t look good for your girl, does it?” the Baron says, sucking at his pipe.

Feyd wishes he could disagree, but you haven’t found your footing. You’re crawling backward, trying to gain some distance from the predatory stalk of a confident aggressor. A blade swipes toward your face. You turn your head, receiving a slash across the cheek, and from how quickly you bleed, it appears deep. At least your head is still attached to your shoulders. 

You kick at his knee, knocking the joint out of place and momentarily rendering him unable to take another step. With the spare second, you scurry to your knife, getting your hand on it just as you’re yanked back by your ponytail. Feyd winces at your shriek, fingernails digging crescents into his palms, jaw aching from his clenching teeth.

Your head wacks against the ground and you’re eyes pinch shut. Potential concussion. You’re disoriented. You need to move. Move, Fremen Girl, Feyd internally snaps, but you’re not moving. The man towers above you, his feet on either side of your thighs. Feyd leans forward in his seat. Your eyelids slowly flutter. 

“Move,” Feyd mutters. 

The man’s whole body goes into the downward jab of his blade. He expects the pointed tip to land right between your eyes, but when you twist out of the way at the last second, it clashes with the ground. The over-expenditure of force knocks him off-balance and he falls on top of you, his chest slamming into yours, crushing you entirely.

Jumping to his feet, Feyd rushes to the edge of the balcony. The crowd is silent. He can’t breathe. Are you breathing? You better be fucking breathing, Fremen girl.

Suddenly, your knees bend and with the last of your strength, you roll the man onto his back, your thighs straddling his hips. His jaw is slack. His arms flop to his sides. Your knife is plunged into his chest. Then with both hands wrapped around the hilt, you pull out and stab into his heart once more, this time twisting the blade. 

As the crowd erupts in cheers, Feyd finally exhales. His shoulders release their tension. 

You stand on wobbly legs and wipe the back of your hand across your scarlet cheek. You’ll need stitches, but you’re alive. Feyd turns, heading for the stairs so he can meet you at your extraction from the arena.

“Not yet, nephew,” the Baron stops him. 

Feyd glances over his shoulder to find his uncle’s gaze still fixed on where you stand. Feyd’s brow pinches and he eases back to the balcony railing as three more prisoners stumble into the arena. The crowd dies into silence. His head whips to his uncle. 

“What is this!” he spits. “What did you do! She’s done!”

“She is done when I say she’s done,” the Baron says, sucking at his pipe once more. “Now sit down and watch the show, or should she live, I will give her to Rabban.”

“You will not!” Feyd shouts. “All of Giedi Prime knows the challenge you set and she met it! She is mine now and I say she's done! Bother Rabban if you want more entertainment!”

The Baron won’t argue further, not now. People were shocked enough that Feyd’s first potential bride would have to face six prisoners compared to the three for his brother’s brides. Whispers of gossip were uncontrollable and even managed to make their way through the halls, passing from servant to servant. They questioned the integrity of the Trial if centuries-old rules could be changed for one woman, and altering them again after you’ve won would be a great disappointment to all who witnessed. The Baron’s thirst for excitement has made him forget that, but Feyd is happy to remind him. 

The crowd suddenly gasps and Feyd turns his head. You’re trying to step away from the prisoners, but those steps are wobbly. The knife has slipped from your grasp. Feyd rushes off to the entrance of the arena.

[where-does-the-heart-lie]

Water is Thicker Than Blood Chapter 46

Tadaaa!! Shes okay :D

{Start} {Prev Next} {MasterPost}

YOU GUYS REALLY THOUGHT I WAS GONNA KILL HER!!!!!!! THAT I WAS GONNA COME TO HER HOUSE LATE AT NIGHT AND KILL HER WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS!!!!

So glad i could get this done today. this morning my iPad wouldn't turn on and i went on a very lengthy trip to find out that i just had to hard reset it by just pushing the buttons in a certain order. Whoever i talked to on the phone that didn't just tell me i could do that, if i ever meet him again, he will face my wrath.

[axeeglitter]

Melorius's shop: Piracy in the blood

Ethan stood on the bustling street corner, peering into the dusty window of a small costume shop he had never noticed before. The worn wooden sign and faded paint suggested the shop had been there for decades, yet it was the first time Ethan had seen it. Desperate to find something unique for Halloween, he decided to step inside.

The moment he crossed the threshold, a bell jingled, and a thick wave of musty air hit him. Inside, the shop was crammed with racks of elaborate costumes. Everything from Victorian attire to knight's armor hung on the walls. The dim lighting gave the place an eerie, antique feel.

At the back of the shop, behind an old wooden counter, stood a man with silver hair and a long beard. His deep-set eyes watched Ethan with a knowing smile, though he said nothing.

Ethan felt a shiver run down his spine, but he brushed it off. He needed a costume, and this shop seemed to have exactly what he was looking for. Approaching the counter, he caught sight of an ornamented portrait painting, covered in dust, hanging on a nearby wall. The portrait looked ancient, almost as though it had been forgotten for centuries and neglected. Ethan was intrigued by it but before his brain could really focus on it, the owner appeared in front of him. “Good morning, sir, how can I help you today?” said Mister Melorius in a kind, peaceful voice.

"Hello, I was wondering if you had any costumes for a Halloween party I’m going to tonight? It’s not really my thing so I don’t really know what to wear, I know that some of my friends go as Super Heroes, other into officer. I simply have no idea what to get that could fit me." Ethan said, his voice wavering slightly.

The shopkeeper’s smile widened, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he went in the storage and came back a couple seconds after holding a box and placed it in front of Ethan. “Trust me son, this is exactly what you need!” No words were exchanged, just a simple gesture for him to take it.

Ethan, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and apprehension, picked up the box. It was surprisingly heavy. He didn’t ask any more questions, simply nodding in thanks before heading to the small dressing room tucked away in the corner of the shop.

The dressing room was cramped, with an old mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. Setting the box down on a rickety chair, Ethan carefully opened it, revealing the contents: black trousers, a white, billowing shirt with a deep V-neck, a thick leather belt, knee-high boots, and a weathered coat. An ancient looking leather harness and a couple of weapons sat neatly on top. “A pirate costume?” he thought out loud. “I mean, it could work, Julia always said she had a thing for Will Turner so maybe wearing this I’ll have a chance to approach her and finally invite for a dinner date.”

Ethan stood there in the cabin holding the clothes between his fingers, there was something undeniably authentic about the outfit. Ethan couldn’t help but feel a strange pull toward it. He removed his own clothes and began to dress, starting with the shirt. The fabric felt soft but heavy against his skin, the deep V exposing more of his chest than he was used to. Next, he pulled on the black trousers, which fit snugly against his legs.

As he tightened the leather belt around his waist, something shifted within him. His breathing grew heavier, his heart pounding in his chest. "What... what the hell?" he muttered, glancing at his reflection.

The moment he slipped into the boots, a sudden surge of heat coursed through his body, like an electric shock radiating from his feet to the top of his head. He staggered, gripping the chair for support. His reflection blurred, the mirror rippling as though it were water.

He gasped, watching in disbelief as his body began to change.

His shoulders started to broaden, muscle bulging under the fabric of the shirt. His chest heaved as it expanded, growing thicker, more defined. Hair sprouted between his pecs, the once-smooth skin now covered in coarse, dark fur. The hair spread quickly, forming a dense mat that stretched down his abdomen and forming a happy trail, stopping just above his groin.

"What’s happening to me?" Ethan’s voice trembled, but it was already deeper, rougher. He tried to pull the shirt off, but his arms wouldn’t obey. His muscles flexed against his will, as though they had a mind of their own. He could feel the power growing in his biceps, his forearms bulging with veins that snaked across his skin like ropes.

A strange anger began bubbling up from deep within him, replacing the fear he initially felt. His usual calm, quiet demeanor was slipping away, replaced by something far more aggressive, primal.

His hands, once soft and delicate, now looked like they belonged to a man who had spent years working under the sun, gripping ropes, handling weapons. The calluses formed almost instantly, thickening his palms, making them rough and unyielding.

"No... no, stop this!" Ethan’s thoughts raced, but his body continued to morph. He watched helplessly as his legs lengthened, growing taller, more imposing. His thighs swelled, pressing against the fabric of the trousers, the muscles there thick and corded. His calves, too, became more defined, the boots now fitting perfectly around his larger frame.

Then, he felt it, a sharp prickling sensation on his face. His jawline, once clean-shaven, began to darken as bristles of hair pushed through his skin. Within seconds, a thick, wild beard sprouted, covering his face. His reflection showed a man he didn’t recognize, a man far older than his 25 years.

The muscles in his face hardened, his boyish features replaced by a rugged, weathered look. His nose seemed to grow more prominent, his cheekbones higher, more angular. His lips twisted into a sneer, a cocky, arrogant grin that didn’t match the terror screaming in his mind.

"No! This isn’t me!" Ethan’s thoughts screamed, but his body didn’t care. His hands reached down on the chair, grabbing the leather harness and securing it around his chest, making sure his heavy muscled hairy pecs were pushed even higher, almost slipping out of his V line shirt. Then he grabbed the weapons before securing them too inside the harness.

He stared at his reflection, feeling the heat rising in his groin. His cock, which had always been average and uncut, now strained against the fabric of his trousers. It grew bigger and thicker with every beat of his heart. Like if his blood was transporting inches and girth with them. Then as he saw his bulge growing heavier and heavier inside his well-used pants, he started to feel a rush of sensations around his cock head. Suddenly he felt an awful pain around his girth as his foreskin disappeared in dust. His cockhead started to rub against his pants again and again. The sensation was growing duller and duller, and soon, it was something his new dick was used to. The sensitivity in his dick head dulled as though it had endured years of rough handling. His groin felt foreign to him, yet powerful. It belonged to this new body, a pirate’s body. Ethan tilted his head back up only to be met with a cocky grin plastered on his face. Suddenly, the tingling sensation started again, this time in his arm pits, legs, and most particularly around his new huge cock. From the corner of his eyes, he could see millions of hair follicles starting to grow, faster and faster, thicker and thicker, curlier and curlier. Ethan wanted to scratch, to get this itch to stop, but the only reaction he could summon from this new foreign body was to scratch his pubes before his hands automatically rise to his nose where his lungs took a deep breath. His brain was assaulted by a new sensation, his potent musk.

The smell hit him hard, an overwhelming musk of sweat, rum, and saltwater. He reeked of the sea; his skin slick with a sheen of sweat that only added to the intense masculinity radiating from him.

"No, please... I’m not this man..." Ethan thought desperately, but the man staring back at him in the mirror was no longer Ethan. He was someone else entirely. He clenched his fists, feeling the raw power in his grip, the authority in his posture. He was no longer the shy, soft-spoken young man who had entered the shop.

A sinister voice echoed in his mind, low and gravelly, as his reflection smirked. "Ye be Captain Blackstorm now, lad. No turnin’ back."

The room around him shimmered and dissolved. Ethan’s heart raced, his mind spinning as he tried to comprehend what was happening. But the harder he tried to hold on to his old life, the faster it slipped away.

Ethan blinked. Darkness swallowed him for a couple of seconds and suddenly, he was no longer in the dressing room.

The creaking of wood, the crashing of waves, and the scent of saltwater overwhelmed his senses. He found himself standing on the deck of a massive pirate ship, the Blackstorm, surrounded by a rough-looking crew of only men going from 20 to 45.

Ethan tried to scream, tried to move, but his body no longer obeyed him. His mouth opened, but the words that came out weren’t his own.

"ALL HANDS ON DECK! RAISE THE BLOODY SAILS, YE SCURVY DOGS!"

His deep voice boomed across the ship, the crew scrambling to follow his orders. His body moved with the confidence and swagger of a man who had been a pirate captain for years, barking commands left and right.

"No! I’m not Captain Blackstorm! I’m Ethan! Stop this!" His mind screamed, but his body didn’t listen. The pirate captain’s cocky grin was plastered on his face as he stood at the helm of the ship, guiding it through the turbulent seas. …………..

As the days passed, Ethan’s soul became trapped inside his own head, a prisoner in a body that was no longer his. He could still think, still feel, but he had no control. Every time Captain Blackstorm laughed, every time he bellowed orders, Ethan was forced to watch, helpless and horrified, wondering if he would ever go back to his college life and see his friends and family again.

His thoughts grew darker, more confused, as Blackstorm’s memories began to replace his own. He couldn’t remember his last name anymore, or what his life had been like before the transformation. The more he tried to hold on to his identity, the more it faded.

Soon, even his name felt foreign. He wasn’t Ethan. He was Captain Blackstorm.

One night, after a particularly brutal raid on a coastal town, Blackstorm stood on the deck of his ship, surveying the spoils. Among the prisoners was a young man, dressed in fine clothes, clearly a young officer from the Spanish Marina. The man was elegant, his sharp features framed by short, curly hair. Blackstorm’s eyes locked onto him.

"Bring ‘im to me," Blackstorm growled, his voice dripping with hunger.

Blackstorm’s eyes locked onto the sailor’s terrified expression, and a predatory grin spread across his face. Ethan, trapped deep inside, recoiled in horror, not knowing what was coming but powerless to stop it.

“Tell me son, what is your name?” “My name is Paulo sir.” Said the young men with fear in his voice. He knew that he wanted a chance to survive, he had to do what this captain wanted. “And tell me, Paulo. What were you doing out there? You look around 22, a bit old to be a cabin boy.” “I was just promoted as an officer, sir. Please don’t hurt me, I’ll do anything. Please.” Paulo broke almost in tears as he remembers the legend of the captain of the Blackstorm.

"Ye look soft, lad," Blackstorm sneered, his breath hot and reeking of rum. "But ye’ll toughen up. I’ll make a proper sailor outta ye."

Ethan’s thoughts screamed in protest, but the words coming from his mouth weren’t his. "No! Stop this! I’m not him!" But the pirate captain’s voice continued to fill the air as if Ethan's consciousness no longer mattered.

Paulo, trembling in Blackstorm's grip, whimpered, "Please, sir, I’m no pirate. I, I’m just an officer."

Blackstorm chuckled darkly, his grip tightening on the young man’s shirt. "For now! Ye’ll learn soon enough, lad. Now get below deck. I’ll see to yer trainin’ myself."

Ethan’s body moved of its own accord, dragging Paulo down to the captain’s quarters, where the room was dimly lit by the soft glow of lanterns. It smelled of sweat, rum, and the salty sea air, Blackstorm’s natural musk now, deeply embedded in the walls and furniture. Ethan wanted to gag at the overwhelming odor, but instead, his body breathed it in like it was the sweetest scent.

Ethan watched helplessly as Blackstorm tossed the young officer onto the bed, his powerful muscles flexing with every movement. The younger man looked terrified, eyes darting to the door as if considering an escape, but Blackstorm was faster. He pinned the young men down, a dark hunger in his eyes.

Paulo struggled beneath him, but Blackstorm’s calloused hands, worn from years at sea, held him firmly in place. "I’ve had my eye on ye since we boarded yer commander’s ship, lad," Blackstorm growled, his voice low and gravelly. "Now, ye belong to me."

"No! I can’t let this happen! This isn’t me!" Ethan’s thoughts were frantic, but the captain’s grin only widened as he leaned closer to the young men, inhaling his scent. The fear radiating off the man seemed to excite Blackstorm, fueling his dominance.

"I’ll make ye a man of the sea, lad," Blackstorm whispered, his hands roaming over the butler’s body, feeling the smooth, uncalloused skin beneath his fingers. "You see, what makes a great captain is not the fear he inspires in his enemies; Noooooo… It’s the respect he inspires in his crew. If you have a crew devoted to you, then nothing is impossible. And I make sure that each and every one of my men are the best versions of themselves. And in exchange, they are devoted to me. Now, you have a great potential, lad, let’s see what’s hidden under the surface. We’ll start with rum, but soon enough, ye’ll learn there’s more to bein’ a pirate than just sailin’."

Ethan screamed internally, but his body reveled in the power and control Blackstorm wielded over Paulo. The pirate captain’s beard brushed against Paulo’s neck, and Ethan could feel the younger man’s pulse quicken in fear.

As Blackstorm grabbed a bottle of rum from the bedside table, uncorking it with his teeth, he forced the officer to drink. "Take it, lad. Ye’ll need this to survive aboard the Blackstorm."

Paulo sputtered, coughing as the harsh liquid burned down his throat, but Blackstorm gave him no respite. He shoved the bottle back into his hands, forcing him to drink more, the warmth of the rum spreading through his body.

With every gulp forced down his throat, Paulo could feel the heat rising in his body. Drops of sweat started to appear on his forehead as his legs started to shake and tense with pression. Soon a crack was heard as his pants started to tear at the seam. The same started to occur on his chest, then his feet. His short brown hair started to grow longer and curlier, his face sharpened a bit, his cock lengthened and lost his foreskin and the sensitivity that goes with it and his body hair started to grow under his pits, and around his cock. Soon Paulo’s body was totally transformed. A perfect specimen of a young manly men devoted to his new life style of pirate.

"Now, lad," he growled, his hands unbuttoning his new crew member’s torn shirt and pants, exposing the smooth, tanned skin beneath. "Let’s see what ye’re made of."

Ethan’s mind fought desperately to regain control, but his body didn’t listen. His hands—Blackstorm’s hands—caressed Paulo’s body with rough, experienced strokes, exploring every inch of his skin. Paulo gasped, his body responding despite himself, a mixture of fear and arousal flashing in his eyes.

Ethan’s thoughts screamed as he realized what his body was about to do. He wasn’t even attracted to men. All he wanted was to get to the party to ask Julia on a date. Ethan could feel his thought getting muted, they were growing weaker, drowned out by the sensations overwhelming his body.

Blackstorm’s cock stirred in his trousers, hardening as he pressed against Paulo’s thigh. The once-shy, soft-spoken Ethan was gone, replaced entirely by the pirate captain who reveled in his dominance, who craved the control he had over his captive.

Paulo, now panting under Blackstorm’s touch, whimpered, "Please... sir… I need … you” Blackstorm silenced him with a rough kiss, his beard scraping against his chin as the pirate’s tongue claimed his mouth.

The taste of rum lingered on the Paulo’s lips, and Blackstorm groaned, his hands gripping the man’s hips tightly as he ground against him. His cock, thick and heavy, strained against the leather of his trousers, begging to be freed.

With a swift motion, Blackstorm yanked down his trousers, exposing his throbbing length. The pirate captain wasted no time, positioning himself between Paulo’s legs, his rough hands forcing them apart.

Ethan’s mind was a swirling storm of panic and confusion, but it was drowned out by the primal lust consuming Blackstorm. His cock brushed against the ass, and with one rough thrust, he entered the younger man, groaning as he buried himself deep inside.

Paulo gasped in pain, his body tensing beneath Blackstorm, but the pirate captain didn’t stop. His thrusts were hard, brutal, and unrelenting, his cock stretching the ass in ways he had never experienced before.

"Take it, lad," Blackstorm growled, his voice thick with lust. "Ye belong to me now."

Ethan, trapped in the pirate’s mind, could only watch in horror as Blackstorm claimed the young men with each powerful thrust. The pirate’s body was drenched in sweat, his muscles flexing as he moved, the scent of musk and sea growing heavier in the small cabin.

Paulo, now whimpering beneath him, began to relax, his body slowly adjusting to the brutal rhythm. His soft cries turned to moans as Blackstorm’s cock filled him over and over again, stretching him until there was nothing but pleasure.

The captain grinned wickedly, leaning down to whisper in his new lover’s ear. "Yer mine now, lad. Ye’ll be beggin’ for more soon enough. Now cum for me, Esteban"

Ethan’s thoughts were fading, his sense of self slipping away with every thrust, every groan of pleasure that escaped his lips. He could feel himself being absorbed into Blackstorm’s mind, his old life nothing but a distant memory. Paulo could feel every thrust going deeper and deeper, he was moaning in pure pleasure not remembering what just happened to his body. As he heard Blackstorm, he felt his body tense. Suddenly, a rush of feelings opened in his brain and he fainted in pure bliss as he started to shoot his cum and his old life. He couldn’t remember where he grew up, what was his work, what was his name. All he could see were Blackstorm, the sea, and the name Esteban flashing in his eyes.

Finally, with one last powerful thrust, Blackstorm came inside Paulo, filling him with his seed and cementing his dominance over his new crew member. The pirate groaned, his body shuddering with release as he collapsed on top of the younger man, his chest heaving with each breath. Ethan screamed one last time as he felt himself being totally assimilated in this new life that was given to him.

For a moment, there was silence. The only sound was the soft creaking of the ship and the distant crash of waves against the hull.

Blackstorm rose from the bed, pulling on his trousers and adjusting his belt. He glanced back at Esteban, who lay panting on the bed, his body trembling from the intensity of their encounter. He went to his personal clothes and grabbed a white shirt, a crimson red sleeveless coat, a black leather trouser and a pair of leather boots before putting them next to Esteban.

" Your name, your life and your future are mine now," Blackstorm growled, his voice dripping with satisfaction. " Get some rest, lad, ye’ll need yer strength for tomorrow’s session."

As he left the cabin, Esteban’s soft, exhausted moans followed him and after a couple of hours, Esteban got up and dressed himself before walking on the deck of the ship as a new men. Blackstorm grinned to himself as he saw his new devoted crew member smiling at him while groping his manhood to adjust it.

Ethan was gone, lost forever in the depths of the pirate’s mind. Only Captain Blackstorm remained, cocky, ruthless, and forever bound to the sea. ............ Mister Melorius was walking back to his counter when he heard a tingling resonating in his left ear. As he turned back, he saw the portrait behind him start to vibrate as the golden plaque under it shone while a new text appeared on it: “Captain Blackstorm, commandant of the Blackstorm. Respected and beloved by his whole crew, adventurer of the seven seas and beyond. 1718” Melorius smiled, knowing Ethan, or Blackstorm, was on for a great adventure and will remain in history as the greatest captain of them all.

______________________________________________________________ Hey guys! Hope you'll enjoy this story created from @tf-vigilante's prompt: "A shy and soft college student enters Mister Melorius's shop looking for a costume. Even though that kind of costume is not like his personnality at all, he is weirdly compelled to ask for a pirate costume. What will happen to him ? How will his Halloween night turn out to be ? Maybe this will be truely life changing…" Hope you guys enjoyed it and as always, feel free to send me asks if you want to pick a costume from Melorius's shop! See you soon!

[brainddeadd]

baby devil facing someone she has never got along with her entire hockey career and she drops her gloves before anyone can stop her not only does is surprise everyone she fought but she won too. matt after the game texts like something like see my lessons paid off. like mat taught her how to trap a punch

Dropping Gloves

Y/N had always been known for her skill on the ice—quick, strategic, and smart—but never as the kind of player to pick a fight. The New Jersey Devils boys, especially Jack Hughes, Nico Hischier, Luke Hughes, and Dawson Mercer, were fiercely protective of her. They treated her like a little sister, and they were used to stepping in when things got too rough. So, when the inevitable showdown came, none of them expected Y/N to be the one to drop the gloves.

It had been brewing for years. The player across from her—a notorious rival she had clashed with since her junior league days—was on the ice again, sneering as always. Every game they faced off, the tension grew thicker, but Y/N had always held her ground, never letting it escalate into a full-blown fight.

Until today.

The chirping started early in the game, and by the second period, her patience snapped. After a particularly nasty check that sent her crashing into the boards, Y/N rose to her feet, the fire in her eyes undeniable. Without thinking, she threw off her gloves before anyone could stop her, skating right up to her long-time nemesis. The crowd went silent for a split second before roaring to life.

The boys on the bench froze. Jack’s jaw dropped, Luke leaned forward in disbelief, and Dawson shouted, “What the hell?!” while Nico stood at the boards, wide-eyed.

Y/N had never fought before, not like this, but her determination was unwavering. The punches flew, and though she took a few hits, her training kicked in—training courtesy of none other than Matt Rempe. Matt had shown her how to throw a punch and defend herself, just in case, but even he probably hadn’t imagined she’d use it this way.

To everyone’s surprise, she won. The refs pulled them apart, and as Y/N skated toward the penalty box, blood trickling from her lip, her teammates erupted with cheers. They might have been shocked, but there was pride in their eyes too.

When the final buzzer sounded and the Devils secured their victory, Y/N’s phone buzzed in the locker room. Wiping her face, still riding the adrenaline from the game, she unlocked her phone to see a message from Matt Rempe.

Matt: “I see my lessons paid off 😉. Nice win, by the way.”

Y/N couldn't help but smile, shaking her head. It was typical of Matt to be playful, especially since they had spent hours practicing punches during their junior seasons. He always said he wanted her to be able to defend herself if anyone pushed her too far.

She looked around the locker room at her protective teammates, all of them watching her with a mix of awe and relief.

“Well,” Jack smirked, walking over with his hands on his hips, “I guess we know who’s gonna be sticking up for us from now on.” The rest of the team chuckled, and Y/N rolled her eyes.

“You guys can stop looking so worried,” she said, grinning. “I’m fine. And besides, it wasn’t a big deal.”

Luke raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You knocked that guy out, Y/N. You’re basically a legend now.”

Nico patted her on the back, his usual calm demeanor tinged with pride. “We’ve always had your back, but it’s good to know you can take care of yourself.”

As the boys crowded around her with teasing remarks and playful jabs, Y/N glanced at her phone one last time, replying to Matt.

Y/N: “Guess you’re a good teacher. I owe you one.”

The night ended with the team more united than ever, and while Y/N knew her teammates would always be there to protect her, she also knew she didn’t need them to fight her battles. She could handle herself just fine.

[scariusaquarius]

rehab. 33.

Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader

Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.

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A/n: THEY HUGGED. THEY HUGGED. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. BIG shoutout to my mom for helping me write this chapter. She is an absolute BEAST when it comes to law <3 so please make sure to give most of the thanks to my mother LMAO (and yes, it was slightly humiliating to ask her help with this). apparently the chapter wasn't as long as i thought, but hey, 7.2k words is still hefty Also, if you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee! If you would prefer to read Rehab on Archive, you may do so right HERE!

This is an au where Bucky joined the avengers but still rehabilitated in Wakanda (sometime before Infinity War [canon divergent cause NOPE]). I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!

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Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares

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Author: ScariusAquarius

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rehab masterlist. / rehab masterlist 2. chapter 30 / chapter 31 / chapter 32

Three days later, the courtroom was completely packed.

Cameras clicked, pens scratched against paper, and the tension was thicker than ice as the spectators whispered among themselves. Power, politics, and consequence hung in the air; an evident reminder of what was to come. The eyes of the world were on Jack Rollins as he sat chained and shackled to the defendants table on the far side of the room, his face blank and uncaring.

On the other side of the room sat a team of the Avengers. Steve, wearing a clean navy suit that barely hid his incredible frame. Natasha, who was wearing a sophisticated black and red suit with an annoyed look upon her face and her arms crossed.

Maria Hill was wearing a simple black and white pantsuit, her hair in its signature bun while sitting rigid and unreadable, the recorded confession tucked beneath her casefile carefully. Clint and Wanda were also present, sitting on the end of their table with equal expressions of suspense while simply adorning their uniforms.

Each of them were staring at Director Holloway, seeing right through his tailored suit that he attempted to wear as a suit of armor. Suddenly, the gavel was struck loudly, the sound crashing through the room like an explosion, and everyone immediately quieted down as the judge entered the room.

"All rise."

Everyone stood in unison, and as the bailiff called the court into session, the judge sat down and gathered herself. She was an older woman, a fire within her green eyes and curly greyed hair framing her face as she nodded to everyone within the room.

"Be seated."

The crowd sat down in unison, chairs and benches creaking, and the prosecution stood, the woman's voice clear, sure, and assertive as she looked at the judge.

"Your honor, today we bring forth not just a trial for Jack Rollins, but a call to action as well. This case is deep-rooted not only in HYDRA, but the Central Intelligence Agency. It is not just about one man's heinous desires or one man's betrayal, but the failure of a security agency within our own government, our country, that is supposed to keep our people safe. It is a call to action to figure out how and why and to immediately end this treasonous behavior."

Steve glanced at Director Holloway from the corner of his eye, and he watched as the man seated directly behind the defense's table shifted uncomfortably within his seat as the crowd began to scrutinize him.

Clenching his jaw, Steve glanced back to the judge, who frowned at the woman's opening statement, and at the sound of shuffling beside him, Steve glanced at Maria whose fingers had ghosted over the tape recorder. Then, the prosecutor cleared her throat before regarding the Judge with a firm look.

"I'd like to call a witness to the stand: Agent Maria Hill."

Murmurs echoed through the crowd, and Maria stood with practiced poise. She was comfortable and confident as she walked to the stand; as if she had done this a hundred times before. Once she was sworn in and seated, the questions immediately began.

"Agent Hill, if you would, can you state your name and affiliation for the record?"

Maria nodded, introducing herself.

"Agent Maria Hill, former Deputy Director for SHIELD."

The prosecutor regarded Maria with a steady look, asking her as she stood in front of Maria.

"You were involved with the independent investigation into Jack Rollins' activities following a discovery made by the Avengers, is this correct?"

Maria replied coolly, nodding as she responded.

"Yes, Mrs. McDaniel. I co-led the investigation into the CIA after irregularities surfaced within the agency."

The prosecutor, Mrs. McDaniel, nodded before she began to pace slightly, glancing down at the ground as she held her hands behind her back, looking up at Maria once more after a moment.

"And, pray tell, what did you find with this investigation?"

Maria answered immediately, adjusting in her seat as she stared down Director Holloway through her reply.

“That Jack Rollins was not only a former HYDRA operative who survived the attack at the Triskelion in 2016, but that he continued covert operations within a post-Winter Soldier initiative while under the guise of CIA employment—backed, knowingly, by Director Dean Holloway.”

The courtroom broke into hushed whispers as the shock went through the crowd, and the Judge immediately banged her gavel once in warning.

"Order!!"

The crowed instantly quieted down, and the prosecutor gave a slight nod to the Judge in thanks before McDaniel gestured towards the evidence box where Natasha's recording was sitting.

"We understand that you have brought a recording into evidence today. Can you explain to the court what this recording entails?"

Maria nodded, gesturing with a nod of her head towards the box as she explained.

“Yes. The evidence is direct audio confession from Director Holloway, recorded during a closed-door debriefing. Permission was granted to record for internal review."

Director Holloway instantly became red in the face at Maria's white lie, and the prosecutor asked.

"It's our understanding that Director Holloway admitted to the CIA's involvement with HYDRA, is this correct?"

Maria looked at Holloway again, her voice steeled and firm as she glared at the man as he damn-near pouted right back.

"Yes. Director Holloway admits to protecting Rollins and redirecting the attention of HYDRA-affiliated incidents. He also admits to providing logistical resources that ultimately enabled human experimentation and funding an enhanced super soldier program, namely Project Achilles."

There was a moment of silence before the prosecutor turned to the Judge, stating to her firmly.

“We would like to submit the recording into evidence.”

The judge nodded, her annoyed eyes glancing at the woman as she demanded.

“Play it.”

There was a moment of silence before the sound of static crackled through the speakers within the courtroom, and then Holloway's voice became clear as day as the recording began to play.

'Listen, this wasn't my idea! The CIA has been using HYDRA as a means to an end! We partnered with them back in the 60's...creating our own super soldier program in order to make the best agents to ensure national security!'

A cut, and then the audio continued as Holloway began to panic within his seat, his eyes wide and face paled, sweat running down his temple as his breathing quickened.

'HYDRA has always been using us as we have been using them. Stealing our information, sabotaging our efforts, the whole nine yards!'

Then, Natasha's voice echoed through the room.

'What do you know about Project Achilles?'

'Project Achilles...it was a last resort. We worked together with HYDRA to create the perfect agent...we slaved for years trying to replicate what Howard Stark had created. Robert had always been a brilliant mind, you see? While HYDRA and the CIA had the same idea of creating a perfect weapon, the CIA wanted to...to have the perfect agent that could protect our country! But HYDRA....HYDRA wanted to expand their influence...to control from within! Project Achilles was just a front!'

The silence within the room was loud once the recording ended. Nobody uttered a word, not even a single breath, and the revelation of what the CIA had done echoed through the room. The prosecutor frowned heavily, and she asked with a low voice.

"Earlier, Agent Hill, you mentioned something called Project Achilles. Can you explain to the court was this project was and what it entailed?"

Maria cleared her throat before explaining, folding her hands in front of her and leaning on her arms slightly.

"Project Achilles was a Winter Soldier program that was started in 1975, but is speculated to have begun since the 1940's after Project Rebirth. It was a joint effort between the CIA and HYDRA to create the ideal infiltration and combat soldier through physical and psychological conditioning. However, it was revealed to be a guise for human experimentation."

The prosecutor hummed, raising her brow slightly as she pressed.

"And it's to our understanding that there is a surviving subject to the project, correct?"

Steve became uncomfortable, frowning as the defense suddenly stood and exclaimed.

"Objection, your honor. Relevance?"

The judge gave the man an annoyed look, raising her greyed eyebrow as her unimpressed expression killed the defense attorney's confident expression.

"Counselor, I think you're gonna want to hear this. Overruled."

The prosecutor then continued after subtly rolling her eyes.

"Can you reveal to us who this subject is?"

Maria looked down at her notes for a moment before she glanced back at McDaniel.

"The subject is classified as Winter Soldier #08, Subject number #2018 under HYDRA and Project Achilles documentation. However, her real name is (Y/n) (L/n). She was born in 1952, and she was a scientist for the CIA before her documented death in 1979, in which she was turned into a Winter Soldier for both the CIA and HYDRA."

Maria paused, glancing at Steve, who simply nodded to her encouragingly.

"She is alive and currently under the protection and care of the Avengers."

Suddenly, the court broke out into gasps and uproars, cameras clicking nonstop and reporters immediately shouting questions. Holloway's face became completely pale, eyes wide, and it looked as though he might faint.

Jack, having not moved since the trial began, finally shifted and glanced up at Maria with a cold and calculating expression. The judge smacked her gavel down repeatedly, exclaiming with a hiss.

"Order! I will have order in the court or everyone in the room will be held in contempt of court!"

The murmurs in the room subsided, but just barely. The prosecutor nodded her head towards the Judge before giving Maria questioning glance.

"Is there anything else that you can tell us about Ms. (L/n)?"

Maria hesitated for a moment before she stated.

"(Y/n) was raised entirely within the Project Achilles initiative since her birth. When her mother attempted to escape with her on December 18th, 1979, she was killed. Ultimately, (Y/n) was taken and turned into a Winter Soldier before being subjected to years of trauma-based conditioning, psychological manipulation, brutal combat trainings, sexual assault and rape, among others."

Maria then paused before glancing at Steve.

"Until recently, when she was recovered by Steve Rogers."

The prosecutor nodded, and thanked her before the defense attorney stood. He was slow and methodical, fixing his suit as he walked up to the stand. He was quiet for a moment, glancing at Maria as if he was trying to put her on edge, but Maria simply raised her eyebrow at him, unimpressed.

"Agent Hill, based on your testimony, you are claiming that the CIA was involved with HYDRA knowingly, is that correct?"

Maria raised her brow again, tilting her head inquisitively.

"That's what Director Holloway's confession stated, so yes."

There were a few chuckles through the room that had the Judge's eyes squinting, and Natasha smirked to herself slightly. The attorney's brow furrowed, and he continued.

"You also stated that the discovery of the CIA and HYDRA working together occurred during an investigation. However, this was not led by the federal government or an oversight committee, but by you and the Avengers. Forgive me, Agent Hill, but this might seem as though this is biased-considering this was done by vigilantes with highly personal stakes."

Maria frowned then, responding firmly.

"We followed the evidence. We weren't the ones hiding it."

"Still, you admit that this investigation was done without sanctions, yes?"

Maria remained calm and collected, giving the man a cool stare as she shot back assertively.

"Unofficial does not mean unfounded."

The attorney spun around, wagging his finger in the air as he called with an almost 'a-ha!' tone to his voice.

"Ah, but since the investigation was unregulated, it seems this was manipulated and selective, would you not agree?"

Maria leaned forward a little, shooting back coolly.

"If we were admitting to manipulation, then Director Holloway's voice wouldn't be on that recording admitting to a federal conspiracy."

The defense turned around then, a strange gleam in his eyes as he pointed out as he suddenly moved on.

"Let's talk about the recording then, Agent Hill. You stated that Director Holloway was informed of being recording, correct?"

"Yes. Natasha Romanoff and I made it very clear that he was being recorded."

The attorney then turned, asking with a raised brow.

"And, you have this consent in writing?"

Maria shook her head, responding with a easy look upon her face as she raised her nose slightly at the man.

"No. Verbal consent is common in secure debriefings."

The attorney then raised his eyebrows completely, giving Maria a look as he out-right asked her once again.

"So, you don't have evidence that he explicitly consented?"

The prosecutor stood up again, frowning heavily.

"Objection, your honor-asked and answered."

The attorney seemed to become red in the face when the Judge gave the man a harsh look.

"Sustained. Mr. Leeds, move on."

Mr. Leeds huffed slightly before he moved back from the stand. He then crossed his arms, a hand to his chin as he began to think. Leeds then gestured, almost carelessly as he put on a care-free image.

"No further questions, your honor."

The judge then looked to the prosecutor, asking after giving the man a skeptical look.

"Redirect, Mrs. McDaniel?"

The prosecutor gave Maria a proud nod before stating to the judge.

"No further questions, your honor."

The judge nodded before looking at Maria, stating.

"You are excused, Agent Hill."

Maria gathered her files before standing down, giving a brief look to Director Holloway and Jack before sitting back down. Natasha leaned over and whispered.

"Way to make him tuck his dick."

Maria smirked, shrugging as she eyed Natasha from the side.

"You win some, you lose some."

Natasha smirked widely before glancing back to the prosecutor. McDaniel looked to the Judge then, requesting the woman with a confident look upon her face.

"Your honor, I would like to call my next witness, Captain Steven Rogers, to the stand."

Steve then stood, adjusting the cuffs to his suit before he walked down to the stand with a calm but confident gait to his step. Once he was sworn in and and sat down, McDaniel addressed him.

"Captain Rogers, for the record, please state your name and affiliation."

Steve nodded, introducing himself.

"Steven Grant Rogers. Former Captain of the United States Army, Former Commander for the Howling Commandos, and I now serve as a tactical consultant and field commander with the Avengers Initiative under special pardons granted by the United Nations and the United States Government."

McDaniel nodded before she asked Steve, crossing her arms as she looked at him with a neutral expression.

"Captain Rogers, you were involved with a recovery operation to an abandoned HYDRA facility several months ago, correct?"

Steve nodded, agreeing, and the woman continued.

"Can you tell the court who accompanied you on this mission?"

"Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes and I led the mission together."

The prosecutor nodded, asking him as she leaned against the table.

"Can you walk us through this mission?"

Steve sat up a bit, beginning to explain as his natural militant persona began to shine through.

"We received credible intel of an old HYDRA facility that was stationed in Eastern Europe and off the books. Bucky and I infiltrated the facility and found that it was still operational despite being abandoned. That's when we found (Y/n) (L/n)."

A stir moved through the crowd, but Steve never moved his eyes from McDaniel as he continued to speak.

"She was in cryogenic stasis when she was found. There were logs that she was in and out of suspension for decades, training data, lab files. It was made apparent that there was long-term experimentation and programming."

"Was there any indication of her origins?"

Steve shook his head, explaining.

"Not initially, no. We discovered her origins later when we tracked down (Y/n)'s most-recent Handler, Jack Rollins, and Director Holloway after we discovered she was a scientist for the Directorate of Science and Technology within the CIA."

McDaniel nodded before she asked.

"What was (Y/n)'s role in Project Achilles?"

Steve's face became firm as he answered, his eyes flicking towards Rollins, who was giving the man a quiet sneer that had Steve's blood boiling.

"(Y/n) (L/n) was the successful test subject of the project. From what we have gathered, (Y/n)'s whole life was fabricated by HYDRA and the CIA: from her birth, her schooling, friends, even her job. They were grooming her to become the most-effective covert Winter Soldier."

McDaniel then asked further, tilting her head a little as the room erupted into tiny murmurs and whispers as pens began to furiously scribble into notepads.

"Were you aware of her ties to the CIA at the time?"

"No. We discovered the connection through a recorded memory (Y/n) had thanks to the advanced technology procured by Princess Shuri of Wakanda."

Feeling that this was enough, McDaniel looked at the Judge and nodded her head.

"No further questions, your honor."

Leeds stood up then as the judge addressed him, pursing her lips.

"Counsel, you made begin your cross-examination."

Leeds didn't hesitate, clearing his throat as Steve regarded him with a guarded expression.

"I'd like to clarify a few details to the court. Captain Rogers, you stated that you led this mission with Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, correct?"

Steve nodded, squinting his eyes slightly as he looked at the man.

"Yes, that is correct."

Leeds then raised his brow, stating.

"And this is the same James Buchanan Barnes that was, for a period of time, known as the Winter Soldier-a HYDRA operative."

McDaniel immediately stated firmly, her stance almost aggressive.

"Objection. Relevance."

The Judge nodded before looking at Leeds with a pointed expression.

"Sustained. Mr. Leeds, rephrase your question or move on."

Leeds hummed, nodding.

"Of course. Captain Rogers, would you agree with Sergeant Barnes has a complex history involving HYDRA?"

Steve became guarded again, his expression steeling as he responded with an assertive tone to his voice as he tried to not become offended by what the defense attorney was beginning to imply.

"I would agree that Bucky was a victim of HYDRA. He, just like (Y/n), was captured, brainwashed, tortured, and used as a weapon by HYDRA. After rehabilitation in Wakanda and with the help of Princess Shuri's technology, he is no longer under their control. In fact, he was fully pardoned and cleared for operations under the Avengers Initiative on the basis that he attends court-mandated therapy sessions overseen by Dr. Christina Raynor."

The defense attorney then asked as he turned to look around the court room, his voice carrying through the room like a cloud of poisonous gas.

"To your knowledge, did Sergeant Barnes have any prior connection to the facility in which (Y/n) (L/n) was found?"

Steve paused for a moment before he swallowed thickly, stating suspiciously.

"No."

"But Sergeant Barnes had previously operated in similar HYDRA facilities, yes?"

Steve then spoke with an offended tone, stating firmly as he sat forward slightly in his seat as his muscles tensed; ready for a fight.

"Yes. Against his will while under the control of Alexander Pierce—and through enforcement by Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins. That was established in his pardon proceedings."

The room erupted into whispers again, and the attorney frowned heavily. Jack snorted from within his seat, and Steve felt his body tense up even more. The defense attorney then turned again, his gaze steeled as he asked.

“And yet, as we are to understand it: following her recovery, Sergeant Barnes became deeply involved in her rehabilitation. Would you say that’s accurate?”

Steve nodded, his voice clipped as he replied while glancing over at Natasha and Maria, who were glaring at the attorney.

"Yes. He stepped in to help. Since Bucky has experience with her type of trauma, he elected to help her."

The attorney nodded before smiling politely at the Judge.

"No further questions, your honor."

The judge nodded before glancing at McDaniel, who rose from within her seat and raising a hand.

"Captain Rogers, just two questions."

Steve nodded, recomposing himself as he breathed deeply, and McDaniel asked him after giving him a moment.

"To your knowledge, did Sergeant Barnes have any control over his actions while under HYDRA’s influence?"

Steve immediately replied, his voice firm as he shook his head.

"No. He had absolutely no control whatsoever."

McDaniel nodded before asking further.

"To your knowledge, did (Y/n) (L/n) have any control over her actions while under HYDRA's influence?"

"No."

McDaniel glanced at the Judge before she nodded.

"No further questions, your honor."

The weight of Steve's answers filled the room, silence overcoming the crowd as the simple scratching of pens from the reporters filled the atmosphere, and Steve was excused to step down. When he returned to the table, Clint hissed out as the Judge called for a recess.

"That damn attorney is trying to do everything except talk about the actual ordeal at hand."

Steve let out an exasperated noise, not sure how to respond, and McDaniel leaned over to whisper.

"That's kind of his job. Don't worry, we're gonna be okay."

Steve nodded, and McDaniel further elaborated.

"We've got a last-minute witness that we are going to call before Shuri begins her testimony."

Wanda then frowned, finally speaking after simply staying quiet and observing the proceeding the whole time.

"Who are you going to call in?"

McDaniel smirked and winked.

"You'll see. For now, let's just take a breather and get ready for the next part of the proceeding."

Once court was back in session and the prosecution was composed and collected, McDaniel stood up, calling to the judge as the room immediately became quiet except for the cameras clicking once more.

"Your Honor, the government respectfully moves, pursuant to Federal Rule of Criminal Procedure 16(d)(2), to call Anthony Edward Stark as an additional witness for the limited purpose of authenticating the memory‑extraction files obtained from (Y/n) (L/n). We further move for their admission into evidence as Government Exhibit G."

Leeds immediately stood, his expression angry as he raised his voice as the court erupted into gasps. With the exception of McDaniel, the prosecution widened their eyes with shock while Natasha smirked and stifled a laugh. On the other side of the room, the defense immediately paled.

"Objection, Your Honor! Mr. Stark was not disclosed as a witness! We’ve had no opportunity to prepare or challenge his qualifications."

The judge gave Leeds a steely expression, pointing at him.

"Mr. Leeds, I advise you to correct your tone swiftly. Mrs. McDaniel, please explain yourself."

McDaniel nodded before she launched herself straight into the fire, stating confidently as the cameras furiously clicked.

"The files we obtained were de-classified and transferred to our office just before the court proceedings began. We notified the defense as soon as we received them. Mr. Stark's testimony will be confined to digital-forensic authentication to verify the chain of custody, cryptographic signatures, and checksum integrity of the evidence before Princess Shuri of Wakanda gives her testimony."

Leeds was glaring at McDaniel hotly while the judge became thoughtful, and after a moment of thinking, she sighed before stating.

"I’ll allow the motion, over objection, solely on the limited scope proffered by the prosecution. The defense may conduct voir dire immediately upon Mr. Stark’s appearance. You may proceed to call your witness."

McDaniel visibly relaxed with relief before Tony was called into the courtroom. Immediately the cameras began to flash and click, reporters calling out to him, but the judge was swift to yell while slamming her gavel down with a sneer.

"Order! One more time, folks! One more!"

She shook her head when the room quieted, rubbing her forehead in exasperation, and Tony was sworn in before being seated. McDaniel gave him a moment to get situated before she stood and addressed him.

"Mr. Stark, can you please state your name and affiliation for the record?"

Tony smirked slightly, his demeanor calm and relaxed as he stated almost cockily, eyeing the other side of the room with glee when Steve just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Anthony Edward Stark, CEO of Stark Industries and inventor of Stark Forensics cryptographic suite. Oh, did I mention I'm an Avenger as well?"

The judge immediately gave Tony a deadpan look, pointing at him.

"Stark, do not test me."

Tony huffed slightly, and McDaniel gave him an annoyed look before asking.

"Mr. Stark, you reviewed the digital files of the extracted memories of (Y/n) (L/n) that Princess Shuri of Wakanda obtained, is this correct?"

"Yes, in fact, I did."

McDaniel nodded before she asked.

"What steps were taken to ensure the absolute authenticity of these memories?"

Tony immediately sat up, a slight grin on his lips as he boasted.

"Listen up, you're gonna love this. First, I confirmed the SHA‑512 hash values matched those generated by Dr. Shuri’s extraction device. Then I ran end‑to‑end checksum comparisons after each data transfer—through Stark Forensics servers, to CIA evidence lockers, and finally to the court’s repository. All checksums were identical. I also verified the embedded Wakandan quantum‑seal certificate using our cross‑jurisdiction key exchange protocol. Pretty amazing, right?"

McDaniel gave Tony a hard look before continuing.

"In your expert opinion, has Exhibit G been tampered with or edited in any way since its initial extraction?"

Tony shook his head.

"Nope. Exhibit G is as authentic as it gets. I mean, they're direct recordings of these memories as they happened in real time."

McDaniel nodded before stating and moving back to sit down at the table.

"No further questions, your honor."

The judge nodded before regarding Leeds with a firm look.

"The defense may proceed to voir dire the witness."

Leeds wasted no time in standing up, giving Tony an annoyed look as he asked from his spot behind the table.

"Mr. Stark, you're not a neuroscientist nor a medical doctor, correct?"

Tony tilted his head, confirming with an intrigued look upon his face.

"Yes, that's right."

Mr. Leeds then smiled slightly, a haughty look upon his face that had Tony becoming annoyed.

"So you cannot guarantee the accuracy of how these memories were extracted-only the authentication that these recorded memories matched the digital files that were attached?"

Tony glanced to the side before looking at the man with an exasperated look.

"Considering my testimony is to ensure the authenticity, that would be correct."

Mr. Leeds gave Tony a dirty look before stating firmly.

"Nothing further, your honor."

"Then, the court will notion that Exhibit G is moved to admission for evidence."

Tony smirked and once he was excused, he practically skipped over to the prosecution table where he plopped down into a seat next to Steve. The Judge instantly looked at Tony, asking him.

"Mr. Stark, what the hell are you doing?"

Tony shrugged, gesturing with his hand wildly.

"Oh, this is a show that I don't want to miss, your honor. You understand, right?"

The judge instantly smacked her elbows onto the table, covering her face as she groaned and threw her hands up into the air.

"Whatever. Not a damn peep, Stark. Can we please move on? Mrs. McDaniel, your final witness if there are no further surprises?"

Steve gave Tony a firm look while Tony smirked at him and winked before looking back at McDaniel as she stood after sighing heavily for a moment as if she was regretting calling Tony as a witness.

"No more surprises, your honor. The prosecution would like to call Princess Shuri of Wakanda to the stand."

The room, although controlled, erupted into more murmurs and whispers as Shuri walked into the room. Her head was held high, a serious look upon her face as she walked in while adorned in her royal garbs. When the woman was sworn in and sat down, McDaniel greeted her.

"Princess Shuri, would you please state your name and affiliation to the court?"

Shuri couldn't help but to smirk slightly.

"Princess Shuri of Wakanda. I am the lead scientist of Wakanda."

McDaniel nodded before asking the woman respectfully, clasping her hands together as she spoke.

"Princess Shuri, you were the creator of the Wakandad technology that was used to isolate, delete, and repair the mind after the effects of mind-control and installed programming, such as the Winter Soldier programming, for Sergeant Barnes and later, (Y/n) (L/n). Moreover, the neural-interface extraction technology used to obtain the memories of (Y/n) (L/n), correct?"

Shuri nodded, elaborating while wincing slightly as she held a hand up.

"Yes, though, if I may correct you? The technology that I created specifically after managing to completely reverse Sergeant Barnes' Winter Soldier programming is an AI that is capable of identifying HYDRA's programming. Not only that, but as well as detect the intensity and depth that it runs. It gives possible solutions and suggestions on what to work on first...and tells me when something activates the program."

The room erupted with hums and small exclamations of awe, and Tony couldn't help but to nod proudly as she spoke. McDaniel's smiled kindly as she asked.

"Can you go into depth about the core principles of this technology that you created?"

Shuri's eyes lit up, and she clasped her hands together as she began to explain.

"Oh, absolutely. Our system uses a vibranium‑infused quantum synchronic scanner to non‑invasively map and record synaptic transmission patterns in the hippocampus and temporal lobe, which is responsible for memory. It captures any memories as they are encoded, then encrypts them with a multi‑factor quantum key, ensuring absolute chain‑of‑custody integrity."

Shuri was smiling, proud of her creation as she spoke, and McDaniel couldn't help but to grin back before asking with a spring within her step and a confident tone blooming within her voice.

"And how exactly do you identify the validity and accuracy of these memories that you are able to extract?"

Shuri launched into the explanation, gesturing all-the-while almost excitedly.

"My program, as well as Mr. Stark's own programs that were used in unison, are put through the AI system that is able to identify the difference between what may be a dream and an actual memory. We look at the synaptic transmissions and cross-reference them with current memories that are located within the hippocampus. After, they are put through a technical audit, overseen by Mr. Stark and his Forensics technology."

McDaniel then moved on, asking.

"Now, did these memories that you have extracted include memories of interactions of Jack Rollins?"

Shuri immediately smirked at Jack, who was glaring at her with a murderous look within his eyes as his jaw clenched.

"Without a doubt."

She then looked at McDaniel, her smile slowly falling as she further explained.

"These memories include many instances of Jack Rollins' supervision of (Y/n) (L/n). They contain traumatic sequences of rape, sexual assault, physical abuse, punitive training sessions, and other abuse tactics that are consistent with HYDRA's Winter Soldier regime."

McDaniel nodded before looking at the Judge with a determined expression.

"We would like to submit these clips to the court. Please let it be known: the following clips are incredibly disturbing, and viewer discretion is advised among the court."

The Judge nodded, her expression serious as she gave the go-ahead. Instantly, a white screen descended as the clips began to play. the first clip was of (Y/n) being held down on the ground, her legs kept spread as Rollins' face smirked menacingly at her.

There was blood covering her thighs and pooled beneath her body. She was trying to struggle, thrashing as he seemed to be shoving an unknown object inside of her. Her vagina was blurred, thankfully, but it was no secret what was happening within the clip.

The courtroom erupted into horrified gasps and gags, and Tony had to look away, becoming stone-cold as he listened to the room react. Beside him, Steve was frozen, his eyes unable to leave the screen from the shock and horror. Natasha and Maria were eerily quiet, and Clint made a noise of disgust. Wanda closed her eyes and covered her mouth, becoming emotional and beginning to cry.

The next clip was of (Y/n) standing in front of Rollins, his face angry as he held a baton within his hand, and though he was speaking, there was no audio. The next second, he violently brought the baton down, and (Y/n) was knocked to the ground, blood spitting from out of her mouth. She shakily sat up, her hands trembling as she unbuckled Rollins' belt and unzipped his pants. The clip ended abruptly, and the next one began almost immediately.

The next one was worse: Rollins was standing above her with a knife, sawing into her skin with a maniacal look on his face as a doctor stood by in the background. His face was covered in her blood, parts of her skin hanging by mere threads and others freshly sewed back. Although her vision blurred for a moment, there was a moment where her head fell to the side, and the court was able to clearly see her face.

(Y/n)'s lower-half of her face was completely covered in blood and open wounds, her eyes bloodshot and one completely red from a busted blood vessel in her eye. She was crying, wailing although no sound came out, all the while Rollins began to rape her, and the clip was turned off.

Tony had to close his eyes and begin breathing as deeply as he could. Steve was angry, his body trembling and the table beginning to break beneath his grip. Natasha stared with a stone-cold face as she watched, and Maria had to look away in disgust. Clint was slack-jawed, his eyes glazed over from the fury that had went through him, and Wanda continued to cry silently as she kept her face covered.

Steve slowly looked over at Rollins, and the only thing that stopped him from lunging at the man was Tony's harsh grip on his arm.

The man was smiling at him. Not a single ounce of remorse or guilt upon his face. Tony was giving Steve a harsh look, stating.

"He's done. He's done for, Cap."

There were angry tears in Steve's eyes, and the man almost felt ashamed for losing his cool for a moment. After a few more clips, the white screen was retracted, and the court was completely quiet. No cameras clicked, no pens scribbled. It was deathly still and quiet. Nobody dared to even breathe. Finally, McDaniel stated quietly.

"No further questions."

The Judge was quiet, her eyes glaring slightly at Rollins before she looked at Leeds.

"The court recognizes that these recordings are authenticated direct memory extractions, reviewed by two expert witnesses and voluntarily submitted. They will stand as evidence. Counselor, proceed carefully."

Mr. Leeds swallowed thickly, his gaze accusatory towards Rollins before he simply muttered, defeated and slumped within his seat.

"No questions, your honor."

The judge was quiet for a moment, quietly scrutinizing the man before stating.

"Counsel, having heard all the testimony and reviewed the admitted evidence, the court will now hear closing arguments. The government may proceed."

McDaniel then stood, her gait filled with solemn but determined fire as she began to address the jury.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you've heard testimony from decorated agents, government officials, and technological experts. You've seen firsthand accounts authenticated by the most advanced technology known to man—memories, extracted directly from the mind of a survivor. And in those memories, you saw Jack Rollins.”

She began to pace in front of the jury, who was giving her their undivided attention as she continued to speak.

“You saw him inflict cruelty. You saw him carry out the most heinous torture, discipline, and manipulation. You've heard a recorded confession from the Director of the CIA, Dean Holloway, admitting to the CIA's involvement with Jack Rollins and HYDRA under the guise of national interest; effectively enabling these crimes.”

McDaniel then shook her head, her voice raising just the slightest as she raised her hand.

"This is not just about a shadow that is hidden within history. This is about men in power who made repeated decisions that cost lives; who destroyed a person's humanity and called it patriotism. Who destroyed a man who was once a war hero. And who continued these operations years after HYDRA was thought to be gone."

McDaniel then turned to look at Jack Rollins and Dean Holloway for a moment before spinning back to the jury.

“Jack Rollins committed the most atrocious crimes known to man, and Dean Holloway enabled them. And now, you hold the power to deliver justice—to say, unequivocally, that what happened was not just wrong—it was criminal. The government asks you to return a verdict of guilty on all counts for all parties involved.”

McDaniel regarded Leeds with a haughty expression, the man stewing within his seat, and the second that McDaniel sat down, Leeds stood up and wiped the sweat from his brow. He walked to stand in front of the jury, who all seemed almost disinterested in what the man had to say.

“You’ve just heard a powerful argument. You’ve seen painful images. You’ve listened to compelling witnesses. And I don’t doubt for a second that you are angry. That you want someone to blame, but in a court of law, emotion and sympathy is not enough. In our government, we deal in facts, admissible evidence, and the burden of proof."

He cleared his throat before he began to speak, becoming a bit frazzled as he watched one of the reporters roll their eyes at him.

"M...My client, Mr. Rollins, has been accused of crimes based on memories extracted by experimental technology. Technology that—even if groundbreaking—still raises concerns about accuracy, interpretation, and consent. Furthermore, Director Holloway’s statements were recorded under questionable circumstances—without legal counsel, and without assurance that what he said wasn’t coerced or misunderstood.”

The defense attorney gestured widely with his hands, pleading.

“I ask you not to ignore the pain you've seen—but to remember your oath. That you would base your decision not on outrage, but on evidence beyond a reasonable doubt. And when you do that, you will see that this case, no matter how sensational, is riddled with shadows. Shadows that cast doubt—and doubt, ladies and gentlemen, demands acquittal.”

Once Leeds sat down, dabbing more sweat from his brow, the Judge then instructed the jury.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you will now receive instructions on the law before retiring to deliberate."

The judge then began to give her instructions, and once the court was called into a recess for the jury to deliberate and she left the room, Mr. Leeds began to quietly berate Rollins, who didn't seem to be listening to a single word that he was saying.

In contrast, the prosecution was deathly quiet, nobody daring to utter a single word, save for Clint, who was comforting Wanda carefully and gently. Tony simply muttered to Steve after a moment.

"I told you. I told you they were fucking horrible."

Steve's jaw clenched as he eyed Tony, and Tony glanced at Steve. Steve was almost surprised at Tony's teary eyes, and Steve looked away. He couldn't even speak, unable to properly word his thoughts, and Tony took a deep breath.

"I say after this, we all get drunk and take (Y/n) on a vacation."

"Wakanda is her vacation, Tony."

Natasha stated numbly, and Tony rolled his eyes. When the Judge entered the room again, the atmosphere immediately changed. Instantly, everyone shifted within their seats, and hearts began to race in anticipation.

"Will the jury foreperson please rise?"

A woman stood then, seeming to be in her 50's and a strange look upon her face as she looked at the judge. She was holding onto a small piece of paper, her lips pursed as she glanced around the room, looking almost nervous as she began to read from the paper.

"In the matter of the United States versus Jack Rollins, on the counts of all charges brought against Jack Rollins—we find the defendant: guilty."

A murmur moved through the crowd, and Steve and Tony both took a relieved breath. Natasha and Maria subtly fist-bumped, and Clint, Wanda, and Shuri remained quiet and stoic. The woman then took another breath, reading from her paper once more.

"In the matter of the United States versus Director Dean Holloway—on the charge of obstruction of justice, conspiracy, and aiding and abetting war crimes—we find the defendant: guilty on all counts.”

The judge nodded and the crowd began to buzz with anticipation as the woman spoke.

"Thank you, members of the jury. Your service in this difficult, historic, and timeless case is noted and praised by this court and your country. Sentencing will be scheduled for a future date. Court is adjourned."

Her gavel smacked down with finality, and the courtroom immediately went wild. Cameras began to flash, reporters shooting up from their seats as they tried to get both the prosecution and the defense to answer their questions. However, security was adamant about keeping a path cleared for the parties to exit the courthouse.

Once everyone was outside, it became worse. Steve, Tony, Natasha, Clint, Wanda, and Shuri were all completely surrounded by reporters, spectators, and protesters yelling and screaming. Steve was immediately overwhelmed, and Tony took off his sunglasses as a reporter shoved a microphone in his face.

"Mr. Stark! Given how long she was with HYDRA, do you think (Y/n) (L/n) is even capable of being a real victim—or is she just another trained killer playing the sympathy card?"

Tony blinked as the crowd suddenly became for half of a beat; tension immediately rolling through the air, and Tony's jaw clenched. He leaned forward into the mic before stating firmly.

"You know what I think?"

A beat, and then.

"Fuck this guy."

Tony immediately shoved the reporters out of the way, and the rest of the prosecution followed. Once everyone climbed into Tony's limo and the vehicle drove away, everyone finally took a breath and relaxed. Steve's head fell back against the seat, and Clint stated softly.

"We did it, guys. At least we did it."

Natasha sighed before stating, shaking her head as she pointed out.

"The fight isn't over yet. HYDRA is still out there, and now that they know that the world knows...finding them is about to be a lot harder. Ten bucks that they are already trying to clear out."

Shuri hummed, her fingers drumming against her thigh as she replied with a firm gaze.

"Not if we can help it. We will root out every HYDRA agent until there are none left to poison this world with their disgusting presence. I can assure you of that. You have Wakanda's full support...unless my brother says no."

A small chuckle went through the group, and Tony stayed staring out the window with an angry expression on his face. Steve glanced over at Tony, asking carefully.

"Are you alright?"

"Besides never being able to unsee those clips? I'm just peachy, Cap, thanks for asking."

Steve felt almost bad for asking, and after a moment, he was surprised by Tony's voice asking him softly.

"And you?"

Steve pressed his lips into a firm line, closing his eyes and becoming instantly haunted by the images of the clips. Shooting his eyes open, Steve just sighed.

"Angry."

Tony nodded before he simply stated as the world began to feel a lot heavier.

"Good. Remember that for later."

Steve wasn't exactly sure what Tony meant, but Steve decided not to dwell on it. Instead, he watched the world go by as he silently wondered if Bucky had been watching the whole time.

-

STORY NOTES: please don't make me summarize this a;lskdjf;alsj THE MANS IS GUILTY

TRANSLATIONS:

None, thank god

TAGLIST: @buckvoidsyy @chonkybonky @seemsxsketchy @tilldeathripsusapart @vicmc624 @mgchaser @aash3 @samfunko @seventeen-x @valckenaux @babybeeelle @sc4rrc @cjand10 @bane-y-zane @notsostrangerthing @thenameswinter99 @bumblebeebutter @torntaltos

[wakasaz]

My mind is filled with Waka being a brat tamer🤭

𐙚 Pairing: Wakasa Imaushi x fem!reader

𐙚 CW: Dom waka, brat reader, unprotected sex, rough sex, choking, slapping, pet names, jealousy, mean Waka

𐙚 18+ MDNI [n]sfw

𐙚 Word Count: 1.1k

𐙚AN: not proof read.

𐙚 To say Waka was shocked you were less than thrilled to see him at your door was an understatement. “What? Not happy to see me darlin’?” You roll your eyes “Don’t call me that” Wakas eyes widen slightly. Usually you love whatever pet name he calls you. You turn and walk into your apartment leaving the door open so he can follow.

𐙚 You haven’t seen each other in a few weeks and if he knew that he it would cause you to have attitude with him he would of came to see you sooner.

𐙚 You and Wakasa have a simple arrangement. When he shows up or calls you know its to fuck. He never contacts you for anything else. You’re fine with this. You get free sex and sex with Waka is always good but today you are not in the mood to see him. You’ve been pissy since you woke up. Everything that could go bad today did and you are just ready to crawl in bed and forget about it.

𐙚 You ignore him as he talks to you, rolling your eyes every few words. He asked you something. You weren’t listening so you just clicked your tongue and turned your head away from him.

𐙚 Before you can even register what is going on your back connects to the wall and Waka has his hand around your throat, he is so close your noses are almost touching. “I’m tired of the fucking attitude. Now are you going to let me fuck this tight pussy or am I going to have to find some other bitch to get me off?”

𐙚 Your eyes widen slightly before going back to normal. You chuckle, smirking at him. “You find one of your other bitches then, not like you can fuck me goodenough anyway.”

𐙚 Wakasa lets out a growl before his mouth is on your in a heated kiss. You feel him squeeze your neck. Not tight enough to hurt you but enough to cut off air for a second. His tongue slips in your mouth and you fight for dominance but he wins when he squeezes your neck again. You let a moan slip past your lips and he smirks against you.

𐙚 He pulls you from the wall walking backwards towards your bedroom. Once inside he pushes you down on the bed standing over you readjusting himself. “You going to be a good girl and suck my cock?”

𐙚 “I’ll bite it” “no you won't. Not if you want to come too” He tells you to strip. You roll your eyes at him but can’t ignore the way it made your pussy clench. “Take them off yourself” Waka tilts his head to the side and smirks down at you “Still wanna be a brat I see” he says while running his hand up your bare thigh stopping right at the bottom of your skirt. “That's fine” his hand slides high fingers under your skirt “I only really need one thing off” he says as he strokes your clothed pussy before pushing your panties to the side and finding your clit.

𐙚 You bite your lip trying to hold back a moan when he adds more pressure and speeds up his movements. He pokes a finger at your entrance feeling how wet you are. He groans at the feeling. “Soaked and just from a little petting” he mocks. You harden your gaze at him glaring. He chuckles before shoving his finger in starting slow but building his pace, curling his finger at just the right spot. “You going to be my good girl now?” He adds a second finger this time no matter how hard you bite your lip a moan falls from you. “There she is”

𐙚 Your legs are shaking, your biting your lip so hard you can taste blood when an idea pops into your head. “Omi fingers me better” All movements stop. You want to whine at the loss of pleasure but your pride won’t let you. “What did you just say, princess?”

𐙚 “I said Omi fingers me better. He has thicker and longer fingers than you. Now that I think about it he fucks me better too.”

𐙚 “That so” He says through gritted teeth before he grabs your hips flipping you over on all fours. “Ass up” he pushes your face into the mattress, flipping your skirt over your plump ass before delivering a hard slap. “You wanna be a whore, I’ll fuck you like a whore” He grips your panties pushing them to the side as he frees himself from his pants hissing as the cool air hits him.

𐙚 “Your going to take my cock like a good girl and your going to thank me for it” He shoves himself into you, no warning, no time to adjust as he starts a brutal pace. He’s gripping your hips so hard you know it’s going to bruise but you don’t care it feels so good. Waka has never fucked you hard. It’s always been sweet, almost loving. If you didn’t know Waka better you’d think he was in love with you.

𐙚 “Take it” he says as his fingers find your clit. “Your going to come on my cock and milk me for everything I’ve got” you moan into the bed, hands balling into fists, clenching the sheets. You're so full. It’s been so long since he visited you forgot how well he fills you up.

𐙚 You feel your release building. Your moaning and drooling into the mattress when everything stops. Waka is shallowly thrusting into you and his fingers are off of you. “No” you whine “Your going to beg if you want to come. Beg like a bitch in heat.” your pride doesn’t want you to. If you had more willpower you wouldn’t but fuck you were right there. “Please” “You can do better than that” he says delivering a hash thrust than going back to shallow

𐙚 “Please waka, please let me come. Let me milk your cock, fill me up like I’m your little slut, just please let me come” You beg tears rolling down your cheeks as you cry into the sheets pray he gives you your release.

𐙚 “That's more like it” his fingers are on you again and his fast deep thrust are back. “Come” He demands. You’re moaning and scream his name repeating it like it's the only word you know. Probably because right now it is. Your legs are shaking as your release washes over you. The feeling of you clenching his cock is enough to push him over the edge. He fills you up telling you to take it all like the good girl he knows you are.

𐙚 You both lay there catching your breath when Waka walks away. He comes back a few minutes later, picking you up and carrying you to the bathroom, stripping you of your clothes. He lays you down in a warm bath rubbing your back, working out any knots. He kisses you “See you are my good girl”

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

An a/b/o fic with maybe Bruce Wayne or Arthur curry, where they have been searching for their omega for most of their life, and when they are fighting a villain fem reader comes in and helps them, I was thinking that reader she has telekinesis or something and, she helps them and they are blown away by her, never thinking that their omega could be a hero as well

.⋆｡Crashing Waves｡⋆.

alpha!Arthur Curry x plus size reader

He has been looking for her for his whole life and she arrived just in time

Warnings: a/b/o, true mates, hero!reader, omega!reader, violence against robots, reader is shorter than Bruce and Arthur (but who isn’t), implied smut WC: 1.4k

6k Follower Celebration Bingo

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

Even after serving as Atlantis’s king for five years now, Arthur doubted he would get used to the searing smell of salt that constantly clung to everything around him. It burned his nostrils even when he was lounging around the JL tower and part of him wondered if he would ever be able to properly scent out his mate while the sea constantly invaded his senses. Though even before he claimed the throne, he wasn’t exactly successful on that front.

He felt like he had searched everywhere for his omega, the biological urge deep down in his chest driving him to scour every inch of the earth for them. But they had eluded him and even if his parents (themselves being true mates) assured him that the right omega would appear when the time was right, he remained alone with the smell of the sea. 

Arthur was almost glad, at times, for a good fight. Smoke, sparks from his trident, even blood gave him a break from the usual salt that surrounded him, temporarily cleansing his pallet so to speak. But maybe not today he thought with a wince.

Hundreds of broken robots surrounded him, the never-ending wave of enemies only getting thicker as his exhaustion began to mount. Batman was somewhere deep in the crowd, attempting to override their programming as Arthur tried to keep him safe enough. New enemies were always a pain in the ass but this one was definitely levels above the other newbies they fought. And Arthur was already fantasising about what he’d do to the skinny little white guy as soon as he got his hands on him, that is if Batman didn’t get to either of them first.

“Is there any way to hurry this up!” He shouted above the screaming of gears and failing electronics. 

“This would go faster if you stopped hitting them at me.” The Bat growled as he hit yet another firewall in their programming. Arthur took another swing of his trident, knocking away a flying robot that had gotten way too close to his partner’s head for comfort. It let out a high pitched whine as it was launched into the horizon.

“This would be faster if you didn’t type in the wrong code to begin with!” A batarang screamed past his ear, landing right in the huge glowing eye of the robot hovering just over Arthur’s right shoulder. Oil sprayed from its side, coating Arthur’s hair. 

A deafening roar sounded through the empty field as another shipping container rose from the ground, releasing even more robots. Batman turned back to the computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard all while the swarm closed in around them. “This is gonna hurt.” Arthur cocked back his shoulder and raised his trident, maybe he could knock out a few rows of them before they got too close and he’d have to switch to his fists. 

Just as he readjusted his grip to throw the trident into the thickest grouping of robots, everything went silent.

The now frozen robots hung in the air like someone had just paused time, though they still whirred and whined, their huge red eyes glowing even brighter. Then, with little more than a sharp click from somewhere to his right, they were pulled backwards, the mechanical bodies slamming into each other as they were forced together into one huge sphere hundreds of feet off the ground. 

“What the fuck?” Suddenly, the sphere crumpled like tin foil, the metal warping and collapsing until all that was left was a flat sheet of wires and dying LEDs. It slammed into the earth, disappearing behind the long grass as Batman’s screen turned green.

“Great timing there bats.” But Arthur’s tone held no bite, not when the salty smell of the ocean and ozone slammed into him. 

Immediately, every nerve in his body came to life, buzzing like he was drunk but his mind was clear, clearer than it ever had been before. A figure was walking through the grass, elegantly avoiding the mangled carcasses of their battle. As she approached, her scent became stronger and Arthur could now smell the subtle hint of something flowery like a warm spring breeze. 

The light of the sunset made her practically glow as she moved, her thick curves and perfect dips highlighted by a tight catsuit that looked like it was pulled straight from his teenage fantasies. 

“I hope I didn’t show up too late.” Her voice floated around him and Arthur’s knees buckled. 

“You’re right on time.” Her e/c eyes met his golden ones and he watched as her nose turned up and she took a deep breath of his scent. Her heavy chest hitched and her own scent turned sweeter. His stomach flipped as something deep inside him stretched awake for the first time in what seemed like years.

“Y/N. What took so long?” Batman crossed his arms as he looked down at her, his jaw ticking in anger. Yet her expression never faltered, in fact she glanced at Arthur with a raised eyebrow. Her smile was bright, shining with something ethereal. 

“Oh I don’t know, maybe the fact that you gave me a coded message with the coordinates instead of being a normal person and sharing your location with me? I may have psychic powers but I suck at math dude.” 

“That was you?” Arthur hadn’t noticed that his body was moving on its own until he finally spoke again and she had to crane her head almost all the way back to make eye contact with him. Warmth unlike anything he had experienced before bloomed through his chest as she leaned towards him, fluttering her lashes up at him.

“I have a lot of tricks better than that.” Her scent was almost overpowering now but all he wanted to do was drown in it. Y/N’s shoulder brushed against his pec and something snapped.

The world tilted on its axis and he suddenly knew what his parents were talking about when they said that the moment they met, nothing else mattered. “Omega.” 

Her body sagged into him as she breathed out an almost inaudible “alpha”. His trident dropped unnoticed to the ground. 

“I’ve finally found you.” She fell easily into his arms, like they had been made to hold her. She pressed her face as close as she could get, her words muffled against the thick armour but he could hear her clearly all the same. 

“You stole my line,” he whispered into her hair, breathing her scent as much as he could, “I’ve been waiting for you for so long. Who knew I’d find you after you saved my life?” Her giggle made his heart swell with affection and pride.

“You’ve obviously been looking in the wrong place.” Y/N looked up at him as he cupped her full cheek with a massive hand, guiding her face upwards. His eyes dropped to her lips.

“I could say the same about you.” He leaned down and just as his lips were about to touch hers-

“Alright that’s enough,” Bruce snarled, “need I remind you both that there’s still a villain we need to deal with.” 

Y/N never looked away from Arthur, in fact she wound an arm around his neck and tugged him even closer. His alpha roared to life, hyper-focusing on the softness of her curves beneath his hands. “You go ahead, I think my alpha and I have done more than enough heavy lifting for the day, we have better things to do.”

“I’m going to regret asking but what exactly is more important than dealing with a potentially global threat?” Arthur smirked, catching on to the game she was playing.

His right hand dropped from where it was resting on her wide hip down to the plump cheeks of her ass. “I’m going to rip her clothes off and fuck her brains out right in this field. So unless you’re into that stuff-“ she slapped his chest at that, “-then I suggest you move on, Bats, cause right now, nothing is going to stop me from claiming my omega.”

“You two are disgusting.” He grumbled and walked off, finally leaving the newly discovered mates alone.

“Now where were we?” Arthur purred before Y/N yanked him down and finally kissed him, making the smell of the ocean explode around them.

Her scent had been haunting him for years, etching itself into his mind and suddenly, Arthur loved the smell of salt again because it meant that he finally had his omega.

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