#but there had to be someone to know enough of firearms to include such a gun

[deckond]

irrelevant detail: the gun clay is holding in this frame is actually a colt acr, a submission to the us military as an improvement for the m16 rifle, which never passed.

the gun has never been used by the us military nor by any civilians as far as i know of. it is extremely rare to get your hands on a military weapon like this, especially if it never made it through.

and he didnt have just one, no he had THREE of them (including the one he was holding). probably the only explanation of how he got his hands on it is if he was involved in the gun manufacturing, military testing or probably some illegal shit.

there’s like already a bunch of questionable items in clay’s arsenal but this is what caught my attention LOL.

[beneathashadytree]

LOVE YOU TO DEATH - SYLUS QIN X READER

Warnings : slightly suggestive, making out, alcohol consumption, allusions to “sinning”/religious imagery, reader is AFAB and uses she/her pronouns!

Genre : domestic fluff with lots of tension!

Word count : 4.5K words (oops…)

Additional notes : This has been a seriously long time coming🙏🏽 It was a commission made by a friend here on Tumblr, based off Type O-Negative’s song “Love You to Death”, and may or may not have gotten carried away with it (hence the delay and the absurd word count😭). Hope you like it!! And let me know what you think of this guys🫶🏽

Commissions are open!

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“Madame!”

The frantic call came from behind her, and with a practiced turn, she faced the red-faced man who’d been running up to her. Keeping her facial expression as placid as possible wasn’t as easy as she was trying to convince herself it was—and especially not after having spent 3 hours in a bedazzled ballroom, head splintering already from the wine and the rapid-fire conversations she’d had to entertain—but she somehow managed it. Coolly, she arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”

And though she eyed him with no disdain, her indifference was intimidating enough to force the man to swallow thickly and shift in his place. A flush had settled on his face, fueling her amusement as he took a hesitant step forward. “I… you said you were waiting for something. If… if you don’t mind, would you, well, care for a dance?”

Poor thing. He probably had no idea. She felt a little sympathetic, but her resolve was still hardened. After all, she was well aware that the only possible reason he’d deemed her fitting to approach in the first place was the fact that she was inarguably the most powerful person in the room. This was only mere exploitation, not actual admiration. His hesitation could be chalked up to intimidation. “Thank you, but I’ve got an escort.”

“But, please, you were talking about the firearms deal—!”

A rich chuckle resounded in her ear, followed by the soft smack of lips against her cheek in a kiss. Fond as that gesture was, the upwards flicker of crimson eyes was no less sharp as his gaze became directed at the overly-ambitious upstart. “I see you’re feeling rather bold tonight, Richter. Directly going for such business talks when asking for someone’s hand… a rookie mistake.” Punctuated by the hand settled on her waist, stroking over the silk, it was made more than apparent who her ‘escort’ was.

The young man’s face paled, and she couldn’t deny the twinge of enjoyment she felt as she played along with Sylus. “Indeed. Anyone else would be put off by such open exploitation.”

“But you’re not anyone, are you? I’d even say you like it when I bring up these things,” he quipped back, bringing her in closer by the waist and tucking her against him, before turning to the wide-eyed, speechless man whose trembling seemed to amuse him even more. “We’ll be off now. Be more careful next time.”

And though he said nothing more, it was clear that Sylus’ warning wasn’t just about being tactless. It was a reminder that the most poised, fanged woman in the room stood by his side, and no one else. The only secrets she’d divulge would be to him, in the confines of their own bedroom, and Richter would do well to remember it. Next time—if there ever were to be one—he’d make sure to remember it, or else he wouldn’t be as lenient.

Arm in arm, they left the stuffy ballroom together, and as soon as they were out in the open air, she heaved a sigh in relief. “Gods, I was about to suffocate. Everyone was going on and on about that deal.” Rolling her eyes, she stopped on the sidewalk to slip out of her heels, stretching her toes as they settled against the gravel. “Approached by ten different people, no less, all trying to butt in and include themselves to ensure some profit or the other.”

Within a second, Sylus had already kneeled down to take her heels, carefully twisting her ankle this way and that to try and soothe the ache of the long evening. She sighed again, and his gaze was hard as he looked up at hers. “You shouldn’t have let them bother you. You’ve got enough influence to prohibit them from ever mentioning it in front of you. And I wouldn’t mind exacting punishments in your stead.”

“A privilege I won’t be using any time soon, thank you very much.” With her heels in one hand, he began to steer her by her back with another. Frowning, she looked away from where she’d initially set her sights. “You didn’t let Luke and Kieran bring the bike around tonight for us to go on a joyride after?”

Sylus gave her a pointed look, slightly exasperated but still dyed in fondness. “Given the dress you’re wearing, I’d have to be particularly stupid to force you to hike it up to your hips to ride on. It would’ve been an entirely different thing if you’d worn one of your velvet suits, though.” Maybe he hadn’t noticed it, but his hand on her back was leaving fluttering touches and strokes over the small of her back, right where the fabric started. And maybe that was his little give-away that he enjoyed seeing every inch of exposed skin with that dangerously low-cut back.

It wasn’t long before they were sliding back into their respective seats in his sleek car. The fresh smell of new leather, cooled wine in the compartment, and something a little heady—a little him—made her grow dizzier with each second. Barely a few minutes had passed with her legs crossed when his own rough palm slipped through the slit of the dress and between her knees, gently prying them apart and gliding over the soft skin, before settling on her thigh right underneath the lace edge.

And though he’d done nothing else at all, save flicker his eyes back to her in the rear view mirror and quirk the corner of his lips upwards, squeezing her thigh before turning his attention back to the road, she felt like he’d bared a fraction of his mountain of carefully-hidden desires. And that was one mountain she knew only she had the ability to watch tremble and shake. Perhaps that was another privilege she had, standing by his side.

***

Sylus’ hands on her feet felt like a small piece of heaven made perfectly with her tired self in mind. After he’d carried her out of the car like she’d weighed nothing with her heels dangling from two of his fingers, he’d let her unlock the door with her fingerprint and quickly settled her into the couch without so much as a grunt. And soon his deft fingers were kneading at her soles, earning a hiss or two here and there that let him know he was definitely doing the right thing.

“I take it you failed to break into these new shoes,” he chuckled, shaking his head as he felt out another small knot that had been killing her the entire evening.

Groaning, she clutched at his wrist, the sudden pain sharp and unyielding. “Wasn’t exactly my priority, with so much going on. I was more preoccupied by the fact that Denise fucked up in the middle of the information chain. Had me cleaning up after her.” Despite her twitching, he went on massaging their tendons and muscles, until the frown on her face slowly morphed into a relaxed expression.

“Why do I have to keep telling you not to concern yourself with what’s beneath you?” Again, he sighed, as though it truly pained him to hear her putting herself through this, and then went on to reverently stroke at her calves, gently lifting her legs up for a second so he can take a seat in her place. “You shouldn’t have to do the dirty work. We’ve got lackeys for that.”

“You say that, but you’re really just pushing more work onto Luke and Kieran,” she scoffed, flicking his fingers away, instead pushing forward and draping herself across his lap, the slit on the side of the dress revealing more of her thigh as she did. A not-so-small part of her absolutely reveled in the way his eyes tracked her every movement, following the fabric as it slipped away and darkening with every inch of soft skin it exposed to his gaze. “And besides, I kind of like letting everyone know that I’m aware of everything going on, now and then.”

“An ego trip then?” Sylus teased, before bumping his nose with hers, hungrily taking in the catch in her breath. “Mm. Well, it’s a highly deserved one, sweetie.”

With her heart hammering in her chest, it was a wonder she could even come up with any sort of reply, let alone one with her whole heart and snark in it. “Flatterer,” she breathed out, eyes betraying her to glance at his lips, perfectly curled and awaiting her every beck and call. If she wanted to regain her senses any time soon and not completely surrender to the gaping maw of his desires, she had to pull back for a second.

And that she did, though her entire being protested to it. No disappointment marred his features; in fact, if she could call it that, she could detect a glimpse of deeper yearning burning behind his ruby eyes. “You know I don’t. Flatter, I mean. You’re just that good.” His words were double-edged. Her power in the position she held was undeniable, but neither was the fact that he never needed to win her favor to have her feelings in his palm.

It’s just that Sylus always did like the chase, more so than the ever-so-pleasant rewards he reaped afterwards. Part of him always urged her to let him earn her affection, and the wickedness within her wanted to see him grovel for it, just a little. And with how utterly infatuated he was—if those all-consuming eyes of his were anything to go by, in their blazing glory and darkened depths—he’d have no qualms with that. If he truly didn’t like going down on his knees for her, then why did he look so sinfully good doing it?

And why was that image of him imprinted in her mind, playing in an endless loop, tempting her to indulge more and more in his attentions?

Still at what she felt was a safe distance so as not to get devoured by him, she gently patted his cheek, her thumb stroking in rhythm with his own fingers wandering to caress her waist ever-so-tenderly. “Then, why not reward me for my proficient skills?” she coyly asked, nodding her head slightly to the rack so conveniently placed beside them.

“Isn’t it too late for that, sweetie?” he asked, though his arm was already reaching over to the assortment of wines he’d so carefully picked out and left to cool in their chilled compartments. Though Sylus had never said it outright, it was no secret to anyone around that he was a wine connoisseur of his own right. The fact that his darling only wished to indulge in the sweet, sweet aftertaste of ludicrously expensive alcohol with him only made him more eager to have it ready at hand—particularly for moments like these, when the sultry look in her eyes paired with her fluttering touch drove him half to insanity.

It wasn’t so absurd to say that he would do anything to keep her so pliantly perched on his lap, every bit as demanding of his attention as he was willing to give her all of him. And the saccharine smile that grew on her face as he reluctantly pulled away from her waist to uncork the bottle was proof that she knew just how desperate he was for her hands all over him and her eyes solely focused on him.

Expertly, he began to pull out the decanter, only to be stopped by her fingers snaking around his wrist, tugging it back. “Not feeling very patient. I’d rather not wait for it to be aerated.”

He chuckled—a deep, pleasant sound straight from the depths of his chest—clearly pleased by her brazenness. “Straight from the bottle and to the glasses it is. I like it when you demand what you want.” Maybe a few years ago, she would’ve flushed deeply at the manner in which she put herself on the line. But with him, she knew that there was no line, and there was no ‘out there.’ For he was a part of her, nestled between her breasts and buried deep inside her, dormant and yet so awake.

Hadn’t they both willed it to come this far? Hadn’t they both wished to be so entwined that all possible lines blurred and faded? And wasn’t this complete and utter surrender to one another only natural after such implicit involvement with each other? She didn’t mind it one bit, if it meant that he was as much as hers as she was his in every meaning of the word. Perhaps that’s why the prospect of being so bare in front of him wasn’t at all daunting. In fact, part of it even felt somewhat exhilarating.

“You make it a habit to bring out my most selfish traits,” she breathed out a semblance of a laugh, watching as he pulled out the two most luxurious crystal glasses he owned, reserved only for their late night wine-entrenched conversations. “I suppose you’ll have to do as I say then, to make up for ruining me like that.” Her voice dipped into a low purr, and she grinned at the flush that colored the tips of his ears, despite how focused he seemed on the task at hand. Like clockwork; like it was some sort of muscle memory he’d acquired over the years he’d spent enamored by her and the words spelled out by her tongue and coated in an almost-innocent tipsiness.

“I’m already bartending for you now. But you can have three more wishes before the night’s done,” Sylus lazily said, stoppering the bottle once again as the sweet scent of his favorite Merlot enveloped her senses; a scent dipped in promises and secret whispers of devotion.

Part of her wondered when she’d started finding drinking so enjoyable, particularly when with him. She couldn’t really think of a specific point in time when his lavish lifestyle had started imprinting itself on her, but somewhere down the line she’d begun to wait for quiet nights of winding down like this. Wrapped up in his embrace, her body heating up with every single one of his achingly tender caresses, both with his practiced fingers and his gaze full of intent… more often than not she ended up sprawled all over him, clothes in various states of disarray as he ravished her—heart, body, and soul.

Leaning further into him and hooking her leg around his waist, the fabric of her dress completely exposed her leg hip-down. She pretended not to notice how he faltered in his actions, momentarily distracted by her as he always was. After all this time, it still left a pleasantly bubbling feeling in her chest to see him react that way to her; like he was being bewitched by her silhouette for the very first time. Laughing, she asked, “And will that power over you vanish at midnight too?”

“It depends on whether or not you play your cards right,” Sylus simply said, after having topped off their wine almost right to the brim, splurging over her just like he always did.

He knew all too well that she could manage him just as expertly as she handled every extravagant ballroom, every meeting hidden in the shadows, and every viciously-worded deal. There were no wrong cards in her deck.

Remorse was something she should’ve been feeling at least a twinge of; engaging in Sylus’ hedonistic lifestyle wasn’t something she’d have been proud to admit a while back. But then again, everything was a whirlwind of passion and earnest intensity when it came to him. Getting caught up in the eye of the storm was no surprise. And when the storm had eyes that twinkled over twin glasses of red wine that matched it, and a smile so wicked and yet so unbeguiling as she was handed one to sip from, then there was nothing to stop her from hurtling towards the edge and accepting the devil’s hand.

Maybe she’d have to beg for heavenly forgiveness for indulging in all her vices, unabashedly. But Sylus had far too much to atone for, and if she knew anything about him, it was that he’d much rather get on his knees to please her than to plead for mercy from divine powers. And though he wasn’t below her at the moment, looking up with lascivious want, he made sure that his palm drawing shapes at the small of her back let her know just exactly how much he craved the closeness of her body.

She carefully sipped on the wine, savoring its tang and sharpness paired with its sweet warmth in the way she’d grown to enjoy, all without breaking eye contact with him. It was a calculated move; almost devious of her to do that when she knew that no matter how much he feigned being collected in front of her, it was no more than a front—one that quickly collapsed after she pulled the glass away and daring to lick drops of Merlot off her lip for a few more seconds.

She could practically feel him groan before she could hear it, and she wickedly flashed him her canines, intently pressing the inside of her thighs against his hip, soft flesh flush against his suit pants, the fabric between them not stopping him from feeling every inch of her. Still, her movements were languid and relaxed. It couldn’t have been the wine; she’d barely had a few sips, not even half the glass, and her drinking habits in public weren’t known for being excessive. But perhaps she was drunk on him and on this moment, and she could feel her body easing into that relaxed state that only he’d ever witness her in.

To the entirety of the N109 Zone, she was unmatched in power, with or without Sylus by her side. To be able to command a room with so much refined and perfected grace, she’d have to have already long demanded respect with her presence alone. But in his arms, playfully peering into his eyes and watching how they roved over every inch of her, and how his Adam's apple bobbed with his thick swallow, she was just a lover who’d stripped away all her inhibitions—and his. A lover he was clearly too entranced by to properly function, if the slight tremor that shook his hand and spilt a few drops of wine onto his throat was anything to go by.

And gods, just seeing the rouge staining his skin and slowly trickling down to his clavicles was enough temptation to drive her insane. Impulsively, she placed a hand on the broad planes of his chest, leaning in so close that she couldn’t escape the scent of his cologne and slight musk. Her tongue darted out, licking a stripe up his neck, and earning a sharp hiss of their name. “Spilled some wine,” she mumbled into his skin, as though that were enough of an explanation, lips sucking a deep red mark onto him. Tensing underneath her, his own hand instinctively dug deeper into her back, pressing them even closer together.

“Minx,” his deep voice rumbled, all out of sorts as though she’d sent him in a daze. Some pride swelled within her as she pulled back a bit to admire her own work of art, the soft skin marred by her stark claim on him. His silver hair had gotten mussed along the way, strands falling in front of his hooded, lust-addled eyes. Even if he hadn’t said it out loud, it was clear that she’d turned him to putty with just one kiss to his neck. With a smirk, she slowly took his half-empty glass of wine and set it on the coffee table beside the couch.

How many times had Sylus regarded her with this much unadulterated want, like if she disappeared for a moment he’d grow mad? She couldn’t count on one hand; couldn’t even begin to recall the first time he’d tied himself down to her. But there was something so dizzyingly satisfying about having such an intimidating man submit to her in every way. Something about the way his hand traced up a path to her shoulder blades, barely covered by the almost-backless fabric of the dress, and his eyes consumed her whole, wine-stained lips curled in a lovesick smile… something about him almost made her delirious.

“You’re the messy drinker,” she shrugged, feigning innocence as she hooked an arm around his neck and toyed with the silken hair at his nape, delighting in the way his eyes momentarily fluttered shut at the contact. “Can’t blame me for taking the chance.”

He inhaled sharply, then let out a breathy laugh as his now-free hand settled on her waist, perching her right on top of him and completely disregarding just how dangerously close he was to completely baring her with that open slit of the dress. “Though I disagree on that slight to my character, at least now you can’t blame me either when I take my chances.”

And then Sylus was kissing her, all softened lips and cherry-flavored lip balm showered in the headiness of well-warmed wine. His hands soothed her aching muscles and yet kindled fire to life underneath her dewy skin, while his tongue caressed hers like a lover’s touch after a long absence. He kissed her like he’d missed her; like he’d been wanting this for too long that he’d nearly forgotten how to breathe properly without her lips on his, and without her wet moans.

He swallowed her every sound like he possessed it—and her, with the greediness of a sun threatening to burn her world whole. But all he ever really was was the all-encompassing night, his shadows curled around hers and his reverent touch bathed in moonlight streaming through half-drawn curtains. Adoration seeped even through his sighs and soft-spoken mutters between stolen breaths, and she wondered if sin should taste as pure as it did from his mouth.

Her hand reached up and her fingers dug into his hair, seeking purchase to ground herself and try to regain an ounce of sanity. An impossible feat that was, especially when his hand had dipped to lightly finger her spine and elicit shivers from the depths of her, while his lips ravished her. Daringly, she nipped at his bottom lip, slightly raising herself off his lap for a moment as she relished in the shaky curse that left him. And with a swift tug, he pulled her back down flush against him, the carnal passion in his eyes completely drowning out his irises.

Not for long though, as the sudden jerk had caused a sloshing sound, and they were both made aware of the fact that it had slipped her mind to set aside her now-empty glass of wine. Whatever was left of it now stained Sylus’ shirt with rose splatters, the wet fabric sticking even more taut against his skin. The glass had already come precariously close to slipping from between her fingertips, with the way he’d distracted her from reality and all common sense with his wicked mouth—but now, he was positively drenched, and somehow, miraculously, without even an annoyed pinch between his eyebrows as he set her glass down.

Perhaps it was because he knew he was to blame for her spiraling in a haze.

Failing to hold back a chortle, she tried (to no avail, of course) to pat at his shirt with a tissue from the coffee table. “If it’s any consolation, pink suits you too,” she managed to make out between peals of laughter. “Though we could’ve bought a rose shirt instead. Less of a hassle, y’know. Infinitely easier to clean.”

Shaking his head as he snickered, Sylus extracted her hands off him, tissue and all, and she climbed off his lap so that he could move freely. “And make your life less interesting? Now, where’s the fun in that, sweetie?” He was quick to shuck off his clothes, throwing them off on the arm rest and running a hand through his hair.

Flushed and disheveled, with kiss-swollen lips and a dampened chest and neck, he looked like the epitome of godless and lawless beauty. No heaven would take him when he lived like he did, but he was a small piece of debauched heaven she stowed away for herself. And having him shirtless like this while she stood above him with shaky legs and warmth trickling through her blood like thick molasses was going to be the death of her.

“You’re getting drunk.” He didn’t ask it, merely stated it as an observation. It didn’t take her long to ponder it, and then she nodded, earning a huff of a laugh from him. He stood up, readjusting the waistband of his pants and gently picking her up in a clumsier carry than earlier. Her dress creased in his grip, but it seemed that neither of them had it in them to care at the moment, nor did it matter that her entire leg had slipped out of the slip. “Lightweight.” And that teasing jab was all he needed to say for her to know that their little fun had been put on hold—just for the night, of course, as he carried her off to bed.

“Like you’re usually any better. Spoilsport,” she bit back, though it held no malice and little force. If anything, fondness seeped into her voice, enamored by the realization that he’d pulled back for her. And how could she have it in her to complain, when he’d taken such good care of her the entire evening? Such tender-hearted care didn’t go unnoticed; not when her eyes only ever saw him, and her ears nestled against his chest could find solace in the rapid fluttering of his heartbeat.

“You’ll thank me in the morning, when you don’t have to nurse a hangover or a sore body.”

Climbing up the stairs shook her body in his embrace, and she tightened her hold around him. Unsurprisingly, as though he’d truly predicted it, she could feel herself growing more drowsy with each step he took, and it took her effort to keep her eyes half-open. Her words were little above a mumble when she replied, “Take my makeup off and I’ll double my thanks in advance.”

“Mm. I’ll ask to cash in, first thing when you wake up.” Even his voice sounded more distant now as she could vaguely sense him pushing their bedroom door open.

“Greedy.”

“And shameless,” came his soft agreement, before slowly setting her down on the plush mattress and nestling her head into her pillow. Her eyes focused on him for a second, taking in that lovelorn smile and affectionate gaze that always, always followed her, before non-verbally handing him her trust and letting go of him, leaving him to walk off.

And before Sylus had even come back with her makeup remover in tow, she’d already succumbed to the viselike grip of a blissful slumber, surrounded by the familiar scent of him all over their bed, and the soothing pressure of him on top of her, taking such achingly gentle care of her like he’d always promised to.

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[gothamite-rambler]

Based on that comic where Jason dies for Bruce against an evil robot, but instead, Bruce and Jason that's a selfish, dumb decision so Dick steps up. Don't worry he'll be fine and I like Grayson.

Bruce and his kids were in the Batcave, desperately searching for a solution to stop the evil robot he had created while under the influence of Zurr. Water, firearms, and electrifying the contraption had all yielded no results, leaving only one option.

Bruce: We need someone to take the killing blow from the robot. It can’t be me. I’m not that dead inside.

Silence hung in the air as none of his children volunteered.

Bruce: It won’t be that bad. You die, and then I’ll place you in a secret Lazarus Pit. The robot gets defeated, you get brought back to life, and I’ll buy you a meal for a job well done. Who’s going to take the kill shot?

Damian: I can—

Dick (pulling Damian close to his side): You weren’t included in this.

Damian: I’ve died before, I can do it again. Let me be the one who dies to save the day.

All the men: YOU’RE NOT DYING!

Damian: You rarely let me be a true hero.

Bruce: Anyone else? That’s not me or Damian.

Dick, Tim, and Damian all turned to Jason, who was meticulously cleaning his gun chamber while humming a Chappell Roan song. When he glanced to the side and noticed his brothers staring at him, his brows furrowed in offense.

Jason (continuing to clean, deadpan): I dare you to use me as the sacrificial lamb, and I'm taking all of you with me.

Bruce (alarmed, eyebrows shooting up): Why are you looking at Jason? He is NOT the one who’s taking the death punch! I would never do that to him after all the amends we made! Did you honestly think I wanted him to volunteer?

The three men fell silent, caught off guard by Bruce's explosive reaction.

Bruce (stunned, eyes widened): You did!

Rising from his seat, Bruce did something unexpected, he hugged Jason tightly.

Bruce (fiercely protective, voice low): Just because he’s an adult doesn’t mean he has to go through that again! He doesn’t have to prove himself by dying for me. A few years ago, I might’ve been deluded enough to think so, but it’s already my fa—fa— the words hurt... My fault that the robot is causing us trouble.

Jason: Are you secretly Zurr, and this is all a trick to take my guard down and brainwash me again?

Bruce: Jason, no. I lo—lo—love you. I don’t say that a lot, but when I do, I always mean it.

Jason (noting Bruce’s embrace): Hm… okay then.

Dick (hesitant): I mean, we weren’t wording it like that. He has died and for much longer than Damian— That didn’t come out right.

Bruce (firmly): Nobody will hurt him like that again! Shame on all of you for even thinking I’d Sophie's Choice him or that he’d volunteer!

Jason’s eyes shifted, feeling weirded out by the sudden display of compassion. But gradually, it sunk in that Bruce genuinely wasn’t throwing him under the bus for the evil robot. Seizing the opportunity, he played up the emotion.

Jason (sniffling, voice trembling): This hurts me so much, guys… I thought we were brothers. They want me to die again! I just want to be part of the family, not like this.

Bruce (softening, comforting Jason): It’s fine. I will deal with them later, especially Tim and Dick. I can see they wanted you to volunteer as tribute.

Dick (panicked, defending himself): I wasn’t saying that! He makes jokes about dying all the time! Jason said earlier that if he had to die again, it would be only if he was put back in the Lazarus Pit.

Jason (fake crying): I told you that in confidence!

Dick: You’re not throwing me under the bus. Tim was the one actually ready to shove Jason into the lion's den.

Tim punched Dick on the arm, anger in his eyes.

Tim (exasperated): All I’m saying is he’s already died and was tossed into the Lazarus Pit! It makes the most sense!

Damian (dramatic, crossing his arms): You know I get why I’m removed from sacrificing myself. I’m the youngest. Jason, being the second oldest and having already died, shouldn’t be the lamb. You two should be ashamed of suggesting he die a second time.

Jason: I respect you for switching sides.

Damian: That’s what I’m here for.

Tim (snapping back): Traitor!

Damian: Traitor or not, if he’s not taking the blow, neither will I.

Bruce pulled away from Jason, silently debating if there was another way, or another person, who could trigger the robot’s self-destruct function.

Jason: I’m more than just the death guy, and you two need to remember that.

Dick: Oh, shut up!

Cass walked over with her arms behind her back.

Cass: I volunteer as tribute. I have also died, and I can do it again. Just give me the signal.

Stephanie raced over, scooping Cass up like a firefighter rescuing someone from a burning building.

Stephanie: My swan will not be dying either!

Cass giggled, a bright smile on her face. Bruce groaned, remembering that Stephanie had a crush on his daughter and how he hadn't succeeded in changing Cass's mind.

Cass: I know we talked about dating in two years, but there’s no need to be protective.

Stephanie: The men can pick who will be used, not us ladies. Don’t think about asking Barbara either!

Stephanie walked off, continuing to carry Cass.

Duke: I haven’t worked with you guys long enough to be killed, so don’t even look in my direction.

Bruce: We have to pick someone quickly.

Dick sighed somberly, closing his eyes as he realized he was about to make a decision he would probably regret later.

Dick: I’ll do it! When I die, you immediately toss me in the stupid pit, and no one try to change my mind about this.

Damian: What? What? No!

Damian hugged his brother's leg, surprising him, then pulled away quickly, blushing at showing such emotion.

Dick (relaxed, then worried): It’s going to work out. It’s going to work out, right?

Bruce (worried hesitation staring away from Dick): It… should.

Tim: You hesitated.

Bruce: I genuinely don’t want any of you to die for my mistake! It will work out; you’ll be dead for a short time, then wake up remembering very little about the experience.

Jason: Your killer will be dead too... that’s another silver lining.

Jason chuckled, glancing at Bruce to see his reaction. His father simply shook his head.

Bruce: You’re lucky I love you so much and let you make that joke.

Jason (returning to cleaning his guns): Yeah, I’m a treasure.

Tim (realization sinking in): Are we really letting Dick fight the evil robot? That’s happening? I don’t want to lose him either!

Tim hugged Dick, making the older man laugh at the moment.

Dick: I forgot you were a fan before you became Robin. Be at the Lazarus Pit when I wake back up from ‘death' that's all that matters.

Tune in next time

[bnhaobservation]

BNHA and Japanese law, aka why Enji and Hawks can't go to jail

I think it’s fair to dislike BNHA ending.

However when I see posts saying they don’t like it because neither Hawks nor Endeavor ended up in jail I think it’s important to remember that, in Japan, when BNHA was written:

Law enforcers can murder escaping criminals provided said criminals were judged dangerous enough (just so you know Japan had been asked to revise its domestic legislation on police use of firearms to ensure it complies with international law because currently it still doesn’t).

Although domestic violence is forbidden by 2001, Japanese law does not provide for domestic violence in terms of prosecutorial considerations. At the time BNHA took place the police wasn’t even obliged to investigate when ‘domestic disputes’ were reported, and the most they would do was offer counseling. The law has been changed in 2024 and things are a little better (even though Japanese law STILL does not provide for domestic violence in terms of prosecutorial considerations police is encouraged to investigate and the court may consider to impose penalties for crimes related to domestic violence aka assault and injury), but Japanese women still complain that, despite the improvements, it’s extremely hard to have their abusers punished.

Parents were banned from physically punishing their children solely in 2019 (BNHA started in 2014, Vol 21 was still printed in 2018, meaning the Todoroki saga was established PRIOR to this) following several fatal cases of abuse dealt out in the name of discipline however Japanese law does not provide for this in terms of prosecutorial considerations. The most that will be done is to take the children away if they fear for their life.

Abusive training (which includes beating, name calling, humiliation, overworking…) is not forbidden (although guidelines recommend not to do it) and, of course, as a consequence, Japanese law does not provide for abusive training in terms of prosecutorial considerations. People are protesting about this (notable protests had been done during the Olympic games) as people had also committed suicide over this. By the end of BNHA as far as I know, nothing was done.

Children of third-year elementary school age and below can be left unsupervised. A 2023 attempt at changing it due to unsupervised children dying was met with severe criticism nationwide so that in the end nothing was done.

Arranged marriages (as in parents picking up a candidate for their child to marry) are legal. The children have however the power to refuse a partner presented to them by the parents. Also, when organizing an arranged marriage it’s fair for both parts to investigate the other party and check if the family doesn’t have undesirable genetic traits (mental illness cases, lack of pure Japanese blood, relations with people belonging to groups considered impure) so that the children won’t inherit them.

Now, I oversimplified what are in truth a lot of regulations and rules expressed by the laws and compared Hero training to sport training (I digged a little more deeply on this sort of things in this post) but, long story short, Enji and Hawks don’t escape jail because they’re rich, because they’re high in ranking, because they have connections or bribed someone. It’s just because law doesn’t consider punishing them and law wouldn’t punish them even if they were commoners like, let’s say, Kotarou or Himiko’s parents.

Also, Horikoshi is basically showing the negative consequences of all the above mentioned points, which can be viewed as a subtle way to criticize such things.

So, again, it’s fine if you hate BNHA ending, but please, don’t think Horikoshi is just letting those guys break law without consequences just because. If they don’t end in jail for such things it’s exactly because people normally don’t do it and that’s why we’ve the League criticizing society for how wrong it is, not just their abusive parents. Society enabled the abuse and you might very well see the League as a representation for the Toyoko Kids and the Jōhatsu.

Also, just in case, I'm not Japanese and just saying Japanese law doesn't think they should be punished, doesn't mean I agree. Just that I don't expect the story would follow my country's law.

If you want to know more about Japanese law please, research about them. It'll give you a better perspective on why some things in BNHA go the way they go.

[101susu101]

Beneath the Mask

Part 4 of Crossfire Series

Ship: Matt Murdock X OC, Frank Castle's sister x Matt Murdock

Rating: 18+

Takes place during season 2 of Daredevil

A/N This series is a slow burn romance between Matt Murdock and my own female OC (Alana Castle) she is Frank castles sister. The storyline follows season 2 of daredevil but without the Elektra and the “hand” storyline . The plot will include parts of the first season of the punisher as well. There’s a lot of mystery , angst , fluff. There will be warnings for smut. Let me know if you want to be in the tag list 🤍

Teaser

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The sky was shifting from charcoal to slate gray by the time you put your car in park. Dawn’s light bled slowly across the skyline, casting sharp angles against the cold metal fire escapes and glass-slick windows. The earlier rain had stopped, but the city remained soaked and glistening. The pavement shimmered with reflection and blurred red and blue strobes painting fractured patterns on the wet asphalt.

Police were everywhere.

Marked cruisers lined the block two streets over, their lights spinning silently now, engines still hot. Murmured voices crackled through radios, the occasional bark of a sergeant cut the air, and the low churn of a perimeter was forming. You knew you had to move fast, before someone else found him.

You hesitated before you grabbed the tactical mask from your passenger seat and shoved it into your bag of medical supplies, slinging the whole thing over your shoulder. You knew it kept you hidden and safe but at times you found yourself conflicted by who you wanted to be, Alana Castle? Nurse Grace? or the woman in the mask? You shook those thoughts away and kept your mind focused on the task at hand.

You popped open the glove compartment and retrieved your firearm, checking the magazine before tucking it into your waistband.

Just in case.

You swallowed hard, then dryly downed the stimulant pills from your center console it was your failsafe for nights like this, when sleep wasn’t an option. Pulling your hood over your head, you stepped out cautiously into the stillness. The rest of the distance had to be covered on foot it was too risky to be spotted near the scene in a vehicle. But that was fine.

People rarely saw you. Not unless you wanted them to.

By the time you reached the alley behind 53rd, the smell hit you first, old grease and stale piss. The concrete was slick from the earlier downpour, trash clung to corners, and the distant hum of city life was dulled beneath the tension in your gut.

Who doesn't love Hell's kitchen? You thought to yourself sarcastically as you grimaced at the unpleasant scent.

You searched the alley, ears straining, eyes scanning every shadow, every corner.

Nothing.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, frustration mounting. You kicked the nearest dumpster hard enough to make it rattle.

Then paused.

What are the odds…?

A sick feeling bloomed in your stomach as you moved back toward the dumpster and cautiously stepped up onto its edge. Peering down into the garbage, you prayed it wasn’t too late.

A hand.

It hung limp beneath a heap of trash bags, fingers twitching weakly, streaked with grime and dried blood. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, your voice barely registering as the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ear overpowered it. You quickly dropped your medical bag to the ground.

It was him.

Daredevil.

Your heart sank like a stone.

He must’ve fallen in when Frank shot him.

You scrambled up the side of the dumpster, the metal groaning beneath your weight. Trash bags gave way as you shoved them aside, revealing the crumpled figure beneath them. Blood pooled around him. No metaphor, he was literally lying in the garbage, barely conscious, maybe dying.

Without hesitation, you grabbed his arms and hoisted, groaning as his weight dragged you down. He was heavier than he looked, and your bruised rib screamed in protest. As soon as you got his torso out, your foot slipped.

“Shit!” you gasped, falling back hard as he collapsed on top of you, knocking the air from your lungs. His large stature was no match for your small frame as you squirmed under him.

Your eyes caught on the fracture across the middle of his helmet. A clean crack spidering outward, right where Frank had shot him.

The bullet hadn’t pierced. Thank God for bulletproof armor. Even with the weight of him crushing you, you still felt relief wash over you at that thought.

You managed to grit your teeth and use all your force to squirm out from under him, dragging him carefully against the alley wall so you could assess the damage. You sat there a second, catching your breath, just staring.

He looked… still. So normal.

The infamous Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was limp like a broken marionette. The red suit was scraped and bloodied, patches so dark they looked black in the early morning light. One leg was twisted, and his arm was bent at an unnatural angle. Blood streamed down from beneath his mask. The feeling of guilt pierced at your insides at the state of him.

You scooted closer, heart racing. One hand brushed his chiseled cheek, the other pressed gently against his solid chest. You leaned in and checked for a pulse.

There. Faint.

Relief nearly knocked you flat. Your knees buckled, and you exhaled hard.

“Okay,” you breathed. “You’re not dead. That’s good.”

You fumbled for your medical kit and slipped on gloves, then hesitated, your fingers hovering near the edge of his mask. You knew what you had to do, but you couldn't help but feel like it was intrusive. Wrong. But if you were going to save him, you had to see the extent of the damage.

And if you were being completely honest with yourself… You were curious as well. You peeled the mask back slowly, inch by careful inch.

Bruised skin. A split brow. Blood had run into his hairline, down his jaw And then...

Your breath caught.

You knew that face.

The man from the hospital. The tall one in the suit, the blind man with the cane. He’d come in with the blonde woman and Grotto. He’d listened more than he spoke as if he were reading you. Still. Poised. Like he could see something the rest of you couldn’t.

Wait...

Blind.

He was blind.

You grabbed your penlight and flicked it on, lifting one of his lids and shining it into his eye.

No response.

“How the hell…” you whispered, stunned. “How the hell are you him?”

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. A blind man.

And somehow, he moved through the dark like it was daylight. You couldn't help but feel a mixture of shock and fascination as you watched him.

You ran a quick check to make sure he was stable, no punctured lung,

thank God. Weak pulse, yes. Dislocated shoulder. Definitely a concussion. A CT scan would be needed, and he’d need stitches for the gash above his brow. You couldn’t do it all alone.

He needed a hospital.

But how the hell could you get him there without exposing yourself or him?

You bit your lip as you looked down at his hands. Calloused. Scarred. His knuckles were raw with fresh scrapes, layered over older bruises. He’d fought hard but not to kill. You remembered how he moved. Calculated, controlled. Striking to disable, not destroy.

And for that, you were angry.

Angry that Frank had tried to kill someone who hadn’t tried to kill him. Angry that the rumors were true. Daredevil didn’t kill.

But this wasn’t the time for ethics. This was triage.

Your breath caught in your throat when you noticed him suddenly stir beside you, a low groan escaping his lips.

“Shit,” you hissed. You moved quickly, pulled the sedative from your kit, and injected it into his thigh. His body slackened again almost immediately.

You weren’t sure how he’d react when he came to, and this alley was still crawling with cops it was safer to keep him under.

You started pacing, racking your brain. You needed a plan and you needed it fast.

As you looked up you noticed a figure across the street you took a few steps closer and squinted to get a good look at him.

A homeless man, bare-chested, wearing only a dirty pair of boxers.

Thats when It clicked.

You had to strip him. The only thing that would expose him would be his suit and mask; other than that, he is just a poor blind man who got jumped in the streets of Hell's Kitchen, which unfortunately was just another Tuesday for people in this city, and no one would question it.

You crouched down and carefully removed the armored suit, layer by layer, avoiding his wounds. It felt wrong, intimate in a way it shouldn’t. You’d done this countless times in the ER and in the army to be able to assess wounds better. But this felt different.

When you were finished, he was left in nothing but his boxers. Bare. Vulnerable. Anonymous. Just a man. Not a myth.

From where you were standing, that’s all he looked like. Just a man—one who’d been through hell.

You couldn't help but gaze over his body, old scars, healed fractures, faded burns. Like Frank. Like you. His body was a journal written in bruises and blood. You felt bad watching him in such a vulnerable state, you quickly averted your gaze and cursed yourself under your breath before getting up from your crouched position.

You packed the suit and mask into your bag, zipped it tight, then pulled out the burner phone Frank had given you.

9-1-1 you dialed

“There’s someone in the alley off 53rd. He was jumped. He’s unconscious. Please, send an ambulance!”

You hung up without waiting for a reply.

Then you vanished into the shadows across the street, watching the alley from a concealed vantage point. You weren’t leaving him. Not until he was safe.

Minutes later, sirens wailed in the distance.

You watched as paramedics swarmed the alley, lifting him gently, placing him on a stretcher. They didn’t know. They had no idea who they were touching.

No idea they were brushing the Devil’s skin.

You didn’t breathe until the ambulance drove away. Then you sprinted for your car and pulled out onto the wet street, tires hissing over pavement.

You followed them.

To the hospital.

Later that night

The ER had gone quiet, eerily so. Most of the critical patients were moved to different wings as the cops investigated the shooting from last night. That rare, thick hush that settles only in the stillness between emergencies. It wrapped around you like fog, pressing in against the soft hum of machines and the sterile scent of antiseptic. The fluorescents buzzed above, casting their tired light across the linoleum floor and the man lying unconscious in Room 4.

You leaned back in the chair beside his bed, the vinyl creaking under your weight. Your shift had ended hours ago. You’d eaten nothing but a stale muffin and guzzled down too much caffeine, your stomach now audibly protesting. Your back ached. Your eyes burned. Your head throbbed in time with your pulse. But still… you stayed.

You didn’t know why, not exactly. It wasn’t protocol. You’d done your part: assisted trauma, kept him stable, passed the chart, updated the board. Technically, you should’ve left. You’d tried. But every time you stood, something inside you refused to move. Like your body had rooted itself beside him. Like you owed him something.

Maybe you did.

After all, it was partially your fault he was here. Yours and Frank’s. The rooftop. The blood. The gunfire. Your brother left chaos in his wake, and you couldn’t stop it, but at least you’d saved one person from the wreckage. That counted for something, didn’t it?

You drew in a slow breath and looked at the man beside you. Frank thought he’d just been collateral damage, but you knew better. Some people didn’t get in the way by accident. Some people had to.

Just like you.

He lay still beneath the hospital blanket, bruises darkening the sharp angles of his face, a healing cut at the corner of his mouth. He looked younger like this. Vulnerable. The edges of him softened without all the tension and fight. It made you wonder who he really was beneath it all, behind the pain, the mask. 

Then he stirred.

You sat up straighter, instinctively alert as his brow furrowed, jaw twitching in discomfort. He winced before he was even fully awake.

“Where am I?” he rasped, voice rough and cracked.

His eyes blinked open, unfocused, scanning the ceiling like it might hold the answer.

“Hey it’s okay, You’re at Metro General,” you said softly, rising to your feet and setting the clipboard aside. You kept your voice warm, even. Calm. “You were brought in a few hours ago. Pretty banged up. But you’re safe now. We’re taking care of you.”

He didn’t relax. If anything, something in his expression shifted, beneath the bruises, you saw it: panic. No, not panic. Recognition. Awareness.

His hand moved under the blanket, ghosting over the thin fabric of the hospital gown, fingers searching for something that wasn’t there. You knew exactly where his mind drifted to.

“M-My clothes?” he asked, a sharp edge in his voice. His eyes didn’t move. Still fixed on the ceiling.

“They brought you in, in just your boxers sir” you told him before he could spiral. “No ID. No phone. You were unconscious, bleeding out. But no need to worry your stable now”

You kept your tone steady, non-threatening. You were good at this, at talking people down. But this wasn’t just fear. It was sharper than that. Calculating.

Even half-conscious, you could tell he was assessing you. Testing. You recognized it immediately.

This wasn’t a man used to being vulnerable. This was someone who survived on staying hidden.

“Were you the one who brought me in?” he asked, finally turning his head toward you. He couldn’t see you, but somehow, you still felt seen.

You dropped your gaze, a habit more than anything. “No. I was already on shift. Someone else called it in.”

He studied you. Searching for cracks. You let him look and you stood your ground not wanting to sound or appear uncertain.

“Did anyone say who it was?” he questioned

“No. Sorry.” your voice fell flat but the apology was real, you were sorry. For it all.

The silence stretched. You watched his fingers twitch beneath the blanket, the subtle flinch of pain as he took in a shallow breath. You recognized the way he guarded his ribs; classic fracture behavior.

“You want me to call someone?” you offered gently, resting a hand on your hip. “Friend? Family?”

He hesitated. Then nodded. “There’s a number. Foggy Nelson. My business partner.”

You grabbed the notepad and clicked your pen. “Go ahead.”

He recited it from memory, and you jotted it down. But before you reached for the phone, you paused.

“Sorry, what’s your name?”

“Matt,” he said. Then, with a slight hitch, “Matthew Murdock.”

You nodded, tucked the name away, and stepped out to make the call.

When you returned, he was looking in your direction again…still. There was something softer in his expression now. A flicker of something close to recognition.

“Thank you for that, Nurse.”

“No need to thank me, Mr. Murdock,” you replied, smiling faintly as you set the pad down. “I’m just doing my job.”

Still, guilt tugged at the edges of your stomach.

He smiled. And for the first time, you noticed, he was listening to your voice more than your words.

“I can’t help but feel like we’ve met,” he said slowly. “Your voice. It’s… familiar.”

Your heart gave a small, panicked flutter. You forced yourself to stay calm.

“Uh, y-yeah. I think you came in last night,” you said quickly, grasping at the first story that came to mind. “With a few people. The Schaffers? And a blonde guy? Bar fight, I think.”

He seemed to relax at that. He nodded slightly.

“Nurse Grace?”

“Yeah. Alana Grace.” You don’t even know why you gave your first name, it was just instinct at that moment. 

“Alana,” he repeated. And when he said it, it sounded different; intentional. Like he was committing it to memory.

“I’m off shift soon, but you’re stuck with me ‘til then.”

You let yourself smile, your first real one in hours.

He tried to sit up. Grimaced. His hand shot to his ribs, a quiet groan slipping past his lips.

“Careful,” you murmured, stepping in and placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

Your fingers brushed the blanket aside. The dressing was loose. Bloodstained.

“I need to check this,” you said, hesitating just long enough to catch his nod. You pulled the gown down slightly.

And froze.

Jesus.

His torso was a roadmap of pain; lean muscle, old scars, and fresh wounds. The kind of body that didn’t just survive life but fought through it, every inch of him a quiet war story. You didn’t really take it in fully in the alleyway, probably because you were in a rush to get him help.

You knew you shouldn’t look. But you did. Your fingers hovered a second too long and you felt your pulse spike in your eyes. You were close to him, leaning down on his torso you could feel his hot breath on your neck from the side and you could smell the warmth of his skin under the antiseptic, ironically it sent a shiver down your spine.

Matt’s head tilted, just a fraction, you knew he couldn’t see you…but it felt like he could.

You didn’t speak, but your body did. Your stare lingered a beat too long and you could've sworn you saw the corner of his mouth twitch up into a slight smirk from the corner of your eye.

You swallowed hard and grabbed a pair of gloves as you tried to focus on cleaning his bandage, he’s just a regular patient you thought to yourself, this is clinical, you needed to be detached. You couldn’t afford to expose that you knew who he was. But you couldn’t help but feel like he radiated something quiet but intense. Like he could see through the air itself. And suddenly, you felt… vulnerable.

You cleared your throat, desperate to shift the mood.

“So, what do you do?” you asked, unwrapping a fresh bandage and pressing it gently into place. “You don’t strike me as the bar fight type.”

“I’m a lawyer,” he said flatly.

You blinked. You didn’t know what you expected his answer to be, but definitely not a lawyer of all things… “A blind lawyer walking around Hell’s Kitchen at two in the morning? That’s bold.”

A hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “I was checking on a client.”

Too smooth. Too quick. You clocked it instantly.

“Oh? The Schaffers right? The blonde and her husband. They’re your clients?”

He stiffened.

“Are they okay?” he asked sharply. “Are they still here?”

You hesitated. Just long enough to measure your answer.

“I think they were discharged before I came on.”

Technically not a lie.

He went quiet. His jaw clenched.

Your hand moved on instinct, resting lightly on his forearm.

“Easy,” you said gently as you helped him lay back down on the bed.

He exhaled a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

You helped adjust the gown back over his shoulders. You looked down at him and tried to read him but something in his eyes shifted; guarded again. Like he’d locked the door to whatever was behind them.

Before you could press him further, a sharp knock on the door cut through the room.

“Ahem.”

You jumped, hand snapping back from Matt’s shoulder as Janet, the head nurse, stepped in, clipboard in hand and judgment in her eyes.

She looked between you and Matt, then raised a brow.

“You’ve been off shift for over two hours,” she said. You felt Matt shift from beside you at what she said  “And you’ve got blood on your temple.”

You blinked. Reached up, fingers brushing the shallow cut near your hairline; the one you’d forgotten about. The rooftop.

Shit.

Panic licked the back of your throat.

Matt tilted his head, as if just now realizing the injury was there. You watched as he furrowed his brow , his look was intense calculated.

“What happened?” Janet asked as you walked up to her at the doorway and spoke in a whisper hoping Matt wouldn't hear 

“I-uh…” you hesitated. “Long shift. I must’ve fainted. Hit my head on the counter.”

Janet frowned. “You need to go home and get that checked out before you leave.”

“I’m fine really-” you tried to protest but she cut you off

“You’re not fine, you’re exhausted. And now you’re bleeding. Go rest. We’ve got it from here.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the tension in the room had already shifted. You looked back at Matt and noticed something.

He was watching you. Not just listening- but sensing. Noticing.

“Alright,”  you said quietly, backing down.

You left the room slowly, fingertips brushing the doorframe, pulse still racing. you didn’t look back this time…but you didn’t have to. 

You knew he was watching you, maybe not with his sight. But a part of him sensed something was off.

[corleonecaretaker]

✦ ℍ𝕚𝕥 𝕄𝕖 ✦

Michael Corleone x Santino D'Antonio, AKA SaintAngel (John Wick Fandom Crossover), 2500 words

This was inspired by a comment from @onconstellationstreetmp3 requesting a sub Michael Corleone fic! I basically read that comment and starting writing it immediately, haha. I don't really know if it's a crack fic or completely earnest, and I don't know if any of the logistical mafia stuff makes sense. But I hope you enjoy.

Summary: Michael Corleone was forced to sign on with the High Table or be destroyed. Now the Table wants a cut of the casino profits, and Santino D'Antonio, the Camorra prince who now outranks the Don, has come to collect. But he's taken an unexpected interest in Michael. Has Don Corleone finally met someone he can't predict or control? Maybe that's exactly what he needs...

TW: smoking, NSFW, under-negotiated BDSM (but no one gets seriously hurt by it), Michael hates himself, slapping and punching, degradation, flashback, crying, attempting to use BDSM as self-harm

Image Sources: One | Two

Santino D’Antonio, head of American operations of the Camorra seat at the High Table. Santino D’Antonio, a prince with a flair for impractical firearms that had a tendency to make jobs go bad. Santino D’Antonio, thorn in Michael Corleone’s side.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you like having me around, Don Corleone.” Sprawled out in Michael’s favorite armchair like it was his, Santi flicked a lighter to his cigarette. It wasn’t even a good brand. Michael’s eyes lingered on it in distaste. A man like Santino could afford something better, even cigars, so why did he smoke that junk anyway? His fashion was immaculate, his guns were the top-of-the-line, but when it came to indulgences, he seemed to like things cheap and dirty. Michael couldn’t understand why.

“I assure you, Mr. D’Antonio, I wish you a swift return to New York.” This was the third day of Santino’s visit to the Corleone family residence in Nevada. It had been a long few days for Michael, constantly on guard, knowing that every moment was a negotiation, no matter how seemingly innocuous. His eyes had remained fixed on Santino at all times until that was all he seemed to see, even when he shut them. He hardly slept for the fear that came with having a High Table emissary on the premises. He was as perfectly groomed as ever, but the dark circles showed nonetheless.

“Then sign.” He had been sent to obtain a contract securing a percentage of earnings from the casinos. Michael was adamant that, because the casinos included legitimate interests, the High Table had no claim to their profits. Only direct drug and mercenary profits were fair game, he argued. But Santino wasn’t having it – wasn’t allowed to give in even if he wanted to, probably. If Michael was under significant pressure to run his family well, he could only imagine what the consequences of failure must be for a D’Antonio heir.

But if that was true, Santino was playing fast and loose with his own life. Every time Michael heard anything about Santino, it was that he’d done something so completely out of pocket that it made even the Don feel downright unsafe. Attacking territory he had no claim to, making calls he didn’t have the authority to make and somehow winning the authority later…but here he was, continuing to cheat death. And try to cheat Michael out of his money.

“The Corleones may be new to the Table, but you don’t get to play stupid. I know a part of the business when I see it.” Santino stood, coming toe to toe with him, their smoke intertwining and shimmering in the amber lamplight. “I know intelligence when I see it, too.”

Michael’s face didn’t budge. “Flattery, Santino? Really?” He reclaimed his chair while he had the opportunity, but it didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. Santino was looming over him now.

“Don’t like it? Maybe I’ll try the opposite. You look horrible. Like you’ll pass out at any second.” A wave of smoke enveloped Michael’s face from above.

Enough. “Do that one more time.”

Santino took a long drag, and obliged.

“Okay. Okay. Come here.” He gestured for Santino to lean down, and when he did, grabbed him by the back of the hair, forcing his head down to whisper uncomfortably close in his ear. “If you want me to be this close with me, you want the Camorra and the Corleones to be this buddy-buddy, you treat me with respect. It’ll be on my terms, on my – “

But Santino was not responding to the power move as expected, not trying to pull away. He seemed to be…leaning into it? He had pushed one knee onto the seat between Michael’s legs and braced a hand to the seatback, right next to his head. And it was Michael who let him go and strained backward into the cushion, suddenly uncomfortable with their proximity.

He waited for Santino to move away and he didn’t. Just put out his cigarette on the ashtray next to them and then placed his hand right next to Michael’s head again, fixing him with a smile and too intense gaze. Michael had to force words out. “What is this? Just what the devil are you playing at?”

“It was you who grabbed me,” he said innocently. “I’m just doing what I’m told, Don Corleone. Doing things on your terms.”

Michael took a deep breath and then a leap. “Let me be very clear, Mr. D’Antonio. I think you’re trying to seduce me into signing and if I’m right, you’re going to pay.”

He tsked and straightened up, one leg still on the armchair between Don Corleone’s. “This is your problem, you think too much. All those hours, with your little cigar in your hand, with your legs crossed in case anything gets in, trying to decide what everybody is playing at and who’s to blame for what, revisiting your worst memories over and over in between worst-case scenarios. I see you all the time. You brood, Michael Corleone.” Santino’s knee rocked forward in a sudden movement that made him pre-emptively wince. But it didn’t even touch him, pulled back just fast enough to be teasing rather than ball-crushing. As the fear withdrew, it left his hairs standing on end.

“I don’t - I do not brood.” Damn it, it was so hard to speak with Santino’s knee shoved between his thighs like that. It came out breathless and petulant.

“You do. I should know, because so do I. But I fixed it. You know what I do when I get that way?”

“…What?” Michael wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear the answer, when his mind was so filled with visions of Santi sitting alone with a cigarette, needing someone. The smoke seemed to be leaking out of the image to cloud the rest of his brain.

He leaned right over Michael to whisper in his ear, an echo of the power move Michael had just attempted and had come to regret. Their chests were touching, Michael realized, and he wished his heart would stop pounding. He wondered if Santino could feel it through both their vests. “I fuck. Until I have no brains left to brood with.”

His hand went to the side of Santino’s waist. To shove him off? Or was this reflex, muscle memory from when girls had leaned over him this way? “I’m not signing.”

At that, Santino lost patience. “This is not about the fucking deal! Don’t sign it then! Let my father and the whole High Table chase you from here to New York and back again!” He reached over Michael’s shoulder to sweep the papers off the desk behind them. “This is about the fact that I’ve been watching you, and you haven’t been touched in at least six months, probably longer by that dead look in your eyes half the time. You want me. So beg.”

Michael’s mind was drawing a blank. All his resolve had gone into resisting Santino on business terms. There was none left for…this. He was just staring up at him, breathing hard. It’s not about the deal…it’s about me…ridiculous. He had to get a grip. “Move your fucking leg,” he managed.

Santino grinned back wickedly. “Move it how? Off?”

Yes. Get off. Right? But he kept not saying anything. The ideas that had just sprung up in his head about Santino grinding forward against him weren’t allowing any air out of his lungs. And with every passing second, he took note of the tension in Santino’s face. He could feel the prince dancing on a razor’s edge, wondering if he’d miscalculated, if he was about to be horribly embarrassed. But he could sense that it wouldn’t make him any less reckless next time if he was. Michael could have shot him for just the proposition – he was that kind of man. He shouldn’t, it would be unwise for the family, but he very well might and Santino knew it. Santino D’Antonio must not care about his own life at all. And that made him a complete wild card, unbelievably dangerous.

Michael’s heart wouldn’t stop racing.

The moment stretched forever. Slowly, very slowly, he shook his head no. There was a flicker of relief that was instantly lost in that wicked smile, which was only growing. “Oh. Not off. Like this, then?” He shifted forward again on his knee, slower this time, until his slacks met Michael’s at the crotch. The contact forced out the shuddering breath that had been trapped inside him.  Yes. Like that.

There was the seam of his own fly against the traveler’s crease that bisected Santino’s pantleg. There was his skin, beneath just a few layers of fabric. Michael’s hips rolled upward, hungry.

The move was answered with a slap across the face.

“I asked you a question. I didn’t ask you to hump my leg, you slutty thing. Is this what you want? Yes or no?”

Rage flared through him, chasing the pink that was already flaring up in his stinging cheek. It was that rage that made everything possible, that made him want one or both of them to be pinned down, hit, ridden senseless. Through clenched teeth, “Yes, now fucking give it to me.”

He pushed forward as if to grab Santino by the lapel and knock him down onto the floor, capture his lips and anything else he wanted, but Santino was too quick for him. He shoved Michael back into the seat by the forehead, a hand fisting into his hair until it pulled. “STAY.”

The restraint was so delicious he grabbed for the man’s suitcoat a second time, trying to drag him closer. Again, he was pushed back.

“You need something to occupy your hands, Mikey?” Santino’s fly came down, and there he was, already shining with precum. It was bigger than Michael could have expected, for the size of the arrogant little upstart it was attached to. And it was soft under his fingers. Michael grabbed it like an obedient fucktoy and started pumping. He hated himself for it.

He was stealing this moment for himself. There was nothing in the room but the two of them, their muffled grunts, the very faint squeak of leather on the worn seat of the armchair and the heavy musk starting to pour off both their bodies. There was nothing to sign, no High Table, no Corleones, no obligations. He was alone with Santino. And he was straining against his slacks, flushed scarlet and harder than he’d been in years just from rubbing against his own superior. His hands wandered from Santino’s body to his own fly, seeking relief.

Santino laughed, smacked the back of his hand and put it on his cock again. “No. You’re gonna cum inside your filthy rich suit, Don Corleone. The same kind of suit you wear to all your business functions. The same one I see you in all the damn time, while you pace with your bourbon and pretend not to look at me.” The man loved to talk, clearly. He was getting off on his own words, already gasping against the building pressure inside him.

Michael found himself mesmerized. The way the buildup made Santino’s eyelids flutter and his thighs flex… He’d never watched it from this perspective. Santino was still talking. “You’re gonna cum in your suit, and I’m gonna cum on top of it.” God, he looked hot – that delicate mouth parted, head tipped back and moaning like a woman. His hand twisted in Michael’s hair to the point of pain and it just made him rut harder, god, he couldn’t stop, couldn’t restrain himself… “You’ll be such a mess ah, god, I can’t wait to see you like that…”

“Think carefully about who you’re talking to,” Michael said, but the words meant nothing.

“My bitch. The horniest bitch I’ve ever encountered.” A hard bounce from his knee shot a wave of pleasure straight to Michael’s core, and it must have wrecked his face because Santino laughed. “I like it, you know. It feels perfect, knowing what a mess you are. What you’re like when you let yourself go. You’re – ah fuck. Michael…”

And then suddenly he was covered in Santi’s cum, dripping down his face, onto his lips, warm and sticky and tasting like the summer ocean. There was so much of it. All over his tie, his vest, his hands. He was fairly sure he would have spontaneously combusted if not for the fact that, just when he was at his most desperate for relief, Santino had stopped moving. Michael was half deafened by pleasure but still heard himself groan. For a second, he thought was going to be left like that, a pathetic mess. “Please,” he choked out, hardly realizing what he was saying.

“Please what, baby?” Santino just appraised him for a moment, feeling his cock twitch helplessly against his leg until his own started to stiffen again. If anyone was the horniest bitch, it was Santino. He started moving again.

Michael writhed, desperate for more friction, and it wasn’t working. The lull had taken its toll, allowed reality to come crashing back over him. Just what was he doing? Please what? Why was he begging, for once in his life, and not just taking what he wanted? The disappointment, the failure that he was, the knowledge that he was letting this asshole get the upper hand …it swirled into an endless whirlpool, dragging him down.

“Hit me,” he muttered.

A slap across the face. Good. Fucking good.

“Hit me.” Louder this time.

Another slap swung his head the other way. On top of the previous one, an echoing, dull pain. Suddenly he was on the ground again, being beaten by McCluskey’s men, unable to save himself. He was failing his family. He was failing God. He was losing everyone, everything, and there were long repressed tears of fury stinging the backs of his eyes.

“Hit harder!”

This time he didn’t. “Why? Are you thinking again?” Santino’s head was tilted, like he recognized something, like he saw into the darkness for a second. It scared Michael half to death. Whatever Santi thought he saw, the Don wanted to pummel it out of both of them.

“I SAID HIT ME! HIT ME HARDER!”

A punch, this time. He hit hard enough to knock those tears free, to break something inside of Michael that ordinary people couldn’t break. He felt his face twist up in pain that was only half physical.

And then Santi kissed him. Kissed him like a real lover, sweet and unending, with his arms around Michael’s shoulders. Kissed him with the lingering bite of New York cigarettes and the passion of a velvet tongue. Like he knew what was wrong and how it felt. Like he knew what it took to get to the point at which asking for anything sparked total self-destructive rage. Like he had Michael, really had him. Michael moaned, completely lost in him. “Starai bene [You’ll be okay],” Santi whispered against his lips, still rocking on that knee.

And Don Corleone came inside his filthy rich suit.

[lilliesofinspirationvalley]

Thoughts on Hollows and Ether Corruption

What We Know Canonically (So Far)

Almost anything can experience ether corruption when inside a hollow, whether a living being or inanimate object

Those with high ether aptitude can stay in Hollows for longer periods of time without worrying about being corrupted, while those with low aptitude have anti-ether equipment that can help protect them. Ether aptitude tests are common

Artificial intelligence (androids, bangboo, smart machines, etc) are vulnerable to corruption if they pass the Forbidden Fruit test— which we don’t have specifics on atm, but presumably marks when an AI has become fully sentient like a person. This corruption is likely referring to ethereal mutation rather than the crystals that form on inanimate objects. Or perhaps even both! Ouch.

People who have been in Hollows for “too long” are susceptible to cognitive corruption syndrome (CCS), which is essentially a dementia/alhzheimer’s-esque disease that causes memory regression

Inferences (and/or Assumptions)

Living beings (humans, thirens, sentient ai, etc) presumably have their corruption levels “reset”/scale back down after exiting a hollow. I’m taking it as a similar situation to blot in Twisted Wonderland, where accumulation naturally decreases with enough time outside the hollow, and can be sped up with proper health maintenance (eating, sleeping, etc).

Corruption only really becomes a concern based on if you can leave (hence why proxies and carrots are so important), and if you stay in the hollows for extended periods of time. I think the threshold for “too long” starts at about maybe 2-3 hours??? Most commissions, including story events, take nowhere near as long as that in real time, I’m sure. I think the longest we might’ve gotten was about 75-90 minutes with the Cunning Hares in the prologue.

That’s the case for those with high ether aptitudes though. Lower aptitudes will experience effects much faster. Red Fang Gang’s Miguel Silver had to have practically zero ether aptitude for his mutation to be so instant.

Coming into contact with ether as an element/material (crystals, Nicole and Zhu Yuan’s shots, etc) won’t immediately cause high corruption levels/mutation (it’s likely everything in the ZZZ verse has in-world increased durability, given players and enemies alike can take bullet shots, burns, freezing, electric shocks, etc without dire consequences). Ethereals are often the most affected by other ether attacks— like ghost or dragon type being super effective against itself from Pokemon

Ether-tipped blades and other melee weapons have got to be a thing (I already have some ocs with this in mind for their weapons), and I don’t think it’s inherently dangerous to get hit by/wield them. You just gotta keep them covered when not in use, and be mindful/intentional of where you hold them (as you already would be with blades of any kind). The material used for weaponry (melee and firearms alike) is probably diluted a significant amount compared to the original crystals?

When actually harvesting ether crystals and other material, it’s highly recommended (often required) to handle with as much caution and protection as possible. The main thing being proper containment and coverage like gloves and stuff.

If there are more gradual effects to Hollow exposure, it’s likely not well known at the time of ZZZ’s main story. CCS could potentially be such, but it’s probably more susceptible if someone stays in hollows for about/longer than 2-3 hours in a single period of time.

Rapidly entering/exiting a hollow back and forth doesn’t count as a “reset”

Inanimate objects, overall, have significantly higher resistance against corruption. Specific levels can vary depending on material rates of corrosion/erosion/decay, quality and handling of the item, how deep it’s located in the hollow, etc. Time-space warping could also be a potential factor, but it’s probably difficult to test logistics for that.

As a general rule of thumb, buildings and infrastructure are usually the most durable things within a hollow. If you stay inside a building within the hollow (such as the Ballet Towers in Ch 3), you can stay inside for much longer (the threshold increasing up to 5-6 or even 7-8 hours, hence why Victoria Housekeeping could do their maintenance checks in the Ballet Towers without endangering themselves). Of course, if ethereals are able to access the building, that will naturally cause interior and/or exterior corruption mainly if hit with ether itself)

Understandably, artificial intelligence has far more resistance to (physical) corruption than organic beings, given they often house mechanical bodies. Though mental capabilities are still vulnerable from potential damage to processing units and such. But that takes about the same threshold as organic beings (~ 2-3 hours outside, 5-8 hours inside).

Unknown (As of Now)

Corruption effects on vegetation (plants/fungus), along with non-sentient animals and/or robotics.

[questalkcomics]

A View for a Kill

- Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Bucky Barnes 

- Summary: The Black Widow is going on a mission with... a partner?

- Trigger warning: none in this

"You ever failed a mission before?"

He was a rookie, questions are common with them but this one caught Natalia by surprise.

"What do you mean?"

She gave him a cold stare, the one you never knew could be true until it sets his sight on you.

"I mean, you're a legend and everyone knows that but-"

"But?" she stops him mid sentence, her stare getting colder, sign that her patience was up.

"You know what forget it. I'm going in."

The kid was annoying but good, Natalia knew that from the get go.

Joined the male trial of the Black Widow program at age 17, ready for field duty at 20 and now partner to the legendary Black Widow at 22.

If operatives could make mistakes that wasn't the case of Department X, if they thought the kid was good then he was.

"Widow I? Wolf Echo is on position, what are you waiting for?"

The voice woke her up from her thoughts, she was still in the elevator and the kid was already close to the target.

"Roger that, I'm joining him", she said.

Nothing special about this mission except her having a partner.

The target was an American diplomat by the name Frank Hudson suspected of exploiting his position to extract information on Soviet soil.

A trivial mission for someone like her but everything happened so fast.

"Widow, I might steal you the spotlight on this one."

The target had a meeting at the Cosmos Hotel, in Moscow.

With 1,777 rooms, the hotel was a perfect location for almost everything.

Three persons in room 54, second floor, including Hudson, no need for more than one of the Red Room operative for that but the instructions were clear:

"We need to see if he's ready".

As soon as she got closer to the door she could see in the kid' eyes an unusual excitment, like a child knowing he's about to enter a candy store.

"Did you checked everything?" Widow said.

"Yes. Our three men had enter the room an hour ago, I took the time to check their reservations, they had an order 20 minutes ago and two cameras were placed yesterday, no sign of any firearms or weapons of any kind.

Just a meeting."

"He was good." she thought

Both drew their TT-30 and got ready to enter but Widow got a feeling that something was off.

Too easy.

"я иду!" exclamed the boy

Natalia's reflexes weren't enough to stop the kid from pushing the door.

"WAIT-"

The door cracked, he entered, weapon in hands, ready to unload.

But then. Nothing.

The room was empty.

Just as Natalia process what was happening she saw two large shadows behind.

No time to think.

She lowered her head and launched a body strike at one of the assailants.

He collapsed as she heard the second, the movement of his arms indicating the positioning of his weapon on her.

She shot him in the knee, and as he clutched it, writhing in pain, he suddenly collapsed under the impact of a bullet to the head fired from the entrance corridor of the room.

"Back!"

The second man, still numb from the initial blow, tried to draw his weapon.

Natalia took his left arm and turned his hand with disconcerting ease.

The man fell to his knees, doubled over in pain. "Who sent you?" Natalia shouted.

The boy was good, but his impulsive shot probably deprived her of more information.

"You... You shouldn't be here..."

He probably was in his mid 40's, tall and muscular, former soldier, a v-shaped scar appeared on his left cheek and his brown eyes easily reflected the fear he felt at the moment.

"What? What do you mean here?" the Widow asked

"It's not about here, that's about him, that's a-"

Another gunshot deprived the floor of silence.

Once in her arm, the man's body feel to the floor.

Lifeless.

The scene happened in seconds but in her head it looked like hours.

"It can't be" she thought

Just as she looked to her right she saw him.

Once smiling and annoying to her, his face was now as cold as the Widow's stare.

"Could he be a double agent?", this was the only question she could think of

But physically, she couldn't move.

His stare, he didn't look himself anymore.

"I guess there's a time for anything and anyone, Widow."

His eyes...

"NATASHA!"

No bang. No hotel room. No blood. No boy.

The voice was James Buchanan Barnes.

He was already sitting in the bed, his hand holding Nat's, his eyes showing nothing but concern.

"James..."

She was sweating and shaking, she never felt that before.

"Was it the Red Room? Did you had these nightmares again ?" James asked.

"I... I'm not sure... James..." she took herself up, still holding his hand as strongly as possible just to feel something warm.

"Can I ask you a question?" Nat said

"Sure, everything you want"

She wasn't sure about it but that's the only thing she had in mind.

*His* eyes still glowing.

"Have you ever failed a mission before?"

[vainvenus]

hey freaky ppl. my request is really simple bc i need to recover from this angst fic i read of sejanus LMAO

so i was thinking of peacekeeper sej and covey reader, but the way they meet is completely different. he would catch the reader sneaking off over the fence with a bag of supplies.

i’m thinking that someone at the covey had gotten ill and the reader was met with the task of gathering herbs needed outside of the fence.

i feel like sej would first be what any other peacekeeper would be and follow and be like “wtf are u doin” but then like he’d understand and let her keep running off into the woods and meadow. IDK I THINK THIS IS CUTE

⌲;꒰ Fence girl. ꒱

Pairing :: Peacekeepers!Sejanus x Fem!Reader

Synopsis - Sejanus catches someone sneaking over the fence and tries to do his job ( he doesn't).

Includings :: Covey member!reader, sejanus hating his job AND being bad at his job, he has a soft spot for (everything) reader, horrible first impressions, mostly fluff, this is kinda short

An :: Sorry this took so long...jumping from fandom to fandom is NOT for the weak

Sejanus never truly wanted to be a peacekeeper, yes he wanted to help people but obviously not in this kind of way.

Peacekeepers were often cruel and stern, they stood their ground for what they stood for and their morals were aligned in a way that didn't quite align with Sejanus's.

But it was far too late to turn back, he already was at twelve and already buzzed his curls so he was stuck here with a job he hated. Not much could be done.

And Sejanus did try to do his job, he tried to be like his friend Coriolanus who was stern and took the job very seriously but of course, there were times where he struggled.

Like right now, he was frozen with confusion as he watched a girl with [h/c] hair scaling one of the fences. She had a dark brown bag around her shoulder. His brows furrowed even more as he wondered what was she doing.

But then he had to remember his job and how what the girl was doing was very much something he had to report.

No one was allowed beyond the fences because one, it was seen as dangerous because they were made to keep wild animals.

And two, it was seen as rebellious since at some point if anyone was able to get far enough they could leave the district and start their own life far far away from all of this mess.

Sejanus looked around, slight panic wavering in his eyes as he realized he was the only one who had noticed the girl climbing up and over the wall. She was almost out of his sight, her dark green skirt blending in with the scenery.

He cursed under his breath as he started to climb up the fence, hopping over it and looking in the direction of the girl. She seemed to be in a rush as she looked around the field.

"Excuse me! You know you're not allowed to be here, right?"

His voice seemed to have startled her as she jumped a bit, she looked him up and down quickly. She clenched the brown bag as he eyes glanced to the gun he was holding and he saw how she tensed up, her eyes growing wide.

She looked scared– no, terrified. Like a rabbit behind hunted by a fox.

That was another thing Sejanus hated about being a peacekeeper, no matter what he was always going to be feared because of that stupid uniform and the firearms they had to wield while on patrol.

It didn't matter how gentle he was as long as he was in uniform.

"Please...don't hurt me."

"Hurt you? I..I wasn't gonna- look, you're not allowed to be past that fence. I won't report you or anything, I swear. But you could get hurt or lost-"

"I know where I'm going." She had cut his worried rambling short, grip tightening on her bag.

His brows furrowed in slight curiosity. "And just where is that?"

"There's a few herbs down from here near a river." She replied. "I need to get them for a friend of mine...she's sick and we can't exactly afford medicine at the moment." She murmured the last bit but loud enough for Sejanus to frown.

He knew he shouldn't. He knew he should have done his job and escorted her back over the fence.

But of course Sejanus's heart always won over his brain so before he could even stop himself he had said;

"Alright. You can go."

A warm smile had spread onto the features of the girl in front of him, her eyes glistening with hope as she uttered; "Really?"

Sejanus nodded, looking over his shoulder just to be safe. "Yes, really. But, I have to walk with you and you need to make it as quick as possible."

"Deal! I'll be quicker than two shakes of a lamb's tail." She giggled and Sejanus couldn't help but smile as he followed beside her.

As they walked, Sejanus took small glanced over at her. Her sense of style didn't seem to fit twelve, everybody remotely dressed the same with mostly dull colors or neutral tones but she had a much more lively pallette with splashes of red, orange and yellow.

"Starings rude, you know."

He quickly looked away, pressing his lips together in a thin line as she had cracked another smile before laughing and playfully hitting his arm.

"I'm just playing around! Jeez, for a peacekeeper you sure are sheepish." She hummed as she looked up at him and he glanced back over at her.

"Yeah, I'm horrible at my job I know."

"I'm not complaining, just glad I got one of the good ones." She smiled before she realized they were near the river and she crouched down near one of the nearby trees.

Sejanus watched as she pulled out a small jar and began picking dark purple berries, careful placing them into the jar. He tilted his head a bit while he watched her like a curious child.

"Elderberries." She spoke and his brows knitted together before she continued to explain. "Help with the immune system. We crush em' and brew em' into a real sweet tea."

Sejanus nodded as he knelt down. "Can I help?"

"You really are different, hm?" She tilted your head up at him, giving a teasing smile. "Kind, thoughtful and helpful? Are you sure you picked the right job?" She asked as she handed him one of the small jars and he shook his head.

"I wanted to be a medic." He said as he carefully picked the berries, putting them into the jar and the girl beside him hummed in amusement.

"That's surprising. What made you change your mind?"

"A friend. I'm only here because of him, oh and a little bit of rule breaking back home.." He sheepishly admitted and she giggled, standing up.

"Well you are just full of surprises, huh?"

Sejanus shrugged with a smile as he placed the jar carefully into her bag. "Guess I am."

As the two had walked back to the fence, Sejanus had picked a perfect spot where there was no one on patrol at the moment. It was like she had never even went over the wall.

He helped her over it, giving her a small boost up before climbing over it himself and he dusted off his uniform as he placed her bag back in her hands and she hummed a 'thank you' as she put it back over her shoulder.

"Y'know, I hope we meet again. Under better circumstances, of course."

"Me too- wait, I never caught your name."

She giggled, turning on her heel. "I never threw it!"

|★|

It had been a couple of weeks since his run-in with that [h/c] haired girl. Weeks since and he hadn't seen her again, he hoped that meant that her friend had gotten well enough that she didn't have to sneak over the fence again.

He was still thinking about her as he sat with Coriolanus, sitting at one of the tables as he was watching Lucy Gray perform. He was never as wowed, mainly because unlike those in the capitol he grew to already appreciate music.

"Whoops! Coming through, Blondie!" A familiar voice giggled as a girl with [h/c] haired brushed past the two to set some drinks off at the table next to them and Sejanus's eyes widened.

The fence girl.

He immediately stood up and walked over to her and as soon as she had turned to face him her face broke into a smile which he copied.

"You again!"

"Me again."

She gave him a skeptical gaze yet there was a playful smile on his face. "Are you stalking me?"

"Yeah. And it was just so hard because you never tossed me your name." He sighed like a damsel in distress, shaking his head.

She had giggled, holding out her hand. "[Y/n]."

He shook it, keeping a gentle yet firm grasp on it. He thought that maybe being a peacekeeper wasn't all too bad now.

"Sejanus."

[deuxcherise]

Collar Crimes: Don't be Crabby

C/w: Unhealthy behavior, OCs, yandere male, yandere female, hostage situation, threats, mentions death, mentions blood, describes seafood, describes eating sound, slight fluff (?), no comfort, a bit crack, reader insert, gender neutral reader, reader doesn’t have allergies in this story, includes a picture of seafood platter (you’ll see why~)

A/n: So I’m just popping in real quick to update this story for my dear readers. I’ve had to go days racking my head about how I was going to go about the dynamic between you and a certain someone who you’ll meet right when you wake after getting kidnapped. Trying out some worldbuilding  and dropping lore here and there.

Masterlist | Part 6, Part 7 (you’re here!), Part 8 (not yet!)

There are three things one should know about before venturing into the port city of Agobury, especially if one is planning to stick around:

Provide something of worth, whether that be a valuable item, an enticing business proposal, or a warm body…

If your business has anything to do with the ports or the waters surrounding Agobury, your business is with the Marcet Port.

If your business does not have anything to do with the Marcet Port, your business is everyone else’s business.

Of those people one must worry about within the city, there are three prominent families to watch out for.

The first one, who supposedly reigns over the half of the city, is the Aurem-Diavolus Family, also known by their infamous moniker, the May Devils. Whether or not it’s true how much they own, no one has the manpower or the wealth or even sheer audacity to suggest otherwise.

“'Ey, Sis! That Ermine kid!”

“What the- How did he get out?” Lyn slams onto a button and yells into the intercom, “Don't let him escape!”

The second one to watch out for are the owners of all of the banks in Agobury. Every single one, regardless of name, is under the command of the Panthera Family. Only those who have been unfortunate enough to lose or stupidly gamble all of their money know them as the Blacklists. No bank account, no money. No money, no peace.

“Honey? Eris?” Ollie’s mother attempts to reason. “Do calm— Oh, heavens!”

“Oi, Eris! Calm down!” Ollie shouts. “You don't have to— Aw, shit.”

And the third family, the Ermines, whose name once sent shivers down even the sturdiest of spines throughout the city a decade ago, is now only known through faded whispers of tortured old witnesses. That being said, they are still very much alive and well, even in their meager numbers.

“Please, I have a—”

Crunch.

Rumors have that they have never felt the fear of death.

Eris drags the residue from the bottom of his blood-stained shoes across a clean part of the concrete floor. His eyes are feral, blown out to the point one could barely see the original green hue of his irises.

Click. Click click click click click.

Tiny red dots zoom in from outside towards the center of Eris’s head and heart from behind. A squad of armored soldiers bear their firearms, ready to pull the trigger at command. “Stand down, Ermine! Or we’ll be forced to engage.”

In response, Eris’s body is still, not even a twitch to be seen. His head slowly pivots on his neck as smoothly as a doll until his eyes meet the opaque visors of the tensed squad.

For a moment, everything stills. Everything quiets. The only sounds that can be heard are the beating of nervous hearts, shudders of shaky breaths, and the last gasps of fallen soldiers. Eris’s mouth slowly spreads into an unnervingly wide grin.

And then, he moves.

-----🔔-----

One has to wonder if there is such a thing as a god or some force in the universe that has a cruel hobby of bringing the most pitiful souls all into a single place where demons are allowed to roam freely, all doomed to die tragically young…

And yet, interestingly, there are people who survive long enough to produce the next generation of unlucky souls to replace the city’s ever diminishing numbers— before they die due to some accident or “accident”, of course. The forsaken, the “les misérables”, the normies, etc. People who could not escape Agobury, even if they had all of the money and right connections in the world.

Unless, they are willing to give up their souls.

Crack. Shlurp. Munch munch. Gulp.

But some aren’t even lucky enough for that.

“Like you!” the young man sitting across from you chirps, cracking open another king crab leg with just his fingers and slurping up the juicy white and red meat. “Sho tewl me— Gulp— how did someone like you manage to capture the heart of one of the most dangerous men in our city, hm~?” he asks, pointing the empty shell towards you.

You narrow your eyes in response.

This guy… looks familiar… But anyway, how the heck would I know!?

All you’ve been doing all of your life has been minding your own damn business. Did you ever ask for your puppy-like ex, Lyn, to fall in love with you to the point of suffocation? No. Did you ever ask for that stupid Eris to weasel his way into your life? No. Did you ever ask for that damn Ollie to break into your home and steal your family portrait? No. Did you ever ask to be kidnapped, knocked out, get woken up in some fancy restaurant in who knows where, dressed up in some fancy attire that feels like heaven to be in but costs more than your monthly rent, and sat across some deranged criminal who suspiciously reminds you of that stupid Eris, currently enjoying a fresh plate of Alaskan king crabs like this is some normal date? HELL NO.

“Hey, less glaring, more talking,” he says, tossing the shell away in favor of debating over which of the colorful sashimi to eat first.

“Who are you, where are we, and what do you want from me?” you demand, slamming your hands on the table, wrapping your fingers around the fabric of the velvety white table cloth.

The stranger pops a piece of tuna sashimi into his mouth. “Tut tut tut, so many questions~ On second thought, you must be hungry. How about you just enjoy our dinner first, hm? Settle in… Then we’ll get back to my question. Sound good?”

You take in your surroundings. A fancy restaurant with crystal chandeliers all over the ceilings, blacked out windows framed with pulled-back thick cream drapes, and what you assume to be mahogany wooden floors. Classical music plays in the background by professionals with shiny, wooden instruments. Servers are waiting against the wall, occasionally glancing your way since the only diners here seem to be you and this weirdo. You look down at your own dish, a matching plate of seafood ranging from crabs to mollusks to fishes that could never grace the plate of your local diner, sparkling like gems from the ocean.

Crack. Crack crack crack.

You look up from your plate towards the noise. You find him holding a decorative rock to crack open an ridiculously large clam— why is he using a rock instead of the clam knife?

He looks up and says, “Jeez. C’mon, just eat. Eat and then we’ll talk.”

“.....” You look warily over the food.

“... It’s not poisoned, ya know? I need you alive.”

So he says… Well, if that’s the case for whatever reason, then why not? If you want to escape, you’ll need the energy. If you end up dying anyway, then at least you’ll die eating delicious, expensive food. You nod and begin devouring your plate.

Crunch. Shlurp. Gulp.

The crab legs are immaculately succulent, tender, and slightly sweet with a buttery flavor. The clams taste savory with a clean, earthy undertone that evokes the essence of the sea. The shrimps offer firm yet tender bites, with a delicate hint of natural sweetness from the sea, balanced by a clean, slightly briny undertone. The oysters—

“Wow. Are you an idiot?”

You manage to choke down the oyster meat that was just halfway down your throat before the insult could shock you entirely. You cough several times, hitting your chest with the side of your fist. “What?”

“Are you an idiot?” he repeats, throwing you an arrogant smirk as he finishes a handful of clams. “You don’t even know who I am— Crunch—, and whether or not— Shlurp— I’m telling the truth about— Gulp— poisoning your food, ya know? Why would you believe someone who kidnapped you?”

You wipe your mouth with the thick napkin on your lap. “... You would poison a perfectly good plate of super expensive seafood?” you ask, annoyed.

He purses his lips. “... Good point… B-B-BUT!” He wags a finger. “What if… I offered you this food in exchange for servitude, huh? You’ll be indebted to me for life, ya know! Didn’t you think about that?”

You think about it. Just for a moment. Then you realize that nothing would change from your situation anyway, working paycheck to paycheck. It makes you groan because thinking about something like that is a waste of time when your plate is still full of seafood to feed your stomach. How long have you been asleep anyway? It feels like it's been days and your stomach is a void that has been waiting to be filled.

You shrug and then continue feasting on your plate.

The stranger stares at you from across the table, flabbergasted at your nonchalance. He had ordered his men to kidnap you in broad daylight in front of your friends right in front of your workplace, knowing full well that Eris is locked up by the May Devils for the crimes he’s committed against them. Surely, someone of your mediocre lineage should be more… more aware of their predicament or something? Afraid, vulnerable, too scared to eat maybe? Anything! Unless you must be an idiot. Eris wouldn’t fall for some naive dummy like you, would he?

… Would he?

“... Hey…" He tries to get your attention.

Crunch. Shlurp. Gulp.

He attempts to get your attention again. “H-hey… !”

Your throat suddenly needs a cleanser. Luckily, there’s a glass of water you can throw back before you continue. Pretty good water, not gonna lie.

Crunch. Shlurp. Gulp.

His determination begins to falter. “... H-hey?”

You munch on the last morsel before it gets sent down to your overly-stuffed stomach. You wipe your mouth and throw the napkin onto the table, directing all of your energy into a glare towards him. “Done. Now talk.”

He looks at you, mouth slightly agape. “... I have never met an idiot like you,” he starts off.

“Right. Okay,” you answer sarcastically, rolling your eyes.. “So who are you, where are we, and what do you want from me?”

“Hey! I asked you first!”

“Fine.” You shrug. “To answer your question of how Eris came to be obsessed over me… Heck if I know. Can I go now?”

“What? No no no no!” he screeches as he stands up, hands slammed down on the table. “What do you mean by that? Tell me properly!”

“Like I said, heck if I know,” you answer, shrugging. “I honestly don’t know.”

“NO! You…” He points at you with an accusatory finger. “What exactly did you do to Eris to make him fall head over heels in love with you? That.. Bloodthirsty Weasel, Eris. Incarnate of Chaos, Eris. My older brother Eris. What did you do to him!? Drugs? Blackmail? What. Did. You. Do?”

Did I hear that right? No, no I couldn’t have.

You chew on the inside of your cheek as you try to make sense of this situation. “... Do I look like I can afford all that stuff? And blackmailing Eris? Please. I don’t even think he has a sense of shame.”

He grinds his teeth at you, still waiting for an answer you don’t have. Seeing as this is going nowhere, you shoot your questions again. “Listen. I don’t know what else to tell you. Since you know so much about me, how about you tell me who you are and where are we for a start? Maybe I might be more inclined to answer.”

His narrowed eyes relax after a few moments. He stands up straight, placing a hand over his heart. He dramatically takes a breath as if preparing to give a performance. He looks down at you with a confident smirk. “Good question. My name is Eren and I—”

“So you’re actually related to Eris?” you cut him off, curiosity getting the better of you.

“Don’t cut me off!” he shrieks, his face red. He calms down immediately and clears his throat, replacing his controlled smirk. “To answer your question, yes. Yes, I am. I am Eren Ermine, younger brother to the infamous Eris Ermine—”

Eren. Ren.

Your expressionless face reveals nothing but internally, a lightbulb goes off in your head and fills you with joy for connecting the dots. Then as fast as it had lit up, it fizzles and flickers off in disappointment as you realize yet another psycho has come after you because of your job. Or because of Eris. Whichever one. Great.

And since when did Eris have a relative? He never once mentioned this guy or anyone else— then again, he might’ve mentioned something about being the eldest son which does imply at least one younger sibling… They do look alike the more you look at him. Like brothers, basically, but Eris did say he was alone so could you blame- Oh! Now, you remember. He was that weird hooded guy Eris threw into a storage room at the hospital! What kind of relationship do they have? If you had siblings, you wouldn’t-

“Hey hey hey! I can see the glaze over your eyes. Pay attention!” Eren hisses at you, snapping his fingers over the table. “Jesus Christ! How can your mind be possibly anywhere else when you’re clearly in a hostage situation!?”

Well… it’s not the first time. “Sooorry,” you apologize, rolling your eyes. “Can’t help it. So you’re Eris’s younger brother. Good to know. Where are we exactly?”

“Wha- I- Ughhhh.” He groans into his hands. He sharply inhales with his eyes closed and exhales. “(Y/n), if you don’t do as I say, I will kill you. Got it?”

“Okay,” you answer. “So?”

“.....”

You raise your eyebrows and tilt your head, waiting for answers to your questions for the second time. You add a twirl of your hand as a visual gesture.

He blinks. “Are you an idiot?”

You sigh. “That’s the third time you asked. Do you want me to be an idiot?”

“... Are you messing with me right now?”

You shrug again. “Not really? Besides, didn’t you say you needed me alive?”

“I can easily change my mind!”

“Okay. So where are we?”

“.....” He grumbles to himself.

“... Well?” you prompt him.

“Humans are usually afraid in these situations…” he mutters underneath his breath before his eyes go wide. “Are you… not a human?”

“.....” Is he serious? you wonder.

“.....” He continues to stare. He seems serious.

“Last time I checked, I came out from a human,” you put it bluntly.

“.....” He squints his eyes and scrutinizes you.

“What? Don’t believe me?”

“No, sorry,” he covers his face and starts mumbling to himself, “That was a stupid question. I already have your birth certificate and…”

You can’t decide which brother is crazier, your stalker Eris who's obsessed with you for some reason, or his supposed younger brother Eren who also seems obsessed with you (or his brother) enough to kidnap and hold you hostage… and get ahold of your birth certificate for some reason. What exactly did you do to-

No. No wait. It’s not right to victim-blame. All of this started the day you let Eris stay that night… Gosh darn it! Why did you let him stay? You should’ve called the police instead of crying in his arms that night. Oh dear lord, it’s like that one pet video you watched where the owner got a pet, and then got another one so the first one wouldn’t get lonely, and then next thing you know, you got a third one, and then a fourth, and then a fifth one because—

“HEY!”

“Whaaat?” you drawl.

“AHHHH!” he whines, gripping his hair between fingers. “You have the attention span of a fly. A fly! I don’t understand what he sees in you!”

The way he’s shaking his head is creeping you out like some toddler throwing a tantrum. “Why don’t you ask him yourself if you’re so curious,” you suggest. “You’re brothers, aren’t you?”

He stops, head hanging. His fingers drop to his side before he suddenly slouches onto his chair, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. “I... I can’t,” he whispers.

“Huh?”

“I can’t!” he repeats, almost shrieking.

You place your hands back on the table and blink a few times, leaning forward in confusion. “Huh? You can’t? Why not?”

Eren looks away, sheepishly. He taps the tips of his fingers together. “He… He won’t talk to me anymore,” he pouts.

…..

If you weren’t sitting here under these terrible circumstances, you might’ve found Eren’s shy demeanor a bit cute. Kind of like Eris… but at this point, it just creeps you out how fast he goes from loud to controlled to being bashful all of a sudden.

“That… sounds like a ‘you’ problem,” you state, sitting back in your seat. “And nothing to do with me. Can I go home now?”

He shoots you a glare before his face softens as he suddenly walks around the table and places his hands upon your shoulders. You attempt to grab them with your hands but find your shoulders and arms stiff underneath his strength, reminding you of Eris’s own cuddling strength. “No no no no. You see, (Y/n)… I’ve noticed he hangs around you a lot. So… I’m proposing a deal~”

“Uh… ” 

“Or I’ll kill you,” he adds, a deranged smile on his face.

“I thought you said you needed me alive?” you repeat, as if trying to remind him.

“I know. But the more I think about it, you’d work wonderfully even if you’re dead.”

His face looks like it promises a very painful death. “O… kay. What’s the deal?” you ask.

“Good, good. If I know anything about my brother— and I know my brother—”

Oh okay, Mr. “I-don’t–understand-what-he-sees-in-yo” Ermine, you wish you could quip. But you keep quiet and let him continue.

“—he’s already on his way here. B-B-But!” He holds up a teasing finger. “He’ll have to go through me to get to you. Sooo I need you to be hidden away until I k- I mean, he finds you. Okay?”

… It’s not like I have a choice in the matter, do I? You gulp, but try to keep your voice steady. “He’s pretty strong.”

“Yeah? I know. I'm counting on that actually,” Eren says with a glint in his eye. “I'd like to see what our parents saw in him and finally get to… Hm~” He then releases you and takes a few steps back. “Guards! Take (Y/n) to the cargo hold. Make sure they can’t move, see, or speak. I don’t want to be interrupted.”

Before you can make a move or a peep, the waiters swiftly have your hands bound behind you with thick rope, eyes blindfolded and mouth bound, and a bag placed over your head to finish off before they carry you off like a writhing sack of potatoes down several hallways and down several flights of stairs, doing a number on your stuffed stomach, until they reach the destination and dump you onto the metal floor. They then bind your rope against some pole or column and then leave you alone with only the sounds of hidden cargo tapping the inside of their boxes with every rise and fall of… the ocean!?

-----🔔-----

[Some time earlier…]

Drip… drip… drip…

“Mother, you know when I said that ‘I like living’. I love it to death, actually.”

“I didn’t raise you to sass me, kit,” Ollie’s mother hisses, pinching his cheek. “ … But I see your point.”

“Great.”

“Still,” she adds, “they do say all is fair in love and war.”

Ollie’s father nods.

One of Ollie’s eyes twitches. “First of all, again, I am not in love. And second of all, do you hear yourself, Mother? Do you want the entire family to turn on Eris, of all people. In Agobury?”

Ollie's mother’s jaw drops. ““Most certainly not! But I want you to be happy, Ollie. It’s a grand thing to be in love, after all~” she says, snuggling up with Ollie’s father. He nuzzles the top of her head with his cheek in reciprocation.

“Really? How can you still say that—,” Ollie gestures to the scene behind them with both hands. “—when Eris did this just to escape?”

The light-colored walls of the hallways are stained with splatters of crimson behind sitting corpses. Guts and bits of flesh litter the floor in pools of red. Broken equipment colored black lay scattered about as if a deranged artist had accidentally made a stroke of genius to give the viewer a place to rest their eyes in a painting called “The Red Massacre”.

Ollie’s mother chuckles. “Dear kit, if it weren’t for the Treaty, we couldn’t just be in charge of the banks. If you so wished, dear kit, you should know that our family would have your back… Even if it is up against Eris.”

Tap… tap… tap…

“... I had heard… things about him… but I had never expected…” a female voice trails off, making her way steadily through the red lakes.

The Panthera family turn towards Lyn, who looks at the scene with wide eyes. “Apologies for the lives of your men on Eris’s behalf, Lyn,” says Ollie. “When it comes to his lover, Eris can get a bit—”

“No, no, no. They were prepared to give their lives for the famiglia's security… “ Lyn says as her eyes catch something shiny within the puddles of blood.

She sticks her fingers into the pool and pulls out a band.

A ring.

A golden ring.

On the inside of the golden ring, engraved in Latin are the words, “Love you forever and always”...

“Why would…” Lyn’s voice fades as a lightbulb lights up so brilliantly in her mind that it proceeds to shatter into a million pieces.

Oh.

OH.

OH.

A gentle smile graces her lips as she rubs the blood off the ring on the black vicuna of her suit before pocketing it safely and turning towards Ollie.

“I think I can understand Eris's… reaction now. It seems that we need to find and punish whoever took Eris’s lover, don’t we?” she says, with venom underlaced. “It would be a shame if all of these men gave up their lives… for nothing,” she spits the last word.

A shiver runs up Ollie’s spine upon the sight of Lyn. Her normally empty brown irises are replaced with bloody halos, illuminated by the white of her scleras. Unnerving, paired with her angelic smile.

There used to be a saying in Agobury that every time a May Devil smiled, the world would fall to hell.

An exaggeration, a legend, a myth, perhaps a tall tale told to children nowadays to never cross a member of the May Devils, lest they wish to end up found torn apart and devoured by stray dogs in some dark alleyway, but the sight of Lyn now reminds Ollie of the fated day he had saved her on a whim. 

The May Devils have existed longer than any other family in this godforsaken city for a reason… and to think they prefer to align themselves in the public to family-friendly gentle dog breeds like golden retrievers or maremma sheepdogs.

Hah… there couldn’t possibly be a god with all of these dogs running about…

“You planning something, Lyn?” Ollie asks.

Lyn chuckles hollowly. “If you’re going to stop me-”

“I know better than to do that.”

“Good. I will need the Panthera’s help again.”

And so, Agobury’s top dog and cat have decided to join forces to chase after the weasel who is chasing after his younger brother who has spared nothing to keep you safely tucked away in a storage room.

Until next time…

.

.

.

.

.

-----🔔-----

[Current]

“HEPH! HEPH! HEPH!”

You attempt to call for help, but no one answers. You have been abandoned. There is no one who will save you here.

…..

Stupid Eris. 

…..

Stupid Ollie.

…..

Stupid… Lyn…

You bang the back of your head against the pole. As if you can think about your lunatic ex who traumatized you to the point of making you adverse to free money in this economy right now!? You can’t even begin to consider pitting how bad being in that situation was against the situation you’re in now…

… Can you?

In the silent darkness, the pounding in your head starts to get louder and louder. And then you feel your heart start to beat against your eardrums faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster—

You don’t know how big this place is, but underneath the bag it seems small. Too small. Too small and stuffy. So stuffy, you can’t breathe properly, which means you can’t think properly. It’s suffocating. It’s suffocating here, in this small space. A small space in a ship that is in the middle of who knows where, which means  you can’t escape. You will have to wait for someone to get you out, but nobody knows you’re here, and if nobody knows you’re here, you’re trapped. Trapped all alone. All alone just like when you were trapped in that place with your ex. Except you had your ex that time, but this time you have no one. No one no one no one no one no one just like before—

“Shhhhh…” You feel a hand on top of your covered head. A sing-songy voice clears away all of your messy thoughts and slows down your heartbeat enough for you to take full, deep breaths. “Fear not, dear (Y/n). You… are going to be okay.”

[stories-and-chaos]

Tarnished

[Helluva Boss AU where Blitzø’s childhood theft from Stolas’ palace is discovered and major consequences ensue for everyone involved. Concept inspired by this AU, Push. Trying to stick with established lore but taking some liberties to make the drama work. Multiple headcanons from various sources I’ve come across included as suits the story. Starts roughly five years before Murder Family, I’m making assumptions about the timeline]

[18+ rating for language, implied sexual content, violence, alcohol consumption and general Hellaverse-ness]

[Part 1/?? Word count: 3761]

———————

Moxxie’s back slammed into the rough wooden bed frame as he heard the distinctive clang of prison bars rattling shut. He still couldn’t believe Chaz had just left him there. Grabbed the goods and ran. The imp realized his boyfriend was just as shitty out of bed as he was in it. He started tearing up as he climbed on the bottom bunk. Moxxie knew his dad wouldn’t bail him out or anything. He might have been the boss’s only (legitimate) son but he was also the most junior member of the family. And Crimson was not a sentimental imp.

Moxxie had been caught red clawed too, pinned by the security gate. No need for any formalities like a trial in the Greed Ring. A mugshot, strip down, and forced into a jumpsuit before the cops tossed him in a cell. Of course, Greed’s police force was basically a mafia on a wider scale.

“Soooo, what’re you in for?” A voice drawled from the top bunk. Moxxie hadn’t realized he had a cellmate. Oh crumbs, had the other demon heard him crying?! If there was a way to ensure you didn’t get out of prison in one piece, it was letting others know how weak you were the moment you were locked up. His tail reflexively whipped closer, as if trying to hide himself.

“Okay, not much of a talker, are you?” The voice almost sounded jovial. In prison? A squeak of the mattress and the other prisoner launched himself to the floor with theatrical flair. Before he could do more than sit up and blink the tall imp gripped his hand to shake. Not the vice-like grip his father used, hard enough to make claw shaped indents into the other’s hand. It was a firm, friendly shake.

“I'm Blitzø, the "o" is silent. I'm sure we're going to get along just fine. So, what's your deal? What'd you do? Who'd you diddle? You look like someone good with a gun. You look like someone who could shoot up an office-“ Moxxie tried to interject, but the other imp plowed on.

“-and I hope you are 'cuz I got a plan to get us out of this dump but I'm going to need some help, you think you can give me a hand? I need to get out to my daughter. The babysitter will kill me if I don't get back soon. Also I got some business scheduled in Pride that I gotta get back for. Do you like kids? 'Cause lemme tell 'ya. They're a-fucking-dorable.” Moxxie felt his eyes warming up with more tears but his lips were forming a shaky smile. He realized he hadn’t smiled like this since… well he could barely remember. At first he thought since Chaz ditched him, but really it was since his mom “disappeared.”

It took a couple of days for the cellmates to enact Blitzø’s plan. Moxxie had to learn the complex’s layout and they had to make sure they could get to a weapon cache. Their escape was successful, both of them got banged up, and Moxxie’s body count tripled as a result of the escapade.

A few things they learned about each other: Blitzø’s circus background made him extremely agile and prone to acrobatic feats in a fight. He was batshit crazy once the ichor started flowing but he kept his eye out on his partner. The scarred imp backed up Moxxie more than once when he floundered while they fled for the Pride Ring. His plans were grandiose but he was quick to adapt and quicker to protect his cohort.

On the other claw, Moxxie was even better with firearms than Blitzø thought. So long as the kid kept his composure, he didn’t miss a shot. It was almost magickal and he saw more magick than most of their kind. The kid seemed quiet and well mannered for the most part. He could get absolutely fucking feral in a fight, becoming an even better shot if that was possible. But he was insecure and desperate for approval. The pure shock on his face when Blitzø told him “nice work Mox,” after they got out told the older imp that he’d probably never been praised in his life.

One bonus to no trial before you were thrown in prison? No one was too keen on dragging you back if you got out. Especially if you massacred 80% of the guards on your way out, traumatized 18%, and awakened some very interesting feelings in the final 2%. It wasn’t worth spending hard grifted money chasing down someone who would just do the same thing even if you managed to catch them. If they’d run off from Mammon, the escaping prisoners would be hunted down. But otherwise, even the police mafia didn’t give that much of a shit.

The duo had snagged a couple of overcoats so their bright orange jumpsuits would stand out less. The plan was to get to Blitzø’s apartment, check up on his kid, grab some cash to rent Moxxie a room for the night and change before Blitzø had to be at his appointment.

Except once they got to the Pride Ring, Blitzø started freaking the fuck out. “Shitshitshitshitshiiiiiiitfuckingdammit.” A stream of profanities just kept coming out of his mouth as Blitzø picked up his pace.

“Um, sir?” It was drilled into Moxxie to address superiors as sir or ma’am; Blitzø had taken charge during their escape and didn’t seem to mind being called sir. “What happened, you started panicking once we got here.” This was presumably the older imp’s home turf, yet he was more off balance than at any other point in the past three days.

“FUUUUUUUCKokay Mox, change of plans.” He spun around and grasped the shorter imp by the shoulders. “I lost track of the time and I can’t miss this appointment. Do you know anyone in this ring that can put you up for the night?” Blitzø doubted it. It seemed like the kid had stayed in Greed up until now. A quick head shake confirmed that. “You got two choices, cause I don’t have time to get you someplace first. You can head off alone and we’ll meet up tomorrow or you can come with me, play along, and hope it’s not worse than prison.”

Moxxie was taken aback; first off that was the most words in a row without swears he’d heard from Blitzø. Second, “Where are you going that’s worse than prison?”

“A Goetian estate.”

Moxxie’s jaw dropped. He might as well have said he was meeting up with Lucifer. Yet… Blitzø had an appointment to be there. And it was important enough that he couldn’t even check on his kid first. Not to mention, wandering around an unfamiliar area wearing a prison jumpsuit was next to suicidal. “I’ll stick with you sir.”

“Ballsy! I knew I fucking liked you Moxxie.” He whirled around and started loping toward the fancy ass side of the city. “Keep up Mox! We gotta go!”

It took about half an hour of running and weaving through crowds but they made it before…whatever time Blitzø was so intent on outrunning. He had started running even faster about halfway, his desperation more than apparent. Once he passed through the gates, all the tension left his body. He slumped to the ground; Moxxie hesitated as he gaped at the ornate fencing. The gate and elegant fence had the symbol of the Goetia family (a crowned heart) emblazoned every few yards.

Moxxie had grown up a privileged life, especially for an imp. Servants, tutors, a well stocked manor. But the building in front of him was on another level. It was more of a palace than anything; multistoried with heraldic banners hanging, multiple manicured gardens, statues strategically placed and the master’s sigil glowing prominently on the wall. And that was just what he could glimpse in the full moon’s light. This was the difference between money and royalty.

“Last chance Moxxie. C’mon in or head off somewhere and I’ll meet you at my office at noon tomorrow. If you’re still standing around here in a few, those fuckers will drag you with me anyway.” He gulped and stepped onto the grounds next to the other imp. “Still ballsy.” Blitzø’s grin was back.

“Here’s what’s going to go down. Any minute now some beefy hellhound fucks are gonna show up to haul me in. They might grab you, might let you walk. Either way, keep your mouth shut and just back me up if I ask. Hopefully we won’t see that overdressed bitch tonight but if she’s around don’t make eye contact. And-“ whatever he was about to add was cut off as four hellhounds jogged up.

Blitzø wasn’t kidding about them being beefy. They were all different breeds but they all had biceps as big as his head, wrapped in artfully ripped suits. The matching suits, earpieces, sunglasses, and crisp posture gave them an air of professionalism that was a sharp contrast to his dad’s goons.

“Oh look, it’s the Chucklefuck squad and the Douchenugget duo. Who’d you piss off to land the night shift?” Blitzø taunted the Hounds, seemingly indifferent to the fact any one of them could snap him in half. Two of them grabbed Blitzø by the arms, grinning sadistically at the thought of manhandling the smaller demons.

“Lady Stella specifically requested we escort you in, Blitzø.” Blitzø winced “Satan fucking dammit.” Apparently Lady Stella was the overdressed bitch he’d mentioned. “She’s got a party tonight so she doesn’t have to hear your scrawny ass getting pounded. But she knew how much you’d like friends to bring you home.” The Hellhound punctuated his words with a sharp snap of his teeth.

Home? Moxxie backpedaled in confusion, only to bump into the leg of another security Hound. Said Hound grabbed him around the torso, easily pinning both arms and leaving Moxxie’s hooves dangling far from the ground. He struggled, trying to at least get back to the ground. The size difference and Moxxie’s lack of weapons meant he didn’t stand much chance at the moment. The pair with Blitzø took the lead, not caring that his dragging hooves were tearing furrows into the lawns or creating sparks on the paths.

Blitzø let them, worn out from the prison break and subsequent dash back to Pride. He was too tired to try to keep pace with his “escorts.” He kept glancing back to Moxxie, trying to reassure him. The younger imp was clearly terrified. He couldn’t really help the kid at the moment; the bulldog faced Hellhound carrying him lifted his lip whenever Blitzø looked back.

Fuck this fucking farce and fuck Paimon with a rusty crucifix for doing this, Blitzø thought to himself for the ten thousandth time in his life. Best to go through the motions as quickly as possible. The group arrived at one of the drawing rooms and Blitzø was dumped unceremoniously on the thick carpet.

The whirlwind trip through the estate proved to Moxxie that royalty had a whole different definition of luxury from what he knew. Paintings, mosaics, sculptures, exotic plants were just the beginning as they rushed through hallways wider than his bedroom at his dad’s. He’d lost count of how many doors they passed before they reached one in particular.

Blitzø was thrown to the ground but the one holding Moxxie didn’t loosen his grip. Blitzø glared back at the Hellhounds, hissing. The Hounds responded with low growls. Everyone went silent when a lithe figure snapped the cover of a book shut and unfolded itself from a lounge by the fireplace. This had to be one of the Goetia, presumably the master of this estate.

His extreme height was the first thing Moxxie noticed. Moxxie was about average for an imp in height; the glimpses he’d seen of imp servants in this maze were all much smaller. Blitzø was on the taller end of the spectrum but the Hounds were easily double his height. This royal demon towered over them all. You could stack Moxxie, Blitzø, and even one of the small servants on a Hellhound’s shoulders and they still would barely be eye level with the demon’s glowing eyes.

At least the bottom set. He had two sets, a large bottom pair and a thinner set above that could have been mistaken for elegant eyebrows if they hadn’t been glowing red. Glowing eyes weren't unusual for hellborn, but the deep red pupil-less aura was still intimidating. The white facial disc only enhanced that aura with its contrast.

What could be seen of the demon’s form was covered in smooth grey feathers, sheening in the firelight. The plush robe he wore was lightly cinched at the waist and barely clung to the shoulders, showing the feathers covered the majority of his body. He stalked deliberately to where Blitzø was climbing to his hooves, features set in a stern expression.

“St- Master Stolas,” Blitzø stuttered as the avian demon loomed above him. Master?! Oh crumbs, what in Satan’s name is going on?! Was all that talk about a daughter, starting up a business, growing up in the circus, everything just a lie? “I got back as quick as I could, I didn’t even have a chance to check on Loonie first…” Stolas cut him off with a gesture. Apparently the daughter talk wasn’t a lie at least.

Stolas glanced at the Hound carrying Moxxie. “Put the little one down,” he ordered in clipped, cultured tones. “I’ll deal with them from here.” The Hounds exchanged glances and grins. Suddenly Moxxie was on the ground when his captor opened his arms. “As you wish, Prince Stolas.” The imp was getting serious mood whiplash. Stolas wasn’t just a member of the Goetia but one of the princes. Maybe Blitzø was right; this was worse than prison.

The guards hadn’t left the room before Stolas leaned over Blitzø, foreheads nearly touching. “What the FUCK were you doing in the Greed Ring that landed in you prison!” The Hellhounds grins grew wider as they shut the doors and Moxxie was sure he heard the slap of a high five. “Are you not being careful enough in the other Rings? You know if you get in trouble I have to get you out of it. And we don’t want that, do we my itty bitty imp?” Stolas punctuated his words with taps between Blitzø’s nostrils. His words were furious but Moxxie could see his expression softening once the doors clicked shut. He had plenty of experience being berated and threatened by Crimson, but he was getting so many mixed signals he didn’t know what to do.

“A job went bad, Master. It won’t happen again.” Despite just having a royal yell at him, Blitzø’s smirk was back. Without guards around he was able to give his companion a double thumbs up while replying. His voice sounded utterly defeated but his posture had perked up.

“Luckily for you, what passes for authority in the Greed Ring isn’t likely to give a shit about a couple of escapee imps. Speaking of which,” four dazzling red eyes locked onto Moxxie. “Who is this that you’ve dragged along?”

“Moxxie got tossed into my cell, I couldn’t just fucking leave him there. He’s a crazy good shot, figured he’d be a good candidate for that project we talked about.”

“Hmmmm,” Stolas seemed to be looking the young imp over. It was hard to tell without any pupils. “We will discuss this later. For now,” the prince continued in a haughty tone, “we need to establish the punishment for your little slip up during your extraneous activities. Both of you, follow me.” Stolas turned, his robe and tail feathers swirling dramatically around him. Moxxie looked nervously in Blitzø’s direction. There was a faint glow under the older imp’s shirt collar as he replied “Yes Master Stolas.” He gestured for Moxxie to follow, not at all concerned about what Stolas might have planned as “punishment.”

Apparently the room they’d been delivered to was the first and most public in the master suite. They entered what looked like a well appointed bedroom with a huge canopied bed adorned with blankets and a nest of deep cushions. There was a bookshelf inset in an alcove next to a chaise lounge and chairs, a small desk, and hints of a bathtub on a raised dais shrouded by curtains. Candles and moonlight made the Goetia emblem glimmer wherever it was stamped or embroidered.

The door locked shut behind them, nearly making Moxxie jump out of his skin. As soon as the door was shut, Stolas swooped down to Blitzø, cupping the imp’s cheeks with a tenderness that made his yelling in the drawing room seems like a hallucination. “Are you alright dearest?” the prince cooed as he stroked Blitzø’s head. “Mmph, I’m fine Stolas, really.” Blitzø’s voice was muffled from Stolas’ talons smushing his face. “Just tired from that last sprint. Almost didn’t make it in time. Fucking Cinderhella bullshit.”

“I’m sorry darling. I’ll keep working on it. I’ve been so worried the past few days.” Apparently satisfied that Blitzø was unhurt, the owl demon moved to nuzzling and preening the imp’s particolor skin.

Blitzø gasped at the soft feathers brushing his neck. “Stolas, if you wanna fuck as part of my “punishment” I’m on board, but I don’t think Moxxie wants to watch.” He looked at the other imp over the prince’s head. His face was flushed and a lazy lascivious smile spread across his lips. “Unless you wanna watch Mox. I’ve always liked an audience.” He waggled his eyebrows; Moxxie couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

Stolas’ eyes jerked open. He let out a surprised hoot before shooting up to his full height. “Ah! Um, yes, o-of course! We can pick this up later Blitzy.” Blitzy? Within moments Stolas had shifted from a pissed off royal yelling at his property to a flustered loverboy using pet names. “Apologizes for not properly introducing myself earlier.” He bowed with a deep flourish, putting his face eye level to Moxxie. “My name is Stolas, Prince of Ars Goetia.”

Blitzø stretched, popping vertebrae all down his spine and tail. “Didn’t your daddy tell you not to bow to imps?” The same jovial tone Moxxie heard when they first met was back in his voice.

Stolas snorted. “My father, the shit eating bastard that he is, can go fuck himself. Preferably with something full of splinters to join the stick up his arse.” The prince was just as foul-mouthed as Blitzø, with the addition of a fancy vocabulary. He guided Blitzø to the lounge and offered a nearby easy chair to Moxxie. It was built for a Goetia, meaning any imp had to jump to climb up and their feet would dangle childlike once seated. However Stolas produced a step stool from the book alcove, so he could seat himself with more dignity.

“Hi, I’m Moxxie Knolastname.” Hopefully neither of them would recognize the name of one of the Greed Ring’s crime families. “Sir, what the fuck is going on? You didn’t mention any of this before we got to the gates. What was all that about?” Moxxie gestured wildly to the rest of the palace, hoping to indicate everything that had just happened.

“Eh, guess you deserve some explanation. Not the best time but fuck it.” Blitzø rubbed at his forehead, specifically the All Imp Circus brand in the middle. In the space of a blink it changed from a black skull faced heart to a white heart topped by a crown, flanked by decorative lines. “Short version, my dad fucked me over and sold me to the Goetia. His dad,” he jerked a thumb at the lanky owl reclining next to him, “decided to add to the jackassery and bound us.”

“And I am not about to copy his example so I give my darling Blitzy as much free reign as I can manage.” Stolas wrapped his arms and legs around Blitzø with a look of glee. It was simultaneously tender, protective, and possessive. “Unfortunately, members of both my family and staff are quick to spread word to my wilted prick of a father and other members of Ars Goetia, so we maintain a semblance of the master/slave dynamic outside my chambers. Hence, all that.” Stolas vaguely waved in the same direction as Moxxie had before latching back onto Blitzø. “Eugh, Blitzy, you smell awful. That prison cannot have been sanitary. Please get cleaned up dearest, you and… Moxxie, was it? Hopefully we have something clean that will fit you; you’re a bit taller than much of my household staff.”

“I’m sure we’ve got some of my old stuff that’ll work. But seriously Stolas, I couldn’t check on Loonie before this. Can I pop out real qui-”

“Loona is fine.” Stolas interjected with a comforting tone. “I had one of the maids check up on her and the ‘babysitter.’ She let them know you were delayed and offered overtime pay to the young lady.” The maid, one of the few who was loyal to Stolas and Blitzø, relayed that the imp girl, while possessing a distinct country charm, was “thoroughly pissed” at having to watch over an angsty teenager without pay. She’d been all smiles again when informed of the extra money she was being advanced.

Blitzø took a deep breath of relief. He’d adopted the nearly adult Hellhound just a few months ago and they were still getting used to each other. He didn’t know what she’d do on her own yet, hence the babysitter. She was an imp from Wrath he’d gotten to know during the Harvest Festival Stolas had to officiate. She decimated opponents in the Pain Games so Blitzø knew she could handle just about anything.

“Thanks Floof,” he gave Stolas a quick frenching before heading through an inconspicuous door near the bed. He pushed Moxxie along and heard Stolas’ trilling voice call out. “Make sure you put those jumpsuits in the laundry hamper. I look forward to having a little prison bitch around later.” All of Blitzø’s spines stood up at the thought and a tingling warmth raced over him. Not about to let Stolas get the last word, he shot back through the closing door, “I’m sure Mox’s will fit you like those slutty rompers you like to prance around in.” He could hear hooting chuckles from the other room while Moxxie clapped his hands over his head.

—————

Moxxie blinked as the lights flickered on. As if one suite of rooms wasn’t enough, here was essentially an apartment sized for imps. It was much like a studio apartment with one large area for sleeping, eating, relaxing, and a mini kitchen. The furnishings weren’t a match for the rest of the palace, but decent and sturdy. There was a closet and one other door leading to the bathroom. No windows. The only exit was through the master suite. Moxxie started breathing hard as he realized this was basically an upgraded cell.

“Yeah, I know it’s kinda freaky. But it’s one of the safest places in the building.” Blitzø opened the closet and started tossing clothes on the bed. “We set this up after Stolas married that bitchy feather duster. Only people that can get in are me, Stolas, his kid, and one of the maids. Oh, and the people I bring in.” He took the pile of clothes and dropped them on Moxxie. “These are all too small for me now. We could raid the servant’s closets buuuuuuuut…screw that. Now let's see if there’s anything to eat.” A quick look in the fridge produced beers and a comically large cheese wedge. “Oh fuck yes, that woman deserves a raise! Or a good dicking if she wants it again.” Blitzø had the cheese in one hand, a beer in the other hand that was unzipping the prison wear and his tail wrapped around another beer. “You wanna eat before you clean up? There’s more beer, some fried chicken, and I think a salad if you want it.” He stuck out a forked tongue at the thought of vegetables. “Maybe a good enough fuck will get her to stop putting salads in here.”

Food, real food not prison slop, sounded great but a bit of time alone sounded better. “I’ll wash up first sir, I can’t stand this thing anymore.” Blitzø chomped away while giving him another thumbs up. Moxxie caught a glimpse of white scars covering patches of the other imp’s neck, arms, and torso, and what looked like a gold choker at his throat. He closed the bathroom door and dumped the clothes onto a bench. The bathroom wasn’t ostentatious like what he glimpsed in Stolas’s room. It had all the basics in a reasonable size. One thing he did notice was the horse decor. Horses and horseshoes everywhere. The rubber devilduckie was even a cowboy.

It was probably more polite to take a quick shower. Moxxie needed some time to regain his footing though, so he soaked in a bath. He’d been off balance since crossing the gates. Of course, nothing could have prepared him for anything he’d come across here. From everything he’d picked up Blitzø and Stolas were in a shitty situation and trying to make the best of it. It didn’t mean Moxxie had to stick around though.

Yeah, the older imp had broken him out of prison and talked about hiring Moxxie at his new startup. But he also hadn’t mentioned anything about being connected to Hell’s royal families.

Then again, Moxxie hadn’t mentioned his mafia family. He really didn’t want to either. He’d be just fine if his dad thought he died in the prison riot they’d caused during the escape. He could disappear in Pride and leave his own fucked up family behind. Blitzø and presumably Stolas were grateful for his help. Even if he didn’t want to work for them in the end, they probably wouldn’t just kick him to the curb. He wasn’t good at making deals. Crimson hadn’t let him join any important talks yet. But maybe he could leverage some cash out of the pair before finding his own way.

That would have to wait for the morning at earliest. From the sounds of it, Stolas was very enthusiastic about keeping their “appointment” tonight. With at least a glimmer of a plan, Moxxie finished washing and started digging through the clothes. There were a lot of t shirts, tanks, and leather pants. Skinny fit pants at that. Almost all the shirts had some sort of horse design; from one that said “Wild Horse” in messy red letters to one with a trio of sparkly pastel horses rearing under a full moon. Eventually he found a button down with a tailcoat that was pretty close to his normal clothes. It wouldn’t be tailored perfectly but it would do for the morning. For the night he found pajama pants with a horseshoe pattern that he didn’t mind sleeping in. He wasn’t about to sleep nude in a room with a horny couple he barely knew one wall away.

“All yours sir.” Blitzø was flopped on the couch, having finished both the beers and cheese. He was working his way through beer number three, which he took with him to the shower. Moxxie rummaged through the fridge, finding not only what Blitzø had mentioned but the makings of sandwiches and a container of soup. A little more digging around the miniature kitchen and he found various dry goods that would make a decent meal. By the time Blitzø came back he was plating the spaghetti with cheese sauce he’d made. He topped it off with some chopped up fried chicken for some added protein. He made a sizable batch; he doubted a cheese wedge and beer was enough for Blitzø.

Blitzø himself emerged from the bathroom, dressed in horse print boxers (which didn’t hide his slight erection) and a fitted black tank. “Thank fuck, Stolas was right about the stink. Laundry’s gonna have fun with those jumpsuits.” His nostrils flared suddenly. “What the dick? Where’d you get all this Mox?” His eyes were shining at the food and Moxxie could swear he was drooling.

“In your kitchen sir. There’s plenty of dry ingredients for easy meals, probably so you don’t have to disturb the main kitchen during your… ‘appointments.’ I would have liked some mushrooms or fresh herbs for flavoring, the ground and dried ones just don’t quite measure up but I can understand the maid not wanting to have too much perishable food here if your stays aren’t consistent. In any case making a bechamel sauce is fairly simple, it is one of the mother sauces after all and the cheese was perfect for melting into it. I did cheat with the chicken and used the microwave but it works out since there’s not too much cookware here either-“

“Wait wait wait. You made this?” Moxxie nodded. Blitzø yanked open the door and yelled “FLOOF CHECK THIS SHIT OUT MOXXIE CAN COOK!”

There was an undignified squawk before the owl demon cleared his throat. “I hope this is more impressive than the ‘ghetto nachos’ you presented me with.” He had to dip his head to enter the room but once he was in the ceiling was high enough that he didn’t quite brush it with his crest feathers. “Oh! Oh my! That looks delightful! And it smells excellent.” He closed his bottom set of eyelids and inhaled deeply.

“Hey! Ghetto nachos are damn tasty.”

“I’m not saying they aren’t but microwaving processed cheese slices onto tortilla chips does not count as cooking. This on the other hand,” the prince opened his eyes, a pleased expression that had nothing to do with sensuality on his face. “This is incredible. Do I detect some mustard added to the bechamel?”

Moxxie hadn’t expected anyone to notice. “Yes, your highness. With the chicken already being breaded, I felt it would compliment nicely.” He’d never been able to talk to anyone about cuisine before. Everyone at his father’s house had laughed at him. Maybe his mom would have liked to talk about it…

“Please, call me Stolas in private. Might I try a taste?” Moxxie twirled noodles around a fork, making sure both meat and sauce were included. Stolas savored the bite, his eyes closing and his feathers fluffing up. “As delicious as I hoped. As I’ve had dinner already, I won’t keep you from such a well made meal.” He nuzzled the base of Blitzø’s horn before bowing out of the room. “I’ll be waiting Blitzyyyyy.”

Blitzø was already diving headfirst into his plate. “Christ on a stick Moxxie, this is amazing. And that’s not just a week of prison food talking.” How he could taste anything shoveling his food in his mouth that fast, Moxxie didn’t know. He did notice that Blitzø was eating with more enthusiasm than at any other meal they’d shared.

Before Moxxie had more than half his portion, Blitzø was slurping down the last noodle.”That was great, thanks Mox.” He dumped dishes into the sink. Stifling a yawn, he headed back to the master suite. “Make yourself comfortable. Sheets should be clean.” That lascivious grin came back. “Unless watching is the kinda shit you’re into. Stolas’ bed’s big enough for all of us if you feel like joining.” Moxxie nearly choked on his pasta.

A/N: I hope everyone enjoys this! The fic is in process and currently around 25k words so there’s a lot more coming. Next part will open up with NSFW content, heads up.

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[stellarstasis]

I saw Anri has been kidnapped in your OC actions post--I would love to know more about that experience! 👀👀

Hey there @fereldanwench! Fabulous ask, thank you so much! ♡ ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و I have two schools of thought for Anri’s kidnapping, but I’ll go with the first thing that came to mind when I was doing this game. Long post ahead 🙏

1. Thrill of the hunt

Anri made herself be deliberately kidnapped by the Scavs during Sweet Dreams as a form of (petty) revenge. For some context, she used to be a commander in Arasaka’s black ops unit in Tokyo and was transferred to counterintel in Night City years later (shameless plug of her lore here 👉👈). 

Growing up and being trained in intense, cutthroat environments like that for most of her life, she’s been shaped to relish the art of violence. She delights in unnecessarily-elaborate hunts, enjoys the ritual because it makes her feel some semblance of power playing with her prey. She never wants to be in a disadvantageous position, but finds that weaponizing stupidity is a great way to add some spice to her jobs.

Imagine her glee when she gets wind of trouble from the same hidey-hole that started it all, courtesy of Wakako. If that means knowingly paying a stupid amount of eddies for a scam, getting kidnapped in the process, and fighting her way out of it naked as fuck, she might as well make the most of it. Not only would it make her day, she was going to get her money back tenfold. Win-win.

Thanks to Jackie, she’s mellowed down since moving to NC and isn’t as gratuitous with her kills, so she usually reserves dumb plans like this for small gigs and only if her targets actually deserved it. Scavs are KOS for her, anyway, especially after Sandra and Evelyn. So what’s a little fun before she exterminates an entire building of vermin, right? Stefan’s included in the casualty, of course.

This could be meta writing at most and probably sounds odd for someone of accomplished standing, but also it's just fun making pookie mega fucked up lmao.

2. Childhood conscription (TW: Child trafficking)

Another instance of Anri getting "kidnapped" was when she was sold by her parents to Arasaka at 13 years old. Anri's parents were high-ranking counterintel operatives and have recently botched a critical mission. Arasaka assault specialists stormed their house to eliminate them and extract the intelligence they've collected from Arasaka's enemies over the years. Anri’s mother told her to hide upstairs. Everything was happening too quickly and Anri’s synapses were on overdrive at this point. 

On the way up, the last thing Anri hears is her parents selling her to Arasaka in exchange for their lives. Clearly a futile attempt since they were shot in the head not soon after. Anri hides in her parents wardrobe where she knows they keep their emergency pistol. She trembles like a newborn fawn, hears the soldiers right on her tail. She clutches the gun tightly to her chest.

The moment the wardrobe door opens, Anri screams and fires multiple rounds at the head of the soldier unfortunate enough to be her first ever kill. Were it not for the squad commander immediately stopping the others from decimating her on sight, Anri would’ve met an even worse fate than her parents. But the commander found her accuracy and resolution impressive, recognizes her parents’ skills in her, and decides then and there she would be a worthy candidate for the Arasaka military.

Anri leaves with the commander. No tears, no resistance. Anesthetized just as quickly as she was anguished. She had no place here anymore, and abadons the firearm right next to her quarry's corpse. A pool of blood christens her parents' pristine bedroom floor—a grim omen for things to come.

On the way to headquarters, Anri seizes the opportunity to ask the commander if she was the key to repaying her parents’ debt. They confirm her suspicions. That’s all the answer she needed.

What Anri didn’t know (and still doesn’t to this day) was that the commander lied to her to fuel her resentment; to channel that rage into her future regimen. She was already equipped with her parents’ technical savvy. Naturally, she can be molded into an asset within the correct conditions. After all, can you really be called an Arasaka soldier if you didn’t operate on trauma and depravity?

In truth, her parents begged the soldiers to not hurt Anri and let her live; let her leave out of this ordeal alive in exchange for their lives. Anri’s conscription was never part of the bargain. The commander was a conniving individual and took the opportunity simply because they could, and firmly believes they were even doing her parents a favor. 

That was a long backstory lol but tl;dr, her conscription (and lbr, trafficking) are still things I'd consider forms of kidnapping. While Anri did go willingly, it was only because she was manipulated into doing so. Whether she was better off fending for herself in the streets of Kyoto or growing up into a near-psychotic killer was still something she hasn't decided on.

[lol-jackles]

Looking at the trial(see # Rust tag on twit for sourcing) I see there were bullets obviously left lying around, the safety on set was a total failure, the producers hired someone for two jobs who wasn't experienced enough for one. This was obvious enough that the crew walked off. This was obvious enough that a few days before, Guiterrez was taken to task (and then given "space" when she vented, wtf) The actor before Jensen developed a "conflict." Why would anyone fail to object and shut it down?

And there was a possibility that Hannah was high from cocaine. Any empathy I had for her went out the window when she handed the "set Mom" a bag of cocaine and assumed she would hold on to it without question.

Hannah admitted to loading the gun herself, and failing to properly check the rounds. The evidence points towards her as the source for the live rounds, and that she failed to identify them multiple times throughout production.

That said, Baldwin and the rest of the producers were being cheap when they hired her, made her work a second job as prop master, and now she's being used as a scapegoat. Not to say she's not responsible, she definitely is as she loaded the guns and failed to properly check the rounds as well as the source for the live rounds, but she's certainly not the worst person on that set.

I want to know which producer thought it was a swell idea to hire an inexperienced armorer with no apprenticeship in a job with one credit to her name on a Western film full of guns and gunfights. It’s like hiring a first-year pilot school student to fly a 747 by themselves.  And the pilot is high on cocaine.

This set was a shit show and created a perfect storm for something like this to happen. Many failures in organization and safety. Plus the union and crew issues.

I’ve been a background actor and an extra on several shows and independent movies with a lot of guns, and even where a bullet was meant for me (collateral damage when a hitman missed his target).  In every one of them, the armorer, prop master, and the AD handled the gun in all the scenes to verify it is not loaded.  I’m also a gun owner and permit holder and we’re taught that no one should ever take a gun from someone and assume that it is unloaded.  Always check for yourself.  One very memorable experience on a movie set the armorer handed the gun to several people on set to verify that it was not loaded, including me because he knew I was a permit holder. So as you can see, a gun goes through several hands to verify it is not loaded before given to an actor.   But on the day of the Rust fatality, there was no armorer on site of the scene, and the AD never checked the gun to verify it was not loaded.

Conditions on outdoor standing set ranging from sucky to terrible are expected: the bugs, the weather, the hours, the young angry PAs, and the producers having mental breakdowns.  And yes, shortcuts are constantly taken by disregarding safety protocols, especially on low-budgeted/shoe string-budgeted films. There were a few times I thought I was going to get hurt or maimed in car scenes and it didn’t even involved car chases, just idiots driving and talking at the same time.  But firearm safety protocol were never disregarded, at least from what I’ve witnessed.   

Hundreds of thousands of action and war movies and police procedural tv shows, injuries or death from guns are very rare: 3 total in 37 years, though that is cold comfort for Halyna Hutchin's family.  

[cibeebutinhell]

Trigger Warning 🔞

: gun sex (ao3)

Blitzø thought he heard it wrong. Stolas’ fancy talk and/or horny talk was unintelligible at the best of times, but those were all simple words Blitzø understood but couldn’t comprehend. 

“Shit, you got some suicidal tendencies you haven’t told me?” Blitzø forced himself to stay put and not be backed into a literal corner. “Because then you need a therapist and not a fuck buddy. Shit. Fuck.” Blitzø was still reeling. 

Stolas’ slender talons played with Blitzø’s flintlock pistol, stroking and caressing in the way Blitzø was so familiar with, though usually it was directed at something benign: a pen, the rim of a wine glass, Blitzø’s back. The closest thing to a weapon those hands stroked was Blitzø’ dick and no matter how good he thought he was, his dick wasn’t powerful enough to blow a hole in Stolas’ stomach. 

“How is this different from the bear trap?” Stolas asked, not at all ashamed or embarrassed. Not at all like the times Blitzø sussed out some sort of buried kink Stolas had, usually by doing something unexpected during sex and felt Stolas’ wet hole or mouth clenched tight around him. Like when Blitzø slapped Stolas in the face with his tail for being a brat and Stolas’ whole inside convulsed around his dick and soaked it until Blitzø thought his dick was going to be puffy and wrinkled like he was in the shower for too long (later Stolas told him what was not how dick skin worked so whatever.)

“Because a bear trap is just a glorified bite, you asshole.” A bite that broke his fucking arm, but Stolas, the freak that he was, hadn’t allowed Blitzø to stop and pleaded to keep being fucked while his blood soaked through the mattress. 

“You know it won’t kill me, right, Blitzy?” 

So what? Blitzø wanted to scream at him. With where Stolas was planning on shoving the pistol, if it did go off Stolas wouldn’t be able to walk it off like he did after most of their session. 

Stolas brought the pistol up to his face, pressed his mouth to it, kissed up the length and swirled his tongue around the opening, gunpowder residue sticking to the pink flesh. “I know you like this weapon, darling, and anything you like I cannot help find interesting.”

“You’re gonna shove a horse up your hole next?” 

Stolas smiled, cheek pressed against the wet metal of the gun. “Well, you do have lots of horses to put inside of me.”

“Your pussy will probably break them.”

“Awww…” Stolas cooed like Blitzø just paid him a compliment (which, okay, it kind of was.) “One idea at a time, darling. Are you amenable to mine?”

“Why now?” Blitzø snatched the pistol back, and Stolas let him easily enough. “You could have found someone to shove all sorts of stuff  into you, including firearms.”

Stolas looked genuinely surprised at Blitzø’s inquiry. “Why would I ask anyone else?” he replied. “I trust you.” 

Blitzø put the pistol down. 

“What?”

“Of course I would not force you to participate if you do not wish to.” Stolas sunk back into the numerous plush pillows on his bed, waist so small it drove Blitzø fucking crazy when its all stretched out like this. “But I would not go look for someone else for this particular fantasy.”

“Because,” because Blitzø just had to confirm. “You trust me?” 

“...yes?” Stolas was looking more confused by the second. “Are…you alright, Blitzø? We really don’t have to —”

The golden pistol, already half-cocked, pressed against Stolas’ chin, forcing a surprised exhale out of him. 

“You’ll only let me do this, huh, Stolas?” Blitzø whispered, low enough that it would have been inaudible to anyone else, but Stolas’ hearing picked it up perfectly. 

“Yes,” Stolas said, holding Blitzø’s gaze. He was hyper aware of the muzzle, first firmly at his jaw, then slowly moving down to his neck, his chest, paused there, right over his heart. 

Sex between them was usually loud enough to drive away most of Stolas’ staff in the entire wing. Stolas loved to scream and Blitzø loved making him scream. Even when they were not actively fucking, they were loud —  laughing or swearing or talking. Quiet was not part of their conscious routine.

Everything was quiet now. Even their breathing. Even — “Your heartbeat,” Blitzø said. 

“Hm?” Stolas spread his legs and caged Blitzø between them.

“It’s slow.” Blitzø clarified.

“Nothing to be nervous about.”

The pistol moved further down, teasing Stolas’ opening, playing with the folds there. Stolas widened his legs and sighed. 

“Fuck,” Blitzø said. 

“Preferably,” Stolas replied. 

Blitzø dipped the tip of the pistol inside of Stolas, glancing up to check on him. But Stolas had his eyes closed, mouth opened slightly, finally breathing a little harder. Blitzø’s free hand pressed against Stolas’ chest, feeling the rhythm there. Still frighteningly calm. 

“Is the gun fully cocked?” Stolas asked.

“Fuck,” Blitzø repeated, and did as he was told. He moved slowly, all the way until it could no longer fit, with the frizzen blocking the way. 

He fucked Stolas slowly. The pistol glistened with slick and cum and Blitzø was pretty sure the gunpowder was now all wet and useless anyway. Stolas hummed happily, like this was a half-asleep lovemaking where being close was more important than pleasure. Blitzø trembled from how hard he was controlling the weapon he normally paid no mind to where the bullet would end up. He carefully moved his finger. Stolas must have felt it.

“Is your finger on the trigger?” 

“Yeah,” Blitzø said roughly.

“Yesssss…” Stolas hissed, yet all of him unfurled, melting into a puddle. His orgasm was as quiet as everything else, leaking onto Blitzø’s gun, his hand, his thighs. 

Still laying flat on the bed, Stolas curled around Blitzø so they were a snug little ball in the middle of the mattress. “Sorry for ruining your gun,” Stolas said. 

“Yeah.” Blitzø was so speechless. He didn’t even cum, but there was fire licking every part of him, so different from arousal, and nothing like the surge of power from taking a life. Blitzø was boneless from it, and couldn’t tell Stolas that this had just become his favorite gun. 

[deepforestgender]

Short story I was kind of proud of:

Atlas was rushing towards the forest, away from the furious shouting and the undeniable click of a firearm being reloaded. They had known that sneaking into a farm in rural Texas could only end badly, but the piercing hunger they felt eventually convinced them to take the risk. As Atlas reached the woods, safe but empty handed, they once again considered begging for food in town but knew that would most likely lead to trouble. People seeing some homeless person seemingly in their teens would lead to them getting stuck in the foster care system, which would be quite the hassle. Neither hunger nor the shotguns of their robbery victims would kill them anyway, but both were still very uncomfortable. While Atlas sat under the trees lit up by the rising sun, pondering over what to do, they thought over how they even got here.

Atlas had existed longer than anyone could remember, themself included. They had never had anyone to guide them or tell them about their origin, so they were left asking. Most of their existence had faded out of their memory, and they could only recall a fraction of the many things they had experienced. They had encountered people from vastly different times and parts of the world, and had been treated many different ways. Some people saw them as a god, others as a monster. Atlas always preferred being treated like a person though. While real friendships of theirs were scarce and short lived, it always started with that. Someone saw a person when everyone else saw something nonhuman.

Atlas had used many different names during their time, but when they spent some time in Greece during the early 400s B.C. they encountered the name Atlas. It stuck out to them and they decided to use it for the time being. Since then it had simply stuck around.

When the Cold War ended, Atlas had thought it would be a great idea to head to the U.S. to see what had changed during the last 100 years or so, a decision they would come to gravely regret. Now they sat here in some woods in rural Texas, contemplating whether it would be worth risking their freedom to get some food.

Soon they began to feel their thoughts slowing down. The morning had turned into early day, and with it came the heat. Eventually, when their mind just felt like mush, Atlas decided that cooling off came first. They could fix the food problem afterwards. There was a small stream running through the forest in front of them, hopefully it would lead to something big enough to cool them down. Atlas started wandering along the stream while slowly whistling to themself, and the further down the stream they went the deeper the forest felt. The trees went from exaggerated bushes to magnificent oaks, the mostly visible sky shifted into a thick green ceiling, and a scent of flowers and moss replaced the smell of arid dirt. While the forest got more and more forest-y, Atlas’s confusion grew. How was there such a dense forest in the middle of Texas?

Eventually they reached a large clearing in the woods, and the stream finally led them to what they were looking for. A large pond, located in the middle of the glade. With a sigh of relief, Atlas pulled off their sweaty shirt and threw themself into the pond. The feeling of the cool water flowing around their body could only be described as angelic, and for a couple of seconds they forgot how hungry they were. The feeling of total euphoria didn’t last long though, as their empty stomach didn’t simply disappear. That’s when they realized the abundance of fruit trees and berry bushes around them.

“This simply must be paradise”, Atlas thought to themself before feasting. They didn’t know how much time had gone by as they sat on the ground gorging upon a berry bush, when a gust of cold air hit them. They turned around to see a dark silhouette behind them. Standing there was a tall woman in a long black dress looking at them. She wore multiple small gold chains around her neck and in her ears hung small dream catchers with seemingly infinite intricacy and detail. Her straight black hair flowed around her, framing her pale face. Her cold eyes, while not hostile, felt unavoidable and across them passed a quick look of surprise before returning to a satisfactory determination. “Hello Atlas,” she greeted pleasantly.

Atlas felt a sudden rush of fear.

“Who’s this? Why does she know my name? Is she here to take me?”, rushed through their mind. Seeing her made them suddenly remember all the times they got burned at the stake, lost most of their blood, or fell to what should have been their death. The lady saw Atlas' eyes fill with pain and fear, and said “You don’t have to worry, that pain will never return.” Upon seeing their questioning expression she added “I guess you expected to never meet me.” She held out a welcoming hand. “I am Death. Nice to meet you.”

Atlas’s panic was defeated by their curiosity and they couldn’t stop themself from asking what they had wondered their entire life. “Do you know where I came from?”, they asked. Death looked amused. “I do, and I intend to tell you, but I’ll want to do one thing for me after it.” “Sure!”, Atlas answered, too excited about finally knowing the full story to worry about what it could mean.

“For a long time the Earth was a barren place… and so was my heart. Until she appeared and changed everything. My darling, my love and the greatest on Earth. You humans call her Life.” In Death’s eyes appeared a pleasant warmth for a moment before she returned to the story. “She had quite the passion for creation and always came up with new stuff. Most of the time I got to clean up after her, but it was all oh so worth it. Seeing and sometimes receiving her amazing creations were the greatest of joys. Humans were one of her latest big projects and she went all out with multiple design phases and drafts.” She smirked thinking back to her girlfriend’s obsessions. “That’s how you came into the picture. You were one of the first mostly complete drafts, and therefore never really brought to reality. That was the plan at least.” Death let out a heavy sigh. Though challenging, Atlas managed to keep themself from asking about anything. The truth about their background was more important than answers to unnecessary philosophical questions such as what happens after death. She continued.

“During one of our date nights she went a bit heavy on the wine, and in her very drunken state she decided to go through her series materials and creations. The result was your existence.”

Death paused before further explaining, “The next day she woke up, so utterly embarrassed that she didn’t speak of what had happened. Therefore I didn’t know and couldn’t take you back when I should have. That was, until last night when she finally told me, and we decided to find you.”

There it was. The answer Atlas had been looking for their entire life. Suddenly, the question that they had been asking for so long didn’t feel that important anymore. Atlas didn’t know how to feel or react, so they simply stood there for a while. Death patiently waited for them, being quite experienced with people feeling existential dread.

Eventually Atlas looked up into Death’s eyes with an almost defeated look. “What do you want me to do?”, Atlas asked Death. “I think you already know”, Death answered with an indecipherable look. While looking into the comfortable infinity that was Death’s eyes, the realization dawned on them. The knowledge of their background wasn’t the only unobtainable thing that would finally be accessible for them. Something that they had long since given up on, and stopped hoping for. The possibility of following all their loved ones, when they all inevitably left them. The ability to leave the Earth before the Earth left them. Atlas would finally die.

That thought overwhelmed them. After watching everyone they ever met eventually die, over and over again, they simply grew numb. Now, with the relief of an end in sight, all the grief came bubbling back, and their eyes began to water. For the first time in centuries, Atlas cried.

Death, watching Atlas’s emotions unfold, opened her arms for them. She felt quite the sympathy for this person, walking the Earth for such a long time with no one to truly know them. Humans weren’t made for that kind of strain.

Atlas fell into her comforting embrace with a sense of catharsis. When they stepped back they were bleeding. All the wounds and all the damage that should have killed them had returned, but there was no pain. They fell to their knees on the wet grass, and when they looked up there stood a second figure next to Death. With luscious golden hair, and a round face wearing an apologetic smile, there stood a woman. “I’m sorry for the trouble. I hope you had a good one”, Life said. “I wish you the best.” As Atlas’s vision faded, Life grabbed Death’s hand and waved.

Atlas smiled.

[intriq]

✧ little moon

photo above

Content warnings: blood, death, mentions of firearms [guns], angst, fatherly!Alfred, bigbrother!bruce, genderneutral reader, no mentions of y/n [i try to avoid doing this in my fics from now on], possibly my shitty attempt at poetry, little bit of time jumps

.·͙̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥̩̩̥͙　✩　̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥̩̩͙‧͙ .

PLEASE note i literally know NOTHING abt the DC universe and got insanely tempted to write this because of Rosa's [fairybaby on c.ai] discord, bc vampire au bots were being discussed and then it divulged to me talking about father figure alfred teaching the user stuff and then to vamp hunter alfred getting rid of newly turned user, which lead to me writing this.

.·͙̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥̩̩̥͙　✩　̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥̩̩͙‧͙ .

TLDR: non canon compliant VAMPIRES AU DC Universe Angst Fic about VampireHunter!Alfred getting rid of NewlyTurnedVamp!Reader [genderneutral friendly]

.·͙̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥̩̩̥͙　✩　̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥̩̩͙‧͙ .

time it took to write: around 5 hours [started at 6:59 pm Central time, finished at 11:09 pm Central time]

.·͙̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥̩̩̥͙　✩　̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥̩̩͙‧͙ .

link to the song i wrote this to [i recommend listening to it while you read!]

☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ

The moon cannot stay in the night sky for forever, despite it’s gentle splendor.

You’d always been close to the quite famous vampire-hunting Wayne family, including Alfred, a closely trusted family ally who also just-so happened to be the butler of the family. To you, Alfred was like your father. Someone you looked up to.

And to him, you were like his child. One that he could never have in life.

The entire reason the Wayne family had become significant vampire hunters was due to the head of the family, Bruce Wayne.

It was a well-known tale of tragedy, known for every citizen of Gotham. For every civilian, every vampire, every vampire hunter.

because no matter how beautiful it may be,

Bruce, at the young age of just twelve [12] years of age, had been on an outing with his parents. They’d been walking amongst the street of rapidly darkening Gotham, streetlights flickering into life as the sun just barely peeked its gentle yellow-orange golden rays over the horizon of the city.

While there were different versions of the tale past this point, of how Bruce and his parents had even stumbled past a particularly vampire-infested portion of the city, it all leads to the same fate.

The fate of Bruce having to watch his parents be torn apart before his very eyes, helpless. Unable to do anything.

And to Bruce, fate was cruel enough to leave him alive. Just him. Forced him to sit there as his parents slowly turned cold as the blood drained from their bodies when the vampire that had attacked them scampered off when some random vampire hunter had shown up.

It all ends the same with Bruce having to literally feel the bodies of his parents grow cold in his grasp, as his hands hold theirs. Sitting with them as he cried.

But his tears, no matter how warm, could not bring warmth back to the cooled bodies of his mother and father.

That was the very tale that sparked Bruce to become a vampire hunter. All to make sure no other child would need to suffer such a cruel and cold fate.

The fate of watching their parents die before their very eyes.

Alfred had taken you in, too. For that very reason.

You’d only been the young age of six when one of Alfred’s vampire hunter buddies had come upon your family. Bodies already cooled, drained of blood that coated every inch of your home. But yet, somehow, you were safe.

You were “lucky” as some might say.

But no child is lucky in such a fate. There is no “luck” when it comes to being the only survivor of your families brutal massacre, leaving you with nightmares. Nightmares that would cause such a young child to wake up screaming and crying in the middle of the night.

With nowhere left to bring such a young child [this young child being you in particular], Alfred’s friend comes knocking upon the Wayne manor.

no matter how gentle she may seem,

It’d only been a week or two since the loss of Bruce’s parents, and when Alfred had opened the doors to find you cradled in his friends arms, sleeping with eyes shut and red, puffy from crying due to the nightmare that had woken his friend.

It’d been nearly midnight, too.

“Whose this?” Alfred had asked, reaching forward in just about an instant to take you from his friends arms. You don’t even stir from your slumber when Alfred takes you, cradling you in his arms. Your head rests on his shoulder as he holds you, and you even let out the smallest, softest little sigh.

As if you found Alfred’s comforting hold on you better than his friends.

Alfred’s friend gives off your name, and it makes Alfred’s brows furrow in recognition. He’d known your father. They’d served in the British military together, after all.

This was how Alfred came to know that one of his friends had died that same very night, and learned that his friend had even had a child.

You.

“I can’t look after a six-year-old with what I do, Alfred. You think you could..?” His friend’s voice trails off, and the question is clear. Alfred only slowly nods, giving him quick thanks before returning inside Wayne manor just as his friend turns to depart.

Bruce was still awake, too. He’d sat at the top of the stairs, just watching the brief encounter. And in that same night, Alfred introduces Bruce to you. Tells Bruce about your father, just in a few brief words.

Brief words that Bruce knew held a lot more weight behind them than Alfred could put on.

And from that night onward, Alfred raised you and Bruce.

Over the next couple of weeks after your arrival, Alfred would often be awoken in the night by your crying. Or your screaming, whichever one broke through your nightly terrors first. It would wake Bruce, too.

Bruce would always just stare up at the ceiling on these nights. Listening as he heard Alfred’s frantic, muffled footsteps come tumbling down the hall. Listening as Alfred opened the door to the bedroom you stayed in. [which was right next to Bruce’s, by the way]

Bruce could hear, from behind the wall his bed was against, as Alfred comforted you. As Alfred assured you that you were alright. Listening as your sobs and frantic gasps of air turned to sniffles after a long while, and then eventually quieted, with Alfred leaving exactly ten minutes after.

He’d even recognized the nickname Alfred had for you. “Little moon,” he’d always call you. Bruce wasn’t sure why, Alfred never explained.

One night, you’d awoken from a nightmare. But Alfred had been out on some personal business that day, and hadn’t quite yet returned. Bruce only awoke when he’d heard you open the door to his bedroom, your blanket hugged tightly under one of your little arms whilst you held some sort of stuffed animal that had been brought from your old home.

Even in the dark, Bruce knew you were crying. He could recognize those little sniffles, seeing as they kept him awake whenever you woke him by your screams of terror from your horrifying dreams due to your memories.

You’d asked him if you “could please sleep in his bed since Alfy wasn’t home yet”. And for some reason, despite how he’d ignored you at first, he couldn’t say no.

So you’d crawled into bed next to him, your little body huddled close to his. And Bruce hugged you, for some reason. Some sort of instinct, some sort of gut feeling.

It was like a natural reaction for Bruce, because he didn’t even process a thought before he’d done it.

And the moment he did so, your sniffles quieted faster, your tears stalling quicker than most other nights. And before he knew it, you were asleep again. And for once, you didn’t have a nightmare.

And from then on, Bruce saw you as a little sibling. And because of the loss of his parents not long before, he grew protective of you. Stepped into the role of your big brother without even a second thought.

After all, you’d both lost your family due to the same reason. The same way.

the sky does not have the room to hold the moon for forever, in all her silver glory

However, Alfred and Bruce did everything to keep you away from vampire hunting. And I mean everything.

Not once did they speak a word of it to you. Not once did they ever let you even notice how their presence left the Wayne manor at night to clear out the infested streets of Gotham.

So with that, you grew up mostly normal.

Sure, you got picked on and teased for how small you were in school. Sure, you’d come home battered and bruised from being shoved around a little too harshly by those kids who just easily towered over you.

You’d blame it on being clumsy. It was believable to Alfred. After all, you’d taken many tumbles in the years leading up to when the bullying started.

But Bruce never believed an ounce of it.

Sure, he’d try and ask you what really happened. But all you’d do is blink up at him, give him a forced smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes in the same bubbly and warm way it did usually. You’d always hoped he didn’t notice how forced it was.

But he always did. He just pretended not to notice it.

And when one day, Bruce happened to see the bullying firsthand. Seen it right before his eyes.

And that same day, after you’d disappeared from sight, Bruce got into his first fight. He’d come home just as beat up as you, maybe a little more-so, but he was victorious.

“You’re gonna get in trouble with Alfy if you get into fights, Bruce.” You’d whined, placing a cute little flower patterned band-aid on Bruce’s split knuckles. It wouldn’t do anything to help, but the thought certainly mattered.

And Bruce would only gently smile at you. That had been the first time, too. First time he’d ever smiled at you. He only ruffles your hair⎯ much to your disapproval and dismay⎯ and tell you that it was alright, that he didn’t mind if he got in trouble.

Because he truly didn’t. Not when it meant you got to live a more peaceful and normal life.

You were nine years old then, making Bruce fifteen.

He didn’t care if he got quizzical looks the next day for the fact he had those childish flower patterned band-aids on his split and bruised knuckles, or on any part of him that was bruised and battered. Bruce just didn’t care.

It made you feel helpful. So why would he stop you?

because the sun is a jealous twin, jealous of it’s sisters beauty, of her fragile elegance, and it yearns for that same beauty

So, yes. You were quite close with the Wayne family. You were practically an unofficial member of it.

In fact, you were close enough with them that all of Bruce’s children [adopted or biological] knew you quite well. All of them had a different nickname for you, one that they called you by. To them, you were just as much of a parental figure as Bruce was.

Maybe even more-so, since you’d take any opportunity to get them something. Even if it was a small little trinket.

But to them? That trinket was everything. It was worth more than any fine jewelry or expensive painting. To them, it was utterly priceless.

But hiding vampire hunting from you couldn’t last for forever, and you’d discovered it just after Jason’s disappearance. Why?

Because you’d gone looking for him.

Gone looking for him, and had accidentally caught Bruce in the middle of taking out a vampire. Which, unfortunately, caused you to relapse into memories of that night when you were six-years-old, due to how brutal killing vampires is.

You’d had another bout of nonstop nightmares for almost three months after that before they calmed, and Bruce had been there for each one, since you still lived in the Wayne estate.

Bruce never quite stopped feeling guilty after that, too.

and while the sun always feels sorry for it’s envy, the moon understands.

And now it was years later. Years later, and it was just a few days after you did something stupid. You’d slipped up, accidentally coming home much too late.

You were always quite bad at navigating Gotham, especially at night. So you’d wound up lost, in one of the worst parts of the city. One of the more vampire infested areas.

And you’d been bitten, and turned. You’d become one of them.

You didn’t mean to, you honestly didn’t. You tried to hide the signs from Alfred and Bruce. From Alfred, you hid it quite well. He just figured you weren’t feeling well, having a migraine.

But Bruce knew better.

He always could tell when you were lying.

So when Bruce had the confirmation that you were a vampire when you’d almost attacked him just the night before. He’d come home a little more beat up and hurt than usual, but nothing serious. To him, at least.

But to you, a newly turned vampire, resisting the urge to not attack when you hadn’t fed once just yet was impossible.

And that’s how Bruce found out. But he didn’t have the heart to kill you. No, he didn’t. He couldn’t kill the one person who he’d seen as a younger sibling for so many years. He couldn’t kill the person he’d tried so, so hard to protect from the infestation of Gotham.

So Bruce told Alfred, right after you’d fled Wayne manor.

And that’s what lead up to now.

she always gives the spotlight to the sun whenever it asks, as gentle or harsh or beautiful as it may

So here Alfred was, gun in hand. Stood before you.

Your gums burned and ached so badly due to how long you’d been going hungry. But you manage to hold yourself in, just simply standing there. Looking at Alfred, as you both stand in that trash filled alley, walls covered in graffiti.

“How long?” Alfred asks, finally breaking the silence that had been held for the pasty thirty minutes of you two staring at one another.

It’s hard for Alfred to hide the way his voice quivers. The way his hands tremble, nearly dropping the gun that was aimed right at you.

Your quiet for a moment, swallowing the forming lump in your throat. You can feel tears stinging your eyes, just like they did when you’d gotten the nightmares. You draw in a quivering breath, hands clenching painfully, nails forming crescent moons into your palms.

“Almost a week.”

Alfred is quiet. You can hear the way his heartbeat picks up, the way his breathing faltered for just a moment, as if he struggled to take in any air.

Alfred takes a moment to steel himself. To steady his emotions.

You and Alfred both have this thick weight in your chests. In your entire bodies. It’s like static, and it brings with it a bitter acidic taste to the mouth, makes the tongue go numb and heavy like metal.

Everything’s quiet, as Alfred steadies his aim again. He cocks the gun, too. But he closes his eyes when he does that, only opening them again after the click resounds.

“I’m sorry, Alfy. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” You begin, eyes glistening with tears. And before you know it, they are falling.

The same tears that Alfred could remember wiping off your face when you were six-years-old. The same tears that would cause him to nearly trip and fall on his own feet when he’d heard you crying due to those night terrors when you’d first come to stay with him and Bruce.

The same tears that he’d spend almost an hour every night coaxing to a halt. Sometimes even telling you stories about your father. The stupid things they’d do together, the stupid things Alfred did when he was a teenager.

And he’d smile when those tears stopped, halted by your little giggles that made relief flood his chest, warming it.

And before Alfred knows it, he’s stepped toward you. Gun still ready to fire, of course, but he uses his free arm to bring you close. And he hugs you.

Alfred hugs you in the same way he did when you were little, gently patting your back as his cheek rests on the top of your head, his gaze watching as the sun rises in the distance. And you cry.

You sob into him, hugging him back. Hugging him back so, so tightly. All you can get out between your hiccupping, broken sobs is just the words “I’m sorry, Alfy, I’m sorry” over and over. And Alfred simply continues to console you, replying with a very quiet, broken words of his own.

“I know, little moon. I know.”

Bang.

You fall limp in his arms. And Alfred weeps, cradling your bloody body in arms. For the first time in a long, long time, he cries.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, my little moon.”

because the sun always rises, for the moon cannot lead with it’s gentleness for forever, for the world is not as gentle and forgiving. there will always be the light on the morning horizon, drawing your attention away, as the moon dips away from the sky.