#that he's no longer the child he once was. but still. you do not mentor someone for years and years without caring about them

[fourswords]

a reason i really love the minish cap figurines despite their ridiculous difficulty to obtain is because of how they add even more characterization to every single little thing within the game. hell, vaati's figurines tell an entire story of their own:

Minish Vaati: Before he became a sorcerer, he was a simple Minish. He had always been entranced by the evil that lives in the hearts of men…

Sorcerer Vaati: When the young Minish donned Ezlo's magic cap, he took this evil form. Now, he searches for the light force in his quest to become all-powerful.

Vaati Reborn: The sorcerer Vaati took this form after draining the power of the light force from Princess Zelda. The evil beams from his eyes are devastating.

Vaati Transfigured: Once Vaati's body has been shattered, this dark form rises up, all that remains of the evil sorcerer. Only the sacred Four Sword can defeat him.

Vaati's Wrath: This is the embodiment of purest evil, the final form of the power-mad Vaati. Its mind is consumed with a hunger for destruction. Find its weakness.

like. the pronoun switch from "he" to "it" in this context is genuinely kind of chilling. i think a lot about vaati and ezlo and i really do wonder what ezlo must've thought when faced with what vaati became. because on one hand, he absolutely and thoroughly denounces him throughout the game for his misdeeds. on the other hand, the fact that ezlo says that "vaati was only a boy" when he first took him on as an apprentice and also repeatedly begs vaati to just wait a damn second during their encounters in the game (the "why won't you wait?!" in the flashback is definitely something that makes me have a head-in-my-hands moment) is really kind of. telling. to me. because ezlo declares vaati to be evil SO annoyingly often that when you look at it from the context of their shared backstory, it almost starts to sound like ezlo is just constantly trying to convince himself that vaati is past the point of no return. especially when he has lines like "You haven't changed in the slightest." (like he was hoping for some sort of change) and "How...could he?!" (when realizing that vaati turned everyone to stone near the end of the game—even after everything, there's still disbelief within him) and "Hyrule Castle has grown dark... Perhaps this repulsive scene... is just a reflection of the evil lurking in the heart of my former student. ... ... Ah, what have I created? But don't worry about me, Link!" (which is clearly a "how could i have been so blind" internal ordeal happening. it's actually been happening throughout the entire game). and even though the figurine refers to vaati's final form as "it", ezlo still calls him "he" even after the battle is done and he's seen the absolute nightmare that vaati became. it's interesting to me.

[butterbabyflapjack]

✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

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

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

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

✧˖° wordcount (chapter 2): 17k

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

✧˖° ao3

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

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

✧˖° author's note:

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

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

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

✧˖° chapter 2

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

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

The Ice Truck fucking Killer…

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

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

But Brian…

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

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

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

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

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

You can do this.

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

You don’t want to.

This is happening.

You’re killing this prick tonight.

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

You can do this.

You can do this.

You…

You’re at the precinct…

On a Saturday…

Today is already going so wrong.

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

Your anxious eyes grow wider.

Shit–!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You need to calm down.

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

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

Breathe.

In.

Out.

Slipping into your cheap, little car.

Driving out of the precinct’s lot.

In.

Out.

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

It’s not that big a deal.

Breathe.

In…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s going to kill you.

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

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

You can’t help it.

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

The man, is…

Cold. Calculated. Ineffable.

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

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

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

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

Maybe he’d forgiven you.

You weren’t about to ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does that make it official?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever makes this nightmare end more swiftly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

“Yes,” you respond without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you think you can drag me in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brows furrow up at that leaden mask he wears.

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

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

“Absolutely I am. Now tell me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Brian, I'm…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next stop…? 

This nightmare date isn’t over yet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Brian flashes her his most charming grin. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh really?”

“Really.”

“That sounds hard…”

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

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

“Oh, I’m good with lots of things.”

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh. 

Gross. 

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

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

“What?” you ask him sharply.

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

Gods, you hate him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have my own car.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goddammit, why does he have to be hot? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re breaking into a hospital?!”

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

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

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

“You’re overthinking this.”

“You’re under thinking it!”

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

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

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

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

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

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Brian…?”

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

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

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

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

Are you having a panic attack…?

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

“...Bri… David…?!” 

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

“This isn’t… This isn’t a good…”

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

“–Brian–?!”

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

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

“You’re entirely hopeless at this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Is that it…?

…

That’s it.

For now, at least.

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

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

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

Breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you we had a deal, didn’t I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are we doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are we going?”

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

“You’ll see.”

“Or you could just tell me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no way this is necessary.

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

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

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

“Oh, I think you might.”

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

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

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

Cute. 

Okay? 

He’s fucking adorable right now. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah fucking right.

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

“Not happening.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saline flushes or dextrose?

…How many times has he done this before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles at your questioning look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes.

“No.”

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

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

Just what you need….

More time alone with this annoyingly good-looking freak.

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

“Are you always this in love with me?”

“I told you I’m not hungry.”

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

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

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

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

“Madam?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing.”

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

You’re just curious.

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

“Seems to me you already are.”

It’s enough of an invitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was any of that real?”

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

Eventually, he scarcely inclines his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure you’re not.”

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does it matter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s so calm…

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

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

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

He smiles slightly to receive such rapt attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[alchemistc]

I've chilled out a bit and slept on it and I'm no longer biting the bars of my enclosure to get at him but now that I've actually taken a step back I'm ...

Eddie is a bad friend. Has been for a while.

I'm thinking back, specifically to the finale last year, where Eddie asked Buck over under the assumption that Buck had some magical ability to trick/manipulate/convince Eddie's son, who was rightfully upset with him, to not leave for El Paso. To communicate to Chris what Eddie had done in a way that made Chris want to stay. To fully parse an issue even Buck didn't have the full scope of and lay out Eddie's feelings and thoughts to Eddie's teenage son.

Eddie never actually communicated any of that to Buck. Just a 'do what you do' like Buck had any fucking clue how to jump in and rescue Eddie from his own poor choices.

Going even further back - what if Eddie had died after that sniper shot - leaving Buck to find out he's probably gonna need a fucking hell of a lawyer to begin a custody battle with the Diaz's that he didn't even know was a possibility until after Eddie was fucking dead. And he'd do it, too, because he'd consider it Eddie's last wish. The only way he'd stop before he was broke was if Chris expressed a desire to live with his grandparents.

Eddie is Buck's best friend, but Buck is only Eddie's best friend when it's convenient for him.

At no point has Eddie been required to take accountability for the things he does. He never even acknowledged with Chris the thing that made Chris leave in the first place.

Leaving his newborn and wife behind to Be The Man knowing you're leaving her in the same toxic environment you just escaped from? Yeah, you get to be pissed and self-entitled when she leaves your ass. Illegal fight club where he almost killed a dude? Do a therapy about it and forget it ever happened. Lash out at a respected mentor and bring up his dead family? It's fine he's a forgiving guy with a shitton of his own Catholic guilt so actually he probably thinks he deserves it. Scare the shit out of your kid with a doppelganger of his dead mom? Fail to secure him through manipulation and then head down there and get lucky that your parents are treating him just like they treated you. Don't apologize for the actual issue, it doesn't matter because your kid loves you and misses you. Come at your closest friend with passive aggression and then take it out on him when he does it back? Lash out physically and emotionally and gaslight him into thinking he's the one being selfish right now? Throw your kid and aunt at him and, again, never apologize. (Some version of this has happened MORE THAN ONCE).

The thing is, he has had YEARS to confront these issues. And yet. He's still stuck spinning his fucking wheels every time his own actions have consequences, and he just waits until the scars heal over and everything is, to him, good enough again.

It's consistent characterization. The problem is this is a grown ass man with a child and he SHOULD be learning and growing and changing and he just... isn't.

And I'm tired of it, actually.

[sincerelystarry]

( ☆ ) . * before he feels alone one final time and marries the sea . . . imagine being loved by me !!

f!victor!reader x finnick odair — finnick odair masterlist

starry’s sweets — order #012

ask : “hey loveeee, can i have a medium strawberry tiramisu with oreo crumbles and chocolate chips?” — anon

summary : visits to the capitols for parties and events as a victor is something you’re used to. having to share your hotel room with the capitol’s golden boy is something you never thought you would have to do. you know finnick odair’s reputation as a man who takes many lovers. you never realized how none of his lovers ever really loved him.

warnings : suggestive content! they have sex but i dont actually write that part, really sweet though, but also a little sad, mentions of beauty standards/slight body shaming to conform to beauty standards, mentions of forced prostitution

word count : 1.8k

You hate the Capitol. At least, you hate most things about the Capitol. You hate what it all stands for, you hate the Hunger Games, you hate your stupid fucking president. You hate the parties and events that you’re made to go to, to be the face for as one of the “prettier” victors. Your stylist dresses you up in silks and chiffon, bedazzle you with jewels and glitter until you’re indistinguishable from a sparkling mirror ball. 

Sometimes you drink your sorrows away. Other times you take as many treats and hor d’oeuvres as you can without getting caught and reprimanded by your Capitol escort to eat away your frustrations, because as much as you despise the Capitol, the food is amazing. You have to stay in the Capitol for days at a time for some events. You’re given an apartment for your longer stays, the ones that last weeks, up to a month. On shorter ones, like this, you get a hotel room. A nice hotel room, but still one of glass and too many cameras for your comfort.

You’re returning to your hotel room one night after some sort of fete or ball, wobbling in your stilettos. The only thing on your mind is your goal of taking a shower as soon as possible, to wash off the body glitter and the feeling of the creeping hands of the older men at the lavish parties. 

You open the door into your room, only having been there earlier in the day to drop off your scarce luggage, expecting to find an empty room and your suitcase. Instead, you see a man you recognize: Finnick Odair. You knew he won his Games only a few years before yours. You’ve seen each other at parties, each year when you had to mentor new tributes. You never talked, hardly acknowledged each other. You were never sure why, but you didn’t ever really like Finnick that much. He seemed cocky, too self-assured, as if he knew everything, and, if he didn’t, that he would know everything soon enough by flashing a smile at the right time or winking at the right person.

“Why the fuck are you in my room?” you ask, having no more care for decorum. 

You’re exhausted, your feet hurt, and the dress your stylist and prep team stuck you in is too small, as they wanted to suck you in a bit to make you look prettier. You wanted to slap them. You did slap one of them. You lost the fight, unfortunately, as clawed fingers seemed to be the growing trend in Capitol citizens, and you earned various scratches not unlike the ones you gained from the alley cat you found once as a child.

You don’t give Finnick any time to answer, just continuing to interrogate him. “Are you here to sleep with me or something? Because that’s a new fucking low for you, Odair,” you say. “I expect this shit from creepy Capitol guys, the ones with the fucking— clunky rings and caviar-breath that think they can buy me or something, maybe even from the women, but a fellow victor? I mean, why me, even? Why not one of those pretty girls that keep throwing themselves at you? That one girl that has the big hot pink beehive for a wig is pretty, isn’t she? I’m sure she’d be willing to fuck you.”

Finnick doesn’t seem angry or upset with you as you go off on him, instead looking amused, still just sat on the edge of the bed. “Are you done?” he asks, giving you a tired smile, nothing like the ones you’ve seen him give to Capitol ladies or Caesar Flickerman. 

“No,” you lie, arms crossing across your chest.

“Then, please,” he gestures for you to keep going, “be my guest.”

You stare at him for a moment, a pissed off expression on your face. You don’t have anymore actual words for him, but you’re hoping the death-stare you’re giving him can convey what the English language can’t.

Finnick presses his lips together, clearly holding back a laugh, before saying “I’m not here to have sex with you.”

“Then why the fuck are you here?” 

“Well— I mean, I’m here because I’m supposed to have sex with you. But I don’t want to,” he starts, then backtracks. “Not because I don’t want to, I mean, you’re pretty, extremely pretty. But that’s not my intention. Even though it’s the reason I’m here in the first place—”

“For Panem’s sweetheart you’re a lot worse with girls than I thought you’d be,” you scoff, still glaring at him.

Finnick laughs at your jab before starting again. “Right. Okay. I’m supposed to ‘have sex’ with you,” he says, miming air-quotes around ‘have sex.’ “Apparently, Snow wants it to look like we’re having this whole secret affair and it’s all dramatic because we’re from different Districts and I’m supposed to never be committed and all of that. But technically, no one will know if we have sex or not, so if you don’t want to, we don’t need to do anything. I can sleep on the settee. I just need to be ‘caught’ leaving your hotel room in the morning and we can fake it.”

“And I should believe you why?”

“You could always ask Snow,” he says. “I honestly thought he told you and you were also in on this whole ridiculous scheme.”

“I guess he didn’t think I should know the own details of my fake love life,” you huff, finally walking further into the room and sitting down on the bed next to him, the mattress making a flumph sound. 

“I’m sorry,” Finnick offers.

“Why are you apologizing?” you ask. “It’s not your fault.”

“Someone should apologize. It’s not my fault but I am involved.”

You only shrug. The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, you fiddling with one of the gaudy bangles on your wrist before you speak up. “Do you want to have sex?” you ask.

“Do you want to?” he asks back.

“I asked first. You answer first.”

“I want whatever you want,” he says simply.

“You know you don’t have to lie,” you say, looking into his eyes. You expected his trademark cockiness, maybe some sort of lust in them. All you got was an underlying sense of fear, worry. 

“Who says I’m lying?”

“I do,” you say, reaching out to grasp his hand in yours. It’s shaking, ever so slightly. “You know you can’t just agree to sex because the other person wants it.”

“I know that,” he argues. “It doesn’t mean that’s how it goes, though.”

You don’t respond verbally, but you nod in understanding.

“Do you want to?” he asks softly.

“You haven’t answered my question yet,” you say. 

“I did.”

“No. You lied, it doesn’t count,” you argue. 

“I didn’t lie. I meant it. It’s whatever you want. You’re attractive and I’m not ashamed to admit that. We’re supposed to be having sex anyway, so no consequences. And if you want, I’ll take care of you. But only if you want it.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of,” you start, and continue before he can butt in, “but I think you do.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.

“I see you during the Games each year,” you say. “Always taking care of your tributes. Taking care of Mags as she gets older each year. Always serving the Capitol ladies who you keep flirting with. You’re always giving. And I know that because I have to give too. I’m not another Capitol citizen, Finnick. I’m like you.”

“So?”

“So let someone else take care of you for once,” you say softly, hand leaving his and instead moving to cup his face, your thumb tracing over his cheekbone. 

Finnick looks at you for a moment, his eyes softening as he shakes his head. “I don’t know how,” he admits.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask him. He’s taken aback at your question, as if no one had ever asked before. Finnick nods but it’s not good enough. “Words,” you prompt further.

“Yes,” he breathes out, eyes closing.

You tilt your head up and kiss him, it’s slow and gentle and nothing like what he’s used to. Your fingers tangle in his hair but you don’t tug. You kiss down his neck but you never bite. You grip tightly onto his shoulders but you’re careful to not let your nails dig in. You let him lead, let him tell you what he wants, but you do most of the work as you trail your lips down his throat, down his body. You listen to him. Even if he doesn’t outright tell you to stop or slow down, you manage to determine it from his body language, reminding him that it’s okay to say no, that it’s okay to ask to stop. For once in his life, Finnick Odair lets someone take care of him.

“Are you alright?” you ask him afterwards, as you’re tangled up next to each other in the sheets.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly.

“It’s okay to not know,” you say. “It’s okay to not be okay.”

“I don’t think I’ve been okay since I was 14,” he says bitterly.

“I know,” you say, sighing. 

“But I feel like I can pretend everything is okay right now,” he admits. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Here, in this room, with you. Closed off from the world for a few hours. Everything feels okay.”

“Will it be?” you ask.

“I hope so. One day, in the future.”

“What are we doing, Finnick?” you ask. “What is this going to be.”

“What do you want it to be?”

“What do you want it to be?”

“I asked first,” he says, repeating your words from earlier that night. “You answer first.”

“I want it to be us. I want it to be real and not something made up by Snow to stir up drama for the Capitol assholes to eat up like some sort of movie or romance book.”

“I want that too.”

“Do you really?” you asks, slightly doubtful.

“Yeah. I don’t know how much I really want it yet, since we’ve just properly met maybe an hour ago. But I’ve seen you every year since you’ve won your Games. I see you at the parties, how you are with your tributes, especially the younger ones,” he says, pulling you closer. “I see you. But I want to know you.”

You smile, eyes closing, melting into his touch. “I want you to know me. And I want to know you.”

“Then I’ll let you.”

“The real you,” you say. 

“I know,” he murmurs. “You will.”

“You promise?” you mumble, starting to fall asleep now.

“I swear it,” he says, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “On everything I have. On everything that I am.”

a/n: lmao sorry if this is lowkey unhinged and also bad i wrote this in like 2 hours i started at 2:16am according to google docs version history and stopped at 4:26am so like yeah.

taglist 🏷️ : none yet !

[st4r-th0ughts]

Mk11 characters x Shinnok’s spawn! GN reader intros.

masterlist

pt.1 >pt.2 pt.3 pt.4

tw/cw: possible ooc, may be more inaccurate, implication of suicidal thoughts in kuai’s first part, and all platonic!! Reader has enough bs in general in sub zero and night wolf’s parts (valid crashout), ALL PLATONIC

Character list (part 2): Frost, Noob Saibot, Sub Zero (Kuai Liang), Scorpion (Hanzo Hasashi), Nightwolf. Kuai Liang and Hanzo were your appointed god-uncles, so yeah, you turning over to the darkness makes them kinda sad :((

Reader’s background: Reader is Liu Kang’s adopted child, a young one he found between Netherealm and Earthrealm. Kung Lao absolutely adored Liu Kang’s child, his very own nibling. As did almost everyone else when they met you.

It is revealed in Mkx, reader was the spawn of Shinnok, made to take his place should he ever perish. Raiden, who was now so obsessed with Earthrealm’s safety, even if it means attacking and shunning all those he deemed a threat, he banished reader from Earthrealm, demanding all those who ally with him to kill reader upon sight.

Now, in Mk11 after the time merger, reader can’t bring themselves to trust anyone. Not after being betrayed, left behind, and hunted. Living in an abandoned mansion, alone, in the dark.

you’ve unlocked a new entry!

If they want someone to villanise, they’ll get what they want. You were Shinnok’s Spawn, no? You are evil incarnate’s descendant, destined to take over the realms. You won’t be weak anymore.

That’s what you want. That’s what you want…

——

Frost- You most definitely won’t become a slave like her.

༘⋆ ❅ ･:*:｡ ❆ (1)

F- You are foolish to refuse Kronika’s offer, NAME, she would have made you stronger.

R- And become a robotic slave like you? No thanks.

F- She will make us both into the greatest warriors.

༘⋆ ❅ ･:*:｡ ❆ (2)

R- Giving up your soul for a mere body or betraying the Grandmaster….I can’t imagine which is worse.

F- He held me back!

R- He was training you so you could attain the position you now desperately crave.

༘⋆ ❅ ･:*:｡ ❆ (3)

F- We both crave for the respect we deserve.

R- Unlike you, I didn’t betray my mentor in favor of… that body.

F- I’ll kill you here to prove that I’m worthy of it!

༘⋆ ❅ ･:*:｡ ❆ (4)

R- By the Elder Gods, you look like your parents dropped you on the head as a baby.

F- I’ll freeze the words off your tongue, insolent spawn!

R- Bring it on, ice cube.

༘⋆ ❅ ･:*:｡ ❆ (5)

R- Come with me back to Sub-Zero, Frost.

F- Since when did you do his bidding, outcast?

R- I owe him a favor. He also didn’t say you had to return unharmed.

༘⋆ ❅ ･:*:｡ ❆ (6)

F- Kronika wants to test your skills against me.

R- Psh. Tell her to piss off.

F- I’ll give her your head to prove that even Shinnok’s incarnate is not invincible against me.

༘⋆ ❅ ･:*:｡ ❆ (7)

F- I’ll freeze you till you turn blue from the cold.

R- Yes, Frost, you of all people should know negative temperatures, especially in such concentration, does that to flesh.

F- Ugh! I’ll silence your loud mouth!

༘⋆ ❅ ･:*:｡ ❆ (8)

R- I could never imagine betraying Liu Kang like you with Grandmaster Kuai Liang.

F- You did so with Raiden, you don’t get to judge me.

R- Raiden isn’t my mentor. He was my father’s, and I only respected him for that.

Noob Saibot- Undead abomination trying to get you to embrace your destiny… more fully.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ (1)

NS- Come back to your rightful home in the shadows.

R- The shadows embrace me, but I do not wish for them to keep their hands on me longer.

NS- The light does not welcome you like the darkness, child.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ (2)

NS- The Emperor and Empress want you to return home to rule by their side.

R- Fuck them, Bi-Han. They aren’t transferring my soul to be a revenant.

NS- I will execute you to bring you to them myself.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ (3)

R- Raiden still doesn’t shun Hanzo for what he’s done to you.

NS- That is expected of a god that killed us all.

R- One thing we can agree on for once.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ (4)

R- You of all people should know Kronika lies to everyone for her own gain.

NS- She offers me a new life and clan in the New Era.

R- Yeah. Trust the bald lady who was the cause of everyone’s injustices.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ (5)

NS- Liu Kang calls for your soul back.

R- He’s a undead fucker trying to kill me.

NS- It is the only way he can do with disciplining you.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ (6)

R- Death shan’t embrace me today.

NS- It is a merciful alternative to what I’m going to do.

R- Why? On the orders of my ‘father’?

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ (7)

R- Do you even have a shred of care for your brother?

NS- I disown him in every way he did me.

R- He did so for good reason.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ (8)

NS- You would have the honor of ruling the Netherealm.

R- I wish to not be damned royalty.

NS- Better than be rotting away slowly and shunned.

Sub-Zero- Well, goduncle, huh? Where was he when you needed support?

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚 (1)

R- Can your ice put me out of my misery?

SZ- It could. But I will not do so.

R- Ugh. The one time you could do me a favor, you choose not to.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚 (2)

R- You and Scorpion are my god-uncles?

SZ- Liu Kang wanted us to be there for you, should he perish.

R- Hah. Wonder where this… care, was, years ago.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚 (3)

SZ- Liu Kang wants you to return home to him.

R- I don’t have a home, Grandmaster.

SZ- Years of isolation has addled your heart.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚 (4)

SZ- Cease your war on Earthrealm, NAME.

R- Hell no, not when all of you were *begging* me to embrace the darkness within me.

SZ- It is one of the many mistakes I wish to atone for.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚 (5)

SZ- Return Shinnok’s Amulet to Raiden at once, NAME.

R- Hah, here to stop me before I decide to make you all suffer?

SZ- We will bring you back to the light.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚 (6)

R- I’ll save the Lin Kuei’s destruction for last, if it makes you feel better.

SZ- I shall not allow you to bring your Netherealm army into Earthrealm, NAME.

R- Your clan’s destruction shall be first, then.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚 (7)

R- I’m making sure Raiden doesn’t harm us all again.

SZ- So why wage war on Earthrealm?

R- Because those who stand, or stood by him, are my enemy.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚 (8)

SZ- Your soul is broken, NAME.

R- It is, and the only way it’ll heal is if Raiden pays.

SZ- We will find a way to make you whole again without bloodshed.

Scorpion- You don’t want to trust a former Revenant, not now, not ever.

🔥⚔️⊹₊🔥⋆｡°✩ (1)

S- You’ve suffered the loss of family and friends.

R- I don’t wish to waste time dwelling on them any longer.

S- The pain has poisoned your compassion and empathy.

🔥⚔️⊹₊🔥⋆｡°✩ (2)

S- Return Raiden’s amulet to him at once, NAME.

R- I don’t think so, uncle.

S- I don’t wish to harm my god nibling, stand down if you know what’s good for you.

🔥⚔️⊹₊🔥⋆｡°✩ (3)

R- Can’t say I blame you for defying Raiden.

S- It was my mistake of not listening to his words.

R- They never held water, Scorpion.

🔥⚔️⊹₊🔥⋆｡°✩ (4)

R- Sorry for beating up your chujin, but he attacked me first.

S- That does not excuse beating him within an inch of his life, NAME.

R- Okay, I went overboard, my fault.

🔥⚔️⊹₊🔥⋆｡°✩ (5)

R- So, Takeda and Jacqui, eh?

S- For someone who travels like a ghost in the shadows, I’m not surprised you know of it.

R- Heh, means Takeda’s gonna be my what, god cousin now?

🔥⚔️⊹₊🔥⋆｡°✩ (6)

S- Quan Chi tried to make a deal with you?

R- I beat him within an inch of his life before he decided to flee.

S- A wise choice.

🔥⚔️⊹₊🔥⋆｡°✩ (7)

S- My revenant tried to recruit you for Kronika?

R- Tried to bring him back, didn’t work so well.

S- We will restore him together, for the better.

🔥⚔️⊹₊🔥⋆｡°✩ (8)

R- Honestly, I’m glad as hell you aren’t evil anymore.

S- My fire burns just as strongly as my past self’s.

R- This… can mean either bad or good. I hope it’s the latter.

🔥⚔️⊹₊🔥⋆｡°✩ (Revenant Scorpion)

R- Kronika lies, Scorpion. She cares not for your clan.

R! S- She will restore my family back, NAME, as she will with yours, if you come with me.

R- I’m bringing you back to the real world, since you *did* save my ass a while back, I’ll return the favor.

Nightwolf- The Great Spirit may accompany him, but She can’t save you.

𓃥☾🐾✧𓃦 (1)

R- My quarrel is not with you, Nightwolf.

NW- Haokah wishes for me to bring you to him to save you.

R- Save me? Why now?

𓃥☾🐾✧𓃦 (2)

NW- The Great Spirit can save your soul, NAME.

R- I respect your beliefs and all, but please, she can’t help me.

NW- I promise, your heart will be much lighter.

𓃥☾🐾✧𓃦 (3)

R- Woah… so your mantle’s been passed down for generations?

NW- I hold the mantle given to me by the Great Spirit with pride, NAME.

R- Honestly, I respect that immensely.

𓃥☾🐾✧𓃦 (4)

NW- Kronika has tried to recruit you several times.

R- Whether it’s because her son was my creator, or it’s because she wants my power, I have no idea.

NW- It’s better to not dwell on it.

𓃥☾🐾✧𓃦 (5)

NW- Return what you’ve stolen from the Matoka, NAME.

R- Not yet, Nightwolf, I’m sorry.

NW- Your act of thievery does not do your reputation favors.

𓃥☾🐾✧𓃦 (6)

R- My life may not be dedicated to hating Raiden, but my current goal is to get vengeance.

NW- I see no difference, NAME.

R- When the Matoka is broken down, you’ll see.

𓃥☾🐾✧𓃦 (7)

R- Shinnok’s amulet gives me power. I’m not weak anymore.

NW- Your soul has always been one of the most resilient ones I’ve seen.

R- The darkness I’ve embraced gives me stronger resolve.

𓃥☾🐾✧𓃦 (8)

NW- Few have had such a tragic life as yours.

R- I wonder whether they’ve embraced their destiny.

NW- Fewer still embrace the darkness with open arms.

𓃥☾🐾✧𓃦 (Revenant Nightwolf)

R! NW- The Great Spirit abandoned the Matoka as Raiden has abandoned your people.

R- Don’t think this makes us buddies.

R! NW- When have I ever suggested that?

fin.

© st4r-th0ughts 2025, I don’t allow reposts, reuploads, translations, or copies.

[little-diable]

A hunger for blood – Feyd-Rautha (smut)

This character brings out the worst in me, this is full on psychotic. But I love it, and I know you will too. But be warned, this is a new version of fucked-up. A big thank you to @whitedarkmoonflower for letting me ramble about ideas and for sharing an idea that gave this fic a whole new touch. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Feyd-Rautha's betrothed, the reader, is even more blood hungry than he is. She challenges him to a fight, giving him the chance to claim her even before their wedding night, should he win the fight. But perhaps that is what she had been working towards, all for the touch of a sociopath her body ached for.

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, oral (m), heavy pain kink on both sides, choking, blood tasting, killing, fighting, psychotic reader

Pairing: Feyd-Rautha x fem!reader (about 3k words)

“What does one have to do to end up in the arena?” Her voice was dripping with curiosity, forcing the men’s eyes slowly towards her. (Y/n) kept her gaze focused on the muscular frame of Feyd-Rautha, her betrothed, the man she had only shared a handful of words with. She was surrounded by advisors, strategists, and wealthy men whose names she hadn’t cared to remember, fully entranced by the spectacle they were watching. 

“Commit a crime and end up as a prisoner.” The men laughed, speaking to her with a condescending tone that made a fire burn inside of her. They treated her like a child, a woman without her own opinion, nothing but a toy for Feyd-Rautha to play with and to breed. 

“Not as an opponent, but as a fighter.” No longer were the men laughing, once again turning towards (y/n) with confused expressions. The smile tugging on her lips had a sinister touch to it, leaving the men shuddering as one of them eventually cleared his throat. 

“Only Feyd-Rautha gets the honour, Lady (y/n).” Excitement buzzed through the arena as Feyd killed his last opponent, grinning at the crowd with his black teeth exposed, with blood sticking to his features. His eyes met hers from afar, momentarily getting lost in her challenging gaze. She was hungry for the same high he now felt, hungry to feel a blade pressed to her skin after all these weeks without any training.

She had been raised with a hunger for blood urging her on, trained by her father’s closest companions, men who were supposed to help the young girl pass her time as everything but fighting seemed to bore her. She had turned into a cunning, ruthless form of herself, a form neither her parents nor her mentors had eventually recognised – forced to accept that she had always been the perfect match for Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. 

“Take me to him.” Her voice echoed through the air, forcing a few men to their feet to guide her towards her betrothed. No words were spoken as the small group moved through dark hallways, taking turns every now and then, giving (y/n) a few more moments to cling to her excitement. 

“Na-Baron, Lady (y/n) wanted to see you.” She stepped into another dark room, with her twinkling eyes focused on his barely dressed frame. Feyd wore nothing but his trousers, his muscular body on full show for her wandering eyes. He was still holding onto his blades, covered in the blood of his opponents – a sight some of the maids and servants seemed to cringe at, a sight that made her smirk grow even wider. 

“You fought well, na-Baron.” Her heels clicked against the ground as she walked closer to him, not giving the others a chance to stop her from doing so. They expected him to lash out, to push her from him with his blade pressed to her throat, but he kept holding still – patient almost. Feyd watched her with curiosity, studying her as if she were an experiment, a new pet he was still unsure about keeping. “Tell me, Feyd-Rautha, what does it take for one to gain the Baron’s approval for a fight?” 

“Why are you asking me this, woman?” No longer were his lips pulled into a smile, no longer did he seem as relaxed, as arrogant as only a second ago. Feyd’s jaw muscles were clenched, ticking in anger as (y/n) ran her fingers over his naked chest, down to his tensed abs. Their eyes kept holding contact, but while (y/n)’s joy only seemed to grow, Feyd began to lose his patience, letting one of his blades fall to the ground to wrap his bloody fingers around her throat. “This is not the time or the place for games, speak when your na-Baron asks you to.” 

“Perhaps I want to take part in a fight.” Her voice had an almost naive touch to it, the words were spoken with a tone so breathy, that Feyd dropped his hand as if she had burned him. His smirk fought its way back to his pale lips almost instantly, exposing his black teeth to her wandering eyes. 

“Only criminals get to fight. You’re nothing but a noble lady, it wouldn’t be a fair fight between us. It’d be a shame if I had to kill you before I get to fuck you, future wife of mine.” His words had a teasing tone to them, words that drew laughs out of the men who had stepped closer to the couple. They made fun of her, trying to embarrass the woman whose smile never fell. A deadly mistake. 

And then everything happened within seconds: Her hand snapped out to reach for Feyd’s blade, ripping it from his loose grasp to slit the throat of the man standing closest to her. She hadn’t even looked at the man, had snapped her hand back with a movement Feyd was all too familiar with, copying him without ever having seen him doing it. 

“I just killed a high-ranked member of the Baron’s inner circle. Am I a criminal now?” Silence engulfed them as she brought the blade to her lips, letting her tongue run along the cold metal to moan at the copper taste. Feyd and (y/n) held eye contact as she did so, while all others were crouched near the man who was choking on his blood. 

Feyd moved fast, and with his hand finding its way back to her blood-covered throat, he pulled her in for a teeth-clashing kiss. The moan rumbling through them in unison reverberated through the room, momentarily drawing the attention of all other bystanders towards them. His touch on her was strong, possessive almost as if he was worried that somebody could try and rip her from his grasp, “It seems like my uncle meant well with me. You’re perfect for me, Lady (y/n).” 

“Send word to my uncle, tomorrow we will fight.” The men scurried out of the room, desperate to flee from the couple who couldn’t stop looking at one another. The energy between (y/n) and Feyd was palpable, bound together by a magnetic force that buzzed through both their veins. “If I win, I’ll get to fuck you tomorrow, claim you however I want.” 

“And if I win, na-Baron of mine?” (Y/n) shifted her weight onto her toes to ghost her lips over his. (Y/n) didn’t find it in herself to care about broken traditions, about being claimed by her husband-to-be before their wedding night. Her body was aching for his touch almost the same way it was aching for a gruesome fight, anything to keep herself excited. 

“You’ll get the honour to cut out the Baron’s heart when I kill him.” 

……

“Feyd-Rautha!” The voice echoed through the arena, ringing in her ears as (y/n) tightened her grip on her knife. She was filled with an almost childlike giddiness, it wasn’t about winning for her, she wasn’t oblivious; she knew that Feyd had a clear advantage with his muscular, towering frame - it was all about the chase, the thrill of the fight for her. 

The people in the arena cheered for their na-Baron, growing only louder as her name was announced, opening the doors to expose her grinning self to the brightness momentarily blinding her. She found her way into the arena, nodding at the Baron who watched her every step, before letting her gaze focus on Feyd. 

He didn’t wear the same grin he had worn for yesterday's fight, he wasn’t as focused as he had been yesterday, no, this was a game to him – a clear advantage for her. She could lure him into her trap, could give him the feeling of winning, quickly gaining the upper hand, till he’d take a risk too big. 

Feyd didn’t waste any time, he charged at her with his full strength, set on knocking her to the ground. She barely managed to step aside, just a second too long and he would have buried her beneath him. But (y/n) was dancing around him, giving room to her laughter clawing through her. Her husband-to-be moved quickly, but (y/n) could pick up on the confusion guiding him, he hadn’t expected her to move like this, perfectly copying him. 

“I’m growing bored, na-Baron.” She tainted him, gleefully chuckling as he snarled at her, charging at her once again. This time, (y/n) allowed Feyd to rip her to the ground, but just for a second, before she flipped them around. The crowd gasped all too loudly as she raised her knife, only to ram it into the ground right next to his throat while winking at him.

(Y/n) sprang to her feet before Feyd could react, circling him to reach for her knife. He was urged on by his anger, and yet both felt the excitement binding them together, all too aware that no other person had ever dared to fight like this, not against the Baron’s nephew. Feyd’s blade met hers as he attacked, unable to stop his ticks from growing stronger. 

“I can already taste the Baron’s blood coating his heart.” Her teasing whispers rang in Feyd’s ears, distracting him for just a second too long. (Y/n) threw him to the ground with all her weight, once again straddling him. She was too focused on him to feel one of their soldiers nearing, stabbing its hook into her shoulder to rip her off Feyd. 

“You dare hurt my betrothed?” Feyd’s screams filled the arena as he charged at the soldier, cutting their throat before (y/n) could regain her position. Pain was clinging to her as blood oozed out of her wound – a wound she would have found enjoyment in if Feyd had been the one to mark her. But even though she was angry at being interrupted, she couldn’t ignore the heat now simmering inside of her, urged on by his anger, his will to kill for her.

A heat that whispered to (y/n) to give in, to allow Feyd this win. 

For a few more moments, all the two did was look at one another, silently communicating about their fight, moments of silence that were interrupted the second he attacked for the last time. She had grown bored, letting Feyd push her to the ground with a heavy thud. (Y/n) was too focused on the sensations her body was taken up with, begging for his touch, his lips, his hands, his cock. 

“I yield.” Her tongue kissed her teeth as she murmured the words. No reply left Feyd at her words, all he did was dip his head down and kiss her breathless, while allowing her to feel his hardening cock, begging to be freed, to sink into her aching cunt. 

……

“Your blood is even sweeter than I imagined, I bet your cunt tastes just as sweet.” He had her pressed to the cold wall, with his hand wrapped around her throat and his eyes burning through her. Both had been too impatient, desperate for one another’s touch, clinging to one another the second they had been left alone. “Tonight I will feast on my wife-to-be.” 

“You’re wasting my time if you only speak of promises, na-Baron.” She gave Feyd a harsh push and flipped their positions. He found himself pressed to the wall, and before he could even begin to realise what (y/n) was doing, she had reached for his hand, pressed it against the wall, and rammed her knife through his palm to pin it against the cold substance. Blood oozed out of his wound heavily, but all Feyd did was let go of a raspy moan, clearly enjoying the pain. 

She sank to the ground in front of him with a smile so sinister, it gave him a clear warning to stop himself from touching her. It didn’t take her long to free his twitching cock, letting her tongue run up his length before circling his pre-cum bearded tip. Feyd’s moans echoed through the room as she swallowed parts of him, pumping the remaining inches with her nimble fingers. 

“You were made for me.” It was a simple praise that rolled off his tongue, and for the first time since he could remember, Feyd found himself unable to speak anything else. His mind was hazy, the words no longer came to him as they always did, choked up by the feeling of (y/n) choking on his cock. 

It was a messy sight, with spit dripping from her chin, with tears welling up in her twinkling eyes. She moaned whenever he twitched inside her mouth, fuelling her excitement whenever her gaze flickered from Feyd’s pleasure-drunken features to his bleeding palm. Deep down, (y/n) could only hope that he’d paint her with his blood the second she’d free him, allowing him to regain his power while fucking her bruised. 

“My seed shouldn’t be wasted, it was made for your womb only.” He warned her to pull away, to stop her movements before he could cum down her throat. But (y/n) took her time, she kept bobbing her head, letting him graze the back of her throat a few more times to leave him moaning. Only as he was about to let go with curses rumbling off his tongue did she pull away, rising back to her feet. 

Feyd pulled the knife out of his palm with another heavy moan, letting it drop to the ground as he manhandled her down onto the bed. His blood was everywhere, marking her skin, and his bedding, a sight that only urged the two on. She was pulled into a teeth-clashing kiss as they rid themselves of their clothes, naked bodies searching one another as if they were high on spice. 

“Claim me like you said you would!” Both were fuelled by impatience, an impatience that urged Feyd to thrust his cock into her aching cunt before touching her with his fingers. For a second, they held still, foreheads pressed together, lips parted to let go of heavy pants, but the second he felt her flutter around him, he began to ruthlessly fuck her. 

Their visions were hazy, blurred almost, overcome by their pleasure, by the adrenaline they have felt ever since their fight in the arena – and yet another high was awaiting them, set on binding them together for eternity. (Y/n) tried to speak, wanting to rile him up even further, but all Feyd did was press his blood-covered hand to her lips, leaving his stain on her mouth. 

“I allowed you to play your games, now you’re mine to toy with.” He had her flipped around within seconds, fucking her from behind as he pressed her face into his pillow. Even though the fabric managed to muffle her moans, he still picked up on them – grinning as if he had fought hard to claim her, nothing but lies she had fed him. 

Feyd-Rautha had fallen for her games quicker than (y/n) had thought, high on the challenge she had tossed at him, unable to back down from a fight. All for him to touch her, to fuck just like he was doing now.

He had fallen under her spell, feeling sensations he had been unfamiliar with until this very day. Even though Feyd fucked her rougher than he had ever fucked before, leaving marks with every thrust, drawing blood from her hips even with his short fingernails, he found himself drawn to her like to no other being, making a promise of keeping her chained to him till the end of their time together. 

“You take my cock like a whore. I will kill every man who has touched you before me.” Spite dripped from his jealous words, unable to accept that she had been pure before this very day, moving too experienced, too perfect for a woman without any guidance. (Y/n)’s chuckles tainted him, forcing Feyd to tighten his grip on the back of her neck. 

“No other man has touched me, na-Baron. I was destined to be yours, my soul and my body.” The words were enough to draw a moan out of Feyd, feeling their highs creeping closer as they got lost in their emotions. He didn’t reply, didn’t find the strength to protest as she came on his cock. He fucked her through her orgasm with his teeth buried in his lower lip, keeping himself from giving in before she relaxed beneath him. 

Feyd eventually came with a groan, a sound so sinful, (y/n)’s walls fluttered around him once again. Both clung to one another as he filled her with his cum, not daring to let it go to waste. He stayed buried inside of her, with his tight grip on her neck, with his teeth scraping their way up to her shoulders, “You should know that from tonight on you’re my wife. I never cared about traditions, you’re now fully claimed.”

[4veslil]

Headcanons | Jasper Hale | You're a Newborn In Maria's Army

A/N: Just wanted to write something Jasper! Love this character so much and my first ever fanfiction (that I wrote at 14!) was an OCxJasper Hale! This idea is inspired by one of my longer fics but I was just antsy to write something now. That fic is still in the works rn because of my Paul Lahote fic Touch The Soul. So, really, this is a little sneak peek at the vibes of my next Twilight fanfiction :) Without further ado, please enjoy and make sure to request if you like my stuff! (Request link/info can be found on my Master List!)

★ MASTER LIST HERE ★

So basically you were a mistake. He shouldn’t have distracted that newborn while he was feeding.

But with hindsight, Jasper said your change was a happy accident.

When you woke up you were partially feral, with blips of control- you had strong morals though

Jasper would have to chaperone you during feeds- he knew if you saw a child or woman hurt you’d go ballistic

When you were in control he managed to find out you were the only child of a blacksmith

Made sense when it came to fighting- you were strong, he had to give you that

What was the difference between chaperone and mentor? Well, to Jasper, there wasn’t one.

He personally trained you with the intention of keeping you past a year

At first it was serious, but once you exceeded his expectations it became an excuse to enjoy each other’s company.

You would go swimming in the nearest lake you could find, stripping off and enjoying the water

Although you didn’t sweat, the blood, mud, dust and other human secretions dirtied you.

Jasper made a habit of chasing you around the lake with his stained shirt

You knew if he caught up he’d rub it in your face, “Get a good whiff for me” he’d tease as he straddled your hips.

You’d splash each other, dare each other to drink animal blood (you always forfeited though and would just play fight) and you’d rate the cannonballs you’d do

You would wash his hair, running your hands through the gold strands with utmost care

You weren’t very talkative unlike Jasper, always the charismatic, southern gentleman- it was easy to see why Maria claimed him

From fighting like you did nudity was no big deal, bathing was necessary and newborns only really thought about blood, it was no big deal

He’d always plait your wet hair when you’d finished.

You asked Jasper how he learned to plait hair, he said it was a vague memory

From then on, as the most literate between you, you encouraged Jasper to share about his human life before it completely slipped away

This was once you could hold a pen without breaking it, it took over an hour of tantrums to manage it

You only got to write three pages chronicling his human life- he couldn’t remember much

But that didn’t stop jasper from folding the paper small and keeping them in a leather pouch in his breast pocket

When everyone’s emotions got too much Jasper would trace the way you wrote his name.

The dress you wore after the change was stolen from Nettie’s old things, Jasper wanted you to have nice things

He would say thank you for being his comrade with new pencils, a comb, shawls and ribbons for your hair

Jasper was bad at expressing himself, he thought actions spoke louder than words- after all his charisma did make him talk a lot of bullshit

You would do the same with words, combating your quietness with a new compliment.

He would leave you always smiling while he left Maria renewed as her merciless-monster-of-a-lover

Jasper had to hold you back a lot from storming up to your Coven Leader and giving her a piece of your mind

After, you’d strop (as Jasper called it). Silent treatment was a given so avoiding him entirely was what brought you two back to normal

He didn’t know when that was, you’d just suddenly be there next to him like you popped out of thin air. You wouldn’t admit you had Jasper Withdrawals

Jasper would ruffle your hair with a smirk like he was saying ‘You done pouting now?’

You’d slap his hand away (thankful you couldn’t blush) and look up to glare at him, but his smile was what you really wanted to see. Your strange addiction

When feelings started to develop between you being amongst an army of newborns made it hard for Jasper to pick them up

It was a very confusing time, and with Maria breathing down your neck it stayed ‘more than friends, less than lovers’ for decades.

He would stare at you just too long and Peter would whack him around the head

Because of that Peter actually managed to beat Jasper in a fight- he’s always held it over his head.

When Jasper saw you attacked in a fight he was right at your side and vice versa. After one fight in particular you both realised how much you cared for each other.

Downside? Maria was starting to notice

He let Peter and Charlotte go at the price of taking you

It wasn’t easy but his promise to come find you settled your heart

“I promise I’ll find you. If not in a few days or even decades, know I’m still coming… then we’ll never part again”

And he meant it when he said decades.

At least the 80s were good for one thing- Jasper with a shaggy mullet was something you’d never let him live down

[microwavesaferat]

No one in Gotham is human.

It's something in the water, it's in the air, it's in the soil. It's rooted deeply into the soul of Gotham, a distinct sense of wrongness that permeates the streets; Gotham has marked every one of her children.

With every chemical that has been dumped in the sewers, every gas attack, every chemical lab explosion, the people of Gotham grow more and more metahuman. Most of the time it's subtle, a greater constitution, thicker skin, higher pain tolerance. You need these things to manage in a place like this and Gotham will do anything to keep her children. Other times, the mark will distort and corrupt those who have wronged Her. The bird-like man who dumps his trash (living or dead) into her bays develops a distinct waddle, unable to laugh without squawking. The man who clouds her air with cloying, heavy fear, that same fear redoubles on him, constantly seeing the smallest movements in the corners of his burlap-covered eyes.

Gotham gives her greatest blessings to her protectors, the knights of the dark, her precious pet birds.

For the eldest bird, who flipped through her skies with a light and joy sorely needed, she let him bend. While yes, he was always a soaring acrobat, now his muscles were elastic and his bones rubber, contorting and molding to his will. He would never notice the mark, but Gotham would know he was hers.

The bird with the clipped wings, girl who was shot down in her prime. She had lost so much and still kept pushing, striving for her father's and mentor's dream to improve the streets of the city. What better gift than the bird's-eye view she could no longer have? While the woman behind the screen may seem omniscient, she is not. That comes from a mix of her own skill and the slight sense in the back of her head of where to look, what to do, where to go. Call it a hunch, but she will always be there at the right place, at the right time.

The second, the twice born, the one that returned to her, she gave her strength. The strength of the underdogs, the looked-down upon, the rejects. He would always find that strength to defend the defenceless, to aid the needy. He chalked it up to the effects of the Pit, but Gotham knew. Gotham gave him the strength she couldn't when he left her reach, in a warehouse, so far from her watchful gaze.

For the inquisitive one, what to give? He had deduced the city's greatest mystery off of his own merit, he had taken his place as a protector, not been handed it. He was stubborn, and committed, Gotham needn't give him any mark. Until, with allies dwindling and hope fading, with his title taken and his family lost, Gotham gifted him that stubbornness he once had. There would only be one problem who couldn't solve, one task that, once he set his mind to it, he would not complete; the source of his determination, what drives him to work through till dawn, to not rest until his job is down.

Then came the blonde one, who was cheeky, and cunning, and oh so determined. The mark that was left was one of laughter, of a smile in the face of anguish, a joke in times of war. She would be a beacon of hope, of the joy to come in her wake. Regardless of what happened around her, she would always be able to crack a smile, such is the optimism that Gotham granted her.

Then came the youngest, the violent child with eyes far older than himself. He was often misunderstood by those around him, he himself would be understanding. He would always know what someone needs, and, more specifically, what the voiceless would need. Gotham did not anticipate that this mark be utilised for his growing farm, apparently the 'voiceless' extends to those who moo or bark, but she was happy regardless. Her children would always surprise, but never disappoint.

Then came another girl, a silent, skilled, deadly girl, with a capacity for great pain, but a will for something better. The child was trained beyond what Gotham could gift her. So Gotham gave her comfort: the ability to hide. she would always be able to disappear into the shadows when needed, a safety so rarely granted to her before.

She will admit that she was not as subtle with her final gift, but that did not matter. While her dark nights defended her people and her streets in shadow, this new bird was a shining light to the public, protecting her people as the sun shone. It was only fair that he shine just as brightly then.

Yes, Gotham loved her children. Regardless of what people thought, she was not a malicious city, and would do her best to protect her own. But who could forget her favourite? Her crusader defending her honor every night, her knight in black armour. To him she gave the greatest gift she could, his birds.

[vxsellie]

‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔵𝔦𝔦

summary. as time trudges on, living becomes increasingly more difficult. as the tributes struggle to keep their heads afloat, thousands of sadistic fucks watch from their homes as they slowly die off.

content warnings. graphic depictions of gore & corpses, references to child abuse, animal death, depictions of grief and loss, conflicting emotions ??? there's so much going on this chapter yet nothing at all

total wc. 10,883

notes!! once again, reminder that it's better read on ao3!

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

23:30.

SAINT MARY’S HALL.

Two people. You’ve killed two people in two days. That’s got to beat some kind of record. It’d be rather morbid for there to even be a record for highest kill count, but it’s not unrealistic. You’d killed two people and yet Ellie is the one who Ruben feels most sorrow for.

He heard the way she’d talked about you on live television. He heard her biting words within the elevator. He saw her fight back against you despite being completely in the wrong. And still, she holds an abundance of his pity. Not only because she’s been through absolute hell, but because she just upped the deaths to four. She took Riley’s life only one minute ago.

Joel is drinking heavily in the corner, knocking back beer after beer as sponsors swarm him, offering to send gifts to the grieving girl on the screen.

Ellie’s sobs can be heard echoing throughout the Hall, the Gamemakers focusing on her anguish for longer than necessary. Ruben’s chest tightens at the sight of her. She’s balled up on the floor of the backroom, rocking back and forth as she tears at her scalp with bloodied fingers. On the floor beside her resides Riley’s bloody axe. And, on the couch, her best friend lies dead, her hand still outstretched toward Ellie’s body. Her eyes are open, though the ghost of a smile splays across her cold lips. It’s sickening. However, instead of panning to another tribute, the Gamemakers zoom in on the corpse. Ruben sucks in a sharp breath, turning away from the screen.

Saint Mary’s Hall is a vast room, situated like a colosseum. In the front of the room, two floor-to-ceiling screens span across the wall. One displaying twenty different screens—four of which are missing for each of the fallen. The second showing what the Districts see: Ellie on the floor as she trembles and cries. Between the screens is a large map depicting the arena. The forest is slowly being regenerated, trees popping up across the terrain. On the other side of the hall, opposite to the screen, there are twelve levels, one for each District. Each level is higher than the last, elevating like a staircase. Ruben is on the fourth step, Joel on the seventh. 

Mentors are asked to remain in their seats, though nobody enforces that rule. Meanwhile, sponsors are invited to roam around the room. They’re meant to speak with each mentor, offering deals regarding gifts for their tributes.

Ruben has gained many offers, though each one has been turned down by his father before he even has the chance to glance up at the sponsor. The Capitolites were especially pleading when you were running from the fire with Remy. They wanted to send water, medicine, even an extinguisher. None of which were sent through to you.

Ruben casts a glance behind him at the levels above. Joel is growing irritated with the sponsors, arguing with a few of them as he demands that they fuck off. Tess is by his side, though she’s not doing much to rid him of the Capitolites as she’s more occupied with tending to the man. Just as Ruben is about to stand from his seat, Maria is seen marching over to the scene.

“Oh, I’m sure you can all find somethin’ better to spend your money on.” She snaps, shooing them away like pesky flies as she plops down in the chair on the other side of Joel. He nods in thanks, but says nothing as he takes another swig from another bottle.

Ruben turns back to the screen. The Gamemakers have finally shifted away from Ellie and are now focusing on Henry and Sam, who are building a small fort out of sticks and leaves at the treeline—they’re on the complete opposite side of the forest than where the fire had started. They’ve been working toward getting to the pond. Henry has a bag that he’d stolen from a building in the city, but it doesn’t contain much sustenance.

As the two of them begin to settle in for the night, the screen shifts to the Careers. They’re still in the mechanic shop as they heal from the wounds you’d inflicted upon them. However, they’re not hiding from you out of fear, they’re staying in one place while they regain their strength. In fact, Thalia and Nolan have been plotting their revenge, using daggers to etch images into the concrete floor. Images of your hanged body, of your decapitated head, of your tombstone. It’s all a bit gruesome, especially considering you’re Ruben’s sister, but he can’t blame them. They’ve been turned into monsters, bent to the will of the Capitol. 

They’re currently in the front office, bundled up in their coats as they stare at the sky through the overly large windows. They’re waiting for the death toll. They’d heard the two cannons, but have no way of knowing who died. They’re no doubt hoping it’s your face that brightens the sky tonight. They’ll be rather disappointed when they find out that it’s Violetta’s.

Just then, the anthem plays and the screen plays reruns of each death. The tributes only see the faces and names of the fallen, but the audience gets a replay of how each of them died. First is Violetta, stabbed right through the chest by your sword. Your words echo through the room, “I’ll send them my thanks.” Then you shove her into the dirt, wipe off your blade, and drag her body behind a nearby tree before returning to Remy with a small smile. 

Next comes Riley. 

“No!” Ellie’s voice rings out. “I can’t do that, Riley!”

Ruben wants to look away. He’s fairly certain this death is the most gruesome ever shown on the screen. Not due to gore but due to the underlying relationship between the killer and the killed. He knows he can’t look away, though. Not with his father sitting beside him, watching his son’s every move. To look away is to be disturbed, and to be disturbed is to be weak.

Tears are running down Ellie’s face as she walks over to her friend. Riley gives her a small smile, tipping her head back to expose her neck. Ellie chokes on a sob as she lifts the axe, taking one long look at her friend before shutting her eyes and sliding the blade across her throat. With a light gurgling, the cannon rings out.

Ellie instantly drops the axe. She opens her eyes and a scream tears from her chest, falling to her knees as she sobs. Riley lies on the couch, blood still soaking down the front of her shirt from the gash inflicted by Ellie. She grabs her lifeless hand, pressing her forehead against her knuckles.

The screen fades to black. 

The entire Hall is silent.

Quietude is broken by a sharp scoff. Ruben turns to his father, only to see that his tongue is clicking in disapproval, arms crossed over his chest as he stares at the screen with an upturned lip. Ruben wants to fucking strangle him.

“Only four dead on the second day.” He tuts. “We should be down thirteen by now. Minimum.”

Ruben swallows back every insult that crawls up his throat, instead nodding in agreement. “The bloodbath at the Cornucopia was lacking in numbers. Only two were killed then.”

His father flicks his gaze over to him. “Y/n should have done more damage than simply killing the elderly. James was weak, he was an easy target. She should’ve gone for more than only him.”

“She killed half the people who are dead.” Ruben says, trying desperately to keep his tone level. He can’t help it. Hearing someone in the Capitol talk shit about you is one thing—they don’t know you and their words are thereby hollow. But hearing your own father disapprove of the fact that you hadn’t taken enough lives? That’s a completely different topic.

His father’s eyes level on him, his head tilting. “Don’t defend her, son, she knows better.”

“I’m not defending her.” Ruben lies through his teeth, turning to the screen. On it, Elliot is seen teaming with David to create some kind of explosive booby trap. “I’m just saying, she’s doing far better than anyone else thus far and deserves at least an inkling of recognition for that.”

“She’ll get recognition when she earns it.” He snaps. “She can become a victor all she wants but, in order to be honored as a L/n, she needs to prove herself. In doing so, she must do better than this.”

With that, his father stands to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping the linoleum flooring with a loud screech. A few nearby mentors turn at the grating sound. His father simply ignores their stares, grabbing his things—which consists only of empty bottles of alcohol and a notepad to take notes on your performance. Without another word to Ruben, he turns on his heel and waltzes out of the Hall, the door clicking shut behind him upon his exit.

In seconds, sponsors are swarming Ruben’s table. He sighs, running a hand down his face. He waves a dismissive hand at them, his eyes sliding shut. “We’re not sending her something through the night. She’s fine for now.”

The Capitolites frown, but disperse for the most part. All except one.

Ruben opens his eyes to see an old woman sitting in the seat his father once occupied. Her hair is graying, but only in the roots—evidence of an attempt to dye it. She’s holding a glass of red wine between her fingers, her upper lip stained by the pigment. She tips the glass toward him with a smile.

“It’s been a while, yes?” She muses.

He nods, plastering on a charming grin. “Indeed it has, Miss Thatcher.”

“My dear, you know me well enough to recognize that I'm not one to beat around the bush. If I wish something said, it shall be spoken.” She places the glass on the table, her smile instantly dropping as she eyes him. “Your sister is a vermin, Mister L/n. She wears masks of charisma and has a habit of destroying good things before they’re able to bloom into fruition. My daughter is in the arena with your rodent of a sister. My Thalia was kind to your Y/n. She accepted her as a friend, as kin. In return, she was attacked while she slept.”

Ruben’s jaw tightens. “It’s the arena, ma’am, things get dark. And, I’m not sure if you know this, but kind things don’t blossom well without light.”

“Seems to me your family likes to use that excuse. Abuse it, perhaps.” She hums, leaning back in her chair as she crosses her legs beneath her vermillion skirt. “Y/n has, more than once, defended herself with that same excuse. It’s the arena, it’s the Games. Nothing good can exist, nobody kind will live. But that’s not true, is it? Many good people have survived the Games. My other daughter, Thea, for example?”

“Thea killed more people in twelve days than soldiers kill in a lifetime.”

“Seven tributes isn’t that many.” The woman sighs. “That’s not the point, though, is it? The point is this, Mister L/n: if your little termite doesn’t get her act together, bad things will await her in the Capitol upon her victory.”

Ruben smiles. “You seem to have a lot of metaphors for my sister, Miss Thatcher. You watch her closely, I see. Would you care to sponsor her?”

The woman’s eyes narrow. She leans forward, placing her elbows on the table—which, by the way, is completely inappropriate in such a setting as this. Ruben’s eyes flick down to her elbows before leveling back to her face. She doesn’t remove them. Instead, she twists her voice into nigh a snarl.

“Watch yourself, L/n.” She threatens. “You haven’t been part of this life nearly as long as I have.”

Ruben scoffs, brushing her comment aside. She’s been in the Capitol since her eldest daughter became a victor in the 68th Games. Ruben has since the 62nd. He has her beat for six— Oh. Wait, no he doesn’t. Because Miss Thatcher didn’t become part of the Capitol upon her child’s victory. She’s been in the Capitol for longer than that. Since she was hired as Head Gamemaker.

Fuck.

His blood runs cold as he finally pieces the puzzle together. Miss Thatcher claimed that she’d make your life hell upon your return to the Capitol, but she can do that now. She can return to the Game room and curate another fire. She can send wolves after you. She can do whatever the fuck she pleases with naught but the press of a button. That’s how Thea won. Her mother directed other tributes toward her whilst pointing her daughter in the direction of weapons.

“Let’s be civil, Miss—”

“Don’t attempt kindness with me, Ruben.” She bites out. “Kind things don’t bloom, remember?”

His lips tighten. “Not unless there’s light. And, if you ask me, an inferno such as the one from earlier provides an abundance of light.” “That wasn’t—”

“Ruben!” A third voice pipes up, sounding a bit too happy. “I’ve been looking for you.”

He instantly relaxes at the sight of Birdie standing behind Miss Thatcher’s chair, a wide smile on her round face. She’s dressed in a black skirt and tights, a white button-down shirt stretching across her chest. Her red hair remains as vibrant as ever, matching the bottoms of her heeled shoes. Birdie places a hand on Miss Thatcher’s shoulder, her long black nails digging into her skin subtly enough to be brushed off as an accident. 

The older woman looks up at her, eyes narrowed. She turns back to Ruben with a tight expression. “I ought to take my leave.” With that, she stands from the chair and walks over to the bottom level. District One’s level. There, Thea can be seen waiting idly for her mother like a dog.

Ruben turns to Birdie with a relieved smile. “You just saved my life, I hope you know.”

“Oh, I do know, actually.” She chuckles before plopping down in the seat. She gives him a small grin. “Though, if you’d like to repay me, I have a few things on my list.”

“Oh yeah?” He inquires. “Such as what?”

“First of all, I’ve run low on that golden colored makeup I used for your sister’s interviews. She looks good in gold, don’t you think?” She asks casually. 

Ruben nods. “I suppose.”

“It’s bright, vibrant in all the best ways.” She says, though her voice is tinged a bit low. As though there’s an underlying message that he’s too stupid to pick up. She tips her head to the side, meeting his gaze with her sharp brown eyes. “Light.”

Light? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

“I’ve always found it interesting,” She continues, “How moths seem to flock toward flames. Do they not realize what they’re doing is suicide? Asking for pain?”

He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “Sorry, I don’t—” “Moths are brown, yes?” She interrupts, voice furtive. His mind reels, trying to grasp the cryptic message that she’s trying so hard to convey. His eyes rake down her body, taking in the smaller details of her outfit. The brown eyeliner, the brown scarf, the brown rings. Everything she wears is intentional. But why brown? 

Gold, light. Moths, brown. What the hell is— Oh.

You and Ellie. She, wearing the wings of a moth during her interviews. You, wearing golden accents. A moth to a flame, a suicide mission. On the last night before you were taken to the arena, you told him about your relationship with Ellie. You explained the rooftop meetings and the kiss, all of which led to the great fall that occurred during the interviews. 

A moth, she was, to be drawn to the vibrancy of your light. And quite the flame you’d been, scorching her up into ash. Into fire. The inferno. Do the Gamemakers know about your guys’ relationship? Is that why they’d set the forest ablaze? 

Birdie notices the moment Ruben puts the pieces together. She nods slowly.

“Golden makeup, you said?” He smiles, leaning back in his chair.

She grins. “Yes. I’ll need it for when she returns victorious.”

For when you come back covered in soot and smoke, an extinguished flame that had once shone so bright. He turns back toward the screen where you’re in one of the squares, carrying Remy on your back as you trek through the burned forest. You’re fatigued and slowed down by his weight, your gait growing exhausted.

Ruben will be damned if some Gamemaker like Miss Thatcher extinguishes you. 

DAY THREE.

THE ARENA.

“Snow?” Your voice is small and distant, echoing through your skull as your lips shape around the words that tear from your throat. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to see snow!” But you’re not the one speaking. Not this version of you, anyway.

“Really?” Another version of Ruben chuckles. “You see snow every winter.”

“Not like this. Not so much of it.”

Your body turns, though you don’t ask it to. This is weird, you think, being in the passenger’s seat to an old and forgotten memory. Your body, your words, your actions. This has all been done before, two years before Ruben’s Reaping. You were so young then, barely old enough for school. Six years of age, you’d been, hands pressed to the glass window in your vast living room.

Ruben, at this time, is only eleven. He grabs your wrist lightly, tugging your hand away from the window. Your eyes are still pinned to the falling flakes outside. They accumulate slowly, inching higher and higher up the trees in your front yard. If you’d had neighbors, you’re certain they’d be playing in it without end. 

“Quit your staring,” He tells you with a laugh, crouched down beside you as he slips a teal glove onto your small hand. You turn to him then, cheeks hurting from how long you’ve been smiling. “You’ll be able to see it up close soon.”

“Not soon enough!” You complain, holding out your other hand. He slips the second glove on as you step backward, sitting in the armchair. He grabs your leg and lifts it before sliding a sock onto each of your feet. 

“Patience, Y/n.” He says, adding another layer of socks. “Nothing good happens in a rush.”

The words echo through your mind, repeating thrice before dimming like a lamp. You’re not sure if this memory is even valid or if it’s just a dream, but you know you're trapped. You know you’re watching everything as though through a window. Funny, that. The way your current situation mirrors the way this started.

Your mind remains in the present as your actions mock ones of the past. Like a bird in a cage, forgotten within its shackles as life buzzes around it. People come, people go. Conversations arrive, and they pass. And you—the bird, the cage, or whatever else you could compare yourself to—can do nothing to interact with your surroundings.

The edges of the memory are tinged, like an image touched by a flame. The fine details are missing—like what pillow sat atop the couch, what color the flowers in your mother’s vase were, and how many scars resided on Ruben’s body. 

“I’m not rushing.”

Ruben shoots you an incredulous look.“You’re the very definition of impatience.”

“Nuh-uh.” You argue.

“Yuh-huh.” He shoots back, a grin spreading across his face. He runs a hand through his hair, forgetting about its newly shortened length. You remember him begging to not have it cut, though your mother had insisted that it made him look more distinguished. 

You turn toward the window again, staring out at the snow. How many inches is that, thirteen? Four doesn’t get as much snow as the other Districts, hence your childish excitement. Flurries oftentimes make an appearance in the winter, though seldom does it stick. 

The moment Ruben is finished lacing your shoes, you’re hopping down from the armchair. On your way to the door, you grab him by the wrist and tug him behind you. He laughs and it echoes through your head, melodic. It’s been so long since you’ve heard him laugh like that. The version of you in this memory thinks nothing of it. Your brother is here, your brother is happy, so what? Unknowing, you’d been, to the atrocities looming in the near future.

You opened the door and chilled air instantly bit at your face, stinging your skin. You smiled and pulled Ruben harder onto the porch. Your shoes crunched in the snow, two pairs of adolescent footsteps leaving indelible marks in the ground. Your vision sways as you walk, as though time is wounded. You suppose it is. It has to be. Bearing witness to such loss, such pain, it couldn’t be unscathed.

“It’s so pretty!” You beam, releasing Ruben’s hand to gather a bit of snow in your tiny palms. You ball it up, trying to make it compact. Then, spinning around, you throw it at your brother. It lands square in his chest, splattering white delicacy across his heavy coat.

He gapes at you, eyes blown wide in feigned shock. You giggle, taking two steps backward. He pressed a hand to his chest where you hit him. “Ouch!”

“It didn’t hurt!” You tell him through bubbly tittering. 

You bend over to gather a second handful. You turn your back to Ruben, beginning to pack down the snow between your palms. Suddenly, a force grabs you by the hood of your coat. You gasp, stumbling backward a few inches to see Ruben’s boots in the snow behind you. Then, with his hands still on your coat, he shoves a pile of snow down your back. It spread across your skin, sending a wave of biting cold down your spine. You shriek, frowning instantly. 

“Ruben!” You shout, shimmying awkwardly in an attempt to rid the snow from your clothes. 

He’s hunched over himself, laughing so hard he has to hold his stomach to avoid cramping. Current you would die to see him smile like that. However, past you is too filled with anger to register his happiness as a good thing. He lifts his head, tears pricking his eyes as he cackles. Between laughter, he manages, “Oh, you should’ve seen your face!”

You scowl at him. “Ugh, you’re so mean!”

“You started it.” He points out, still laughing. “You were asking for it.”

Just as you begin to respond, your voice fades away. The sound of your voice dies out as the snow grows louder, swirling around like a tornado of flakes and dust. You turn and your body actually obliges. Ruben is still in front of you, though he’s no longer smiling. He stands straight, now thirteen years old with a hardened expression. His clothes are drenched in blood, his hair mused.

The snow settles around you, fading to a light flurry that is so common in Four. It’s no longer loud, nor is it around you. Instead, the snow is outside your house. You’re standing in the living room, watching the television screen just as you’d watched the window two years prior.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Says a deep voice through the speakers, “I am pleased to present the victor of the sixty-second Hunger Games.” A lump catches in your throat, your body going stiff. You know this memory. It’s easy to recognize. What with the heavy air hanging in the living room and the tension in your bones, you know what’s about to be said. “I give you the newest victor of District Four, Ruben L/n!”

Your ears start ringing, your teeth feeling heavy in your gums. You can hear your mother shouting something, whether it be a chide or a cheer, you’re unsure. You turn around, facing her wide wide eyes. She’s wearing a smile, one bigger than you’d ever seen on her face. She opens her mouth to speak and an inhuman noise springs from her chest. An inhuman sound. A growl, perhaps?

You blink a few times, brows furrowing. That’s not how this went.

She does it again, snarling like some kind of a beast. 

And again.

And again.

You wake with a gasp, bolting upright. Sweat coats your skin as the sun arcs higher in the sky. You turn, grounding yourself into the present, mind reeling from the dreams you’d just had. Your thoughts spin around, elusive in their obscurity. 

Then you hear the growling again, low and rumbling. You blink, turning toward the noise. 

There, between the gray hardwood trees, a wolf is eyeing you. It crouches to the ground, as though readying itself to lunge. Your hand shoots to your hip, sword singing against its sheath as you pull it free. The wolf isn’t deterred, continuing to inch closer to you. Its yellow eyes dart to the side, to a second person behind you. You turn to see Remy, cozy within your sleeping bag. Slumber draws his face into a state of peacefulness, his expression slackened. Your grip tightens.

Then it clicks. The Gamemakers are doing this. Animals in the arena are unnatural, puppeteered by the control panel in the Capitol, the buttons acting as strings. It’s pitiful, yes, but this particular wolf is still as good as dead. You stand to your feet, slow so as to not startle the brute. It growls, limbs bending at the knees. 

You take a leaden step closer and the wolf jumps. You hadn’t expected it to act so soon, taking you by surprise as its front paws slam into your shoulders, pinning you to the ground. Your head bounces off of a root, your vision dotting with black. 

In the midst of everything, the sword slips out of your sweaty fingers, landing somewhere out of reach. You curse under your breath as you hear it clatter against a stone. Just as you turn your head to look for it, the animal’s claws begin digging into the rotator’s cuff of your shoulder. Sharp bits of pain wrack through your body, drawing a shaky gasp from your mouth. The wolf growls, a mixture of saliva and hot breath fanning over your face. You wince as the nails dig deeper into your skin. 

“Hm? What…” Remy’s groggy voice sounds from a few feet away. His words trail off as he registers what he’s seeing. 

You ignore him, barely capable of processing his words. The wolf claws paired with the still healing wound inflicted by Nolan’s arrow cause the pain in your shoulders to take up the majority of your attention. The wolf continues to push down. It’s acting oddly human—which only serves to further prove your conjecture regarding the Gamemakers’ hands in this. 

Using the small bit of sagacity you have left, you pull your knee upward, wedging your leg between yourself and it. Positioning your shin on its stomach, you push outward. The wolf launches back, whining as its spine slams into the scorched trunk of a tree. 

You stand to your feet. Your head is throbbing and your shoulders are aching. Still, though, you manage to reach the wolf before it rights itself completely. You drive the heel of your foot into its throat, not enough to kill it but enough to hold it in place. Four furry feet thrash around as the wolf yelps in pain. You cast a glance over your shoulder, about to ask Remy to toss you a weapon. But he’s already on it. The moment you turn, he’s handing you the sword you’d lost. 

“Cover your eyes.” You order as you adjust the hilt in your hands. He’s quick to oblige, taking a few steps backward before turning around with his hands over his face.

Then, in one swift movement, you drive your sword through the wolf’s chest. A deafening squelch tears through the empty forest air, cracking as its bone splits under the pointed blade. Hot crimson trails down its fur and seeps into the grass. You yank the sword back out before wiping it clean on the fabric of your pants.

“You can turn.” You say.

Remy shakes his head. “I don’t want to.”

“Do you want me to move it?” You offer in a soft tone.

“Yes, please.”

“Okay,” 

You slip your sword back into your sheath and crouch down behind the wolf. You grab the ankles of its hind legs, your shoulders screaming at you as you pull it across the grass. Your jaw clenches as you struggle to not wince in pain. You pull the wolf fifteen feet away before kicking it into the skeleton of a random bush. Though, you suppose everything around here is a skeleton. 

See, after the fire died down, you decided it’d be safest to retreat back into the forest. You knew nobody else would be bold enough to enter the destroyed terrain anyway. The trees are all tinged gray with flaking bark, limbs naked of any leaves. The bushes are in a similar condition, rendered to only twigs and an occasional berry.

You found refuge in the graveyard that was once a lush forest. You brought Remy half a mile into it before setting him down. There, you gave him some of your dried jerky and apologized for lacking any sort of liquid. At the mention of it, your entire body felt heavy with dehydration. Even now, your tongue feels impossibly dry and your stomach cramps as it begins to eat away at itself.

You dried the gash on his forearm and wrapped his calf with one of your socks, using the fabric to soak up blood and maintain pressure on the wound. You wish you had a normal mentor. Ruben is wonderful, but your father is not. Had you been lucky enough to be born a normal tribute, you’d be delivered gifts from sponsors. Perhaps, in one of those gifts, you’d earn a bit of medicine for Remy.

Night fell and you watched the sky, curious as to who the second fallen tribute was. You’d assumed it’d be someone random—David, Elliot, or Raven. One of the tributes who you’d recalled barely anything about. Instead, it was Riley. Ellie’s friend. You felt momentarily saddened for Ellie. But then you remembered her insults and no longer gave a shit. 

“You’re the one raised to be a psycho killer.”

As the night grew colder, you gave up your sleeping bag to Remy. Due to his small size, he was more likely to freeze to death. So you gave him the bag and curled up beside him to sleep, wielding his body heat like a weapon against the chill. He fell asleep two hours before you did. The poor kid was so exhausted that he’d passed out almost right away. You, however, couldn’t shut your eyes without seeing flashes of Violetta’s face behind your eyelids. Her gurgling words, her lifeless eyes. 

“Is he gone?” Remy calls out, pulling you from your thoughts.

You kick a bit of dirt over the corpse, but it does absolutely nothing to hide it. Giving up, you turn on your heel and walk back over to Remy. “Yeah, it’s gone.”

He turns around, leaning heavily on his right leg—the uninjured one. He smiles. “Okay, good.”

“Where do you wanna go?” You ask, walking over to the supplies. The backpack is lying beside the sleeping bag, revealing how Remy used the lumpy thing as a pillow. A perfect mirror to the way you had used it in the garage.

“To a hospital.” He says, eyeing your bleeding shoulders. 

“Ha ha, very funny.” You deadpan, crouching down to roll the sleeping bag up into a tight swirl.

“I’m not joking.” He frowns, standing over you with his hands on his hips. “You’re really hurt. I know you are because I can see the blood soaking through your coat.”

“I’m fine, Rem.” You say, glancing up to give him a small smile. 

He doesn't buy it. “We could at least go to the city and look for somewhere that has—”

“I already told you, we’re not going to the city.”

“But why?”

You frown, sighing through your nose. You’ve yet to explain to him what happened with the Careers. Perhaps because of his age. Or perhaps because, deep down, you know you’re the one in the wrong and, for some reason, you don’t want to tarnish your relationship with this kid. He’s of no use to you, in all logical sense. 

“Don’t join groups, they ensure nothing but betrayal.” Your mother’s voice rings through your head, paired with the deafening click of a wooden cane against tile. “If you join someone, it must only be due to the impossibility of having no other option. And, in this case, be sure that they are nothing but a benefit to you.”

Your gaze falls onto Remy. His gapped teeth, crooked smile, and matted hair. His bloody pant leg, slumped posture, and dried wound on his elbow. He’s a mess and a liability. Still, you can’t seem to walk away. Every bone in your body yearns to protect him as though he were your own child. His slight lisp and susceptibility to queasiness don’t deter you—though they probably should. Instead, they only heighten your innate instinct to protect.

“I just want to help,” Remy says in a small voice of admittance. 

Something in you softens at that, your past self reflecting back at you in the glassy mirror that he embodies. You inhale deeply, zipping the pack. Your shoulders hurt, yes. But you’ve been through far worse pain than this. Your mother made sure of that.

Going to the city is foolish considering the Careers are no doubt waiting for your arrival. But you guys can’t stay in this forest forever. The trees are mostly burnt down and the terrain offers no source of food or water—which is getting increasingly harder to ignore the lack of. Your tongue feels like cracked leather and you’re certain Remy is feeling twenty times worse. He wasn’t prepared for this the way you were. Even at his age, your mother would deprive you of sustenance for days just to be sure your body wouldn’t deem starvation as something completely foreign. 

Maybe, if you agreed to go to the city, you’d be able to kill two birds with one stone. First bird being Remy’s instance on getting your bloody shoulders medically checked out. Second bird being the aching thirst that’s slowly gripping you both by the throats.

You stand to your feet, shifting. “Fine. We can go to the city.”

Remy’s head snaps up to you, his eyes instantly brightening. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” You sigh. “But our top priority is finding water. Medical equipment comes second to that, understand?”

“Understand!” He nods with a wide smile. He then holds out his arms, offering to take the bag. You glance down at his wounded calf. He can’t walk on that, but you can’t carry the bag with your shoulders in such a position as this. 

With a defeated huff, you hand it over and crouch down in front of him. After a few seconds of rustling, he hops onto your back, latching on. You stand up with a grunt, your thighs still a bit sore from the exertion it took walking him all this way the night prior. He’s careful of your shoulder wounds as he drapes her arms around your neck.

You begin to trudge through the scorched foliage, though not much remains. As you walk, the forest comes back to life as the regenerated trees slowly come to surround you in place of the dead ones. Minutes fade to hours and the pain in your legs is beginning to become agonizing. On top of that, a blister is beginning to form on the heel of the foot missing a sock—considering you used one of them as a makeshift bandage for Remy’s calf. 

A cannon rings through the air, your head snapping up to the sky. You don’t say anything as you trudge on, silence embodying both you and Remy. Time continues to pass agonizingly slowly, your body groaning under the pain of it all.

You’ve trained for carrying heavy weights on your back, but not for such an extended period of time. Actually, a few years ago, your mother made you carry sandbags on your shoulders while running up and down the stairs to the dock for half an hour. Needless to say, you ate almost the entire kitchen when you were permitted back inside. On top of that, you couldn’t move your shoulders correctly for a week.

In truth, the pain you feel currently is hardly comparable to that. That was torture, this is an inevitable fact of the arena. The tributes get hurt, they bleed and they break. It’s the whole point of the Games. The audience looks forward to shit like this. But, for some reason, the child on your back believes you need attention. And who are you to turn him down? The wolf hadn’t left deepened claw marks or anything, just a few puncture wounds below your clavicle. They drew blood, yes, but they’ll clot soon if they haven't already. 

“You okay back there?” You ask between heavy breaths.

“Are you?” He says back, tipping his head to the side to gaze at the side of your face. 

You shoot him a look. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” He questions, clearly holding back a giggle. “You’re panting like you’re dying.” 

“Okay, yeah, maybe we should stop for a bit.” You give in.

You slow to a stop before crouching down. Remy hops off, making a pained sound as he lands on his feet, though he doesn't say a word of complaint—which you’re glad for, because you’re not sure how you’d handle a whiny kid. You straighten, stretching your arms over your head so as to open your lungs while you catch your breath. 

Remy sits down in the grass, crossing his legs. He pulls the bag into his lap before unzipping it. Your head snaps up. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m hungry.” He frowns.

Your lips thin. “We need to ration food.”

“I know, just—” He looks down at the contents within the bag, a small crease forming between his brows. “My stomach’s been growling all day.”

You continue to stare down at him, on the verge of lecturing him for his impulsivity. But then you see those gapped teeth biting down on his lip and those wide brown eyes gazing at the food. He’s just a  kid. He can’t ration things the way you can. “You’re the one raised to be a psycho killer.” The sentence was hurtful, but correct. Most people weren’t raised the way you were. Especially children as youthful and jubilant as Remy.

You don’t say anything as you sink onto the ground beside him, knees bent and parted. He turns to you, a hopeful yet weary glint in his eye. 

“You better share.” You say, nudging him lightly in the shoulder.

A toothy grin spreads across his sweaty face. “Deal!”

Remy digs through the backpack like a starved beast, all hands and hunger. He pulls out almost every bit of food the two of you own, though he leaves the peas nestled at the bottom alongside the sleeping bag. 

You peek down at the two cans of peas he skillfully ignored, raising a brow. “Picky?”

“No.” He defends himself, peeling open a pack of peanut butter crackers. “I just don’t like them.”

“So yes.” You correct him, reaching over to take the second and last pack of crackers. He frowns as you begin stuffing all the rest of the food into the bag, but he’s wise enough to not argue against it. The crackers will be enough. For now, at least. You zip the bag before tearing your crackers open, settling beside him as you rest your elbows on your bent knees. “Do you refuse to eat peas at home, too? Or is it just me who you’re giving a hard time to?”

Remy frowns, though it’s dripping with humor. He’s still chewing when he says, “I’ not givin’ you a hard time!”

“Alright, alright.” You laugh. “Finish chewing first, then speak.”

He nods before swallowing the half-chewed crackers. Kid’s lucky he didn’t choke on them. Remy doesn’t seem to mind though, as he turns to face you fully. “My dad always gets mad at me because I don’t eat enough veggies, he says they’re healthy. But, if you ask me, they’re just gross. There’s nothing healthy about disgustingness. My momma is funny, though, she always slips me sweets when he’s not looking. She says kids are allowed to be unhealthy.”

You hum while chewing, taking in his words. It’s depressing to think about Remy’s home life. Not only the fact that he’s been ripped away from it, but the fact that he’ll likely never see them again. Even if you protect him as much as possible, there are always exterior forces playing a hand in survival—the Gamemakers, the weather, the terrain, his fatigue. It’s an endless list of things too far out of your control to reach, to shield him from.

Remy’s parents seem to love him a lot, judging by the way he talks about them. He did this last night too, going on a long tangent about his family. You think it brings him peace, their memory. It brings you the opposite, though. A reminder of what’s bound to happen, of what’s been inevitable since his name was called.

You wonder if his parents are watching. You’re certain they are; no parent would bear to look away when their child is going through such agony. You can only imagine sadness that must envelop their home, weighing heavy over their family photos and settling like a tangible wall built between them and their son. Watching him scream in pain on a screen, whilst being too far to bring him comfort. You wonder if they’re glad you’re with him so as to offer protection, or if they’re praying you’ll leave him alone. Sickeningly, you’re leaning more toward the latter. 

Nobody trusts L/ns when it comes to morality. They probably think you’re planning to betray him like you did to the Careers, unaware that’s the farthest thing from the truth. In all honesty, you’d be willing to lay down your life for Remy. Despite only knowing him for a week or so, he already holds a large place in your heart, filling it up with cement—indelible and inevitable. You’d bring ruin to the L/n family name if it meant he’d return home to his sweet mom and helicopter father.

“We better get going. The sun’ll be setting before too long.” You say, clearing your throat before standing to your feet. Remy follows suit, stuffing the cracker wrappers into the side pocket of the backpack before shuffling it onto his shoulders. You crouch down and he hops on, returning to that all too familiar position.

He leans forward, warm and solid against you. It’s comforting, having the presence of another. It makes you wonder what your life would have looked like if you were able to make friends, if you were allowed out of your house. Being homeschooled and isolated from Four isn’t the fairytale it seems to be—though it doesn’t even seem like one. It means no friends, no neighbors, no community. 

All you knew was your family. Your mother and her cane, your father and his alcohol, your brother and his gentility. Sometimes, on the holidays, your distant relatives would come to visit. Though the visits would always end in screaming arguments or political gambling. You and Ruben were oftentimes sent to bed early when family came over. You couldn’t stand any of them. Your grandmother, Elina, was a malicious woman who defended every single thing her daughter did. The daughter in question, Yasmin, was even worse than her mom. She’s a master manipulator and would always try to pry drama from you, even when you were too young to process her questions. Penelope, your eldest relative and great-grandmother, never visited. But it’s a good thing she didn’t because she’s known for being a complete maniac. After winning the second Quarter Quell, Penelope went absolutely insane bragging about killing children and playing in their blood as though it were paint. Yeah, she doesn’t show her face much anymore.

“There,” Remy says, pointing to something in the distance, between the trees. You squint before your eyes settle on bits of rubble that litter the foliage with their deris—tell tale signs that you’ve arrived at the edge of the city. 

“Good eye.” You say before changing your direction. 

You follow the wreckage like a trail of footprints until you’re led to that infamous chain link fence. It’s not the same one that you fought Violetta at, of course, but it reminds you of her death all the same. Of her pained expression and gurgling noises. Shaking your head, you stop in front of the fence, crouching down to place Remy on the ground. He hops off gaily, more careful of his leg this time.

“How are we gonna get over it?” He asks, tilting his head as he looks up at the height of the fence.

“I have an idea, c’mere.” You say.

“Okay.” He obliges, walking over to you. You remove the backpack from his shoulders, tossing it into the dirt before gently spinning him around so he’s facing away from you. Then you grab him under the arms and hoist him into the air. He gasps out a giggle as you lift him as high up as possible. 

“Okay, now grab onto the fence.” You grunt, every muscle in your shoulders and back shooting sharp pains down your spine and through your nerves. 

He does as you instruct, reaching out and latching onto the fence with his hands before slotting his feet into the diamond shaped links. Then, once you’re certain he’s fully on the fence, you back away. He looks down at you wearily. “Now what?”

“What— Now just climb it.” You tell him with a laugh.

“I can’t climb it!”

You give him an incredulous look. “Rem, it’s not even ten feet high.”

“I can’t even climb a tree!” He points out. “I can’t climb this.”

“Here,” You step closer, holding your hands out in front of you. “If you fall, I’ll catch you.”

He appears unsure, but eventually nods. He squeezes his eyes shut, mutters something under his breath, reopens them, then begins climbing up the fence with trembling limbs. You keep your arms out in front of you, ready for the possibility of him falling backward. But he doesn’t. He makes it to the top and begins shaking like a leaf. You shout some assuring words at him before he steels himself and begins climbing down the other side. Once he lands on the cracked asphalt, he lets out the loudest sigh of relief you’d ever heard. 

“I can’t believe I did that!” He exclaims. “I can’t believe it!”

“Yeah, yeah.” You laugh. “Now quiet down before someone comes to investigate what you can’t believe.”

He nods, making a gesture with his hands as though he’s zipping his lips shut. You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. You grab the backpack from the dirt before throwing it over the fence. It lands a few feet away from Remy with a thud. The cans inside rattle loudly against the asphalt. He jumps away from it with a yelp, even though it didn’t touch him.

You’re in the middle of scaling the fence when you hear clicking from the other side. Your blood runs cold at the sound, already knowing what it means—mutts. Remy’s eyes are blown wide as he looks up at you, having heard the same bone chilling noise. You pick up the speed, landing on the other side at the same exact time that three mutts turn the corner into the alley where you and Remy now stand.

They stagger toward you, mouths wide and salivating. You pull out your sword, pushing Remy behind you with your non-dominant hand. He doesn’t argue, not needing to be told twice to get out of the fucking way. He cowers behind you, back pressed against the metal fencing. He presses his hands against his eyes, not wanting to watch.

You’ve never killed one of these things before. Can they even be killed? Is it one of those situations where they can only be killed when their brains are hit? Or maybe their hearts? Your knuckles turn white as you grip the hilt tighter in your fist. The mutts stumble toward you with lopsided spines and crooked legs.

The first one to reach you is met with a sickening squelch of your sword, the metal tearing right through the rotted skin. The blade pokes out of the other side, stabbing through its chest. Just like Violetta. You shake your head as her face flashes through your mind. Not the time. You yank the sword from its body and let it fall. The second mutt screeches at the sound of the first corpse hitting the ground. Good news, they can die. Bad news, the other two are charging at you.

You widen your stance, jaw clenching. You watch their step, waiting until they’re a foot and a half away. And then, in a wide arc, you slice your sword across their necks. Blood sprays out of the torn skin, hot and sticky against your face. With two thuds, the bodies fall to the ground. You might despise your mother for her abuse but, at this exact moment, you’re feeling extremely grateful for her training.

“Alright, you can look.” You tell Remy, wiping the blade on the thigh of your jeans.

He slowly removes his hands from his eyes, but is quick to put them right back up. His voice is pitched extra high when he says, “They’re still there.”

“Well yeah, there aren’t any trees to hide them behind.” You say, sheathing the sword at your hip.

He frowns under his hands. “Still.”

“If it makes you feel any better, they were already dead.”

He splays his fingers, peeking between them at you. “What do you mean?”

“Look,” You say, taking a step forward and holding out your hand to him. He takes it, limping on his wounded leg as you lead him over to the first body—the one that’s not as gory as the ones with sliced necks. You bring his hand up to the face of the mutt, prompting him to feel it. “Feel how it’s cold? That’s because these aren’t people, they’re mechanically engineered mutations for the arena. And, even if they were real,” You poke its cheek and Remy grimaces, “They’re long gone. Poor things were corpses before I even touched them.”

He raises his eyes to meet yours, frowning. “It’s still gross, y'know.”

“Yeah,” You chuckle, “I know.”

“How can—” He sighs, looking down at the body before gazing back up at you. “How are you okay with all of this? All the blood and death? It’s so nasty, to me.”

You decide against telling him about how you were raised, instead opting to just shrug. “I’m not as squeamish as some people.” You tease him, nudging him gently.

He huffs. “I’m not squeamish, I just— I can’t get past the fact that these are people. All the dead tributes, they— they had families and they had homes. Anthea, James, Violetta, Riley. They aren’t nameless, they’re people.”

You don’t say anything for a long time, sitting in silence as the weight of his words press down on your wounded shoulders. Then, after a few minutes of self loathing and mental grief, you push to your feet, holding out a hand to help Remy up. He takes it, using your hand as leverage to stand on his residually pained calf. You strap the backpack on his shoulders before allowing him to hop onto your back. 

The sun hasn’t yet set, though it’s getting close to it. Your body is coated in sweat and blood, the sun beating down on you. Still, the heat of the weather is nothing compared to the fire you just recently had to escape.

Hues of pink and orange tint the sky as you clutch Remy under the knees, holding him close to you as you walk through the city. You can’t seem to shake the feeling that something is watching you, that someone is waiting in the shadows to jump out at you. And, all things considered, you’re not entirely sure you’re wrong. You’ve not run into any tributes aside from James, Remy, Violetta, and the other Careers. They ought to be out here somewhere, especially considering the fact that the forest is now only halfway usable. The Northern portion remains intact and the Southern is slowly being regenerated but, after the fire, it’s not unrealistic to assume most people fled the scene at the sight of the flames.

“You never told me what happened to your arm.” You say as the pink sky fades to a deep red color, almost as crimson as blood.

Remy hums, clearly fatigued by the day you two had shared under the beating sun and the canopied trees. Though you’re more physically drained from having carried him for hours on end, his injuries can easily speed up the process of exhaustion.

“Fell down.” He murmurs.

“You fell down?” You question.

He hums in confirmation, barely awake. “When the timer went off at the Cornucopia, I ran into the forest and wasn’t looking and— well, I tripped over a root. I fell onto a rock and it sliced my arm.”

“How do you fall and manage to cut open the front of your arm?” You ask him with a grin.

He shrugs lazily. “I dunno, just did.”

You huff a laugh. “Alright, sleepyhead, how about we find you somewhere to sleep for the night?”

“Hm?” He’s quick to lift his head at that, though just barely. “I thought we were looking for water and medical thingies.”

“Yeah, that was before you became a ragdoll.” 

“I’m not a ragdoll, I’m just sleepy.”

You roll your eyes, “Right.”

“But your shoulders are still hurt, we need to—”

“Remy.” You interrupt, already knowing what he’s planning to say. “I’m fine. We can search for medical equipment in the morning.”

He frowns but doesn’t argue. “M’kay.”

“Okay, pick a building.” You say, slowing down and doing a small turn so he can get a view of the buildings all around you. A few shops, stores, and random nameless structures. This must be the ‘downtown’ area of the city, where the smaller businesses are located and where houses are scarce. 

Remy lifts his arm, pointing toward a small shop across the street. “There.”

You follow his line of sight. A small brick and concrete building. Through the broken windows, you can see tons of racks of clothes and a mannequin beside the front desk. You laugh. “A costume store?”

“Could be fun.” He shrugs.

“Looks kinda run-down. There could be mutts in there, they seem to like the older buildings.” You tell him, though you’re walking toward it without much of a fight. God, this kid is going to be the death of you. He already has you wrapped around his finger. 

You push the door open, broken glass littering the floor. The moment you pass through the doorway, a repulsive stench floods your nostrils. Like something decayed somewhere in here. The miasma of the building is so bad that you release one of Remy’s legs in order to plug your nose. He does the same, groaning at the smell. Across the store, you can see a small wooden door cracked open leading to an office or closet of some sort.

You crouch down, placing Remy on the floor before turning to him with a hardened expression. He opens his mouth to speak, but you cover it.

“Quiet,” You breathe, barely audible. “Stay put, I’ll check it out.”

He nods and you remove your hand from his mouth. He’s quick to bring his own hands to his face—one plugging his nose while the other rubs the sleep away from his eyes. You unsheath your sword, holding it tightly in front of you as you walk silently toward the back of the building. 

With the toe of your boot, you push the door fully open, on edge and ready to slice through anything that catches your eye. And something does catch your eye, though it’s not what you expect. Through the dull lighting of the room, you can see two bodies. One, lied slackened across a dusty couch with blood soaking down its front. And another, hunched over itself on the floor. 

You blink a few times, trying to decipher if the hunched one is dead or not. Then it moves, shoulders shaking slightly. Its hands are wrapped around its knees, clutching its legs close to its chest. Then, something catches your eye. Something on its right index finger.

A moth ring.

Realization settles into your bones with a sickening weight, making your stomach churn. Your eyes slowly trail back to the body on the couch, recognizing it to be Riley. She doesn’t look like herself, the heat of the arena rotting her skin extra fast. Maggots have already begun to eat away at her flesh. Your throat tightens, stomach threatening to eject those crackers from your stomach. Fucking hell. 

Ellie continues to tremble as she breathes shakily in short gasps for air. For a moment, you’re able to forget everything that happened between her, seeing Ellie as only the kind girl you’d taken such a quick liking to on that roof. 

No longer is she the hardened tribute from the interviews or the quick tempered woman from the elevator. It’s just her. The scent of smoke and the sight of a crooked smile fill your mind. Memories made under the stars, under the eyes of no one. What a harsh contrast to the present. To being in the arena with everyone’s eyes on you, with not a single star in the artificially made sky.

Your sword falls with a clatter to the floor as you step forward, crouching down with a worried expression etched into your features. “...Ellie?”

She doesn’t respond, nothing leaving her lips aside from uneven breaths. 

You place a hand on her shoulder, repeating, “Ellie.”

“I didn’t—” She shakes her head, fingers tangling in her hair. She tugs at the auburn fire growing from her scalp, eyes squeezing shut. “I didn’t mean to. She asked— She—”

“Hey,” You whisper softly. Your hand on her shoulder travels up to her face, gently lifting her head so her gaze is finally torn away from the floor. Her eyes are bloodshot, her lips chapped and dried. She doesn't even seem to recognize what’s going on despite you being right in front of her. “It’s okay. You need to get out of this room, though. It’s not healthy to—”

“I’m not leaving her.” Ellie snaps, yanking away from your hand as she shuffles backward until her spine hits the front of the desk. 

“Ellie, you can’t stay here.”

She shakes her head, eyes squeezing again. She curls up on herself as though her body yearns to be in that position forever. You suppose it makes sense. The fetal position is known for providing comfort, and that’s what she needs most right now. Though you’re unsure whether you're the correct person for this job. The two of you are publicly recognized to be enemies. And your mind is still torn between the two sides of Ellie you’ve gotten to see. Being a source of comfort for her is out of the question. But you’ll try to at least spare her the dignity of dying in this room.

She continues to shake her head furtively. “No. I’m not going.”

You stand to your feet before casting a glance around the room, trying to figure out what to do. Your eyes land on Riley and you instantly tear them away, unable to stomach the scene. But then you notice something. Her neck is slit open. If she’d been killed by someone, as it appears she has, how come that person didn’t kill Ellie? Your mind buzzes to life as you try to piece the puzzle together. Who killed her and why? Maybe Ellie found her like this?

A bottle of water sits abandoned on the floor beside an unzipped bag of supplies. But, more importantly, a bloodied axe resides a few feet away from the couch. The murder weapon. You look back over at Ellie, taking in the sight of her bloody hands and the smeared prints across her face and body. She’d been with Riley since the beginning, when the blood was still fresh. 

Then, as if knowing exactly what you’re searching for, she repeats a sentence. “I didn’t mean to.”

It clicks in your mind. She did this, she killed her. But why?

Now isn’t the best time to interrogate her for answers. But the question continues to burn into the back of your skull, begging to be asked. You swallow it down, approaching Ellie’s balled-up form. You crouch and, in one swift movement, grab her under the arms and haul her to her feet. 

“What are you—” She rasps. “No. No, I’m not going! I’m not leaving!”

She begins to thrash and fight against you, kicking backward at your legs and flailing her fists around. But, thankfully for you, she’s starved and dehydrated and thereby lacking a ton of strength, which enables you to easily overpower her. You wrap your arms around her torso, pinning her hands to her sides as you continue to push her out of the room.

Once she’s out of here, everything will be better. Once she’s away from the nauseating stench of her best friend’s rotting body, she might be able to think straight.

You shove her through the door with a grunt. She stumbles forward into a rack of clothes. Shit, you didn’t mean to push her that hard. Perhaps she’s more weakened by this whole ordeal than you thought. The Ellie you remember threw a hard ass punch and wasn’t so easily pushed around.

She turns to you, breathing heavy with a deep scowl. You square your shoulders, blocking her path to the door, ready for a fight if she so much as dares to present one. Her viridescent eyes are filled with loathing and hatred, running so deep that it’s embedded into the fabrication of her veins and arteries. You don’t let it get to you, hands balling into fists as you watch her closely. 

Then, just as you’d anticipated, she steps forward whilst reeling her arm back. You easily duck under her punch, her movements slowed by fatigue. She scoffs, jaw ticking before she tries again and again and again. Still, each time, you evade her with a simple sidestep or duck. 

“Wait, what happened?”

Your head snaps toward the sound of Remy’s small, groggy voice. As you do, Ellie manages to land a punch to your face. You stagger backward, cursing under your breath as you bring your hand to your throbbing eye.

Using your distraction to her advantage, Ellie begins running toward the backroom. You stick out your leg and she trips over it, landing face first against the concrete flooring. She comes up with a bloodied nose. You grab her by the ankles and yank her fully out of the room before slamming the door shut. She’s still on the floor, clutching her nose, when you crouch down in front of her. 

“That’s enough, Ellie.” You say harshly. “You’re not going back in there.”

She looks up at you, her eyes teary from the impact of hitting her face. “Fuck you.” Her voice shakes as she speaks and you begin to question the cause of her glossy eyes.

“What happened?” Remy asks. “What’s in there?”

Ellie doesn't turn at his voice, her eyes flicking to the wooden door behind you. Her jaw trembles as crimson runs down to her chin. You feel slightly guilty for tearing her away from Riley’s body, but you know it’s what’s best for her. To stay in that room would be suicide. She’d have likely sat there until she starved to death had you not found her.

“Nothing, Rem, just some dead animal.” You tell him softly.

He nods. “That explains the smell.”

Ellie scoffs, pushing to her feet with a huff. “Dead animal my ass.”

You instantly feel the urge to shout at her for robbing you of such a good excuse. He believed it, for fuck’s sake. But as soon as you open your mouth to argue with her, you notice the way her shoulders shake as she continues to breathe unevenly.

Silence envelops the room, painting the entire building in a sense of apprehensiveness. It feels foreign, to be unsure on what to say around Ellie when everything used to come so easy. Those few nights spent on that rooftop, cherishing the comfortability of her company above all else. And yet, here you two stand, without an ounce of comfort to spare.

[post] notes!! i had to look away while writing abt riley's corpse bc i LOVE that girl & having to write abt ellie's crying ???? UGH (i say this as though i didn't come up with it all) anyway. we got to see ruben's POV again! we'll be seeing more of him, that's for sure. his perspective will allow me to write abt what the other tributes are doing bc he can see everyone. but also so we can figure out what's happening to our other lovely characters like joel, dina, jesse, tess, birdie, etc etc etc and yes birdie is the loml & yes i would marry her if she asked

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[medeaft]

When Emmeline left

Author's note: This is a short chapter (compared to the long time it covers) that loosely explains how Kai (the future Sire of my Bloodlines Tremere self-insert PC) got to Los Angeles, from when he became separated from his Sire, Emmeline. It doesn't describe Emmeline's adventures and the reason she had to leave... That is quite something and will deserve its own chapters. I've actually been sitting on this for a while, for as long as I had the drawing that I'm using as cover picture; I wrote most of this then. Right now I'm posting it because finally I made an appropriate divider for Kai and because I want to post it before the other chapter I will also post today.

Contents: vampires, conversation, friendship, Sire and Childe relationship, mentor and apprentice relationship, secrets, war (no detailed description)

Characters: Kai (future Tremere PC's Sire, viewpoint character of the scene); Emmeline (Kai's Sire); Regent Strauss

969 words

"Are you going to join the Sabbat?"

"No," says Emmeline. "Stop guessing, I'll just stop answering your guesses now."

"You could just tell me, you know. I won't tell anyone."

"I'm sure you don't intend to. I trust your intentions. But some Ventrue would pull it out of you anyway." She sighs and sits down beside me. "Believe me, I understand. You see a secret and you have to know what it is. It's the real clan curse. But this is how it's safer for you, so I'm not telling you."

"Will I ever find out?"

"Eventually, yes, if all goes well, I'll tell you when it's safe." She pats my shoulder. I assume I probably look pretty dejected and all, because she sighs a little and her voice takes on that tone like she's trying to figure out how to apologise without expressing regret, which she clearly can't do, because if she was regretting whatever she is about to do, she wouldn't be doing it. "I don't plan to leave forever, you know. I'll miss you too, and I wish I could tell you everything. But I promise you won't be alone."

"How long do you think you'll be away?"

"Honestly, I have no idea. Just don't worry too much, alright?"

"That's hard to do. I mean, it's not even about being left without my Sire. I know the clan will take care of me and teach me all sorts of things even while you aren't here, that's what we do, right?"

"Right."

"But you're also my friend, so obviously I'll worry, and you can't make me not to, so there." I stick my tongue out at her momentarily, and pull a face.

She chuckles, even though she still looks sad. "You're a good one, Kai. I won't forget you, and I do plan to be back eventually. And we'll still be friends, right?"

"Of course. What do you take me for? I mean, if you wanted me to no longer be your friend, you'd have to do some pretty extreme stuff, like, uh…" I can't come up with a single thing.

"Like stop being your friend?"

"Yeah, like that. And you won't do that anyway."

She smiles, and I can see some of her confidence back in it. "No, I won't do that." She pats my shoulder again. "Anyway, back to what you said about the clan - I actually asked someone to take you under his wing while I'm away. You know, so you have more of a guidance than just 'ask anyone'."

"Metaphorical wing, I hope? Or did you go all the way back to the Tzimisce roots?"

She laughs a little. "No, metaphorical wing. It's Strauss; you met him once."

Strauss is nice in an atrocity professor sort of way. He helps gently excise whatever moral qualms I have left from my previous human life. He wins me over really fast.

I occasionally get cryptic messages from Emmeline; I don't stop missing her - I mean, of course not, we are friends -, but it helps reassure me that she's thinking of me and things are going according to plan by and large; I worry about her still, but I settle into her absence.

Emmeline does return eventually, like she said she would. This is the time she tells me what she had done before disappearing; even in hindsight it worries me, but right now she is safe, and that is what matters. She also brings back findings: strange artefacts, and notebooks full of drawings and descriptions and wild conjectures: apparently, while she was hiding from the fallout of the things she had done, she used this time for a secretive expedition. She has a whole new area of study now, based around the implications of her new discoveries. We are appropriately amazed. She stays with us a while, and then she goes back to her research in various distant lands. She comes back every so often, spends some time with us, we discuss her findings and update her on ours; and then she goes off somewhere else. I stay with Maxi and await her return, never completely without worry, but still, now that I know the danger is mostly over and she's just going on expeditions and avoiding old adversaries, waiting for her when she is away is much easier. And even in her absence, I am among friends, at least.

By the time Maxi tells me he needs to go to Los Angeles to help with the Kuei-Jin war, it's obvious I'd manage without him just fine. "It may not be pleasant," he says. "You do not have to come unless you wish to."

"Of course," I say, "but I'm obviously coming." I'd go with him to a different galaxy if he had a spaceship.

I'm actually excited to see a new continent. And it's beautiful in its own way. It's not even marred by the war going on. I have seen war; it was awful. As strange as it is to say, this is not so bad. It's more like a bronze age sort of war, warriors against warriors, just trying to win, right? Weird to say it's not as destructive, monsters fighting monsters, but it's really not; there are city lights and seashores and land formations, and the war is happening in this place, not to this place. I don't think the humans even notice. And every morning I go home to a Chantry that I'm fairly sure is inviolable. There's fear and pain, and we do lose comrades, I think all war is probably sad; but there is always him, and I don't lose hope. And after the war is gone, there is still him, and there is still a new land to explore.

I have nothing to regret.

[jjuniewizzy]

The Young Wizard Isn’t So Young Anymore…

Hard to claim in a game where everyone has called them Young Wizard for YEARS, but there WAS a day where the Young Wizard truly grew up! It was when we graduated that fateful day after Morganthe was defeated and we dawned the title of Child of Light & Shadow. When we graduated everyone that got us there was there to celebrate, seeing for the first time in a long time to result of perseverance the birth of a legend to last all time. The savior of the spiral; a hero.

So what happened after we grew up? We were whisked away to Polaris to aide Bartleby yes, but we found ourselves entrenched in an expanse of the spiral we never knew existed. Ambrose guessed we’d end up there, the Arcanum, but if he suspected such things why never mention it? Perhaps we’ll never know, but regardless it always felt like the natural next step in our journey. We are still a legend, a Savior of the spiral, but now these Scholars are not just teachers or mentors… They’re *peers*, colleagues, we don’t answer *to* them we work *along side* them.

If it’s not obvious, Arc 3 is my favorite Arc of this game. It shows maturity that comes with saving the universe twice and doing a third time as a grown adult. Spider even says it himself in the Sands of Time, “Look at you, all grown up!” The primordial deities even recognize we are not the bright eyed bushy tailed wizard heading down Unicorn Way. We are seasoned, we are experienced…

We are no longer playing games.

Perhaps that’s why Arc 4 shows us at our most irritated. As we continue to save the Spiral from impending doom once more we can’t help but get frustrated over the people around us arguing and taking and taking and *taking*. How dare they! We’re saving their sorry asses and there’s no even a thank you until the darkest hour?! How. Dare. They. But we can’t think selfishly like that, lest we do the spiral a disservice. After all we are Bartleby’s Scion, we can’t go disappointing now. So, maybe no longer with a smile, we save the universe once more and solve yet another crisis. The dust has settled and all seems well, but what happens when a new threat dawns the shores of the Spiral?

Where… Or *What*… Is our breaking point?

[darkangel11122]

Imagine once again that you are a well known expert swordsmen, and with two adopted children, a son and daughter. Your son, who is adopted later in his life you firmly believe that if you had him since he was a child he would be better manured or at least have better highine and Taste in alcohol. He will drink anything with alcohol content in a pinch, you watched him down two bottles of cooking sherry one night because he couldn’t find the wine celler, not that you were out of booze he just couldn’t find it. At least he has his looks, and can be rather caring in his own way proven by how he treats his crew and even his sister. You might as it shows in his relationship as well but the two bicker like an old married couple on a good day, and still dispite it all keeps you on edge with worry as you still very much don’t want to no longer be able to go to your preferred dive in the middle of now where. The owner and you are at lest getting along as your bother suffering with your children’s antics. Does little to calm your long since frade nerves though. 

Your title as the world best swordsman now gone, past to your adopted son. Not through an act of nepotism of course he beat you fair and square. Given your injured state, and refusal to succumb to unconsciousness you were privy to watch the frantic and desperate admittance of feeling. Rather sweet if you’re honest, glad the news got the picture and the story, two thumbs up. At least if you gave those kind of things, but you don’t. While you might no longer be the best you still have a reputation. 

After the fight you go home and lick your wounds over a bottle of champagne. You are happy for your adopted son and the dive owners son. This happiness is short lived as your celebration is interrupted by… you refuse to call him your partner as he doesn’t need the ego boost, so the man you let sleep In your bed. He’s babbling on about his own not actual child, suppose the kid is technically one he mentored, he’s the captain of you kids crew so he’s just telling you things you already now. It’s something about him being king now and yadda yadda, it take him a full 20 minutes to notice your currently wrapping your torso in bandages.  He then trys to cozy up to you much to your slight amusement, not that you let him or show it. Again reputation to keep up. The only new information you got for his babbling is that your son’s captain apparently said something about a wedding. 

Now while you don’t fully believe that you may have witnessed your son’s wedding while bleeding out, you honestly wouldn’t put it past all of them. All of them being the rang tag crew that’s a bit like a frat house if you really think about it. You half pray that the dive owners son is trying to be married off by his sperm donor again. As the dive owner would have a bit of a small fit to at least not be given a heads up about such a thing, you might too honestly but it’s mostly because we’ll a party be them. Which they would Have at Their captain loves to celebrate, most to eat him self silly, which is hard to do given his appetite. Anyway it promise good food and you love good food why you love the dive to begin with, refined taste and all that. 

Thankful you see nothing in the news about it so you relax a bit over the next months. It’s perhaps the most calm few months, you find the no longer needing to defined your title every time you leave the house nice. Means you can eat in peace when you dine anywhere now so that means you can enjoy your other passions in life, one being expensive wine’s. Life is peaceful, or at least as peaceful as it can be in this world. This peace of course is often interrupted by the person you let share your bed and personal space. Who is his own form of tabloid journalism at this point and keeps babbling about a straw hat wedding happening soon. He of course brings this up IN FRONT OF THE DIVE OWNER, who looks at you like how you assume people look when just watching someone sip form a glass of poisoned wine. The words ‘I have no idea what he’s taking about, I don’t even know who he is… go away insane man who much be suffering form a head injury.’ Though used to your antic at this point the person you let share your space isn’t deterred and just laughs and coos over you. While the dive owner leaves you be your now very worried your choice is company will get you actually killed and not just banned. 

It was a Week later that the news announced who it was that married at least in a sinse even, you know criminals. You thank you lucky stars and who ever is clearly watching over you that it isn’t your adopted son and/or the dive owners son. 

serval months later when your adopted son darkens your door step in the middle of the night when most rational people would be sleeping. Your roused form your sleep by the stomping sounds of his footsteps pacing in front of your door. Not letting him vex you as he seems to enjoy doing, rolling over as you try to get back to sleep. Eventually he just opens the door like he’s argon opening the doors of hornburg, holding the frame on either side of the frame.  The words that have been keeping your wake at night since you took him in then leaving his mouth. “He’s gonna leave me.” 

Okay for once in you life, fuck your reputation, shooting in your bed to be upright eyes wide in shock. Mouth hanging open the whole nine yards, Shouting like you were just told your car bet you were enjoying was actually just grape juice. “What?!?” Then you start babbling or perhaps ranting depending on who you ask. Calling him stupid, repeatedly asking what he did, why is he so sure of that? why is he here and not begging for the kid’s forgiveness? All things you don’t really hear the answer to, at least until his clear indignation that you assume it was something he did. Then you start to almost argue further insults building in your throat as you actually take in his appearance at the moment. Clearly upset, and not the angry upset but something else. 

“Why are you so sure of that?” 

Theirs a pause and what a normal person would call a shaky breath. “‘Cuase next thing I now he wants and that I want isn’t gonna happen cause no way is Zeff gonna say yes and that’s gonna be something he wants. So he’s gonna leave me because his dad hates me.” 

“He doesn’t hate you.” 

“Pretty sure he does, he threatens me all the time.” 

“…. Okay maybe he hates you a little bit, I’m sure he loves his son more than he hates you.” 

“Dought it.” 

This is of course when your bed partner wake up and sleepily chimes in about how could offer a dowry to sweeten the deal of the dive owner. Unfortunately this is something your adopted son latches on to, returning to his pacing outside your bedroom for the rest of the night as it seems he thinks about what to offer. Thankfully your daughter yells at him to go to bed as she’s sick of hearing his stomping around.  It starts an argument but that’s easier to sleep to then his stomping. 

Which leads to how you are now being dragged allong in a sense by your adopted son to see the dive owner in person, with a large amount of exsotic spices to give to the dive owner. You had sugest the spirm donor’s head but apparently that’s not something the son want at least for now. They have a thing about it and you leave it be and just offer to come along as it’s how it’s traditionally done that way. 

You just sit at the table rather bored as your son offers the large crate to the dive owner, who just looks puzzled and not at all amused by this. Likly expecting the worst, as your son ever do vary tactfull, you mean this sarcasticly, just out right says it. Blunt at ever as he sits relaxed as can be with his arms crossed. 

The exact words that leave the dive owners mouth aren’t what you expect exactly but it is some variation of it so you’re not that surprised. “Bout time you asked, you could have just called to ask.” Neither you or your adopted son let on your slight surprise, both stone faced. The words of ‘I told you so’ being past worn a side eyed glance to your adopted son. Now feeling much more secure you leave with tour adopted son who now looks both more relaxed and more anxious. Though any words of comfort you try to offer him are brushed off, then agian you two aren’t the warm fuzzy type anyway so it’s to be expected. 

You hear no word after leaving the dive with your son, no word on if he asked or if he get rejected. The only reason you know he’s not dead is that those isn’t a scramble for a new greatest swordsman or a new one declared. You do decided to avoid the dive for a while as you’d hate for your luck to turn while you’re there and end up kicked out before you can finish your Cabernet. There’s of course a lull in the news at this time, no big happenings from the crew your sons on which can only mean their firmly at sea or up to something probably both in all honesty. 

Unfortunately the day it seem finally came the next month, you were bearly able to sat down when the dive owner comes charging out of the kitchen with a large meat cleaver on his hand. The word outside being shouted at you is something you comply with as you’d hate to leave the place wracked as it would be a lose to cuisine across the globe. Standing on the deck neutral faced as ever as you face down what you have been dreading for years at this point. Only it’s not that apperntly, he just wanted to talk wedding details outside of the public eye. You don’t let on how relived you actually are by this news or excited. Again reputation to up keep. 

[mantislll]

MY OC🗣🗣🗣

I finally drew my OC, but I'll need to draw a second one or maybe more. ❄️❄️❄️

Also, I would like you to be able to ask questions for my OS, if you do this, please indicate which Irbis you are asking questions:

"⚔️ – Irbis before the bad incident

❄️ – Irbis lost her memory after a bad incident."

Her story from below (sorry if the words are misspelled somewhere, I translated through an interpreter)⬇️:

Irbis / Inayat is a 15-year-old girl who lives with her grandparents after her mother’s death. One day, she is suddenly transported into a magical realm called Mūzjol, where she encounters a snow leopard spirit named Qarshiya, who captures her after seeing the silver bracelets on her wrists — ancient symbols of the Snow Leopard Clan.Inayat soon learns that she is a descendant of a long-lost tribe of spiritual guardians — beings gifted with the powers of ice and healing.In this strange world, she meets Aquila, a boy from the Eagle Clan. Together, they train, fight against the brutal Arkhars (a warlike clan of mountain rams), and gradually fall in love while rising as the next protectors of their people.After two months, Irbis becomes a fierce warrior, while Aquila turns into a deadly archer whose arrows pierce through enemies with terrifying precision.But everything collapses when the Arkhars launch a brutal attack and nearly wipe out both clans. Irbis loses everything — her friends, her mentors, her people. Captured and nearly assaulted, she’s saved only when Aquila makes a painful sacrifice: he severs his own wings to reach her. Together, they flee and hide in a cave.To save her fading soul, Aquila performs an ancient ritual — merging Irbis’s spirit with Qarshiya’s. She survives… but her mind is shattered.Now, she is wild — crawling on all fours, growling, and not recognizing Aquila at all. Yet he stays. He feeds her, protects her, and watches over her with quiet devotion. Over time, Irbis becomes more cheerful and soft. She's no longer a warrior, but an innocent, joyful child with magical abilities: she can float, create snowflakes, and heal with a touch — just like Qarshiya once could.As the magical world becomes too dangerous for them, Aquila discovers a portal hidden behind the ancient throne and brings Irbis back into the human world. Although three months passed in Mūzjol, only three hours passed in reality. But Irbis vanishes in the woods.There, she’s found by Mezumi — a mysterious girl ninja with violet hair and psychic powers. Her family has long resented mystical beings and once hunted them to steal their powers. But upon seeing how childlike and pure Irbis is, Mezumi chooses to protect her. She shelters her in a secret treehouse, acting like an older sister — even if her heart still holds some suspicion.Eventually, Aquila finds them. A silent conflict brews between him and Mezumi: one wants to bring Irbis back to who she was, while the other just wants to keep her safe. Irbis, however, is simply happy to be near the people she loves.

I'll keep writing this story with my friends, so it's not over.‼️

And please also recommend apps where I can write fanfiction about my characters, i.e., a more detailed story, I really need it. 😔

[vodika-vibes]

First of all i wanted to say i really admire your work and i love your writing style <3

Could you write a fic in which Rex fals in love with a Male Reader? He's a Jedi that survived the order and is found by the clone because he is searching for more survivors with Ahsoka, Wolffe, Gregor... and basically the reader sees Rex as his savior and admires him a lot because he managed to put him out of depression because his padawan died because in front of him after order 66. Also, reader fell first but rex fell harder, yk

Thank you in advice, i hope you enjoy this byeee <3 <3 <3

Welcome To My Life

Summary: After losing everything with the Jedi purge, including your Padawan, you were less living and more surviving on a day to day basis. And then you met Rex, a former Captain in the Clone Army, and somehow, things get better.

Pairing: Captain Rex x M! Jedi Reader

Word Count: 1433

Warnings: Mentions of Order 66, violence, mentions of domestic abuse

A/N: So, I don't know if this is exactly what you wanted, but I hope you like it anyway?

Click HERE to be added to my taglist

You hate the cold.

Even when you were a kid, you hated the cold. You hated the bite against your skin, the way your nose would start running, and the way your eyes would sting from the cold.

Before the purge, when you still had a Padawan, you would tolerate it. She loved the cold, and the snow, and would call you a grump if you didn’t let her play in it for hours at a time.

But that was before.

Due to the injuries you received during the purge, the cold and the snow makes your leg ache in a way you’re never going to get used to. And you can’t look at a snowy scene without remembering the sight of her blood pooling on snow.

Your survival was happenstance.

You wish, to this day, that you had died and your apprentice had lived. The galaxy is lesser with her loss. And you miss her in your every waking moment.

But, you no longer grieve for her like you did right after the purge.

Oh, you still mourn, she had been so young and so bright after all, but her loss no longer feels like a death sentence hanging over your head. And you can attribute that to one person specifically.

Captain Rex, formerly of the 501st, found you by chance. At least, that’s what he claims. You’ve been a Jedi long enough to know that chance doesn’t exist, not really.

So, that’s how you found yourself in this situation. Playing mentor to young Jedi who lost their Masters, and offering advice to the clones who are trying, so hard, to recover their brothers from the iron grip of the Empire.

“You alright?” You’re pulled from your musings when you hear Rex’s voice, and you open your eyes to shoot him a confused look, “You’ve been rubbing your knee for the last 15 minutes.” He clarifies as he sits on the cushion across from you with an awkward grimace.

“Ah,” You glance at your hand, and then pull it away from your leg, “The cold doesn’t do me any favors.” Your smile becomes a little wry, “I’m afraid I’m getting old, Captain.”

Rex rolls his eyes, “Spare me,” but there’s a smile on his face, “You’re hardly old. You shouldn’t have put off getting your knee treated for so long.”

“Wow, what a long way to call me an idiot.”

“Okay, you’re an idiot.”

“Are you allowed to talk to me like that?”

“I’ll talk to you however I want. You’re an idiot and you need to know it.” Rex points out, “After all, you could do your meditations inside, where the heat is, but no. You have to meditate outside.”

“It’s important to have a connection to nature—” You try to lecture, but you’re stopped when Rex holds up his hand.

“I think you just like torturing yourself, and this,” he gestures to the open garden, “is your idea of penance.”

You twist your lips, “Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you should say it.”

Once again, Rex rolls his eyes, “Come on, handsome. Let’s get you inside before you turn into an ice cube.” He gets to his feet and offers you his hand, which you gratefully take.

When you were a child, your Master harped on about how falling in love was a sin. You learned, as you got older, that your Master was trying to ease his guilty conscious by giving you a complex about interpersonal relationships. It took you years of therapy to come to terms with the fact that your Master had been gaslighting you your entire childhood.

To this day, you don’t trust your memory on a lot of things.

But, the important thing that you have managed to come to terms with is the knowledge that falling in love isn’t the crime you were made to believe it was.

Which is a good thing, because slowly you’ve found yourself falling in love with the blond man walking with you. It’s a quiet, gentle thing. Burning like a candle deep in your heart.

You’ve already meditated on it and everything.

You’re in no danger of becoming Attached to Rex. Because you want him to be happy, more than anything else. And if his happiness means that he’s not with you, then so be it.

Love is, at it’s core, selfless. It’s a shame your Master never understood that.

“You’re thinking too much again,” Rex says as he bumps your shoulder with his, “You have that line on your brow.”

“I was thinking about my Master.”

“Oh,” Rex pauses, “You’ve never mentioned your Master before?” There’s an unspoken question in his words, and you smile.

“No need to fret, Captain. My Master died of Cancer when I was a teenager, he didn’t die from the purge.”

Rex pauses, “Would you think I’m awful if I say, ‘thank the force’, about that?”

You laugh, your head falling back, “Not at all.”

“Well, good.” He sounds a little flustered for a moment, but you neatly ignore it. He’s allowed his private emotions, after all.

“My Master was a deeply flawed man,” You say lightly, “I promised myself that I would never treat my Padawan the way he treated me. And I like to think that I accomplished that, before she died.” You pause, “Well, she was never afraid of me, at least.”

“You were afraid of your Master?”

You hum thoughtfully, tapping your fingers in a silent rhythm against your thigh, “Not afraid, so much as tense. He was a very stern man, you see. And his punishments could be extreme. I was never physically harmed, of course, the Council watched him too closely for that. But emotional and mental abuse doesn’t leave any physical marks.”

“So, why were you thinking about him?”

“Hm?” You blink at him for a moment, “Oh! Right! My Master used to harp on and on about how Jedi are forbidden from love and intimacy.”

“Right. The Attachment thing.”

You wave your hand dismissively, “Any Jedi worth their weight in gold can tell you that Love and Attachment aren’t the same thing,” You reply, “No, my Master had three wives and three additional girlfriends who didn’t know about each other. Or the fact that he was a Jedi.”

Rex stumbles over his feet, “He what?”

“Oh, yeah. And a dozen or so kids bouncing around out there. After he died, it was a whole mess because I was his only legal heir, the Jedi Lawyers had to gent involved because I was a 16 year old boy and getting harassed by women in their 40s.” You shake your head, “I owe Master Kenobi so much for helping me handle that.”

“I mean...are they still harassing you?”

“...You know. I think they think I’m dead.” You muse thoughtfully, “But they never did like me, much. I was living proof that they didn’t know their husband like they thought they did.”

Rex shakes his head, “Man, General Skywalker never told me about that—”

“Well,” You pause before continuing, delicately, “Anakin was rather...self-invested, my situation had nothing to do with him, so he likely didn’t care.”

“...ouch.”

“Not to worry, Captain. I won’t speak of word of this to Ahsoka.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she already knows.” Rex sighs and rubs the back of his head, “Anyway, why were you thinking about your Master?”

“Oh.” You glance at him, “That’s simple, it’s because I’m falling in love with you.”

And maybe, just maybe, you should have timed that better because Rex trips over his own feet again and crashes into a wall.

“...Are you alright, Captain?”

He presses his hands over his face, though it does nothing to hide the color on his neck or the way his ears are burning, “Really? Just like that?”

“Would you like me to take it back?” You ask, bemused.

“...I didn’t say that. Just—” He trails off, and drops his hands, “People normally don’t just drop that on unsuspecting people.”

You tilt your head, “Oh. Sorry.”

“You are not.”

“No, I’m really not.”

Rex stares at you for a moment, and then he lets out a quiet laugh, “Do you want to go get dinner or something?”

“Captain, are you asking me on a date?”

“Or something, yeah.”

A small grin lifts your lips, “Sounds like fun. Are you going to trip over your feet every time I say I love you?”

“Don’t kriffing tempt me. Dick.”

For the first time, in a long time, you realize that you feel happy. And it’s all because of him.

@heidnspeak

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[rebouks]

She knew-.. Robin was sure of it.

Despite her warmth, he’d always been slightly unnerved by aunt Alma’s presence; there was something odd about her that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Some people were harder to read than others, like Alex, but it was still possible.

Alma’s mind was like an impenetrable vault in comparison. Any attempts to feel or hear anything she did were met with a metaphorical brick wall, leaving him reeling as though he’d collided with it head first-.. but not tonight. Tonight, Alma was like an open book, and Robin was convinced she was doing it on purpose.

She’d told him all about her struggles as a child; how she didn’t fit in, how people teased her for being too sensitive, how hard it was to figure out who she was amongst the clamour of everyone else’s inner most image of themselves-.. all the while allowing him unlimited access to those very memories, like a handpicked blooper reel, just for him. Of course, that wasn’t the case though.. was it?

Alma had stopped talking now, but Robin still wasn’t sure how to react. He sat in silence instead, staring at nothing in particular for far longer than what could be considered normal.

“Can you hear me?” he thought, deciding to try a little experiment.

Nothing. Okay, so she couldn’t read his mind-.. then what the heck was she getting at? How had she so succinctly summed up his entire existence in less than fifteen minutes?

“I would’ve liked somewhere as quiet as this when I was young, it’s a shame we didn’t have an attic…” Alma offered, clearly trying to relate to Robin’s situation in any way she could. He still wasn’t entirely sure why, but she clearly wanted to help, and Robin didn’t know anyone else who understood him as well as she did, so perhaps he ought to let her try. He finally abandoned his switch and cautiously joined her atop his favourite, motheaten couch.

“What’re you getting at?” he said bluntly, curiosity getting the better of his manners. Alma chuckled softly, “You’re just like your father.” “It’s genetics, apparently…” Robin let loose a brief grin, glad to be compared to Oscar.

“I don’t know how exactly, but you’re different, Robin-.. and I thought it high time you knew you weren’t alone, and that we can’t let these things get the best of us.” Alma smiled softly as she spoke, but Robin was still too wary to be completely transparent. “We?” he asked, dubiously. “We’re few and far between, but you’re certainly not the only one who’s a little.. special, shall we say? That’s better than different, maybe?” Alma suggested.

Robin hummed thoughtfully, shaking his head, “Special is just another word for different, or weird.” Alma scoffed playfully, “And what’s wrong with being weird? I’m weird-.. we’re all a bit weird!”

“How’re you weird?” Robin asked, squinting at Alma accusingly. “Well, I can sense things I certainly shouldn’t be able to.” Alma started, excited to be getting somewhere. “Emotions radiate from people like a space heater-.. they’re not always pleasant, of course, but I can soak them up if I want to.”

Robin blinked, “Only if you want to..?” “Uh-huh.” Alma nodded. “You can block it out?!” Robin spluttered, suddenly and completely forgetting to maintain his ignorance before swiftly correcting himself. “I mean-.. it sounds like you can pick and choose, right?”

Alma nodded once more, “It wasn’t easy, but I spent a lot of years practicing.” “Years?” Robin sounded crestfallen. “I didn’t have a mentor…” Alma winked.

Robin allowed himself to smirk, figuring he might as well drop at least part of the act at this point. He was still a little nervous about being approached about such things so brazenly, but at least he knew why Alma perturbed him so much now, she was blocking him out on purpose-.. and she couldn’t read his mind either, which was always a plus.

The last thing he wanted was for anyone to know that he possessed that particular ability. Who’d want to hang out with someone who could access their inner most thoughts, the one’s they’d never dream of saying out loud? He shuddered involuntarily, hoping he’d never meet anyone that could read his.

Clementine finally nudged Robin, dragging him back to the present with her ghostly touch. “She looked right at me just then-.. she smiled! Did you see?” Robin spun around, realising that Alma had almost begun her descent. He must’ve missed her goodbye. “Wait!”

Alma paused expectantly, causing Robin to second guess himself and retreat into silence. “I won’t be far, sweetheart-.. whenever you’re ready.” Robin shivered as Clementine poked him again, “She can definitely see me…” “Can you, uh-…”

“See the ghost poking you?” Alma giggled, sounding far younger than she was. The vault doors had snapped shut again by now, but Robin got the impression that aunt Alma was just as excited as he was to find someone else who was weird. “Can you hear her?”

“Maybe-.. though I’m quite sure she hasn’t said anything yet.” Alma peered at Clementine expectantly. “Hey!” Clementine exclaimed as Robin tried to shove her into action, his hand ending up halfway through her waist instead.

“What? It’s not like you can feel it.” Robin snorted. Alma laughed heartily, thoroughly amused. “Well, I heard that-.. you two are good friends, huh?”

Robin nodded slightly, releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “I thought I was the only one who could see her-.. that maybe I was going insane…” “Far from it, honey! You hit me up whenever you feel like it, okay?”

Previous // Next

[nightmarerodent]

How are each of the Kidz' at cooking?

Hehe I’ve been waiting for an excuse to get into this one! TY 😁

Cassie cannot cook. At least not well. She never had to growing up, Johnny always taking her to wherever her heart’s content and Sonya being too busy with her job for something as time consuming as food and opting for instant meals instead, so she’s never developed any skills in the kitchen. She can follow a recipe just fine for the most part but any nuances outside of written instructions are lost to her. The looks of abject horror on the boys faces when she asked if you really had to wash rice before cooking it…

Jacqui can cook simple meals but prefers baking. She learned fractions using measuring cups with her mom when baking cookies and slicing peaches and apples with her grandmother when making pie is a fond memory of hers. If she ever super stressed she can always whip out some mixing bowls and with in the next few hours all the stress has melted away. The pie and/or cake is a nice bonus.

Kung Jin had helped in the kitchen when he was younger, scooping filling into dumpling wraps and pinching the closed, but those days are bittersweet and long since gone. Most meals since then have been stolen or cooked on an open camp fire. Simple things like skewered meats with minimal spices or vegetables that were foraged. After joining the Shaolin, he’s had cooking duties once or twice. He can make his own bread, which he’s quite proud of.

Similarly to Jin, most of Frost’s early childhood meals were stolen. And in the pits of the Black Dragon’s fighting rings, meals had to be earned with blood. Many of her early days were filled with hunger. Once in the Lin Kuei and food was no longer something to be coveted and immediately consumed, she began to slowly learn, but only because Kuai Liang insisted it was a necessary skill to have when out in the field. Simple things, mostly from cans. Anything quick and easy and easy to carry. She’ll still steal food sometimes. Mostly from Takeda.

Takeda doesn’t just know how to cook, he an expert at it. He’s been in the kitchen since day one, being the clingy child he was, never leaving his mother’s side, and Suchin wasn’t above putting a knife in the hands of a small child. (Kid’s gotta learn sometime, right. This is what responsible parents do.) He picked up quickly and by the time he was eight he could make most simple meals by himself. After being taken in by Hanzo it was necessary to keep and improve upon the skill.

Hanzo is a lot of things. A good mentor. A great father. A skilled and feared warrior. But a good cook? No. Man could burn water if it were possible. So after training and school work and with nothing else to do, Takeda would find himself wandering into the clan’s kitchens to watch and help the other clan members prep their meals, asking questions and picking up new things. It very quickly became a routine and after 10+ years Takeda could now not only make pretty much anything from scratch, but also recreate pretty much any meal based off taste alone. Downside now is that the other Kombat Kids constantly ask him to make things for them and the one skill he’s never learned how to master is how to say no. (He secretly likes showing off).