#hunter with a scalpel | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kaiist · 1 month ago

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𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The forest was silent. Too silent. Xavier felt it in his bones before the emergency signal even reached his com-device. His muscles tensed, lowering his sword as the vibration against his wrist sent ice through his veins.

He abandoned the trail immediately, feet pounding against the earth as he raced back to the location informed about the injured hunters. His knuckles whitened as they dug into the skin of his palm until it almost bled. Despite never doubting your abilities for a moment, he was consumed by a desperate wish that he had been there to prevent this from happening.

When he finally reached the hospital, the fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows across his face. The sight of you, broken and bloodied on the stretcher, caused something to fracture inside him. He stood paralyzed in the doorway, watching as medics rushed around your unconscious form, their voices fading to white noise.

“Hunter down, multiple lacerations, possible internal bleeding...”

One step. Two. He was beside your bed now, his hand hovering inches from yours, afraid that his touch might somehow hurt you more. A nurse tried to usher him away, but the look in his eyes made her step back. He was trying so hard to pull himself together, but the facade was crumbling.

“I’m staying,” he said simply, the words leaving no room for argument.

Days passed in a sterile blur. Xavier didn’t move from the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. He didn’t eat. There was a day when he slept like he was dead, with your hand clutched tight in his to feel your pulse. He’d just watched your chest rise and fall, as if his vigilance alone could keep you tethered to this world.

When your squad members came to visit, they brought news—the mission area had been mysteriously cleared out. No Wanderers remained. Not one. The cleanup had been thorough, leaving no traces behind. Nobody had seen who did it.

One of your colleagues shifted uncomfortably under Xavier’s gaze. “Strangest thing. Like they vanished overnight. Even the nest we couldn’t breach was empty.”

Xavier simply nodded, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.

When the doctor suggested he get some rest, Xavier simply shook his head, eyes never leaving your face. He wouldn’t leave your side until he was completely assured that you were going to be okay.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” he promised, the words meant only for you despite your unconscious state. “I’ll always be here.”

Only when you stirred slightly, days later, did something change in his expression—a softening around the eyes, the faintest tremor in his steady hands. He leaned forward, close enough that only you could hear the whisper.

“I will always find you. Always.”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The operating room doors burst open as another trauma case rolled in. Zayne was mid-consultation when his pager buzzed with the emergency code. Standard procedure—until he glimpsed your face beneath the oxygen mask. Despite his professional exterior, panic was building inside him like a storm, threatening to break through his carefully maintained composure.

His clipboard clattered to the floor. “Get Doctor Dean,” he ordered sharply, already moving toward the gurney. “I know this patient.”

“Sir, protocol states��” the resident began.

“Get. Doctor. Dean.” His voice cut like a scalpel. The young doctor scrambled away as Zayne reached for your hand, his practiced fingers automatically finding your pulse.

“BP dropping, multiple trauma, suspected hemorrhage,” the paramedic rattled off. “Combat injury, ambush scenario.”

Zayne’s mind raced. As a former combat medic who’d seen countless injuries, he’d treated soldiers under artillery fire, but this—this was different. This was personal. Seeing your blood soaking through the bandages twisted his insides in ways combat never had.

“Doctor Zayne, you need to step back,” Doctor Dean said firmly, already moving to intercept him. “You know protocol.”

“I’m her physician,” Zayne countered, his voice tight as he tried to get closer.

Doctor Dean blocked his path. “Your emotions will compromise your judgment. We’ve got her.”

Zayne’s fists clenched at his sides as they wheeled you toward the operating room. Every instinct screamed at him to follow, to take control, to fix you himself. Instead, he was forced to watch through the observation window, a spectator to your fight for survival, his mind a whirlwind of unbridled fear.

Hours passed like years. His colleagues offered coffee, suggested he rest. He didn’t respond. His eyes never left the monitors displaying your vital signs, gripping the observation window’s edge so tightly his knuckles turned white.

In your recovery room, Zayne sat perfectly still, your hand clasped between both of his. His thumbs pressed against your wrist, monitoring your pulse as if the machines couldn’t be trusted. Others who passed by the room hardly recognized the distinguished cardiac surgeon in the haggard man who refused to leave your side.

Yvonne entered to adjust your IV, giving Zayne a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Doctor Zayne, you should get some rest.”

“I’ll sleep when she wakes up,” he replied without looking up, his professional demeanor completely abandoned.

When your eyelids finally fluttered open, his composure cracked just enough for you to see the storm that had been raging beneath.

“Don’t you dare,” he whispered hoarsely, “ever scare me like that again.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The gallery was packed for Rafayel’s showcase, champagne flowing as critics and collectors mingled among his latest masterpieces. Thomas beamed at the turnout, already calculating the evening’s profits.

Then Rafayel’s phone rang.

The transformation was instant. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by an expression Thomas had never seen before—horror and fear combined. All thoughts of the gallery, the collectors, his artwork—everything disappeared in an instant.

The champagne flute shattered on the marble floor. Rafayel was already moving, shoving through the crowd without a word of explanation.

“Rafayel! Where are you—the collector from Rome is waiting to meet you!” Thomas called after him, but Rafayel was already gone, racing down the steps two at a time, car keys in hand.

The sports car’s tires screeched against the asphalt as he tore through traffic lights, honking frantically at slower vehicles, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. When another driver cut him off, Rafayel slammed his fist against the horn, a string of curses falling from his lips. His hands shook violently on the steering wheel, heart racing faster than the car.

“Move!” he screamed, swerving dangerously into the next lane. “Get out of my way!”

The hospital parking lot wasn’t meant for the kind of turn he attempted. The car scraped against a concrete pillar, but Rafayel didn’t spare it a second glance as he abandoned it half in a disabled spot, keys still in the ignition..

At the reception desk, his hands trembled so violently he could barely hold your ID card. “Where is she?” he demanded, voice cracking. “Please, I need to see her now.”

When they finally led him to your room, Rafayel froze in the doorway. Tubes and wires connected you to machines that beeped rhythmically, monitoring the life still flickering within you. Your skin was ashen, eyes closed, chest barely rising with each shallow breath.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, approaching slowly as if afraid you might shatter. He sank into the chair beside your bed, taking your limp hand between his. “Cutie, please. Can you hear me?”

A nurse offered him a blanket as night fell, but Rafayel shook his head. Hours passed. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. There would be no painting, no eating, no sleeping—nothing until you were stable.

When his phone rang—Thomas, undoubtedly—he silenced it without looking.

As dawn broke, a doctor found him still awake, your hand pressed to his lips, whispering promises only you could hear.

“She’s stabilizing,” the doctor said gently. “But recovery will take time.”

Rafayel simply nodded, eyes never leaving your face. “Time is all I have to give.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The notification from Mephisto came during a crucial meeting with the N109 Zone’s security council. The mechanical crow landed urgently on his shoulder, displaying the screen that showed what had just happened. Usually, Mephisto watched over your missions, keeping Sylus informed, but this time—something had gone terribly wrong.

He stopped speaking so abruptly that everyone at the table turned to stare. The blood drained from his face as the footage streamed directly to his personal display—you, surrounded and overwhelmed, fighting until you couldn’t anymore.

“Boss?” one of them ventured. “Should we continue with—”

“Meeting adjourned,” Sylus declared, already on his feet. “Indefinitely.”

No further explanation. No delegation of responsibilities. The council exchanged bewildered glances as the leader strode from the room, his coat billowing behind him, a storm of fury and fear brewing beneath his composed exterior.

Minutes later, the distinctive roar of his motorcycle echoed through the compound as he tore toward Linkon City, weaving through traffic at speeds that turned the world around him into a blur. The only clear thought in his mind was reaching you.

When he arrived at the emergency ward you were in, no one dared question why this person with an imposing, dangerous aura was storming through their halls.

The doctor who approached him looked nervous when Sylus started to ask questions, not bothering to mention who he was. “Mister, she’s lost a significant amount of blood. We’ve managed to stabilize her, but—”

“Show me,” Sylus commanded.

Your room was silent save for the mechanical beeping of monitors. Sylus stopped in the doorway, taking in the sight of you lying motionless, bandages covering much of your visible skin, an oxygen mask obscuring half your face.

Without a word, he pulled a chair to your bedside and sat, taking your hand in his.

“I need the names,” he said to the empty room, calling either Luke or Kieran. “Everyone involved. Every detail. Now.” Whether it was Wanderers or some shady people who did this, he would eliminate them all, leaving no traces behind.

As night fell, he remained at your side, one hand holding yours while the other tapped commands into his device, as he kept tapping his feet from either impatience or anxiousness. He wouldn’t let himself breathe peacefully until he knew you were okay.

Only when you stirred slightly, a small sound of pain escaping your lips, did his facade crack. He leaned forward, brushing hair from your forehead with such gentleness.

“Rest,” he murmured. “I’ll handle everything else.”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

Caleb’s comm device blared the emergency alert in his office—a sound it was programmed to make for only one person’s vitals. The color drained from his face as he stared at the readout, the severity of your condition displayed in harsh red numbers.

Nothing else mattered. Not Skyhaven, not his duties, not anything except reaching you.

The hangar technicians scrambled as he approached, his expression sending them into immediate action. “Prepare my craft for immediate departure,” he ordered, already climbing into the cockpit.

“Sir, the preflight checks—”

“Now!” The word echoed through the hangar, silencing all objections.

The journey that should have taken hours was compressed into a white-knuckled descent that violated at least six safety protocols. As the craft touched down on the hospital’s landing pad, security personnel rushed forward, only to stop short when they recognized the Colonel’s insignia.

“Where is she?” he demanded of the first orderly he encountered inside, frantically searching for you.

His uniform opened doors that would have remained closed to others. When he reached the ICU, the attending physician intercepted him, datapad in hand.

“Colonel, she’s sustained significant trauma. We’ve induced a coma to manage the—”

“Take me to her.” It wasn’t a request.

The sight of you connected to life support sent a visible tremor through his body. This was worse than any nightmare he’d ever imagined.

“I should have been there,” he whispered, sinking into the chair beside you. His fingers brushed against yours, then curled around your hand. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

His mind was already calculating retribution. Whoever had done this—be it Wanderers or other enemies—they will pay for this.

Days passed. Nurses came and went. Messages from Skyhaven accumulated, unanswered. Caleb remained unmoved, his thumb tracing circles on your palm as if trying to coax you back to consciousness through touch alone.

“Colonel, you should rest,” she suggested gently.

“I’m fine,” he responded, voice hoarse from disuse.

When you finally began to stir days later, Caleb was there, his face the first thing you saw as consciousness returned. Relief washed over his features as he pressed his forehead to your hand, shoulders shaking with silent relief.

“Welcome back, sleepyhead,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Behind his smile, the knowledge that those responsible had already answered for their actions. But that was a conversation for another day. For now, you were awake, and nothing else mattered.

Another draft out. Also based on this request.

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dollyswishingwell · 1 day ago

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hihi :3! First off lemme just say that I absolutely adore your writings they’re all so good I’ve spent the past few hours just reading thru all of them! And secondly I wanted to make a request for the obsessed LADS with an MC who’s pretty compliant with them from the start like “oh you wanna lock me away and make me ur pretty little house wife? Sound like a dream <33” or something like that basically an MC whose equally obsessed with them :)

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ I like this

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, crack? this is literally me cause i wouldn’t be fighting shit lmao

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You’re quite happy with this new arrangement

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

From the moment you stepped foot in his world, barefoot on the marble floors of his seaside estate, sunlight catching on your smile like it was made just for him, Rafayel knew. He didn’t need to break you. Didn’t need the slow, aching game of manipulation, coercion, or seduction.

No. You looked at his claws and kissed them. You saw the cage and asked for silk curtains and plush pillows inside.

And gods, he fell.

“You’re not going to run?” he asked that first night, a little disappointed, a little curious, watching you lounge across the velvet divan he had carried in just for you.

“Why would I?” You tilted your head. “You’re rich. You’re pretty. You adore me. And I get to stay home and be pampered like a princess? Honestly, I should be paying you.”

He blinked. Then burst into delighted laughter, sharp and glittering like shattered candy glass, before pouncing on you in a flurry of silk and perfume.

“You’re mine,” he purred, nuzzling into your neck like a smug cat. “Don’t say things like that unless you want me to go and have the entire staff fired for even looking at you.”

“Do it,” you hummed, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Let’s go full tyrant.”

He did.

Rafayel stopped pretending to function in society entirely. His meetings became virtual, or more accurately, delegated. His manager Thomas despaired.

He had you now. Why would he ever leave?

He got addicted to watching you drift through the estate in your soft pastel robes, tiaras in your hair just because, calling him pet names and snuggling up in his lap while he painted. You’d tell him what new shell you wanted for the fountains. What gem color suited your mood today. What dress you wanted copied in ten colors.

“D’you think we should get married?” you’d say casually, flipping through a designer catalogue. “Or should I stay your scandalous mistress forever? Like, hidden flower in the tower kinda vibe.”

“Wife,” he corrected immediately, voice laced with possessive heat. “You’re mine. You deserve the castle. The ring. The surname.”

He proposed three hours later. A box of seven rings, each more ridiculous than the last.

You picked the heart-shaped one with the pink sapphire. Naturally.

Now, no one dares question why you’ve vanished from the public. Why the estate security is tighter than a vault. Why the man known for his detached cruelty is now painting seashells with “my darling girl” scratched into the backs.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Zayne expected resistance. Not because he wanted it, but because he was used to it. He’d prepared for the fights, the escape attempts, the begging. He’d even gone as far as reinforcing the estate with biometric locks and deleting your Hunter Association credentials behind your back.

But then you looked up at him with wide, adoring eyes the morning after he made you quit your job, and just… smiled.

“So I don’t have to risk my life anymore,” you said softly, curling into his lap like it was your natural place. “You’re just gonna take care of me forever?”

He paused. Scalpel-steady hands twitching.

“…Yes.”

You beamed. “Good. I hated those missions. They made me miss you too much.”

He blinked once. Twice. His jaw ticked.

“…You were going to come back to me,” he said quietly. “Always.”

“I was yours before you even asked.”

You tilted your head, eyes glimmering. “But I like that you made sure. That you made me stay.”

From that moment on, Zayne never questioned the decision again.

He gave you the master bedroom and moved his office into the suite next door, because you liked being able to sleep in his shirts and sneak into his bed whenever you wanted. He stopped accepting surgeries on weekends, because that was “your time.” Spa treatments. Cooking for you. Holding you on the couch while you rambled about the adorable new heels you bought with his money.

You’d kiss him in the mornings before he left and whisper:

“Don’t be late. Your pretty wife gets lonely.”

He became militant about punctuality.

You never questioned his control. You welcomed it. Handed him the leash with both hands. Every new rule, every vitamin he made you take, every tracker sewn into your dresses and discreetly implanted bracelet,

You adored it.

“I like it,” you once said, curling beside him in bed while he checked your vitals on his tablet. “When you act like I’m breakable. Like I’m something precious.”

Zayne looked at you like you’d just opened his ribcage and whispered inside his heart.

“That’s because you are.”

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“If anyone ever tried to touch you… I’d put them in the ground myself. Slowly.”

You just smiled and murmured, “I know. That’s why I married you.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Xavier genuinely thought he’d have to be careful with you.

He’s weird. Awkward. He lives in a world of wanderers and underworld corpses and secret identities. His penthouse is too big. His life too strange. He’s… not normal.

So when he told you, quietly, half-asleep on your stomach, words mumbled into your back, that he didn’t want you leaving anymore…

That he was going to make you quit your job…

That you’d never have to work or worry again, but in exchange, you’d be his,

You didn’t flinch.

You just rolled over and looked at him like he’d offered you the moon.

“Wait, really?” you whispered. “I can just stay here? Be your pretty wife and wake up with you every day?”

He blinked. Slowly. “…Yes.”

“Done,” you beamed, snuggling against him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He short-circuited.

Ever since then, Xavier has been in a near-constant state of dreamlike bliss. You wanted to be kept? You wanted to stay tucked in his arms in that oversized bed, scrolling outfits for the association Gala while he trailed kisses up your back?

“Pick the blue one,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and devotion. “Matches your eyes. Looks good when I hold you.”

He installed a custom closet for you. Got the entire place redesigned for your taste. A garden on the top floor, because you said you liked “something soft to look at.” A full kitchen even though he doesn’t cook, because you like baking him things and feeding him from your fork.

And when he’s in Lumiere mode, when the world is cruel and sharp and demanding, he comes home to you.

Crawls into your lap like a lovesick cat.

You always cradle his face. Cup it gently and murmur:

“Who do you belong to?”

“Who kisses your forehead when you fall asleep?”

“Who’s always going to be here, waiting?”

He’s so hopelessly in love it physically hurts.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

Sylus had everything, wealth, connections, a global weapons empire. He thought love would be an indulgence. A vulnerability. Something to manage.

And then he met you (again).

Sweet, gorgeous, ambitionless in the best way, perfectly content to let him build your world for you. You didn’t resist when he said you’d never work again. Didn’t fight when he said he didn’t trust anyone to protect you.

You smiled and asked if you could pick the color of your new closet.

“You’re not going to fight me on this?” he’d asked one evening, watching you admire your new pink diamond ring.

You gave a soft laugh, nestled into his lap like you belonged there. “Why would I fight the man who wants to pamper me, protect me, and make me his spoiled little wife?”

His red eyes darkened.

He kissed you so hard he left you dizzy.

From that moment on, he spoiled you mercilessly. Twelve armories worldwide? Now thirteen, one converted into a private resort just for you. Every gala dress custom-designed. Entire floors in luxury department stores cleared just so you could browse in peace.

And you, his darling little thing, you fed into it.

“Buy it,” you’d murmur, brushing your fingers along a jewel you wanted. “For me. Just to show everyone whose name I moan when I’m in your bed.”

He’s never signed a wire transfer so fast.

He adores how you never try to take the power from him. You respect it. Crave it. You let him rule, but you reign at his side. When he hands you your card, you kiss his knuckles. When he orders security to shadow you in public, you smile and wave at them sweetly.

When he comes home from business drenched in blood and smoke, you’re waiting on the couch in your silk nightgown, holding a wine glass and purring, “All done, my love? Did they behave?”

You don’t flinch when he talks about toppling rivals. You don’t question when you’re moved to a different penthouse in a new city overnight.

You just smile and say, “As long as you’re there, it’s home.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

Caleb had been preparing for war.

Not military strategy, you.

He was ready for the heartbreak. The betrayal. The screaming. The way you’d fight tooth and nail when he finally took you. Locked you in his Skyhaven penthouse. Made you his and no one else’s.

Because you had always been free. Beautiful. Untouchable.

And he had always watched you. Protected you. Loved you in the way no brother, no soldier, no man should. From the shadows. With a military-grade obsession.

So when he brought you home after that final mission, bloody, injured, nearly lost, and told you you’d never leave again…

You looked up from the plush penthouse bed, eyes heavy with painkillers and love and whispered,

“Good. I only want to be yours anyway.”

He froze.

You blinked. Smiled. Reached for him with trembling fingers.

“I hated being away from you,” you breathed. “Please don’t let me go again. I’ll be good. I’ll be your pretty little housewife.”

He didn’t speak. Just cradled your hand like it was made of glass. Like you might vanish.

From that day forward, Caleb changed.

No longer cold. No longer quiet. No longer the stoic colonel hardened by war.

You brought out the boy in him. The one who used to blush when you shared a blanket. The one who used to memorize every little thing you liked. The one who used to dream about kissing you, marrying you, keeping you locked in his arms forever.

Now he had it.

You padded around the penthouse barefoot in his oversized shirts. Asked him if he liked the pink lipstick you wore. Curled into him on the couch while he planned missions, whispering,

“When will you be back? I get lonely without you, you know.”

“I’ll call off the deployment,” he said immediately.

You laughed and tugged him down for a kiss.

You encouraged his obsession. You made it beautiful.

You didn’t just accept your gilded cage, you helped him decorate it.

Matching rings. Matching loungewear. Little domestic rituals that made him feel like he had you in every lifetime.

“I belong to you, Caleb,” you murmured one night, forehead to his. “I always have. Even before you took me, I was yours.”

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inseobts · 3 months ago

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TRAITOR - END

law x traitor!reader

PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 - PART 4 - PART 5 - PART 6 - PART 7

a/n: thank you so much for sticking with this story! I hope you loved it and I didn't expect it to get much attention honestly, so thank you again, for reading it ❤︎ this chapter is shorter but I needed it for a closure

words count: 1.4k

tags: series, enemies to lover, traitor reader

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The Heart Pirates were never normal, but now, things are even worse.

Because ever since you and Law finally stopped being stubborn idiots, the crew has made it their personal mission to make your life together as impossible as they can.

Like breakfast on the Polar Tang used to be peaceful.

Now?

Now it’s a war zone.

“Oi, Captain!” Shachi calls across the mess hall “Did you sleep well last night?”

You don’t look up from your plate and gasp “Don’t.”

Penguin grins “Or were you too busy—”

A scalpel flies across the room, embedding itself in the wall two inches from his head.

Penguin freezes.

Law, still drinking his coffee like he didn’t just attempt murder, exhales sharply “Eat your food before I dissect you.”

The crew bursts out laughing.

Bepo shakes his head, tail wagging “Captain, you’re really scary when you’re in love.”

Law nearly chokes.

You just smirk.

Because for the first time in years, this?

This feels like home.

Being alone on the Polar Tang is rare.

Being alone with Law is basically impossible.

Because somehow, someway, the crew always finds a way to ruin it.

Like now.

You’re in Law’s quarters, sitting on his bed as he reads over some medical reports, or at least, he’s trying to, because every few minutes, he catches you staring.

He doesn’t comment at first.

But when you sigh dramatically for the fourth time, he finally lowers the papers.

“What.”

You blink, feigning innocence “Nothing.”

Law narrows his eyes “You’re being annoying.”

You grin “That’s what you love about me.”

He snorts “I love you despite that.”

You gasp, clutching your chest like he’s just mortally wounded you.

And that’s when the door flies open.

Shachi, Penguin, and Bepo barrel in, all wearing matching smirks.

“We heard the L-word!” Shachi sings.

“Was it romantic?” Bepo asks, tail wagging.

Penguin grins “Did you confess your undying love again, Captain?”

Law sighs so hard he looks ready to collapse.

You just laugh.

Because honestly, you wouldn’t change this for anything.

After like a week you find yourself in the middle of a brutal battle.

You don’t know who these bounty hunters are or who sent them, but they’re strong. Too strong. And if there’s one thing you do know, it’s that you’re not letting anyone hurt your crew.

Your powers surge, burning through your veins as you throw up a barrier just in time to block an attack meant for Bepo. The force of it rattles your bones, but you don’t waver.

Then, you turn your focus to the enemy.

Your mind reaches out, slipping into theirs like tendrils of smoke, twisting, warping. The nearest attacker stiffens, their weapon faltering in their grip before they drop it entirely, eyes wide with confusion. You dig deeper, forcing panic into their thoughts, making them see things that aren’t there... shadows moving in the corners of their vision, the weight of an invisible hand gripping their throat.

One by one, they falter. Some collapse, clutching their heads as they struggle against the illusions you plant. Others turn on each other in blind terror.

Law is shouting your name somewhere behind you, but you don’t look back.

You’re too busy holding the line.

Too busy protecting what matters most.

By the time the dust settles, the enemy is gone, and the battlefield is eerily silent.

Your legs give out beneath you.

Strong arms catch you before you hit the ground.

“Idiot,” Law mutters, voice tight as he presses a hand to your shoulder, assessing your injuries “You always do this.”

You manage a weak smile “Would you rather I let them skewer you?”

His jaw clenches “I’d rather you not throw yourself into danger like you’re disposable.”

“I’m not disposable,” you murmur “I’m just not losing you.”

Something in his expression shifts, softens.

Then, he sighs, long and tired “You make my life impossible.”

Your smile widens “That’s what you love about me.”

Later that night, when the chaos finally dies down, you find yourself where you always end up. Next to Law.

He’s sitting on the deck, watching the waves.

You slide down next to him, resting your head against his shoulder.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then “You’re happy.”

It’s not a question, but an observation.

You smile “Yeah.”

Law is silent for a moment. Then he answers “…Me too.”

You turn to look at him, studying his face.

And for once, there’s no hesitation.

No fear.

Just certainty.

Because after everything, after the lies, the betrayals, the heartbreak, you still found your way back to each other.

And this time you’re never letting go.

Years ago, you never thought you’d have this.

Not love. Not peace. Not a place where you belonged.

But now?

Now you have everything.

Later that same night, after everyone else has gone to sleep, Law watches you from across the room. You're sitting on the floor, absently running your fingers over an old scar on your arm. The dim lantern light flickers, casting soft shadows over your face.

He sighs “You’re different.”

You glance up, raising an eyebrow “In a good way?”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment before he nods “Yeah.”

There’s something unreadable in his expression. It makes your heart skip a beat “How so?”

Law leans back against the bed, arms crossed “Back then, even when you said you loved me, you were always keeping a distance. Like you were scared of something. You fought like you had nothing to lose, and when you laughed with the crew, it never felt like you really let yourself belong.”

You swallow “And now?”

He tilts his head slightly “Now it’s real.”

You’re quiet for a moment, absorbing his words. He’s right, in a way. Even back then, when you swore your feelings for him were unwavering, there was always a part of you that feared it wouldn’t last. That he wouldn’t let you in all the way. That you weren’t really home.

But now there’s no doubt.

You shift closer, reaching up to place your hand gently against his cheek. His skin is warm under your palm, and his eyes flicker with something softer, something rare.

Without a word, he takes your hand in his own, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

The touch is so gentle, so unexpectedly tender that it sends a rush of butterflies through you. You laugh, the feeling overwhelming, and before you can stop yourself, you lunge at him.

Law barely has time to react before you’re tackling him onto the bed, pressing frantic, giggling kisses to his lips. He huffs in surprise, but it quickly turns into a deep chuckle against your mouth.

He’s smiling into the kiss.

And it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt.

The next morning Law refuses to get up.

“Captain, we have work to do!” Bepo calls from outside the door.

Law groans into the pillow “Five more minutes.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago” you remind him, poking his side.

“Then five more” he mumbles.

You laugh, shaking your head “What happened to you? The Trafalgar Law I met wouldn’t waste time in bed.”

Law cracks one eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips.

“The Trafalgar Law you met didn’t have you.”

Your face burns.

And before you can respond, the door slams open.

“Oi, get up!” Shachi yells “You guys are disgusting!”

Law glares “You’re about to be dead.”

And just like that, the chase begins.

Epilogue:

You stand at the shore of a deserted island, the salty breeze running through your hair.

The remnants of your old captain’s ship are in the distance, sinking beneath the waves. The battle is over. The people who once haunted you are no more.

A strange feeling settles in your chest. Not sadness. Not regret. Just… closure.

Law steps beside you, his coat billowing in the wind. The crew lingers behind, waiting, watching.

“It’s done” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.

Law studies your face, his gaze steady “Are you okay?”

You turn to him, really looking at him, at the man who stood by you through everything.

And for the first time in years, you can answer honestly.

“Yeah,” you say, smiling “I am.”

He doesn’t say anything, but the way his fingers graze yours, the way he leaves a small sweet kiss on your lips not caring that everyone is watching, the crew cheers behind you, the way the ocean stretches wide and open before you... it all says enough.

The past is behind you. The future is yours to take.

And as you step forward, you know one thing for sure.

You’re exactly where you belong.

Home.

Tag List: @dana-nite - @osakis-gf - @crmnic - @weirdothatreads - @tuskjohnny - @tojirin - @xxvoidgrangerxx - @eggrollforyou - @chillerkiller - @stuckinmymind22 - @gojossixtheyes - @bonnie-tz - @luveitoraowife - @bagofrice - @chibinasuu - @tolkienlovee - @mahoee - @chxrriii - @whore-of-many-hot-men - @teiza - @greenbnny - @ken0psi-a - @lxpofthegods - @teiza - @froggiesstalks - @shmd-nora - @amelia0ash

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missarchive · 5 months ago

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Hey,

could you please write a Hannibal one-shot, where he realizes he is in love with the fbi reader after she nearly dies while she was hunting an other serial killer. After this realization he persues her and has dinner with her, where he confesses in a typical Hannibal way.(preferably with smut)

my first request! thank you so so much!!! i hope you like it <3

who? hannibal x fem!reader

category: angst, smut

content warnings: NSFW MDNI!! dark themes, cannibalistic references, mentions of death, blood, fingering, food, biting

word count: 2k

He watched in horror as you lay motionless on the floor, your blood painting the room in crimson rivers, a masterpiece of despair. The coppery scent filled his nostrils, igniting something primal in him, but it was overshadowed by the weight of his failure. His heart fell like carrion, devoured by guilt. If only he hadn’t been so consumed by his obsession with Buffalo Bill, so blinded by his macabre reveries, he might have caught the predator who nearly stole you from him. You were his now, his life’s marrow, and the thought of losing you gnawed at his resolve.

Jack’s frantic voice calling for paramedics was a dull roar in the background, irrelevant. All that mattered was you, your fragile body bathed in the ichor of survival. Your blood called to him—a siren’s song of life and fragility, begging him to protect what he had claimed.

The ride to the hospital was a slow dissection of his patience. He stayed by your side, never wavering, his presence as steady as a hunter guarding his feast. When they sedated you, he felt the sting of powerlessness, like a beast caged, unable to act. Seeing you pale and vulnerable in the hospital bed filled him with an ache he couldn’t name—a hunger not of the body but of the soul. You deserved better, and he would carve the world into a place worthy of you.

He’d never felt like this, not even in his darkest indulgences. You had unearthed something raw in him, something human, an appetite for connection that rivaled his other hungers. You made him feel alive, your presence slicing through his apathy as cleanly as a scalpel. You were his purpose now, the flesh to his bone, the feast he never knew he craved.

When you were discharged a week later, he was there, your shadow and sentinel. He helped you into the car, his touch lingering, savoring the privilege of your skin against his. You ordered takeout and sat together, the mundane act transformed into an intimacy that gnawed at the edges of his restraint. You wanted to know him, to taste the marrow of his history, and for the first time, he relented. He bared his scars, his childhood, Mischa—the foundation of the monster he had become.

Your arms wrapped around him, your cold hands branding his skin, and he reveled in the comfort you offered. You were his salvation, his undoing. When he stayed with you that night, your feverish body beside his, your scent and warmth filled the hollow void within him. The memory of your blood on his tongue haunted him, exquisite and forbidden, but he resisted. For now.

The next evening, you agreed to dine with him. He led you to the table, his lair dressed as an altar, the candelabra casting flickering shadows that seemed to dance with the promise of secrets. The silver serving dish gleamed between you both, an offering. When he revealed its contents—sliced thigh meat, glistening and tender—your breath hitched, her eyes wide with fear and something deeper. Desire.

“Will you taste it, for me?” he asked, his voice silken, the predator coaxing the prey.

“I shouldn’t,” you whispered, your eyes darting from the meat to his face.

“But you want to,” he said, leaning closer, his presence enveloping you like a shadow. “Don’t deny yourself what you crave.”

You swallowed hard, lips parting in hesitation. “And if I do? What does that make me?”

“It makes you honest,” he said, his voice dark with promise. “Honest with yourself. With me.”

Your trembling nod was all he needed. He fed you, piece by piece, watching as your soft lips closed around the fork, tongue darting out to savor the taste.

“Tell me,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours. “What do you taste?”

Your gaze flickered to the dish, then back to him. “It’s rich,” your voice barely above a whisper. “Decadent. It shouldn’t be, but…”

“But it’s exquisite,” he finished for you, his lips curling into a satisfied smile. “Just like you.”

Your breath hitched, and you shook her head. “You can’t say things like that. Not after everything.”

“Everything I’ve done, you mean?” he said, setting the fork down and leaning closer. “And yet, here you are. At my table. Tasting my work. Why?”

You looked away, hands trembling in your lap. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, his voice a blade cutting through your defenses. “You’ve known since the moment you found me in my cell. We are not so different, you and I. You feel it, don’t you? That pull. The hunger.”

Your eyes snapped to his, wide and glassy. “I’m nothing like you.”

He laughed softly, the sound more predator than amusement. “Oh, but you are. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. You wouldn’t have tasted it if you didn’t want to know.”

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “I can’t. I can’t be like this.”

“You already are,” he said, reaching out to cup your chin. “And it’s beautiful.”

Lips quivered under his touch, your resolve crumbling. “What do you want from me?”

“Everything,” he said simply, his voice low and deliberate. “Your mind, your body, your soul. Give yourself to me, and I’ll give you the world.”

You stared at him, breath shallow, pulse hammering against your ribs. “And if I say no?”

“Then you’ll walk away,” he replied, his tone calm, though his eyes burned with a fire you couldn’t ignore. “But you won’t. Because you already know the truth.”

Your lips parted as if to argue, but no words came. Instead, you reached for the fork, hand trembling, and lifted another piece of meat. “More?” you whispered, voice barely audible.

He nodded, his gaze never leaving yours, and you fed him. His hands slid to your thighs, a deliberate and possessive touch, and you didn’t stop him, how could you? Your eyes met, your hesitation melting into something deeper, darker.

“How does it taste?,” you whispered, your voice soft and reverent.

His groan rumbled low in his chest as he pulled you to him, his lips finding yours with an urgency that made you gasp. The taste of you, the feel of you, was intoxicating, and he devoured it with a hunger that felt endless. “Delicious.”

You let him kiss you, let him taste you, for one long, breathless moment before pulling back, lips swollen, chest rising and falling in rapid rhythm. “Hannibal…” you murmured, voice a blend of warning and want.

He released you reluctantly but seized your chin, tilting your face to meet his gaze. His fingers were firm, unyielding, but not cruel. “Say it,” he commanded, his voice velvet over steel. “Tell me you’re mine.”

Your eyes widened, twin storms of fear and longing swirling in their depths. Your breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, the room held its breath with you. The weight of his command pressed on you like a velvet shroud—suffocating yet intoxicating. You hesitated, lips trembling, caught between resistance and the undeniable pull of surrender. Finally, as though the tension within you had reached its breaking point, you nodded, voice quivering, a fragile wisp of sound.

“I’m yours.”

His eyes darkened, the amber depths of them ignited by the molten heat of satisfaction and desire. A predatory smile ghosted over his lips as he drank in your submission. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low and rich, heavy with promise and intent.

You lie there, motionless, your body trembling with the echoes of his touch. His presence is all-encompassing, a shadow that devours the light and leaves only him. You can’t escape the intensity of his gaze, the way his eyes seem to bore into your soul, unearthing secrets you didn’t even know you carried.

The first bite sends a jolt of pain and pleasure coursing through you, a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips that follow. Your breath hitches, your body betraying you, arching toward him, craving the sting of his teeth even as your mind screams at you to run. But you don’t. You can’t.

His voice, low and commanding, is a dark symphony that plays at the edges of your sanity. “Open,” he says, and before you even realize it, your lips part, obeying him as though the word itself holds you captive.

The strawberry he presses to your lips is sweet, its juice sticky and warm as it drips down your chin. His tongue follows, deliberate and slow, tracing the trail it leaves. Your eyes flutter shut, the world narrowing to the sensation of him, the taste of the fruit mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

Your hands find their way to him, desperate for something to anchor you in this storm of sensation. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pull him closer, needing him, hating yourself for it but unable to resist. He groans, the sound vibrating against your skin, and it ignites something deep and primal within you.

When his teeth find your inner thigh, your gasp is involuntary. The pain is sharp but fleeting, replaced almost immediately by a rush of heat that pools low in your belly. You can feel the wetness between your legs, the evidence of your desire, and it shames you even as it thrills you.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rich and dark, a promise and a threat all at once.

And you are. God help you, you are.

He moves with purpose, trailing his lips, his teeth, his tongue over your body. Each bite, each scrape of his teeth, feels like a brand, marking you as his. And with every mark, you feel yourself slipping further, the lines between pain and pleasure, fear and longing, blurring until they’re indistinguishable.

When his fingers find you, parting your lips, sliding into your heat, your moan is loud and unrestrained. You’ve never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, and yet you’ve never felt so alive.

His mouth claims yours, swallowing your cries, his tongue tasting you as though he can’t get enough. When your body tightens around him, when you shatter in his arms, he doesn’t stop. He devours you, body and soul, until there’s nothing left of you but the trembling, aching woman in his arms.

And when it’s over, when you’re spent and sated and utterly his, he looks down at you with a hunger that hasn’t been satisfied.

“I’m still hungry,” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear, and your breath catches in your throat.

You know what he means, and yet you don’t run. You nod, surrendering completely, because in that moment, you realize something terrifying and undeniable.

You want to be devoured.

#missarchive #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal x reader #hannibal smut #hannibal oneshot

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ducksido · 1 month ago

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Hi duckyboo 💗 (/j) i came back from my grave

As always, Rook Hunt, cause i luv him.

Rook with a Will Solace!male reader/yuu who, after going on a hunting trip (they somehow got permision by Crowley), realized that reader may or may not be more magically (or just useful) useful that what everyone thought.

(Gotta love our countryboy doctor who can kill or impale a non human by just understanding it's anatomy)

Hii arleboo 💖(/j) Chat every time I write for Rook I have to scratch my brain for my French Duolingo lessons

The moment you asked Crowley for permission to go on a hunting trip, Rook was already intrigued.

Of course he followed you. (Surprise surveillance is a love language.)

He expected to see you admire the woods, maybe set a few traps, or—if he was lucky—gather herbs with your charmingly clinical focus. What he didn’t expect was you casually taking down a magically enhanced boar-creature by stabbing it through the sternum and muttering, “That’s where the secondary heart is. Too bad.”

When you drag the monster’s corpse out of the thicket with blood on your sleeves, sweat on your brow, and a boyish smile as if you didn’t just perform a murder with surgical precision—Rook genuinely short-circuits.

“Mon dieu...! Yuu, mon cher! Quelle magnificence!”

He dashes to your side, breathless in admiration. You think he's mad at you for wandering too far, but instead he grabs your hands, eyes wide with awe.

“To know the rhythm of a creature's body—its heart, its bones, its hidden weaknesses—and to act with such unerring precision... c’est vraiment un don du ciel!”

You're awkward, wiping monster blood off on your jeans. “Uhh... I just know anatomy? It’s not that big a deal.”

“Non, non, non! It is the greatest of deals! You are the perfect combination of healer and hunter, light and lethality! Like Apollo himself forged you in a moment of divine indulgence!”

He starts reciting a poem about your hands. You interrupt to remind him you need to cauterize the wound on your arm first.

Once the others find out, thanks to Rook’s lyrical bragging and a very graphic photo in the group chat, everyone starts realizing just how useful you are.

Vil asks for you on wilderness assignments now. “If anything goes wrong, we have our golden boy executioner.”

Idia is both terrified and fascinated. “Bro... you’re like... a support character with assassin DLC.”

As for Rook:

He’s enamored. Not just because you’re deadly—though he adores that part—but because you do it with purpose. You don’t kill for thrill. You do it to protect others. To heal those who come after.

He watches you patch up Grim after a blast, sunlight on your hair and blood on your fingers, and he falls a little more in love.

“You are poetry in motion, mon soleil—both scalpel and salve.”

You: “Rook please I’m just trying to get this splinter out—”

“Let me serenade you as you perform your sacred work.”

And so you’re stuck with a devoted hunter boyfriend who writes you poetry about your anatomical knowledge and brags about your field surgery skills like they’re heroic feats—which, to him, they are.

#twst #twst x reader #twst wonderland #twst yuu #twst headcanons #rook hunt x reader #rook x you #rook hunt #rook x reader #rook #tw the french

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meowordeath · 11 months ago

Text

The ‘orange peel’ theory! :3

w / Eli Clark , Aesop Carl , Victor Grantz & Naib Subedar !

A/N : this is a short little scenario! and I don't know if anyone has done this already.

Warnings - none ?

Eli Clark <3

You and him are relaxing at the starting table waiting for the hunter to arrive so the match can start. You had asked the small patroller to bring you a small piece of fruit. It had brought you back an orange.

Eli watched you stare at the orange for a moment to before speaking. “Would you like me to peel that for you my love?” His tone was soft, honestly making you melt at his offer.

“Yes please, if you wouldn’t mind. I don’t really want to have sticky hands before the match.” You saying handing over the orange happily.

He does an okay job peeling the orange. It has a few scratch marks on the slices themself, but overall your thankful you dont have orange peel stuck in your nails or juice staining your hands. You’d definitely ask him again.

“Thank you!” You say plucking the fruit from his hands, even giving him a few slices.

Aesop Carl

He was in the middle of doing nothing, maybe messing around with his coffin doll a little dressing it up and stuff, but he quickly dropped what he was doing to attend to you.

You greet him loveingly as you quickly approaching him, orange in hand. He put his tools down turning toward you. “Could you peel this orange for me please” You give him a big smile holding it out.

He raises his eyebrow slightly in confusion. “Well, yes I guess I can, but why don’t you want to?” Though he asks he still takes the orange from your hands.

“Well you know, I just don't want orange all over my hands, and it a win cause I get to see my lovely boyfriend” His face an ears turn slightly red. “Ah, I see.”

Aesop doesn’t peel the orange with his hands through he turns around grabbing his scalpel and just cuts the peel off in a cute swirl.

It would've been even cuter if he hadn't cut off most of the edible part as well. You think next time you’d have better luck just peeling it yourself.

“Uh, thank you!” You take the orange from him kissing beside his eye before taking off. He shakes his head as you disappear as fast as you’d appeared.

Victor Grantz

Victor was in the middle of writing a letter when you put your orange down beside his letter. “Victor, may you please be a dear and peel this orange for me!”

You said it so nicely and who is he to decline such a polite request from you. He smiles at you as he picks up your orange with a nod.

The way he peels the orange is perfect. He didn’t accidentally puncture it with his nails and manage to remove most of that yucky white part.

He even pulls apart the slices for you, putting them in a heart as he pulled them apart. You’d definitely come to him again if you needed any fruit peeled.

Kissing his on cheek you take half of them leaving the rest for him. “I’ll let you have half since you're working hard”

Naib Subedar

“Naib-” You don't actually get to finish before he takes the fruit out of your hand. “Thank you.” He says graciously, at least so you think, before taking a bite out of the orange, rind and all.

You sputter, eye twitching as you stare at him munch on your orange. “That-” He cuts you off again thinking your going to comment on him eating the rind.

“It has more nutrients if you eat the outer part as well.” his mouth is full and he respond. The juice of your orange dripping down his chin.

You stare as him as he finishes off your orange. He has the audacity to thank you and kiss you not even before wiping his face.

You don't ever ask Naib to peel nor cut fruit for you again.

Not proof read! So sorry if there are errors :3

#eli clark x reader #eli clark #naib subedar x reader #naib subedar #identity v x reader #identity v #victor grantz x reader #victor grantz #aesop carl x reader #survivor reader #idv x reader #seer x reader #mercenary x reader #postman x reader #embalmer x reader

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jedipoodoo · 6 months ago

Text

Ruthlessness (Sergeant Hunter x fem!Reader)

"After everything you've done...how will you sleep at night?"

"Next to my wife."

Notes: Feral Hunter, above-average bloodshed and violence. Reader is implied to be a Jedi but it's never explicitly stated, inspired by that line from Epic: The Vengeance Saga.

Hunter tore through the base. He could smell your fear and terror, and he knew you were nearby. He didn't even need Tech's directions.

This is what he was made for.

He hadn't slept since he'd heard you'd been captured, and he wouldn't rest until you were safe in his arms.

He quickly dispatched the two TK Troopers at the door with blaster and knife. Before the first body could hit the floor, he snatched the key card from their belt. He could hear your heartbeat just beyond the door, sluggish and slow, along with one other heartbeat and the deadly hum of an interrogation droid.

The moment the door opened, Hunter found his target, launching his vibroblade at the droid.

The blaster shot took him by surprise. Hunter managed to dodge so that it grazed him just below the ribs, but it burned. Every nerve in his body screamed out in pain,but he had to keep moving forward Hunter dropped to his knee, holding his wound, and looked up at the blaster pointed at his face.

"Doctor Hemlock warned me you'd come after her," the Imperial officer said, his voice low and lethal. He sounded just like Hemlock and Rampart, a controlled calm with a storm seething beneath the surface.

Hunter had no use for control. Not when he saw you hanging limp in the officer's arm like the damsel in distress in some cheap holo novel.

"Let her go, and I might let you live." Hunter growled, pushing himself to his feet.

The blaster followed his every move, and the officer chuckled as if he hadn't just been threatened.

"That's not an option here. She's a traitor, as are you."

Hunter took a step forward, only to stumble against a table littered with surgical tools. The officer kept the blaster trained on him, smart man.

But not smart enough.

"You're a stubborn one, aren't you?" The officer chuckled, "You clones just don't know when to quit."

"Hun'red percent success rate," Hunter bragged through gritted teeth, forcing his legs to support him.

"And vain too," the officer scoffed.

Hunter turned his body just enough that the officer couldn't see him grab the scalpel, still trying to make his way to you. Your heartbeat was growing slower with each passing second. He had to get you out of here.

"And what do you call your Emperor, then? An empire that'll last a thousand years? The Republic's been around longer than that."

"The Republic is gone!" The officer snapped, "That is the difference between the Galactic Empire and your precious Republic!" He jabbed the barrel of his blaster against Hunter's chestplate, sealing his doom.

Hunter moved too fast for anyone but Crosshair to have really noticed. The scalpel met its target in the vein of the officer's wrist, and he dropped the blaster with a scream. Hunter grabbed the wound and twisted it, forcing the officer to drop your body. Hunter only took his eyes off the officer to make sure you were safe, but he recovered quickly. He reached for the blaster with his non-dominant hand, and Hunter kicked it out of reach. The officer went for Hunter's wound, digging his hand into the wound. The air was ripped from Hunter's lungs as he tried to focus his vision. He couldn't let you die here, not as a trophy for some fanatic Imperial sycophant.

He still gripped the scalpel in his hand, and as the officer grinned sadistically Hunter drew it across his face. Blood splattered everywhere, and the officer reeled back with his face in his hands. Hunter didn't let him recover. He stomped his booted foot on the officer's shin, shattering his bones. The officer writhed on the floor as he tried to crawl away, dark blood from his face and wrist staining his gray uniform and slicking the tile floor.

Hunter held his side and adjusted his hold on the scalpel for a firmer grip, standing above the insignificant worm of a sentient that had dared to lay a hand on his Cyare.

"You clones-" the officer spat, coughing on his own blood.

"Scraping by, betraying the glory of the Empire just to live hand to mouth..."

"How how do you live with yourself?

"How do you sleep at night?"

Hunter grabbed onto the officers hair, yanking his head back so that the last thing he ever saw was the clone who would kill him.

"Next to my wife."

He drove the scalpel into the monster's chest, over, and over, and over again, until he heard the silence of its heart.

Hunter heaved a deep breath, tasting the coppery tang of blood at the back of his throat. It took a moment, but Hunter knew it wasn't his own.

A shuddering breath echoed through the room, and Hunter turned to you, crouching in between you and the officer so that you wouldn't have to see him as you woke up.

"Cyare? Cyare, can you hear me?" He called your name, cradling your head in his lap.

You mumbled something unintelligible, eyelids twitching.

"Hun'er?"

"Easy, easy Cyare, you're safe. It's over," He said. He gently pressed his fingers to the spot below your jaw where he could feel your heartbeat. It was delicate, like the flutter of a bird's wing, but it was there all the same. He needed to get you to the ship.

Hunter lifted you into his arms and though you raised your arms to hang onto his neck, they weighed as much as a starcruiser.

"I've got you," He whispered, "You're gonna be alright."

Your knee hit the blaster wound in his side, and he winced.

"You're hurt," You gasped, still drugged but now worried about him.

He shook his head and straightened his shoulders, "Don't worry about me. You're safe now. That's all that matters."

@photogirl894 @meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender @emperor-palpaminty @clonethirstingisreal (I just thought y'all would enjoy ✌️)

#merry christmas ya filthy animals #i've been trying to write this since halloween #not as much hunter/reader action but that's not the point of this one #lizart writes #sergeant hunter x reader #tbb hunter x reader #hunter x reader #tbb hunter x you #sergeant hunter x you #blood tw #violence tw #also s/o to asherthewarlock this gif is gorgeous ty for blessing us #🙏🙏🙏🙏

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diejager · 2 years ago

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begging for more monster 141🙏🙏🙏

hear me out- reader is a host to venom but has it hidden and they find out maybe…?

(i got hyper fixated on blue’s au and SCOURING the internet💀)

What if… Hunter was Venom?

Pairing: Monster Task Force 141 + König & Horangi x venom reader

Cw: blood and gore, canon typical violence, head eating, gaslighting by Hunter, injury, fighting, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 3.4k

Only Human masterlist

Sometimes, they’d find you mumbling to yourself, voice so low that, unless they were a hybrid or had impeccable hearing, they wouldn’t be able to hear it. It was a ne’er silent whisper of harsh words or soft coos towards a being they couldn’t see. Were you talking to someone on your headset? Were you wearing EarPods to talk to someone? Or had you lost some screws in your mind after working with them for so long? None of them truly knew, but they wouldn’t bother you with it when you never bothered them with pesky questions that sounded insulting to them. After all, why would they bother their adorably useful and resourceful medic? You were the beating heart of the Task Force, you made it whole and functioning. Yet, they couldn’t stop the curiosity that festered in their mind, the need to know what made you talk to yourself, mumbling and cursing when you were alone.

Nothing seemed out of order, you were still strong-headed and scolding them like you did the day before, mumbling about Soap’s recklessness and Gaz’s impending fate of falling out of airborne vehicles. About Price’s habit of working too hard, pushing his already pained body to work. Pulling Ghost by the - bloody and soiled - sleeve to your infirmary with a deep frown and eyes glinting with the promise of retribution for the hybrid that hid whatever ailed him from you; you were the medic for Pete’s sake! It was your duty to watch over them. Hounding Alejandro for his medical check after a deployment because, as handsome and dependable as he was, he liked hiding his wounds. Running after Rudy for his checkups while he was limping or trying to avoid you. Calling after Horanji for his share of the affection, needle, scalpel, bandage and all, he needed and deserved all the others received. Or sitting beside König, reminiscing about your early days, where taking care of your patients was as easy as taking care of König was, grateful and pliant, showering you with love and adoration before, during and after the procedures.

You had your plate full with them, so it’d be unheard of if you had time to care for others. You might’ve been a medic on base, but your priorities and loyalties lay with them, with Task Force 141 and its allies. However being a - their - medic, didn’t mean you were free from any pain, fear or quirkiness as they were. You were as weird and as awful as every single one of them was, wearing it pridefully on your chest when you stood with them; even if you were wholly human - or you were supposed to.

Ghost caught fleeting moments where a dark mass would move around you, a glistening blob of marble-like texture with silver rivers running across it. It was near impossible to see it when it would disappear once it felt - even the slightest indication - the presence of another living being, like an illusion of trick of the light. That’s what you told them, it was simply a trick of the light or something because you didn’t know anything about an ugly blob. It was told slowly and persuasively with a wince once the words “ugly blob” left your mouth, a pained grimace as if something was grating your ears or claws were digging into your mind. When he brought it up with Gaz - who had impeccable eye-sight, the harpy would agree, spewing words about it having a menacing face with wide, pointed eyes and a mouth full of teeth. Big and sharp teeth that seemed alien-like. It couldn’t have been the trick of the light, especially since both of them saw the same thing. They asked you once more, together this time, but you’d reassured them that they were both tired when they’d seen this blob. You were tired and sometimes saw moving forms from the corner of your eyes too, so it might’ve been hysteria - collective hysteria.

Soap, if he tried hard enough, would sometimes hear a deep voice echo around you. It wasn’t something disturbingly deep, or annoyingly alien, it was pleasingly deep with a smooth undertone to its growls. It would send chills up his spine when he heard it, but he would always catch your voice talking back to it. He’d hear hisses and curses, some more unusual and others more normal: “I can’t eat my teammates!”, “I told you no!”, “Stop eating heads! People will catch on!” or “Can you shut up?” and “I can’t concentrate with you screaming my head off!” Soap, knowing how good Alejandro’s hearing was, asked if the Mexican had heard you speak with an unknown voice, specifically a male voice. A few muffled conversations between you and an unknown man and sometimes one-sided, but, simply put, Alejandro had witnessed the same occasions as the Scot had. It wasn’t unusual to talk to yourself, would it? Soap liked to boost his own morale with confident words and flattering compliments to himself. Alejandro wasn’t a stranger to mumbling to himself either, cursing his choice in life and how he ended up with his - lovable - problem-causing band of vagabonds.

If you weren’t careful or unintentionally careless, there would be a distinct odour clinging to your skin. It would be strong and pungent, the smell fresh and metallic-like. König knew it well, he craved as much as he wanted to bathe in it, the sweet smell of blood. How could he not recognize the faintest whiff of blood when it often drove him mad with bloodlust and the uncontrollable need to fall into a daze of primal hunger? It stuck to you like a second layer of skin, thin and always present. It sewed into the fundamentals of your scent, the tinge of iron mixed into the sweet, syrupy musk. It drove him mad with need, thirsting for the thing that made you smell so delicious. It clung to you as if you bathed in blood, drinking and devouring it, yet your skin was clean, with no speck of red under your nails, on your skin or between your teeth. In a worry, he went to Price, The Captain had the most knowledge about you and König could trust him to take good care of him, being a dragon. He expected the Brit to know something, even the slightest change, but Price hadn’t caught anything odd about you. Perhaps it clung to you because of your closeness to him, Percht hybrids - although rare - were ferociously unpredictable and ravenously bloodthirsty.

Rudy was the more human of them, so he caught on to the changes in behaviours and habits of others easily. You’d act odd at times, shoulders slightly tense and back slumped inward, body tired but unable to relax. He wanted to help, he proposed, but you’d turned him down, telling him you were fine, that you were just restless from being off duty for so long or for being worked to the bone. He would also catch you subtly avoiding them without ringing any bells, seeming occupied with other things while whispering under your breath; your slower reactions to their banter and the darker bags under your eyes, wearing that dazed and blank look in them while you sat with them; or the strong growl of your stomach and the slight rubbing of your stomach, soothing an ache that rooted so deeply in your abdomen. He worried, often, if he was honest. Even Horangi, a man oblivious to most cues and behaviours in humans, saw the subtle change in your behaviour when you acted odd. He pointed out the rings under your eyes, your fatigued and distracted mind, and your lip-gnawing hunger. For a hybrid that had so much difficulty grasping and understanding humans, he caught on to your change abnormally quickly, even with the excessive chocolate consumption.

They were all suspicious and you, their sweet and convincing medic, had them doubting what they saw, your gaslighting working on them as easily as a child bribed with candy. It didn’t make you feel less guilty or disappointed in yourself, but you weren’t sure how they’d react to him, not being human or a monster. He was a creature out of the pages of a sci-fi novel, a creation of the human mind and imagination. Venom was an alien, something from outer space. You were convincing until you couldn’t anymore.

Let me take over, the soothing voice uttered to you, calling out your name in a concerned tone. Let me protect you.

You were compromised, the enemy had tapped into your line, listening in on your conversations and movements. That’s how they were able to separate most of you, to turn the squad of nine operators down to four smaller teams, all on the run and trying to stick to the shadows without calling to the others through the comms. You were crouched over Gaz, whispering sweet nothings to the hissing man. You soothed his ache, hand and mind strained on the bleeding wound on his forearm, his beautiful, bronze skin stained with crimson in the hot and humid air of Columbia.

Blood rolled down his tense arm, over his round muscle and sweaty skin, it was a clean graze, the blunt head of the bullet grazing his arm deep enough for it to bleed but shallow enough for it not to leave him incapacitated with blood loss. It was a ray of light in your dreadful situation. You had his wound cleaned and wrapped up, congratulating him for pushing through and helping him up. You cursed the enemy, wondering how the low-stake in-and-out ops suddenly turned out to be an extremely high-stake one with minimal possibility of reaching the evacuation point.

“C’mon Gaz, we need to move,” you whispered to him, holding your rifle closely to your chest while you walked around the shadows of Guaitarilla’s back alley and dark corners. “We need to regroup at the evacuation point.”

“Yeah, good plan,” he nodded, following your lead even though he was higher-ranked than you, but in such situations, survival was the priority.

You stuck to alleys, using the shadows to hide from the patrolling cartel that had the town surrounded, it nearly baffled you with the speed of their defences and counter-attack if you hadn’t heard of Las Almas’ attack from El Sin Nombre and The Shadows from you teammates. Although you couldn’t admire them, you could respect their skills and ability, you only wished it was for you rather than against you.

While you watched ahead, Gaz had your back, peering around the corner before giving him the green to move. It was a rotation between who went first and who looked back, but you made it work with only you both. You were so careful, yet it somehow wasn’t enough, someone had noticed you and it sent you and Gaz rushing for cover, to escape the group of dispatched cartel members. It was stupid, running without looking where you were heading towards. It was stupid to let the enemy tap into your comms. It was stupid, the situation you got yourself into.

You were backed into a corner, Gaz standing before you like a protective shield between you and the enemy, his rifle pointed toward the quickly advancing group. You wanted to protest about him using his wings to cover you, his wide, brown feathers expanded to hide you from those men. He was already hurt from pulling you away from harm, but he was now standing protectively before you. You couldn’t let him get hurt because of you, not anymore.

Little One, his voice rang once more in your head, the reassuring pressure of his presence in your body calming you down by an inch. Let me take over.

If you let him take control of your body, it would ensure your and Gaz’s safety, then you could reach the others that you’d lost in the chaos of the battle. While you wore the combat medic’s patch proudly, your prior training before taking up your 16 weeks of medical training wasn't lost to you. You remembered how to aim and shoot, how to snipe an enemy from afar and protect your teammates from whatever danger you faced. None were lost to you, and you’d use every bit of training you had to protect them, whether it was as yourself or with Venom’s help. Venom’s help was undoubtedly useful, and right now, you needed him.

“Please, Venom,” you spoke aloud, your soft voice carrying through the blocked alley.

“Who-” Gaz asked, confusion laced his tone, the question left unspoken as Venom’s deep, rattling voice boomed across the tight space.

“We are Venom, flesh bag,” he growled, body crouching down, not dissimilar to a feline laying prone while it waited for the right moment to attack, and pounced at the men.

Don’t call Gaz flesh bag, Venom, you whined, your voice echoing in your shared subspace of your mind.

“If that is what you wish.”

His heavy mass landed on a man, pushing him to the ground with a loud crack. You imagined that Venom either broke his back or a few of the Colombian’s ribs, it was sickeningly delightful, the sadistic pleasure from Venom sent you reading with mirth. His hands stretched to abnormal lengths to swing at the enemies with practised ease and familiarity. Whether they’d die from blunt force trauma from Venom’s strength or live with a concussion, none mattered to him, hunger raked his being, the throb aching in the back of his mind. It was a moment where he was let loose, where you wouldn’t need to gorge on an extreme amount of chocolate to keep him fed. This would keep him satisfied for a few weeks.

Venom pulled the first two in, his jaw widening to clamp down on their neck. Gaz saw the dangerous gleam of Venom’s teeth, rows of pristine and immaculate teeth the size of a finger bled the man’s head red in a single bite. He shivered at the decapitated body that fell from your monster’s hand as he went for the second and third Colombian. He made a show of viciousness and raw, unadulterated bloodthirst with his eating. Fortunately, apart from the bloody mess and dead bodies, Venom was a relatively neat eater, licking his teeth clean from the red stains with a long, slimy tongue. Gaz couldn’t shake how your monster made him apprehensive, his body flinching and trembling at the greater being.

“Let’s go, The Little One wants to rescue the others,” Venom’s grating voice shook Gaz out of his stupor.

“Hu-Hunter’s there?”

Venom nodded, his mass retreating into your body, the mass melting into you like a second skin. It was as if Venom was never there, as if it was all his delusional imagination. Gaz rushed to you, his hands grabbing hold of you as he shook you in his grasp, he cursed in worry, concern lacing every word he spewed in a tornado of fear, curiosity and confusion. His soft feathered wings cradled you, casting a protective shadow over you as you hid in the darkness of the alley.

“Gaz, we have to go,” you murmured to him, your voice soft and reassuring, trying to help him walk off the edge you were pushed to. You both were safe for now, the cartel that had followed you all laid dead without their heads in a thick puddle of their viscera. “We have to find the others.”

He let out a shaky sign, his head nodding in affirmation at your comforting words. He loved that about you, that ability to heal and mend their ache and anguish with a smile and sweet words. Then, pairing your softness with your stubborn viciousness made you a gem within the military, a one-in-a-million for them. Yet, all that clouded his mind were questions, about your safety, about that monster that melted into you, about what kind or what it was. Gaz had so many questions that he’d push back for the greater good of rescuing the rest of the Task Force, he’d hound you for answers later when everyone was back together.

When Venom resurfaced, retaking control of your shared body, he’d reassured you that he knew where they were, his body being hyper-aware of the things that made you smile and laugh. You were his host and his joy. It was an easier job than the two of you - you and Gaz - had expected, Venom’s claws digging into the buildings as he scaled the walls to reach the roof. From then, he pulled nothing back, rushing forward with the same enthusiasm as König had when he led first, and leaped, the muscles of his legs pushing him high across the buildings with Gaz flying beside him.

Venom had made quick work of the situation, his body invulnerable to anything but loud sounds and fire, which none had since it was a rainy night. You found Horangi and Alejandro first, Venom doing what he knew best: protecting you, in relation, what you loved too, and feeding on human heads, the chemicals in the human brains nurturing him. Alejandro and Horangi were naturally confused and distrustful of Venom, but you had Gaz to smooth things over, and knowing that Venom’s way of speaking was curt and up-to-point - annoyingly blunt - it made your body soar with relief. They, albeit confused and curious, followed you from the ground as Venom cleared a path to the next ones.

Price, Rudy and Soap were the biggest team from your unexpected separation. They jumped at Venom’s appearance, Soap throwing threats at him when he took a step towards them. That was expected, Venom - even being the symbiote you were hosting - was a stranger to them and Soap reacted according to his instincts. That blaring, red light that signalled his brain to send his body on complete guard about the danger, Venom couldn’t escape a werewolf’s keen situational awareness. You’d taken the initiative to calm them down, seeing as everyone was already down, the enemy loaded with bullets and dying in a pool of their blood. You kept the explanation short and simple, giving them the important points before promising to tell Price everything he wanted to know after you found Ghost and König.

Those two were harder to find, forcing Venom to extend himself to sense the slightest presence of either man. It couldn't be easier that Ghost was a wraith, being able to disappear and appear at will and that König knew very well how to hide, perhaps as well as Ghost could. When Venom found them, Ghost shot first, “shoot first, questions later” seemed to lead his decisions with König not far behind him. He brought his arms forward to protect himself and you, hidden within his mass. Venom growled but didn’t attack them, hissing the words you spoke to him to them. It was a simple quote that you’d shared with them in situations where they needed to find you between the hostages or under disguise.

Like calls to like.

It was simple, but telling. They stopped the moment Venom uttered them, knowing well you were inside Venom, Gaz landing before him and the others steadily arriving behind the two. Task Force 141 was finally complete, from the most humane to the most chaotic hybrid, some were hurt, grazed, protrusions, and stabbed, but all were alive. You were glad, you were really, really happy that everyone was safe and alive.

Seated in the Razor, the silence and tension were thick within the cargo hold, Horangi and Gaz framing your sides with Price taking the seat across from you. You could see the stress and tension rolling off his shoulder after treating everyone, his brows furrowed and a frown curled his lips under his beard. Beside him was Alejandro and Ghost, both - like everyone else - wearing a confused and disgruntled expression on their face, their eyes gleaming with questions left unsaid. You’d left them wondering if their minds were playing tricks on them, if they were seeing things, if they were imagining things and if they were losing their minds. You understood the anger, but you had your reasons to hide Venom’s existence.

Price crossed his arms, legs spread wide as he leaned back, his head tipped back with an inquisitively serious look. He raised a brow at you, waiting to see if you could prove your case or if you had anything to add before he started. With nothing to say, you bit your bottom lip, your shoulders screwed with anxiety and fear. You didn’t know what to expect now that your well-kept secret was out.

“We have a lot to talk about, Hunter.”

“I know, Captain.”

Better sooner than later, leaving it to fester and grow would be bad for the TF’s morale and relations.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness

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sawbuckplus · 4 months ago

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Watching everybody I know on the left pontificating about the proper way to conduct audits, after getting their accounting degrees from the University of Internet this week, is absolute cringe for me. Guys, listen, I say this with love… You don’t know dick about shit and it’s fucking embarrassing. Just stop. You sound like idiots. So now, as a guy who used to be an auditor, who has defended companies from dozens of audits from different government agencies, I’ll try to correct some of your incredibly stupid NPC talking points you keep endlessly barfing up. First off, you need to know there’s a difference between an outside audit and an internal audit. An outside audit is when somebody who isn’t part of your company comes in and checks your stuff.

...

You do NOT need to be an accountant to be an auditor. Anybody who says this is a total dumb ass with zero grasp of how any of this shit works in real life. The people who make up your audit team are recruited from whatever skill sets are necessary to audit that particular system. I (the accountant) have been on audit teams with IT guys, programmers, lawyers, and even machinists. (why machinists, because I was auditing a factory, and I could count the parts, but I couldn’t tell you if the parts were bullshit or not) So if you are auditing a computer system, then your auditors would obviously require computer people. Fucking duh, morons. Holy shit. The reason most auditors come from an accounting background is because most fraud, waste, and abuse comes from fuckery on the books. But if the fuckery is taking place in the particular systems before they get to the financials, that’s where we bring in systems experts. Next, you morons are acting like the entire organization is half a dozen 20 somethings, because that’s who got doxxed first and you fuckers are too stupid or dishonest to realize that’s not the entire team. Newsweek has compiled a list of known DOGE staff so far, and their ages are 33, 42, 28, 34, 67, 30, 33, 36, 33, 47, 25, 24, 43, 23, 25, 45, 19, 28, 21, 44, 39, 57, 45, 41, 32, 28, 22, 37, 37, 35, 24, 42, 36, and 36.

...

But (insert sob story here about how some good necessary wonderful saint of a government employee or super awesome wonderful government program got cut here) REEEEE!!!! Except too bad that’s total bullshit. The time for a gentle, caring, measured (slow), careful pruning of government to only remove the bad tissue with a scalpel was generations ago. We are now at the axe and TQ time before the patient dies. Yeah, that sucks, but that’s what happens when you procrastinate going to the doctors while a cancerous tumor the size of a fucking watermelon grows out your back.

...

Next, Elon now has access to our personal data! REEEEEE! Which is the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard, because if Elon wanted all our personal data he could just buy it off the Communist Chinese, from one of the last seven times our incompetent and unaccountable federal government leaked all our data, for way cheaper. This is just idiotic obfuscation.

...

If a company’s records were full of broken bullshit, the government would assume the worst, fine the ever living fuck out of you, and possibly send you to jail. Because the government’s default assumption when a company’s books are all fucked up is that it is on purpose to hide fraud. Except when our government’s books are filled with things like 30 million dollars to fund a Transsexual Peruvian Orchestra, and 99% of that money never made it out of northern Virginia, we’re supposed to assume that’s just nice fluffy goodness, and HOW DARE YOU assume there’s anything dishonest going on.

Read the whole thing, and then take a wander through the comments. Well worth your time.

#read the whole thing #larry correia #what are the democrats hiding #what are the democrats afraid of #the last thing the democrats want are open and transparent audits #an open and transparent audit #doge #if it is good for americans the democrats are against it

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fanaticsnail · 2 years ago

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You Kissed the Clown? Part 9

You guys, my heart. There were so many things I wanted to say and do in this chapter and the words came out completely differently than I was expecting.

Your comments literally mean the world to me, so please interact if you like this chapter - or check out some of my other stuff in my Masterlist if you like my writing style.

Word Count: 4,653

(Edit to add: Trigger Warning! Reader accidentally gets a big ouch and descriptives of self-induced unintentional self-ouch is described)

Chapter 8 back here.

“There once was a girl with Tangerine hair, who stole my map and left me stranded somewhere,” a gruff singing voice reverberated throughout the wooden deck, “truly a crooked and crafty young lass, but you can’t deny she had a spectacular- OW-!” the voice was thrust, muffling an exclamation of pain as the source of the noise was thrust into the darkness of a barrel the hands of the green-haired swordsman.

“Listen,” Usopp addressed Zoro as Zoro turned to face him, “why don’t we just let her have him? Honestly-,”

“No,” Zoro said firmly. You could hear the growl from his fury at the mere suggestion of allowing you near the clown.

“I don’t get it-,” Usopp sighed.

“You don’t have to get it,” Zoro again growled at him, “I said no.”

“Come on, bounty hunter,” Buggy whined, “I’ll behave. Honest!”

Zoro growled and reopened the barrel containing Buggy’s head and lifted him, scrunching his hair beneath his red and white bandana within his fist.

“Listen, clown,” Zoro’s voice darkened with a low and threatening tone. He brought Buggy’s face closer to his; continuing his threat with narrowing his eyes. Buggy winced at the pain he was once again experiencing at the hands of the swordsman.

“Give us clear directions,” he uttered, pausing briefly before adding, “and we’ll see about you just being able to look at her.”

“I’ll be good, I’ll be good!” Buggy panted, flinching with his eyes tightly shut at how tightly the swordsman was gripping his hand, “I just- ow this really hurts- I just want to see her.”

Zoro snarled at the clown before firmly placing him down with a loud thud atop the barrel lid once more.

“Clear,” Zoro growled, still holding firmly onto his head before releasing his grip, uttering, “directions.”

“Okay, okay, sheesh,” Buggy relented with an unamused grimace, “two degrees to port, and if you feel the wind change; move with it hard starboard.”

Buggy jumped around atop the barrel to make eye contact with Zoro.

“Now then, sword boy,” Buggy bore his teeth in a wide smile, “let me see my girl.”

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

You remained in your quarters, after being commanded by the First Mate of the Going Merry to not be within a certain foot radius of the pirate clown. You creased your brows and allowed a snarl to pull at your lips slightly as you continued vigorously polishing several tools in desperate need of attention.

You scoffed to yourself and put additional effort into polishing your tool with a semi-excessive force while the corners of your mouth pulled down.

“She’s not allowed on clown-head duty,” you wiggled your head from side to side as you openly mocked the voice of Zoro under your breath. You rolled your eyes, “jokes on you, swordsman. I don’t want to be on clown-head duty.”

You rolled your eyes and grit your teeth as you made your way to sharpen the pointed tip of your leather-pairing scalpel with your smooth whetstone. You absent-mindedly began shifting your conflicting and intrusive thoughts throughout your mind.

“What do I say to him? ‘Sorry for kissing you, it was a fight-flight-freeze or fuck response to your threats of violence’?” the thoughts wove through your brain as you brought your eyes down harder to focus on the silver object.

“I can’t be left alone with him,” your thoughts confirmed, you nodding your head along as you hastened your sharpening, “he’s likely to hurl insults at me for being such a shit kisser.”

“But I’m not a shit kisser,” your mind continued to whirl in thought, “I’m actually a really good kisser.”

You snarled your lips up slightly as you continued to hyper-fixate on the insult the clown never gave you.

“I’ll show that prick exactly how much of a good kisser I can be,” you growled under your breath.

As your thoughts continued to whizz throughout the recesses of your brain, your concentration lapsed as the course stone you were using to sharpen your scalpel slipped from your rough grip. The blade slashed a nasty, deep cut along your right palm as the stone slid away.

A loud shriek and a string of expletives left your lips unceremoniously as you dropped the scalpel and rose to your feet, cradling the back of your right hand in your left and raising the injury above your head. You growled at the impact your own stupidity brought towards you.

You used your foot to pull down the leaver of your door handle and swung it open with your toe, spinning around gracefully as your eyes winced in pain from your injury. Scurrying up the stairs and around the corridor, you found the kitchen with no one in sight. You gasped out a slight air of relief as you let a small sob escape from your lips as you searched for the first-aid kit Chef Zeff provided for “the next time the sword-kid does something stupid,” if your memory serves you correctly.

You brought the kit to the counter directly beside the sink and plopped it down, your injured hand hovering beside your head as you felt warm liquid pour down your forearm. You took your bottom lip between your teeth as you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes at the pain.

“Oh, get a hold of yourself, woman,” you yelled at yourself, blissfully unaware at the entrance of Zoro equipped with the severed head of the clown as they both froze at the sight that lay before them.

“What happened?” you heard Zoro call to you, plonking Buggy’s head on the hanging felt-lined table before weaving his way around the kitchen island benchtop and hastily scurrying to your side and cradled your right wrist within his hands.

You jumped at the sudden interruption and faced Zoro as he assessed your injury, ignorant of the current location of Buggy’s head as the clown’s eyes were wide and full of concern.

“I-,” you started, darting your eyes between Zoro’s and your hand, words catching in your throat. He continued examining your hand and brought it up to his face.

Zoro pressed on your hand slightly as you hissed a wince through your teeth. Zoro rolled his eyes at you before holding your hand under the running tap.

“What was it?” Zoro monotonously asked you quietly.

“Leather-working scalpel,” you confessed through your still clenched teeth.

“You’re an idiot,” he said, turning off the tap.

“So are you,” you spat at him before looking to your wound before darting your eyes towards the ceiling and holding it there.

“Has it stopped bleeding?” you asked him, prompting him to lean forward to check.

“Nope,” he said nonchalantly with a shrug.

You continued to hold your gaze on the ceiling as Zoro raised your hand from the sink and began to dab at it with a gauze rag from the first aid kit gently. You bit your lip and continued to hold your sights on the ceiling to avoid making eye contact with both your wound and Zoro’s disapproving glare.

“Look,” Zoro said, while still dabbing at the wound, “I cause the injuries, not manage them. Not really sure what I’m doing here-,”

“Put some pressure on it,” you heard a gruff voice utter almost inaudibly, prompting you to turn your head to seek out its source.

It was there again where you met the blue-green irises of the infamous clown captain you had come to unrequitedly adore. You scolded yourself for the happenstance of your secondary meeting with him aboard the Going Merry, as you continued to hold his gaze.

“You say something, clown?” Zoro growled slightly at Buggy. After a brief pause, Buggy again uttered to the two of you.

“Put some pressure on it and come here,” he said, his tone serious and almost caring. You knit your eyebrows in concern before looking to Zoro for permission to follow the commands of a foreign captain.

He reluctantly released your hand from his ministrations and held his hands up defensively before ushering you to place yourself before the clown. You grabbed the piece of gauze Zoro was holding and pressed it on your hand while avoiding looking at the wound. Sitting atop the blue and white canvas fabric of the dining room lounge, you brought your injured hand upon the teal felt of the table where Buggy’s head was currently residing.

“Hold it, firmly,” Buggy ordered in a voice above a whisper before angling his head towards Zoro.

“And you,” he taunted, “bring us a bandage, some more gauze and a bottle of rum before you kindly fuck off.”

Zoro had a growl rumble in his chest at the taunt of the genius jester before he turned to lock eyes with yours. You pleaded with your eyes to do as the captain commanded, an apology also laced within your expression. Zoro, having mastered the skill of reading your looks, sighed before handing you a coiled bandage. He placed his hand on your right shoulder and squeezed it slightly before wordlessly exiting the kitchen, his right wrist hanging limply above his remaining white sword attached to his side.

Once Zoro left the kitchen, you turned to fix your sights on the clown captain’s animated head.

“Look-,” you began, before Buggy interrupted you.

“After you stop the bleeding, splash a bit of rum on the wound to sterilize it,” he clearly directed in a soft tone, “then place the fresh gauze on it and hold it there.”

You nodded your head in understanding before following his directions. You released a light groan from within your lips in reaction to the sting of the spiced alcohol on the cut before placing the gauze atop it.

“Now what?” you asked him.

“Now,” he directed you, “get the bandage and place the starting tab over the gash. Wind it over the top a couple of times and then circle it around your wrist.”

You nodded again, following his instructions before his voice again spoke.

“Not too tight!” he said, a little more loudly this time, “we don’t want you to lose your pretty hand now, do we?”

Your eyes widened at the comment as you held your sights on the dressing of your wound. You released some of the tension you were providing on the material as you followed his direction and followed the interweaving pattern all the way to the end of the material.

“There’s a good girl,” he praised you, his voice purring slightly.

The blood rushed to your cheeks immediately at his comment, heat flushing your face with a fire-like intensity. Buggy laughed in glee at your reaction before again directing you.

“Now tuck the tab in at the base of your wrist and tie a knot within itself,” he snickered at you, prompting you to do as you were told, before then adding, “and then pour us a drink, will you?”

You fastened a tight knot securing the material in place before rising to your feet and making your way to the teal cabinet. You located two shot-glasses and promptly swung the cabinet door closed and secured it with a slight click. Turning back and briskly making your way back to the clown, you placed the empty drinking vessels down in front of the two of you; you reached your freshly bandaged hand and uncorked the rum and poured two generous shots of rum into them.

You furrowed your brows while contemplating your next actions.

“What is it, Sunshine?” Buggy asked, beaming a playful grin on his face; his teeth bearing at you as his eyes twinkled with playfulness.

“May I ask,” you began, placing your elbows on the felt surface of the table and bringing your hands to lay flat on the surface. You quirked your head slightly to the side as you rose one of your eyebrows up. Buggy was seemingly enchanted by your face, focussing on nothing else within the space.

“How comfortable do you currently feel with me?” you asked him, a smile playing at your mouth as you coyly looked down at the surface of the table.

“In what capacity?” He asked you, eyebrows raising slightly at the question but smile never fleeing from his face.

“Well,” you raised one of the glasses, while looking at the base of it, “you don’t have any arms, love.”

You placed the glass against your lips and promptly knocked the liquid back down your throat with a slight hiss as it burned its way down. He watched you as you placed the empty glass on the counter.

“And I,” you said, raising the other glass up and examining it, “happen to have no such hindrances.”

You proceeded to wave the glass slightly in front of his eyes, his mouth watering as it pictured the flavour within. You giggled a little at his hyper-focussed attention before you rose the second glass to your lips and consumed the liquid with one quick gulp. You exhaled a breath of delight as the clown began to berate you with a string of insults.

“Oh, you little tease!” he yelled at you, “after all I did for you with your bandage and your wound and you weasel me out of a free drink like a diminutive minx!”

You giggled and placed the empty glasses back on top of the table in response.

“Big words from a small clown,” you taunted him, pouring another two tall shots of rum into the glass vessels.

“I have a lot of big words I can use,” he spat before angrily adding, “and who’re you calling small? I’m the biggest you’ve ever had, baby!”

You laughed at that comment, recorking the bottle of rum as you rose a glass up in front of the two of you.

“Now that I’ve got you alone,” he had a slight tone of suggestion woven in his words as he continued, “let’s talk.”

“Let’s first be sure who got who alone,” you taunted him in return, bringing the small glass once more to your lips as you darted your tongue out to lick the rim to collect any residual rum that may have spilt from the last shot before consuming another. You held your eyes locked on his through the entire exchange, watching his every action as he your own.

He watched your ministrations with an intensity a puppy may exhibit as a tender portion of meat be swaying in front of their face, and you relished in every moment.

“Do you really think me so ignorant of wound care I would not know how to dress one myself?” you quirked your brow up with a small smirk after gulping the burning rum into your throat. A moment of realisation crossed the clown’s face.

“The swordsman,” he gasped slightly.

“What a smart boy you are,” you cooed, teasing him with your words of affirmation.

It was his turn to have a rosy flush creep upon his features.

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” you asked him, raising the second full shot glass within your bandaged hand.

“You-,” he began in a slightly elevated tone before shallowing out his breath with a brief pause.

“I-?” you asked him with a small twinkle in your eye.

“Are just-,” he chuckled with a slightly gruff elevation to his voice before trailing off once more. It was if his mouth was withholding the information his eyes were screaming to express.

“Oh?” you asked him leaning further in towards him and leaning on your elbow while dancing the contents of the shot glass in front of him, “allow me to loosen that thought from you.”

You giggled as you placed the glass rim of the small cylindrical drinking vessel up to his lips and attempted to feed the rum into his mouth. He hungrily clasped his lips around the shot glass as some of the rum spilt through both corners of his mouth at his eagerness.

“Oh, you poor thirsty boy,” you pouted your lips as you cooed at him. His eyes snapped back to yours as his former fluster grew larger.

“You think just because I’m merely a head that I don’t have something to hold over you?” he spat while shaking slightly in rage.

“Please,” you pulled the cork from the rum bottle and once more poured two more shots into the small glasses, “enlighten me.”

“I have eyes and ears,” his ear jumped from its place attached to the side of his head and wiggled, causing you to shriek slightly in surprise. He chuckled, before adding; “everywhere.”

You watched as the little ear jumped on the table and made its way towards you as if it had two little feet below it; walking its way before you.

You knit your brows together in confusion, not quite understanding his actions.

“You’re not picking up what I’m putting down, are you, Sunshine?” he taunted you before adding, “allow me to enlighten you.”

Your eyes widened as the next words escaped his lips, prompting the former fire to make its way to dominate your features with the familiar red hue.

“I didn’t even enjoy it that much,” he mocked in a tone emulating your own, “I think I’m in love with Buggy the Clown.”

He relished in your humiliation as he relayed your own words to you. He bounced his head towards you and reattached his ear to his face.

“Although my favourite was from yesterday,” he taunted before continuing, “how did you phrase it again? I will actively do everything I can to seek him out, bring him into this room and desecrate your resting place with sounds so absolutely illicit, you would need to-.“

You cut him off, shrugging your embarrassment away and leaning towards him; “-seek exorcism to rid your soul from the memories and images conjured to you every time you close your eyes- At least that’s what I can recall if my memory serves me correctly.”

He was slightly taken aback by your indifference to his attempt to humiliate you further.

“Now,” you added, bringing up his shot glass and pouting slightly as you taunted him, “are you doing to be able to drink this like a big boy or are you going to spill it down your chin again?”

His eyes remained so wide he possibly had the ability to gaze into multiple dimensions. None of those dimensions, however, provided him with an appropriate response to your jab. He remained silent as his eyes fluttered between your own; your knowing smirk playing at your mouth as his gaze drew down towards it.

“I’d rather not waste good rum if it’s the latter,” you added before downing the spiced liquid and savouring in the warmth it brought to your chest. You watched his lip slightly quiver at your comment but chose not to acknowledge it.

“Y-You’re not even the slightest bit embarrassed at your words?” he managed to release from his lips as his eyes searched yours once more.

“Why would I be embarrassed? I’m the one who said them,” you shrugged in response, raising the second shot glass up; “say: ah,” you commanded him.

He opened his mouth ever so slightly for you to place the lip of the shot glass into it and poured slowly the contents into his mouth; another small trickle escaping the corner of his lip.

“At this stage, I have no choice but to either have you swig directly from the bottle,” you used your thumb to swipe the drop of liquid at the corner of his lips, “or simply spoon-feed you.”

You popped your thumb into your mouth and twirled your tongue around it to collect the rum from the tip, tasting the small amount of red paint you collected from his lips alongside it in the process.

“You drive me crazy, woman,” he gasped out in a breathy whisper, eyes never leaving you for a moment.

You giggled at his confession, tilting your head to the side slightly as to make yourself look as innocent as you could.

“Where were you, by the way?” you asked him, gesturing your finger to his ear, “I’m assuming you were with us since Orange-Town?”

“H-Hat,” he gulped slightly before chastising himself with a frown at the small break in his vocals, “I was in Luffy’s hat.”

“Are you sure?” you asked him, pouring more liquid into once glass this time, “I don’t remember taking that with me when I bathed.”

“I was in your skirt pocket,” he almost whimpered, gazing hungrily at you as he watched you slowly raise the top of the bottle up after filling the contents of one shot glass and recorking it, “Or I was lying beside you as you slept.”

This comment caught you off guard. From your prior apprehension of bringing yourself before the clown-captain, you had no idea your conversation would go in this way. He was so willing to depart any information to you at just a small question; not like any negotiations you had prior in dealing in trade for fine wares.

“You slept with me?” you arched your brow at him.

“I didn’t sleep,” he uttered quietly. You watched his expression go from hungry desire to an almost pleading look, “I-, I just-, I just wanted to know you.”

It was the second time you were caught off guard at the information he was so willingly spilling to you. You rose your eyebrows up to him and nodded to him to explain further his hidden intentions to you. He instead continued to search your eyes for any apprehension or slight air of disgust at his confession, and upon finding none; he continued.

“I wanted to know you,” he admitted again, confirming his words to both you and himself. No malice, no jokes, no hidden agenda was found on his face as he asserted his honest declaration.

“Why?” you chuckled slightly.

“You kissed me,” his bottom lip extended a slight jesting cringe before he smiled at the thought.

“You don’t get many of those?” you quirked with a light smirk.

“Not that I don’t pay for these days, no,” he admitted a gain, nodding his head before looking at the glass, “you going to give me that, or am I going to watch you drink it again?”

“I haven’t quite made up my mind,” you confessed to him, leaning back on your seat and arching your back to remove a kink it had developed while hunched over your desk earlier.

“You ok?” he asked you slightly, extending his chin slightly to acknowledge your movements.

“Are you concerned, sweet boy?” you asked him with a small smirk.

“I’m all man, baby,” he pouted slightly at your comment, prompting you to laugh in response.

You looked down into the glass before looking at Buggy again. You tucked a hair behind your ear as you shyly asked him.

“You know how I feel for you,” you said, nodding and looking again to the glass in your hands, “was it just the kiss you were hyper fixated on or-?” you teetered off that thought.

“You,” he said, emphasising it firmly, before adding, “at first I was just curious about why the ever living fuck you would do something so bold and so incredibly stupid as to kiss me.”

You laughed at that, nodding slightly.

“But as I listened, I learned more,” he said, slowly blinking as he gazed up at you, “and it’s safe to say I’m a little obsessed at this stage.”

You leant in a little and placed the shot glass against his lips as his eyes widened in surprise at its sudden approach. He gulped the liquid, again spilling some over his lips.

“We’re not quite getting the hang of this, are we?” you giggled, eyes drawn to the transparent amber tinted liquid as it turned a cloudy red while it mixed with his face paint. You watched a smirk pull at his lips before he teased you.

“You want to kiss me so bad, it makes you look stupid,” he uttered in a voice just above a whisper, mocking you as he focussed his gaze to your lips. You laughed at his comment as you inched your face closer to his and leaving a very small distance, halting the meeting of your lips with his own. You both closed your eyes as you shared the same air as one another, relishing in the proximity you held between one another.

“The same could be said for you. However,” you pulled your face away from his as you looked at him with both fondness and absolute empathy, “I don’t think I can kiss right now.”

An unadulterated rage flew over Buggy’s face as he yelled; “Why not?! I’ve been waiting so long!”

He opened his eyes to meet with yours as you brought your bandage-wrapped right hand up to cradle his stubble-adorned cheek.

“Oh, my darling,” you said to him, tracing small circles around his cheek with your thumb, “you look awful. You look like you haven’t slept for days, your face paint is all smudged and dishevelled, and you’re not in complete control of all of yourself.”

“What does that matter?” he again growled in frustration, voice more elevated than before, “you won’t kiss me because you don’t think I’m pretty in this lighting?”

“No, no, no, you misunderstand – or I’ve phrased my words poorly,” you waved your left hand dismissively, “I just-,”

“It was all a lie, wasn’t it?” Buggy asked you, his rage increasing, “everything. The kiss, the words – you knew I was there, didn’t you?!”

“Buggy,” you warned him in a harsh tone, “let me speak.”

“Why, so to spread more of your lies?” Buggy spat at you. This prompted you to reach over and cradle his face in both of your hands.

“You are beautiful,” you emphasised, holding his gaze against your own, “all of you is beautiful, Buggy.”

He winced at your words; “please, don’t. I don’t want any more of your lies.”

“The first kiss I bestowed to you was entirely against your will,” you reiterated, lifting his chin slightly in an attempt to pry his eyes to rest on yours, “and although I am an assertive woman and I know what I want,” Buggy’s eyes finally met with yours, “I wouldn’t want to relinquish any more control from you than I assume both my crew and Arlong’s have done over the past few days.”

Buggy gasped at your confession.

“Alongside what I had done in Orange-Town,” you added with a sad smile. He followed your eyes with his own and searched them, finding only honesty spooling from your lips.

“Right now, you’re just a head,” you shrugged your shoulders slightly at that, “and I have no idea what your body is currently enduring on Fish-Man Island.”

You released his cheeks from your hands as you reclined back into the white and blue material of the couch.

“I want to kiss you,” you confessed with absolute rectitude, “but I want you in control this time. No tricks, no hidden agendas-,”

“-No knife-stealing, no interrogations,” Buggy added with a small smirk. You laughed at his comment before nodding.

“Yes, exactly. No performing the means to an end in an act of self-preservation - which I feel I should inevitably apologise for, I might add,” you nodded your head. He chuckled slightly at your request for forgiveness.

“So what about the sleep deprivation and the face paint?” he asked again with a small air of distaste.

“I want you looking exactly the way you want, and I want you to feel well rested and fully in control of your actions,” you shrugged again, “and you probably haven’t eaten anything for the past few days. I want all of those things for you first.”

“Baby, you and I have different priorities,” he laughed wholeheartedly, before halting his laughter and looking at you with appreciation and sincerity, “and that is why I fell in love with you.”

Chapter 10

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#one piece #opla #x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy x you #one piece live action #captain buggy #opla fic #buggy #buggy fic

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notelcol · 1 year ago

Text

The Duke and the Doctor.

Mildly edited, apologies for mistakes✨

You were a doctor from Inazuma who came to work at the Fortress infirmary as an escape. You were running from stagnancy and bitter memories. Over time you simultaneously rose up past your pain and through the ranks, to become Sigewinne’s trusted partner.

“Wriothesley?” Your confused voice echoed through the infirmary. “What brings you here?” He did not normally come down to this part of the Fortress. A sheepish smile graced his lips, as he removed his right glove to reveal deep gouges and bruising all along his knuckles.

“I’m afraid our newest inmate is going to be trouble.” His vague explanation left you curious. You decided to ask more.

“What are they in for?” You took his hand in yours and began cleaning as you spoke. The Duke chuckled and gazed at you fondly.

“I sometimes forget how nosy you are.” His voice did not shake despite the sting you knew he would be feeling as you cleaned his wounds. The truth was, he wasn’t noticing the pain. All he was paying attention to was the touch of your gentle hands on his. ‘There is nothing more pure than the hands of a healer.’ Something he read in a book once, that he was beginning to understand.

“You aren’t going to tell me are you?” You grinned, breaking his trance. You had missed his teasing, he did not visit enough.

“I will….next time.” His smile matched your own as his thumb began to rub your hand. You found your mind becoming foggy and all your medical knowledge flew out the non existent window. Luckily, his hand was finished being treated. So why were you still holding it? Your breathing halted as you both moved closer, eyes peering into one another’s souls. Then a throat cleared.

“Duke. There is a situation in the dorms, we can’t contain it.” The guard in the doorway looked uncomfortable as you jumped away from each other.

You let out a long breath and dropped onto an infirmary bed once Wriothesley and the guard left. You cursed Sigewinne for leaving you alone today. She left you prone to be embarrassed without her there to stop you from being silly. You did not get much rest as the same guard from earlier brought in a bloody man before leaving. You raced towards him to help him into a bed. Once you had sat him down, you started cleaning his wounds. It was mostly superficial face wounds, but the nose was definitely broken. It all looked much worse than it was.

“Let me know if I’m hurting you at all.” You told him as you wiped near his nose. The man did not speak. Only staring at your face in a very unnerving way. You felt like the prey of a hunter. You were almost done, when you saw the man shift in the bed. You ignored it, trying to finish treating him as fast as possible. Then you saw the glint in the corner of your eye. A knife. You gulped and tried to take a step back but his other hand pulled you back. Just as you were about to call for help, the knife plunged through your rib cage. White hot pain blinded you as you fell to the ground.

“I’m sorry. I just need to get out of here.” The man frantically paced around your dying body. “They will be so distracted with you that I’ll have time to get away.” His words did not help your fear. But if you were going to die, you would do your damn best to make sure he didn’t escape. But the man wasn’t done. “But not without killing that Duke first.”

It felt like adrenaline was replacing the blood that steadily oozed from your wound. You stumbled to your feet and looked around for something to use as a weapon. You had only done minor treatments today, all the scalpels were in the drawer. The man had noticed you standing now, and had begun to circle you. His breath shook as he too looked around for a weapon, his eyes landed on your torso. The knife was still inside you. It was then you knew what you had to do. You ripped the knife from yourself, feeling the blood gush out with it. Instantly you became dizzy. You knew you only had seconds before you passed out.

“Hey now, Doc.” The man tried to plead. “You don’t really want to hurt me do you?” You didn’t have time to question yourself. Pulling out the knife was as good as killing yourself. So, you used the last of your strength to thrust the bloodied knife into his heart. You knew you would die content in the knowledge that Wriothesley would be safe.

“Hey! Looks like our next visit came sooner than -“ The mighty Duke, who came to deal with the now dead inmate, crumbled upon seeing your body. He kicked the dead man lying next to you when he realised what happened.

“Wriothesley.” You strained. Your eyes were barely open when you reached out for him. He stopped cursing the inmate and appeared at your side. You could feel his hands on your face as you faded away to the sound of sweet whispers and a broken confession.

“I love you.” His voice was like a lullaby, brining you the peace to close your eyes.

Wriothesley blamed himself. He should have hired more medical staff. Then someone would have been there to help you. He shouldn’t have gotten emotional and should have plugged your wound himself. Instead the guard who came with him had to stop your bleeding. That guard saved your life. Not him.

“Wallowing isn’t going to help anyone.” Sigewinne spoke. “She will recover.” Her words were kind and true but did not cure his ailing heart. But it did inspire him. While he awaited your awakening, he hired more medical staff. Never again would a Fortress doctor need to be alone with a dangerous inmate. He also asked Sigewinne to hold a short first aid course for all the guards. The guard who saved you was, by the grace of the Archons, an ex nurse. But, he never wanted to leave life to to luck again.

You awoke to the feeling of your hair being brushed. As your eyes fluttered weakly, the hand stopped brushing. For a moment, everything was a blur until finally you focused in on Wriothesley’s face. You did not think you would be blessed with that sight again. Shakily, you lifted your arm to hold his cheek. He took your hand once it reached his face, as if trying to take on the weight of your arm. He could see the pain behind your eyes as you moved. You did not care though. You were just thankful for this second chance.

“I love you too.” You thought you would never get to say it back.

I almost let reader die but decided not to be evil 🤫

Thank you for reading this💓

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