#A whole lotta violence

[jasontoddsno1simp]

Got my first hate reply today. Twas an interesting experience. Who knew liking a character cause you related to them was akin to be a stan of capital punishment.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Not supporter. Not endorser. Not anything that makes any logical fucking sense.

But stan.

Whoever said real life was stranger than fiction rly meant that shit, huh?!

[heliianth]

the dark evil wizards have afflicted me with a hyperspecific interpretation of killuas "moral conflict" which leaves a lot of fan content that tries to engage with it unsatisfying. a wicked and foul hex indeed

[eupheme]

— Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On

Hancock (FO4) x Sole Survivor!F!Reader

Rated E - 5.8k

Tags - 3rd person very loose pov, sole survivor!f!reader (no descriptors), canon-typical raider violence & death, mutual pining, teasing, partners to lovers, two idiots in love, waiting out a storm, mention of food/eating, SS!reader gets dicked down wearing Hancock’s coat, the hat stays on, fingering, oral (f receiving), spitting, manual restraints, multiple orgasms, PiV, creampie, mention of a cigarette/smoking, references to chems 

started this while doing research for wasteland, baby - and was consumed with thoughts of a slightly softer “oh fuck, I’m in love” Hancock

It’s a dangerous thing - to have feelings for the person you’re traveling with. Too many things can go wrong in an instant and yet…  here they are. Steadfastly ignoring the something that has been building, thick enough to taste. 

Luckily, an incoming rad storm might just be the push they need. 

He’s fucked.

Figuratively, not literally. Unfortunately.

That’s part of the problem, if he could call it that. And he probably shouldn’t - because it’s not her fault. Just his. 

It was a rookie move, falling for his traveling companion. Should have kept it just professional - strictly business. No ‘get to know you’s, no inside jokes. 

But he had never been the professional type. Not his style. 

And somewhere along the way - between getting the shit kicked out of them, the close calls, the long miles of barren road - something had started to grow. Curling around his ribs and filling his guts up like ripe tarberries. 

Letting it grow and flourish. 

Unable to shake it. 

It hadn’t been long before he had known something was up.

That it was something besides that urge to get away from it all, to wander, that kept him sticking with her.

That along the way, the idea of this stranger having his back became comforting. That he knew he had hers - even if he half-thinks she have a death wish, with the way she rushs into things half-cocked.

He can’t understand, but he tries. The bits he’s gleaned from late nights - passing the bottle of whisky back and forth even though it makes her grimace. The pieces of her past that have slowly been revealed, forming a half-completed picture.

It’s enough to make his blood boil, that scorching feeling of vengeance curling in his chest, eating up his insides. It’s been a long time since he felt that way - making him think back to the night where he had stained his hands with all that red. 

He’d do it again, for her. 

It’s that realization made him think that just maybe - he cares.

And not just in a friendly kind of way. 

He thinks it began in the middle of a firefight.

Bullet whizzing past their heads. A nest of raiders flowing out from a jutting wreck of scaffolding they had missed.

Several downed already, lost among the ruins. A souped-up pistol in her hand, as the other shielded shrapnel from a hand-made grenade.

Missing the two that snuck up, flanking them. 

He had taken one down. A nasty shot to the gut, the Raider gurlging as his legs gave out. Her shot going wide - he can still remember the look on her face as she reached for the gun on her back.

The other Raider taking the moment to bowl him over, a padded shoulder to the chest. Knocking them both against a piece of metal fencing that creaked under their weight - his shotgun clattering to the pavement. 

An arm pressed against his throat, choking him - as the other fumbled for a knife. Ironic, he thought, that he’d be gutted, after all he’s done. 

But she had swooped down. Fingers twisted around the barrel and forestock of her rifle. Bringing it down on the raiders head like it was a louisville slugger, snarling like she herself had gone feral.

Her hand, warm in his as she hauled him up, the other splaying across his chest. Face streaked with grease and splattered with blood but in that moment, she was the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

“Thanks, sunshine.” He had murmured.

Her smile had been small, as she pressed the gun back into his hand, “Can’t have you getting stabbed. I’d miss that mouth of yours.”

Such a small thing - her own joke. The way he filled the space with chatter on the road. But he’d been smitten. 

He had been good looking, before. He wasn’t half-bad now. Charisma could get you a long way, and his silver tongue hadn’t rotted like the rest of him. 

Charming words - flirty and sometimes filthy - slid easily from him in the heat of battle, the wind-down after. When he was feeling good about things, the words coming without thought.

Choking on them, when she turned to give him a look - embarrassed, sometimes. So goddamn cute and flustered, it made him want to do it more. 

Other times - a look, that was soft and lingering. 

“Yeah?” 

Almost a challenge in the way she said it.

He could never follow it up. 

Follow through. 

Because back home, it wasn’t an issue. A rejection meant nothing other than a soft blow to his ego. Brushed off with a hit of a favorite indulgence, finding company in another.

But here - it had a weight. It could ruin something he truly has enjoyed. Throwing in with her had been one of the best decisions he had made. He couldn’t fuck that up. Not this time. 

So he swallowed his words - before she was racing off, and he was following at her heels. Off to trouble that could be their last, and here he was - that clever tongue tied in a knot. 

That’s when he knew that he had it bad. 

Bad enough that out of the two of them, he had been the one peering up at the sky overhead. Where the muted hazy grey was rolling into a sickly green, rain starting to drop down. A rumble of thunder.

The first to suggest stopping at the next place they could, as the spaces between the raindrops started to dwindle.

“We can make it.” She had shrugged, as his jog slowed to a walk.

Catching her arm at the elbow, gesturing with the muzzle of his shotgun to the side.

“Not if you don’t want to end up like me, sister.”

Ignoring - but not missing - the chastising look she shot him. His head tilting towards the roof that looms just over the ridge.

An old diner - rusting chrome and shattered windows, but it would do. Well past soaked by the time they scrambled over the hill and down. Grateful to find that it was abandoned. 

Picked over, for sure - but as long as there was a roof over their heads, he hadn’t cared. Combing through junk was her thing, anyways. He was just the pack mule.

Now - he’s multi-tasking. Trying not to think about what he’s thinking about.

About her changing in the room behind him. Peeling the patchwork raider gear off her curves. All that soft, smooth skin underneath.

Distracting himself by eyeing the radroach that is skittering across the pavement outside the front door - just out of range of his shotgun.

Because of course, out of everything in the wasteland, that was the thing she was scared of. Not super mutants, not even the pack of mirelucks that had them cornered, just the week before. 

A goddamn bug. 

He laughs, a soft hushed thing. Catching himself with a grimace. 

Because, like he said.

He’s fucked. 

The rain that patters overhead would be calming - if it had been 200 years ago, and not dripping with radiation.

She shivers, draping the tattered pants and worn shirt over the back of two rotting, wooden chairs - a makeshift drying rack. Missing that insulated warmth of her Vault Suit, trading it back at Sanctuary for worn clothes - old and salvaged Raider gear.

It had become hard to blend in, in all that blue.

It had made sense at the time, but in the dark and chilly backroom, she finds herself regretting it. Thinking that next time - she’ll pack it with her.

Trying to find the dampest parts of the packed gear to lay out, next. Lining up the bedroll next to the glow of the lantern. 

Don’t need any more must or mold than there already was. 

Pawing through her bag afterwards, coming up with something to pass for dinner. A can of cram, their only good fork wedged between two knuckles. A sweet roll split in two - the sticky crumbs clinging to her fingers as she nudged the door open.

Feeling vulnerable in the faded undergarments she wore underneath. Dreading facing him, not because of what he’ll say - that part, she is actually curious to hear. 

She’d given up on the idea of modesty long ago. Traveling on the road and through the dirt and blood and grime will do that. 

It was almost freeing.

No. It’s because - it makes her hope. Makes her think that dressing down might actually get him to notice her, in a way that’s more than the surface-level, flirty conversation she’s seen him have with dozens of people. 

In the old world, maybe she’d wear a dress for him. Something red and cut low in the front - bare arms and legs.

Now, it’s faded cotton and vulnerability.

A “I can trust you like this” and a “Maybe if you like it, it will make me brave enough to ask.”

Rejection dressed like this would sting, surely. Even if it’s her fault, for having a crush on someone who doesn’t see her that way. 

Her eyes linger on his back, where he stands watch. Where he hadn’t heard her open the door just yet, drifting to the other side of the counter to watch the rumbling, green storm roll in.

The tin clatters on the counter, drawing his attention. A flicker of lightning illuminating his profile as he turns, eyes widening. 

Hancock’s eyes drop automatically. Quickly and then a slow drag - it’s like watching him after she’s taken a hit of Psycho. 

Dark and glittering under her own careful watch, before they’re snapping back up, and he’s blinking. 

Pulling himself back. 

“Is that dinner?” He asks, clearing his throat when the words come out rough and low. 

Her face falls, just for an instant. A small smile replacing it, as she scoops up the tin of cram before tossing it his way. He catches it neatly - popping the lid open, plucking the fork from her fingers. 

She should have known better. 

Hancock was just a flirt, never taking her bait. It was a good thing, she thought. Honorable, despite the grey that’s soaked into both of their moral codes. 

He digs the fork in, breaking off a piece of the preserved meat. Handing the first bite to her, unable to help another quick look as he lowers himself to one of the stools that curves around the diner countertop. 

Not that he hasn’t seen her before. Never quite this bare - but close enough, from the quick times they’ve had to change clothes.

It didn’t mean anything. 

“So uh, what’s with the getup?” Hancock can’t resist asking, his tone deceptively light, “Or should I say, lack thereof?

“Clothes are soaked,” She snorts around the mouthful, trying to sound disinterested, “Besides, you’re always telling me it’s not good to let the rads soak in.”

He’s curious now, catching that slight edge. Not usually so defensive - that expression she makes when she’s flustered. It makes him want to nudge at it, poke at that little crack. 

“Hey, you don’t hear me complain’, sister.” Hancock grins, taking the fork back, “That’s a real good look for you.”

Always a joke. 

Her eyes roll as she sits down on the stool to his left, her knee knocking against his. The halves of sweet roll balanced on the curling, discarded tin, for after. 

They share the makeshift dinner. Passing the fork back and forth, trying not to think about how easy it feels to be like this. 

Companionable silence, beneath the rumbling, dark green sky. Tucked away and sheltered from the storm.

She stares out across the wasteland, lost in thought. Moving on to other things, already planning for the morning. If there’s any stops they need to make on the way back to Sanctuary. 

While his eyes wander - a sideways glance that drifts down her form greedily, only to shift away when her own lift. 

A breeze cuts through the building where windows once lived, making her shiver. Arms moving from the countertop to wrap around a bare middle, curling in on herself.

“You cold, sunshine?” He asks with concern, bringing her back.

She hadn’t noticed, but now she does. The chill starting to sink in, now that she’s not moving, not covered in the layers and padded armor. 

Goosebumps raise on her skin. Arms crossing tighter across her chest, as her lips part to answer.

But Hancock is already shrugging off his maroon frock, swiveling in his seat to swing it around her shoulders. 

She rarely seen him without it. Fuck, he even sleeps in the damn thing - a prized possession, if he ever had one.

“Thanks.” The word is layered with sincerity, as she pulls it close around her, the high collar brushing her cheek. 

Warmer already. The inside is soft against her skin, the fabric worn and stained and smelling like him.

Silence lingers for a moment, as they stare at the darkening sky. The heavy blanket of rain that still patters on the rooftop, a slow drip down to the tile floor on the other side of the room.

"Hope this lets up by morning," She says as she leans, warmer now - elbows pressing into the stained laminate counter.

Eyes out of focus, thoughts already running off without her. "Stop by Sanctuary, pick up some things for Tenpines. Haven't been there in a bit, been wondering how they've been holding up."

He mirrors her - feeling bare without his coat. A heavy lean on his left elbow, the swivel of the chair bumping his knee against hers, "’m sure they're fine. Gotta be better off than they were before."

A smirk crosses his features, a glance from the corner of his eye, "'Sides, not every day you get saved by the fearless leader of the Minutemen. That oughta keep 'em going for a while."

There's a groan as she slumps, the heels of her hands pressing into her eyes. Garvey's enthusiasm and her recent promotion to General a source of embarrassment, even if she bore the weight of it well.

"Yes, the fearless leader," She mocks, her head turning his way. Pushing herself up, her arms spreading wide, "If only they could see me now."

And they might not be able to, but he can.

Not just the soft expanse of her skin, peeking out from beneath his coat. The hollow of her throat, the curve of her breast and the strain of her tits against worn fabric that will be forever seared into his mind.

Not only just that, though. That something that he can see inside her - that was there when he had decided to leave Goodneighbor. That lingers with him, tethering them together as he follows at her side. And yes, he does stretch the truth - who doesn’t? He wouldn’t make half as many deals, otherwise. 

But he’s isn’t, now. 

She is unaware of the thoughts that tumble through his mind, quick as old snapshots. A curling amber film strip, tucked into a canister. 

Instead, there’s a roll of her eyes as her comment of "really, only you could pull this coat off" lands on ears that had been muted, in the way his mind drifts. How the low pooling of warmth in his belly turns sharp and cramps, at the thought of Preston Garvey spending time in such company. Like this - without him.

"I wouldn’t say that." He hears himself saying. Voice a little lower, raspier, than usual.

Maybe it's bravery. Maybe it's him finally seeing her intent - maybe it's the moment where he's realizing that after tonight, she's no longer just his again.

His eyes drag over her again, slower this time. And he lets her catch them.

"From here, things are looking pretty good."

She stills, eyes rounding. A swivel of her chair until knee-to-knee becomes thigh-to-thigh- something akin to hope slipping into her tone.

“Yeah?”

He reaches - fingers tracing the collar of his coat, thumb rubbing against the hollow of her throat.

“I’d say so.” Hancock tells her, “Look like a goddamn dream, if I’m being honest.”

She’s tired of waiting. She’s done enough of it. Eyes on his as her chin tilts up, just hovering.

He’s tired, too.

With a lean, he takes the offering. Ruined lips press against soft ones. Ones that part for him, a soft sound at the greedy dart and swipe of his tongue, until she’s meeting him.

She’s sweet - he can taste the sugar on her tongue, melding with the taste of her. Fingers press against his chest, where his heart hammers. Sliding over lithe shoulders until they’re wrapping around, pulling him closer.

He’s stronger than he looks. The seat squeaks when he leans, his palms tracing her waist, her hips. Tucking beneath her thighs - right against the curve of her ass as Hancock lifts his hips, taking her with him.

She moves, his name a soft sound in her throat. Letting him lead, letting him ease her onto the edge of the counter. A sense of relief and hope floods through her, dripping down to settle warm and wanting between the thighs that spread open so he can step between them. 

His cock swells, where it’s trapped inside his pants. Easing the ache with a roll of his hips, pressing himself against the thin fabric covering her core. The breath she inhales in response is shaky. Another soft sound, so different than the assured tone he’s used to. 

He wants to hear it again.

It’s easy to set the pace - the pointed press of his hips. Her hand finding his, drawing it up to her breast. Letting him cup her, the soft weight. Letting him press his thumb against that tight peak, catch it between his fingers until she’s gasping against his grinning mouth. 

Her mouth drops, catching his chin. The tip of a tongue between parted lips press against his cheek, warmth breath against his jaw making him growl. 

“Please-” She’s murmuring, against his skin. Against muscle and sinew, as his own lips follow.

Fingers biting into his skin, as his teeth graze her jaw. Her head tilting back, baring her throat to him, as her hips rock to meet his. Eyes fluttering shut as her chest heaves, as his other hand curls against the curve of her hip, keeping her close. 

His tongue peeks out, dragging against sweat and rain-dewed skin. A groan rattles in his throat, his own voice distant and rasping.

“Fuck, I need to taste you.” He can feel her moan, against his lips at his words, “Lean back for me, doll.”

She’s soft, pliable. Unwinding herself from him as she obeys, only for those hazy eyes to open - meeting his beetle-black ones. 

“Wait,” She’s protesting, hands slipping to press flat against on his chest. A sudden realization - shoulder curling back so his coat slides off it, “Let me take this off.”

“Leave it.” Hancock’s head lifts to kiss her again, his hand curling around the back of her neck. 

She huffs against his mouth, before it turns into a sigh. His tongue brushing against her lower lip, before she pulls back again.

Not wanting to forget her train of thought.

“What if I make a mess on your coat?”

He groans at that, the hand on her hip drifting lower. Cupping her over the thin piece of fabric, fingers pressing down. 

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He husks, “I’d fuckin’ love that. Never gonna take it off.”

It makes her scoff, cheeks burning, “You never do, anyways. You-”

He shuts her up with his fingers - tugging at the elastic waistband, pulling them down until she’s bare. Letting her kick them off, before he’s pushing her back against the counter.

Arching over her soft form as his mouth wanders, his hips grinding against hers. Teeth nipping at her throat, lips brushing where her heartbeat flutters. Clever fingers tracing the seam of her sex, brushing over soft lips - teasing. 

She’s so fucking wet, he can feel how his fingers glide over her skin. How it smears on her thighs, as they spread wider for him. 

“What do you want?” 

It makes her sigh - that voice, so low and rasping - and she’s clenching around nothing already.

“You,” She’s unable to help but whine, “Please, you-”

His laugh is rough, a rattling chuckle in his throat, “You have me, sunshine.”

Middle finger parting her, teasing at her entrance, the calloused pad of his thumb circling around the bud of her clit. Sinking into the wet heat as she groans, starting a slow pump of his textured finger.

Pressing deep with a slow thrust. Another, and then another, until she’s taking a second. Stretching her wide, as her fingers twist in his stained shirt. Grasping for his shoulders as her hips buck into his touch. 

“Should say how do you want it?” The kiss he presses against her throat is almost reverent, “Because I don’t think I have it in me to go slow right now.”

“Slow, later.,” She moans, as his fingers press deep, “Need you.”

He grins, “Love how you think, sweetheart.” 

Hancock’s head ducks, moving down to her collarbone, then lower. She’s already reaching to tug the cups of her bra down, baring the curves of her breasts to him.

“Fuckin’ beautiful.” He hums, fingers brushing over the soft weight again, cupping one in his hand. Still fucking her open with the other, curling and stroking until she’s panting. 

Tongue peeking out to flatten, and then drag across the tight peak of her nipple. Her hands grasping for him again, as there’s the briefest pinch of teeth.

“Hancock.” She grits out, a swivel of her hips against his, grinding into his fingers. 

His own rocking against the back of his hand, where he’s hard and aching. Never thinking he’d know what it’s like to have his partner begging like this. 

He wants to hear more. Every little sound she makes, as his mouth moves lower. Licking wet stripes against her stomach and abdomen.

Until he’s plunking down on the padded chrome stool he’s been straddling. Gazing at where she’s wrapped around his glossy fingers. 

Watching how she twitches and bucks and gasps when his thumb swipes across her clit, his name on parted lips again.

“Love hearin’ you say my name like that.” He purrs, “Can’t wait to hear how it sounds when you come.”

Leaning forward, inhaling her scent before his tongue swipes above his fingers. Her hips leave the countertop, the moan loud as he laughs - his other hand pressing flat against her stomach. 

Holding her down, as he teases her again. Short, pointed licks against her throbbing clit. Her cunt is as sweet as her mouth, his own groan caught in his throat as his tongue dips inside her. 

Mourning all the nights he could have spent like this. Spending the time as evening turns to night, then again as night turns to dawn. Drowning in the taste of her instead of clenching his teeth until his jaw aches, as he tries to keep quiet. Dreaming of this. 

He leans back, just enough to press a wet kiss against her clit. The soft suck a sharp contrast with the texture of his rough fingers as he fucks her open. 

She was right - it’s messy. Dripping down the curve of her thighs, the damp stain mixing with others on his weathered coat. 

Everything is so dry, in the wasteland. Dirt roads and dead trees. He relishes in the wet suck of her cunt, how it’s this way right now because of him.

His cheeks hollow, a swirl of his tongue before he’s adding to it. Leaning back to let his spit drip down, his thumb dragging it across the tight bud.

She’s whimpering. It’s been ages since she’s had anyone - the low throb in her belly swiftly building. 

In the before - she thinks she’d be embarrassed to be splayed out like this. Stripped near-bare on the counter of a diner, thighs spread wide as his fingers pump into her aching cunt.

But he eats her like a meal, left hand moving from her belly. Wrapping around a thigh to tug her closer, hiking it over a shoulder.

Groaning into her pussy as his tongue flicks against her clit, smearing slick across his chin. Pressing closer, unhindered by the usual curve of cartilage and flesh as he molds himself against her. 

“Hancock.” His name is a sharp gasp, as she clenches around him. Breath held in her throat as she watched with half-lidded eyes.

Focused on the tight string that winds with each careful curl of his fingers. He slips in a third and she all but sobs, chasing her pleasure with a needy rock of her hips.

Chanting him name as it curls low in her belly.

“Hancock. Hancock-”

And then, the prettiest of all.

“John. Fuck, John, I’m going to come-”

It’s goddamn music to his metaphorical ears. Better than that - better than the sing of gunfire in his favor, of the sweet rush and hum of that first hit of Jet.

He watches through those dark eyes as she falls apart. Her cry loud in the empty diner, as she’s struck - the livewire crackle of her orgasm ripping through her.

Better than she can ever remember. Thighs squeeze around his neck but it only makes him moan - breath hot against her cunt as his fingers continue to pump. And his tongue dips to taste her, slipping between knuckles. 

The pleasure throbs - the stained ceiling spinning, looking like the clouded stars high above them to her hazy mind. 

A disbelieving and dazed laugh caught in her throat as his mouth moves. Pressing against her mound, the sensitive curve where thigh meets hip. 

It’s only then that she’s unhooking her thighs - a heat blazing in her cheeks at the brazenness. Too caught up in the moment to see herself - splayed out across the countertop, heels digging into his spine. 

But she does see him - the need etched across his face under the tip of his hat, the wet shine against his lips and chin. Deadly in a new kind of way, mixing with the prowess he shows on the battlefield.

There’s another low throb, deep inside her. The lithe way he moves, rising - a hand planting next to her hip, the other working the heavy buckle open.

She meets him - pushing herself up. A hand coming to cup him, feeling the hard length that strains against his trousers. Tasting herself on his tongue when her head ducks to kiss him, swallowing his groan as her fingers palm and squeeze. 

“Drivin’ me crazy, sunshine.” His voice is like gravel, as he works at the zipper - her fingers slipping past to wrap around hot skin, “Enough to make a ghoul go feral, you know that?”

Her smile is pretty - pleasure-drunk, and he hasn’t even fucked her yet. Her hand soft and warm where she eases him out, the brush of her thumb over the head making his cock throb. 

“Me too. I need you.” She begs, and he knows it’s more than that just that.

That it’s not just fucking, right now. That a line has been crossed, that they’ll never be able to not want this again. More than ready to tumble over into the unknown, together.

“My mouth wasn’t enough?” Hancock grins. Fully intending to have her every way she’ll let him. Unable to resist making her squirm.

The look she gives him makes him chuckle - the gentle pull of her fist, the little frown. The way her thighs spread again, aiming the flushed tip of his cock over slick skin. Against the tight nub of her clit as she shivers, lips parting with a gasp.

“Hancock, don’t tease-” Some of that bite is back, desperate. Not begging but it’s close, as her hips lift against him again. 

“I’ll give you anything you want.” He promises, “Just like hearing you say it. Come on, sweetheart.” 

It’s hard to hold himself back, when she’s notching him against her opening. His hands sliding to her hips, liking the way his fingers sink into her skin.

How it dents around his calloused ones, soft as the rest of her.

“Fuck me.” Her eyes are on his, watching where they drag from his fingers to her pussy. Watching how his chest heaves beneath his vest, where his chest peeks from loosened buttons. 

“I need you in me. I need you to fuck me, I want to come on your cock-”

“Fuck.” He groans, and then his hips are snapping forward. Feeling the tight, warm squeeze as he buries himself in her, as she cries out at the intrusion. 

“Goddamn, sunshine.” He has to hold himself there for a moment, hilted inside her. Feeling the way she clenches down around him, fingers mirroring it where they wrap in his shirt. 

Almost sharing a breath as he inches out, only to press deep again. Again, and then again - until there’s the slick slap, the creak of the floorboards beneath his heavy boots as his feet spread wider. 

It’s better than his fingers. He’s deeper, filling her completely, stealing her breath. Those hands tugging at her hips, urging her to meet each thrust, as he picks up speed.

Hearing the changes in her pretty sounds - the gasps and the scrape of fingernails against his skin. Spearing her on his cock, where she can feel the worn and rough ridges gliding against a spot that has been sighing. 

But, he wants more. Wants her like before - splayed out. At his mercy, in a way that he knows she’d only do for him. Knowing that she trusts him - wondering if he would be worried that the thought makes his cock jerk inside her. 

“Give me your hands.” He rasps - and slowly, her finger uncurl from the edge of the counter, the vice-like grip on his shirt.

Hancock grasps at her wrists, joining them together with one of his own. Pushing her back, dragging them above her head and pressing them down hard against the countertop.

Arching over her as his eyes sweep over soft curves and bare skin. His coat spread out beneath her, the worn red so pretty next to her skin. Better than his best fantasy, and he’s already thinking about a next time. 

The choked out “oh!” she makes with the next rock of his hips shoots straight to his cock - knowing full-well she could break free if she wanted.

Instead, she lets him take. 

Giving up the control as he ruts into her, spearing his cock deep again and again. Trying to meet the messy swipe of his fingertips that drifted down to press against the bundle of nerves - her pleasure in his hands.

“Look good like this, sunshine.” His eyes drag over her breasts, still shining from his tongue.

“Real fuckin’ good.”

Down to where her thighs tighten around his hips, arching into him, “Should keep you like this all the time. Just in my coat. Wear it better than I do.”

A sharp edge to his voice, one that fuels the aching pressure that builds and builds. Her head thunks back against the laminate counter, eyes falling shut. 

The words starting slow, growing louder, then running together. 

“Feels so good-”

“Hancock don’t stop. Oh my god-”

There’s an electricity in the air that has nothing to do with the storm. His hand biting into her wrists so hard that it hurts, but the pain only loops into her mounting pleasure.

It’s different than his dalliances before. 

Before, it had filled his time. Finding someone to spend the night with a couple times a week, enjoying the shared company with another.

That frequency dwindling after they joined up, though he hadn’t been the type to stop. He just no longer had the time, that same desire. 

Finding that he no longer focused on chasing his own pleasure. His interest shifting - until there was only one face that drifts through his mind, in the stolen moments at night when his hand slipped beneath his trousers. 

Embracing the crave of a new kind of addiction, the urge hooking its claws into his brain. 

“Say my name again.” He tells her, feeling his own release winding and tightening. Trying to stave it off, as he tries to think about anything else, “Fuckin’ scream it for me.” 

Her eyes are on his when she says it.

“John.”

First soft, and then pitching up - louder.

And in the moment, he’s just John. The John before and the John now, man and ghoul and so focused on the circle of his fingers, on her cries.

It’s too much - all she can do is lean into it. Never realizing how much she’d like letting go for him, knowing that just like in the Wasteland, he had her. 

Always liking his quips and rasping tone but never experiencing it like this - honey-sweet and hungry. 

Learning so quickly what she likes - how quick he was to adjust the angle, the slick swirl of his fingers.

His name is on her lips again as he brings her over the brink. More like a prayer this time, her body stringing taut beneath him, eyes wide. Mouth rounding on a high gasp as the pleasure shudders through her, radiating up her spine and down her limbs.

Seeming to reach across from where they’re joined, that steady rhythm stuttering as she flutters tight and warm around him. 

“Fuck. Fuck, sunshine. You feel so fucking good, gonna make me come-” His teeth grit, a silent question.

Her answer coming in the way her thighs tighten around him. Keeping him pressed deep inside her, until his thrusts turn short and sloppy. 

“Oh, fuck yes.” His grin is closer to a snarl, “Thank you-” 

His fingers bite into her hip. Her name hissed through clenched teeth as the pressure builds, before spilling over.

As his hips rut until he’s pressed as deep as he can, a choked groan as he comes. His cock twitching with each throb of his orgasm, as he fills her. Emptying himself into her heat - until she’s milked him dry. Until he slows, leaving himself buried, deep and warm.

His eyes drop, as he comes back down. Where she’s watching, just as hungry as he was.

Leaving them staring at each other. His back arched over where his hand has slipped. Loosening on her wrist, until her fingers has twined with his. 

There’s no going back.

His cock hangs heavy between his thighs. It’s night - dark now, but the flickering of lightning following the peals of thunder cast green shadows over her body. Eyes drifting up to where the rain patters on the metal roof.

A languid exhale, breathing out the smoke from the cigarette he fished out of the coat pocket. Dangling between two fingers, the cherry gleaming in the dim light. 

Then back down, to where she still rests - beautifully drowsy and limp-limbed. Thighs still parted, where she gleams with him.

He’s certain he’ll be dripping into those clothes of hers for days. 

It does something to him, an interested twitch from his cock. Stepping closer to fit himself back between those thighs, where they close to bracket his hips again. 

“Didn’t you say somethin’ ‘bout slow, later?” Hancock asks, his hand petting down a hip, thumb brushing against her skin. 

Stubbing the rest of his smoke out on the counter, letting it fall to the tile below. 

Her smile is sweet as she pushes herself up. No use leaving while the storm raged on - and she’s pretty sure the bedroll was well on its way to dry by now. 

Fingers catch on the collar of his ruffled shirt, starting to push it from his shoulders. His own hands tugging at her, until he pressed snug against her again. 

“Mm. Is it later, now?” She asks - as more of him is a bared - her hands running across rough skin. 

Hancock grins. 

“I sure as hell hope so.”

I know this dropped out of nowhere for a 9 year old game but I can’t get the mayor out of my mind 💕 thanks for reading!!!

[carpenterswife]

HALF OF ME; series masterlist

PAIRING: Soldier Boy x Female Reader

SUMMARY: Soldier Boy was not a good man, by any means, but you’d, somehow, managed to dig a nice little hole in his heart and settle there comfortably. When he dies in ‘84, your enter life changes. You take on his role as leader of Payback, and try to live up to his legacy — a harder burden than anticipated. You manage, just about. And, in 2021, Soldier Boy turns up at your home, vengeance on his mind, ready to kill you. If your life was already difficult, it was about to get a whole lot harder.

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI! violence, graphic content, gore, smut, typical soldier boy behaviour (sexism, crude language, etc), a whole lotta sexual innuendos + content, drug abuse, drug addiction, heavy alcoholism.

WORD COUNT SO FAR: 6518

CHAPTERS :

CHAPTER ONE.

CHAPTER TWO.

CHAPTER THREE.

CHAPTER FOUR.

CHAPTER FIVE COMING SOON.

EXTRAS :

CHAPTER ONE TEASER.

banners in use by @cafekitsune

[rafeslittleangel]

Summary: Rafe comes home to find out that you're hanging out with the pogues when he strictly told you not to and decides to teach you a lesson.

Pairing: Dark!Rafe × Girlfriend!Reader

Warnings: Substance abuse, violence, gun, mentions of bondage, abuse (choking, slapping and hairpulling)

Read at your own risk.

A/N: I tried dark!rafe!!! Sorry if it does not turn out as well as I hoped for it to be.

Words: 1.6K

The keys jangled in the hole, door unlocking. Rafe pushed the door open frustratedly, slamming it as he enters and shuts the door.

The house was dark, except some lighting in the living room and the dining room. Rafe sighed and walked upstairs, thinking you were asleep, considering it was 2am at night. He opened the shared bedroom door slowly, expecting to find his pretty girl on bed, hopefully in minimal clothing. Instead, he was faced with an empty bed and no girlfriend in sight.

It was an understatement to say Rafe was panicking.

His first thought was something happened to you and someone took you from him, but all the doors and windows had been locked. His first instinct was to grab his phone, shaky hands opening Life360.

"Fuck!" He shouted, your location was turned off.

He calls you, throwing his phone against the wall when the automated voice tells him your phone is switched off.

Breathing became quite a task for him, chest heaving, pupils red from doing coke just some time ago at Barry's. He shouted your name, hoping your voice would come from one of the guest rooms, exclaiming you had been here the whole time.

He picks up his phone, screen cracked but still functional. He calls Topper, storming the house as he checks all the rooms, almost ripping the doors off their hinges.

"What's up?"

Topper finally picks up, video game noises in the background.

"WHERE IS SHE!?" Rafe shouts, loud enough that Topper pauses his game, back straightening and alert.

"Where is who? Y/n? Isn't she home?"

"Would I be fucking calling you if she was home dumbass? Is she at your house?"

Topper frowns, rubbing his forehead.

"Bud, why the hell would your girlfriend be at my house? I'm gonna call Sarah and ask if she's seen her okay? Just-just stay at home. You sound too coked up to be driving right now."

Rafe stares at his phone as Topper cuts the call, promising to help him find you. He looks around, eyes widened and body shaking.

"She wouldn't leave me." He sinks down to the floor, whispering to himself, head in his hands and tears in his eyes. His throat closed up, long hands pulling on his blonde hair. He calls you again and again, received by the the same automated message.

"She wouldn't leave me. She promised me she wouldn't leave me...she-"

He scrambles to pick up his ringing phone, cursing when he realises it's Topper and not you.

"She's with Sarah." Topper says when Rafe picks up.

His words ring in Rafe's mind. She's with Sarah. That means she's with those dirty fucking pogues.

He cuts the call without saying a word, tears long gone as he tucks his gun inside his jeans, keys in his hand. He knew where you were, didn't have to think twice before driving to the Chateau.

He ignored Topper's calls, putting his phone on silent while he drove.

You knew how much Rafe hated those pogues. You knew how much he hated Sarah. But you still hung out with them behind his back huh? He was about to catch you fucking red handed today.

He parked his car a little away from the chateau, getting out of the car quickly.

A yard party at the chateau.

Oh you were in a hell lotta fucking trouble this time.

He observes you from far away, arms crossed and eyes red. He was going fucking crazy inside...but he had to catch you at the right moment. Make you feel guilty and vulnerable.

A particular song that you love comes up and he snaps his head to JJ, who walks towards you. You laugh and you dance with him, tits pressed against his chest and arms around his neck.

In your mind you were just dancing with your best friend.

In Rafe's mind, you had betrayed him and humiliated him in front of the world. His blood boiled as he marched towards you.

Sarah notices him first and tries to pull him back. He pushes her away and reaches you. JJ's eyes widened, your back to Rafe.

That's it asshole. Be scared of me.

Rafe pushes you aside and before you can even register your boyfriend is here, he punches JJ in the face, and hard. He tries to punch Rafe back but Rafe pushes him back, repeatedly punching him till the point you're screaming for him to let go.

"RAFE STOP IT! LEAVE HIM ALONE!"

You yank at his arm and he finally stops, wiping the sweat from his face, kicking JJ's crumpled form one last time. He takes out his gun, pointing it at JJ's head. You widen your eyes and cover the muzzle with your hand.

"Rafe please please please don't do this please..." You whisper, body visibly shaking.

His eyes lay on you next and you cower under his gaze when you see the rage boiling in his stare. He scans you up and down, hands turning into fists when he properly looks at the tight pink dress you're wearing that barely covers your ass. He ignores the rest of the crowd, tugging the gun back into his waistband.

He wraps his hand around your wrist, practically dragging you back to his car, deaf to your protests.

"LET ME GO! HAVE YOU GONE FUCKING CRAZY?"

He opens the door to the passenger seat, shoving you inside and shutting the door, activating child lock so you can't get out.

You try to open the door frantically as Rafe climbs into his own seat. You give up, turning to your fuming boyfriend.

"Rafe..." You whisper, fear in your voice.

He pulls out to the main road, driving way over the speed limit.

"Rafe" You say, louder this time. He speeds up even more, taking harsher turns, jaw set and knuckles white over the steering wheel.

"Rafe!" You scream. "Rafe please slow dow-"

He abruptly turns to the side of the road, pulling the brakes as he undoes his seat belt, wrapping his hand around your throat.

"Rafe, Rafe, Rafe!" He mocks you, tightening his hand around your neck, cutting off your air supply. You struggled to breathe, hands wrapping around his.

"Spit it out bitch. What do you want huh?"

He grinded his teeth together.

"Want to cheat on me with JJ again? Wanna go back to him and let him fuck you?"

"I w-wasnt..." You try to say, tears in your eyes. Rafe swings the back of his hand at your cheek, your head thrown to one side as he let's go of your neck.

You look up to see his face, horrified look on your face. You search his face for any sign of regret but you only see anger.

"That hurt huh? Did that fucking hurt you- you slut!?"

He pulls your hair back when you don't answer him. You gasp, the pain in your scalp bringing tears to your eyes.

"Rafe I'm sorry please I-"

"Sorry huh? Sorry you turned off your location? Sorry for ignoring my calls? Sorry for cheating on me with that dirty fucking pogue or Sorry for hanging out with my bitch of a sister!?"

He yanked on your hair again and this time the tears that flowed down your cheeks weren't of pain but of fear.

"I wasn't cheating on you baby I just wanted to be with my friends and I know you don't like them-"

"Oh so you knew I didn't like them? Glad to know something registers in that airhead of yours."

He let's go off your hair, tears in his eyes now.

"Fuck y/n you told me you love me! You told me you-"

His voice broke, hands on his head. Your eyes softened but you were clearly still scared. From the look of his eyes and the way he was behaving? You knew he was on drugs.

"I do love you I love you Rafe-"

"THEN WHY WERE YOU WITH THEM!?! WHY DID YOU LEAVE THE FUCKING HOUSE WITHOUT EVEN- WITHOUT FUCKING TELLING ME!?"

You flinch at his loud voice. His breaths slow down and he wipes off his tears, starting the car again. You stay silent the whole ride, scared of what he would do if you said anything, scared for your safety.

Rafe was a hothead. But he was calculating. And what he had in store for you, even God couldn't stop him.

He got out of the car the moment you both reached, grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you out of the passenger seat. He threw you over his shoulder, storming to your bedroom. You pleaded with him to stop and talk to you but he kept walking, throwing you on the bed.

He grabbed your chin hard, squeezing it between his thumb and his fore finger until you were crying with pain and grabbing onto his shoulders, begging for him to let you go.

"Open." Rafe spits out coldly.

This wasn't your Rafe.

He wouldn't hurt you like this.

You open your mouth anyway, eyes trained on his blue ones. He takes out a baggie from the back pocket of his jeans, taking some powder in his fingers.

"No no no no no...Rafe please please I'm sorry baby please don't-"

He forced your mouth open, coating your gums with coke. He looks into your eyes, smirking as it takes effect almost immediately, body pliant under him.

"You'll never have to leave this house again yeah? Daddy's got everything you need."

He whispers, spreading just a bit more powder on your tongue. You nod, mixture of euphoria from the coke and fear churning in the pit of your stomach, spit falling from the sides of your mouth.

Rafe gets up to lock the door, returning with rope in one hand and gun in another as he feasted his eyes on your perfect body in that slutty dress.

He was never going to let you go.

[shizunitis]

How do you think Shen Qingqiu would be affected if he had Xin Mo?

holy fuck i've been thinking about this for months and now that i've been asked i'm kind of lost. anon i love you prepare for a whole lotta yapping

the question is vague enough to both give me room to fuck around and to not know what to focus on. so i'll go with trying to figure out what the chain of events would be, mostly. i'm very sleepy though. that should be taken into consideration.

xin mo uses its masters' trauma and psychological issues against them. which means we just have to take shen qingqiu's issues and ramp them up enough to see what that would do to him. how that change would present itself is highly dependent on how he comes upon xin mo, as well.

first off, what does he want? shen qingqiu wants, in no particular order: to survive, to have luo binghe by his side and safe, and to protect his sect from a wrathful luo binghe.

he dislikes violence but doesn't shy away from it when it's expected of him to be unmoved by it. he's a deeply curious person and likes theorising, cultivation, and feeling powerful and respected. he thinks of himself as a "faker" but is proud of his moral stances, especially when they differ from the original goods'.

his biggest frustration throughout the novel is the fact that he cannot protect luo binghe from the plot and all the suffering that would bring him, and that he is under the control of something so opposed to his own goals as the system.

let's say shen qingqiu were to fall into the abyss and find xin mo himself, and therefore the system's control of him would be weakened, as it was when binghe was down there. this would mean he didn't betray binghe, maybe even took his place. this has to happen because he figures out the system is his biggest obstacle, before he gets to xin mo, or else my whole thing falls apart. maybe shang qinghua plays a part in this, maybe not.

it doesn't matter much how, but if he doesn't come to this realisation at some point, he would not place his target on the system, nor would he get the courage to try to change things according to his own wishes.

so. abyss -> revenge on the system -> find xin mo -> cultivate with it -> get out of the abyss.

first off, the sect wouldn't stand for him using a clearly harmful (to both himself and the world around him) demonic sword, or any sort of demonic cultivation at all, so he'd have to hide it if he were to make his way back. paranoia and fear would probably change him into an overprotective person, someone who slowly becomes less careful about what he has to do in order to protect his people, especially when we factor in how he'd had to, for years, live under the control and supervision of the system.

there is also the problem of getting close to the protagonist again. if he were to make contact, the system would re-activate, and his attempt to kill it would be useless.

he'd draw himself away from the people he cares about so he could watch over them. he would study and try to use the sword to change things in his favour, with the right incentive. the harm brought to his cultivation by the sword would probably force him to become more secretive so he isn't discovered.

he would probably seclude himself away from cang qiong, binghe and most of the world. whether he goes into the demon realm or not doesn't matter. he would rely on only himself, unless he can get shang qinghua involved in his plans. i imagine shang qinghua would be opposed to it, not only because the system would be against it, but because shen qingqiu's death or pain would spell his own destruction (by luo binghe's hand) if he didn't try to stop it.

the threat of huan hua palace and people discovering binghe's true nature would probably allow for the sword to take advantage of him more and more as he uses it to fight against them. i don't think the opm would not go after luo binghe, especially with shen qingqiu out of the picture, so i'm imagining the old fuck would offer luo binghe some sort of help just to get him close. shen qingqiu wouldn't stand for it, and we know that as he gets more desperate, shen qingqiu tends toward pragmatism. he would do what needs to get done, i guess.

"stuck between a rock and a hard place" pretty much describes shen qingqiu in svsss. having that not be the system's fault, for once, would probably push him to the edge enough that he does something extremely stupid and turns the entire cultivation world against him in an attempt to protect binghe from the opm's influence.

i don't think he would go too far, outwardly. he would probably bring more harm unto himself with xin mo than binghe had, and would probably suffer more than anyone else involved. him being so tight-lipped about his own motivations would get him scorned and named a traitor to the human realm. he'd have shen jiu's reputation post-trial, maybe. he would become colder, lifeless, honed-in on his goals.

this was an extremely long-winded way of saying that shen yuan, corrupted by xin mo, would become a husk of his former self. i imagine a moment where he tries to be warm again, that whole fond teacher shtick, and would find himself horrified at how much of an act that is now, rather than acting cold and heartless. i think he'd have turned his caring into caring too much to the point of leaving himself behind.

i had a wip of shen yuan transmigrating into luo binghe and having to lean into xin mo's influence so that he could get luo binghe reinstated into his own body that i put on the shelf at some point. he ended up baiting people into trying to assassinate him, and used their sacrifice as a way to power some sort of revival technique.

shen yuan needs plausible deniability for every action he does, especially ones he sees as morally reprehensible. so. add that to the whole thing above and that's the bulk of it, i think. maybe. god please tell me i make sense i need a shizun headpat

[saveyourblood]

Pretty Boy - Ch 14 (Buddie x Reader)

Summary: Buck’s hands trail down to your hands. He takes his in yours. “Do you love him?” “Buck.” “I know you love me,” Buck continues, playing with your fingers. “You know I love you. But I’m asking if you love him.” The one where you’re an advanced paramedic, Buck and Eddie are firefighters, and you think you might be in love with both of them.

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7 | Ch 8 | Ch 9 | Ch 10 | Ch 11 | Ch 12 | Ch 13

Chapter Summary: Your relationship has some growing tension that leads to an explosive revelation.

Word Count: 3.7k Warnings: a whole lotta angst, violence, discussions of religion

The shifting of the relationship was gradual. You brushed it off at first, attributing it to working long shifts or a lack of a good night’s sleep.

It started after Eddie was held hostage by Mitch. He assured you and Buck countless times that he’s okay and just happy Mitch’s son made it out of surgery. His words didn’t match his actions, though. He stopped greeting you both with a kiss in the morning. He started coming to bed later.

Then, you saw the bruises.

They started on his arms and legs, only the occasional purple and green discoloration. You didn’t think much of it; if someone breathed on you wrong, it could leave a mark. One morning, though, you noticed something much more severe.

Eddie had a massive bruise between the tattoo on his arm and his elbow. It was a mix of blue, purple, and red; it looked fresh, raw, and painful .

“Jesus,” you remarked after setting down your coffee. “What happened to you?”

Eddie looked at his elbow as if he didn’t initially know what you were talking about. “Christopher and I were roughhousing.”

“Were you also playing with hammers?”

“I’m fine.”

The tone of his voice left no room for discussion. It felt like all the air was sucked out of the atmosphere around you. The words wouldn’t reach Eddie’s ears no matter what you said. They would simply linger in the space between the two of you.

You can feel him slipping through your fingers; that’s what you would say. You can feel the distance between you grow little bit bigger with each one-word sentence. You don’t know how to fix it, as much as you want to. You wonder if Eddie feels the same growing gap. You wonder if Buck does. You wonder if ignorance really is bliss, or if it’s just delaying the inevitable.

You’re called to a 10-51 outside of a bar — it’s a drunk and disorderly complaint. In all your years of working in paramedicine, they’re some of your least favorite calls. Nine times out of ten, they end up in custody, which means an officer has to ride with them to the hospital, which pisses them off even more. It’s a lose-lose-lose situation more often than not.

You have no clue why this guy is so angry. You hear him spout the usual complaints: work, taxes, the government, blah blah blah. You watch as four patrol officers shift and dance around him like he’s a feral animal they’re trying to cage.

You look between Buck and Eddie. “You boys ready?”

They both nod.

When both your boys are on a drunk and disorderly call, you have a system worked out: they each grab one side while you give IM Versed. Some patients take longer than others to calm down, and some of them require an additional dose, but so far, the Versed always comes out on top.

You hide the capped syringe behind your back. Both the boys push through some of the officers, while you sneak your way to behind the patient. You watch Buck raise one finger, then two, then a third, before they both advance. Buck grabs his right arm while Eddie grabs the left.

You approach them, uncapping the syringe and raising it to the patient’s deltoid, the muscle just below the shoulder. You’re normally pretty quick, but this guy is somehow quicker.

He breaks free from Eddie’s grasp, arm swinging violently. All of a sudden, your vision goes black and an external force knocks you to the ground.

There’s a lot of shouting, but you can barely make it out over the ringing sound in your ears. You can feel the knees of your pants and the fabric over your elbows begin to saturate. Damn, he knocked you all the way to the ground.

“Hey, are you okay?” A voice asks. “Baby, are you hurt?”

You have yet to open your eyes, but you’d know Eddie’s voice anywhere. You nod slightly, then let out a groan when the motion makes your head spin.

“Here, let me see,” Eddie says, gently guiding you to a sitting position.

You feel his fingers perch under your chin, tipping your head upward. You frown at the movement when it makes you feel dizzy again. When the dizziness subsides, you slowly open your eyes.

Your vision is bleary, but Eddie’s face is close to yours. In the foreground, you can make out Buck completely laying on the patient to subdue him while officers swarm around them both.

“You’ve never called me that,” you say as Eddie puts a penlight through your line of vision.

“Looks like your cheekbone took the brunt of it, not your eye,” Eddie observes. He clicks the button on his radio. “This is RA 118 requesting an additional unit, one of our medics was assaulted on our 10-51 call.”

“ 10-4, ” you hear Maddie’s voice respond.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Eddie whispers, setting a gentle hand on your cheek.

You can’t help but smile. “You called me ‘baby’ again. You never do that, but you should keep doing it.”

That at least earns you a grin. It doesn’t quite meet his eyes, though. You can tell he still feels guilty.

“It’s not your fault, Eds,” you whisper.

“I should’ve had a better grasp on him.”

“It’s not your fault,” you repeat, this time a little louder.

“Yes, it is,” he disagrees. “I… my elbow locked up. It’s my fault.”

“I’ll stop by in a few days to get your full statement. For now, I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks, Sergeant Grant.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Athena.”

You smile. “Thanks, Athena.”

Athena smiles back. She looks at you, then at Buck and Eddie, who are on either side of you. Buck is sitting in the rolling stool meant for the ER staff, while Eddie has his back pressed to the counter.

“You boys take care of her,” she directs. “Make sure she gets home okay.”

Buck nods. “Yes ma’am.”

Eddie presses his lips together before eventually nodding.

Athena dismisses herself from the room, wishing you all a good night.

You hate being in the ER as a patient, mostly because you hate waiting. The ER doctor already ruled out an ocular injury, attributing your blurred vision to either a head injury, facial swelling, or both. He did order a head CT to rule out any internal injury, so after some blood work, you’re waiting for the scanner to be available.

The room is tense. Neither of the boys has left your side, but they haven’t said much, either. It’s an awkward combination.

Eddie shifts his arm and winces. He pushes off the counter with his good arm, then grabs his bad elbow. He rubs the bruise.

“The pain’s getting worse,” you observe. He doesn’t have to tell you with words because his body language is screaming.

“It’s nothing,” Eddie mumbles as he continues to rub his skin.

You turn to Buck, who’s holding your hand. “Do you know he got it?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Eddie interrupts.

“He won’t tell me,” you tell Buck, ignoring Eddie’s interjection.

Eddie says your name in a warning tone.

Buck looks at him, then back at you as he squeezes your hand. “He won’t tell me, either.”

Eddie sighs and rolls his eyes a little. “You two are making way too big a deal out of this.”

The ER doctor, Dr. Patel, knocks on the wall before pulling back the curtain and entering. “Hey, thanks for your patience. I wanted to let you know you’re next in line for CT.”

“Sounds great, thank you,” you say, shifting in the bed. “Hey, can you look at my friend’s arm?”

“Would you stop?” Eddie says with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Doc, my friends here are worried over nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” you press. “Move your hand, let him see the bruise.”

Eddie looks from you to Dr. Patel, who shrugs. “It’d be free of charge.”

Eddie sighs and relents, moving his hand.

With careful hands, Dr. Patel inspects Eddie’s arm. He pokes around the bruise on his elbow, which makes Eddie wince again.

“How did this happen?” Dr Patel asks.

“It happened at work,” Eddie says, “we’re firefighters.”

“You told me it happened when you were roughhousing with Chris,” you counter.

Eddie avoids your eyeline. “It’s probably a mix of both.”

When Dr. Patel pushes back on his hand, Eddie hisses and withdraws. “I’d recommend an X-ray to rule out a fracture, but since this is off the books, I’ll tell you that it seems to be a strain of the common extensor tendon.”

“So, off the books, how does one fix that?” You ask.

“Off the books, you treat a strain with rest, ice, and over-the-counter anti-inflammatories.”

Eddie purses his lips briefly, then extends a hand. “Thanks, doc.”

Dr. Patel smiles as he shakes his hand. “No problem. I’ll have someone show you boys to the waiting room.”

Buck kisses your temple and rubs your hand before letting go. He stands, clearing his throat. “Take care of her, okay?”

Dr. Patel smiles again, setting a hand on Buck’s shoulder as he slips out. “Of course.”

Eddie waves goodbye, and it leaves you alone in the room with Dr. Patel. You shift in your seat awkwardly.

Dr. Patel’s smile fades as he sits where Buck was moments ago. The sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere makes you sick with anxiety.

“Your blood work came back, and one of the results was… abnormal. I thought it would be best if we discuss it alone.”

“What the hell is going on with you?”

Eddie runs a hand down his face. “Buck, I’m-”

“I swear, Eddie, if you say you’re okay one more time, you’re going to need an ER visit.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything; he just sets his elbows on his knees, dipping his head down.

Buck sighs, leaning back in his chair. “You know, when I was… working through things, I shut her out.”

Eddie casts a glance over his shoulder. “How did that work out?”

“It almost ended us.”

Eddie’s lips shift in contemplation.

“Then, I told her everything. And it got me everything I ever wanted.”

At this, Eddie chuckles a little. “Everything you ever wanted? Seriously?”

It sounds like a ploy more than anything, a hyperbole to get Eddie to talk. He’s been around that block once or twice, so it isn’t something he’ll fall for easily.

“Yeah,” Buck confirms, voice unwavering. There isn’t a trace of humor or doubt in his tone. He doesn’t sound cocky, just… confident. “It got me both of you.”

They go back to being quiet. It’s comfortable for Buck and absolutely suffocating for Eddie.

Buck’s hand is resting on the armrest. Eddie can see it shift in his periphery. He feels Buck’s hand on his thigh, slowly inching closer to his hand. Buck’s fingertips reach his wrist before he lets out a breath and sits back. His eyes scan across the waiting room.

“Eddie,” Buck says softly. In that moment, Eddie thinks he may be telepathic, or maybe he just knows Buck too well, because he knows exactly what he’s about to say. “They don’t know about us. They don’t care .”

It shouldn’t be a big deal, mostly because Buck is right: no one knows. They don’t know that Buck is only one of the two people he’s in love with. They don’t know that the other person he’s in love with is in an ER room. They don’t know that she’s there because of him. They look like two men in love, two men who should be able to hold hands in a waiting room.

So… why can’t Eddie bring himself to do it?

“Can you at least look at me?”

Buck’s voice breaks through, and Eddie’s racing thoughts come to a screeching halt. His tone dances on the edge of desperation, and it hurts Eddie’s heart, but it doesn’t hurt enough for him to listen.

“You boys ready to ditch this place?”

They look up. It’s you. You’re out of the hospital gown and back in your uniform. The bruise on your cheekbone is getting darker by the minute, but despite it, there’s a smile on your face.

“Woah, that scan was quick,” Buck remarks.

“Yeah, the longest part is always the waiting.”

It’s subtle, but Eddie catches it. He sees the way your smile faulters, the way the light leaves your eyes for a second. You recover quickly; your smile evens out, and the sparkle returns in less than a second. Eddie saw it, though. He knows that change anywhere. He’s been living in that change for the last few weeks.

You’re caught in a lie.

He just has no clue what you’re lying about.

You clear your throat. “Let’s get out of here.”

Nursing school sucks.

You knew it would suck, but you didn’t know it would suck this bad. Your experience and certifications as a paramedic allow you to skip a year of coursework, and it still sucks really bad.

Whenever you aren’t working, you’re doing something for school. When you aren’t writing a paper, you’re working on a project. When you aren’t working on a project, you’re reviewing skills. When you aren’t reviewing skills, you’re studying. And there’s so much to study between medications and disorders and terminology. You’re barely a month into the term and you’re already looking forward to Thanksgiving break.

There’s a silver lining to it all — you’re too busy with school to think about anything else.

You can’t remember the last night you spent at Eddie’s house. Actually, you can’t remember the last time you kissed him. He’s been distant, and you’ve been busy, and that combination is intimacy’s killer.

It’s fine. Well, it’s probably not fine. But you don’t exactly have the time nor the resources to fix it. Besides, all things considered, it’s actually… comfortable. It's not the type of comfortable it started as, but a different type. It’s no longer the ‘everyone is okay and nothing else matters’ type of comfortable; it’s more of an ‘everything isn’t okay but it’s easier to pretend it is’ sort of comfortable.

It’s like seeing a deer standing in the road miles ahead. You’re going 55 on the highway, and the deer doesn’t see you yet. You know that, in a matter of seconds, everything will either be completely okay or it will end in blood. You know that, no matter what, someone’s gonna end up running.

But you’re not at the end yet. For now, you’re in that sweet spot where you see the deer and the deer doesn’t see you, but it doesn’t matter. You can see the end, but you’re not there yet. You don’t press on the gas, but you don’t move over the brakes yet, either. You know the ending, and you’re in no rush to see it, so for now, you’re just watching everything play out.

“Everything okay?” Hen asks.

You look up. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

You purse your lips as you shut your laptop. “No.”

In the last few months — and especially the last few weeks — you haven’t been a great friend to Hen. You haven’t been a deliberately bad friend, but the relationship has been very one-sided. Lately, your friendship consists of Hen asking questions about your relationship and you subsequently bitching about it.

“It’s Eddie, isn’t it?”

See, you were gonna try to talk about something else, maybe how Karen’s doing or if Denny’s school year started okay. But then she says something like that and she just… knows . She knows something is up, and she probably knows how badly you need to talk about it.

You’ve mentioned it to Buck more than once, but the conversation never seems to have a satisfying ending. You both always agree to let Eddie come to you in his own time. Eddie has yet to do so. He doesn’t have any new injuries, but that’s probably because he’s still healing his strain. He isn’t getting more avoidant, but he isn’t forthcoming like he used to be. Eddie’s in purgatory; all you and Buck can do is watch.

“He’s been acting weird, right?” you settle on saying. “I mean, it started with him keeping secrets, which I was… fine with. I mean, not fine, but I dealt with it, you know? But then the bruises started. He never had a good explanation for them, either.”

Hen shrugs. “He’s a guy.”

“That’s it? That’s your advice? ‘He’s a guy’?”

She chuckles. “I’m just saying that men tend to deal with these things differently than we do. For the most part, when things don’t make sense, women like to talk about it. Guys… they like to hit things.”

It turns out that ‘guys like to hit things’ was exactly the advice you needed. It’s the advice that led you to a boxing studio after hours. You responded to a call involving an injured boxer a while back, and the owner said to call anytime you needed a favor. You’re cashing it in.

“So… what exactly are we doing here?”

You dragged both of your boys with you. Words haven’t worked things out, so you’re hoping a little good old-fashioned sparring will do the trick.

You pick up a pair of boxing pads. You slide your hands into them before clapping them together, the sound muffled by the thick padding. “We’re gonna hit things.”

The boys share a look, then a chuckle.

“What?” Eddie asks.

“Talking isn’t working, so we’re gonna start hitting,” you explain. “And if that doesn’t work, then I’m out of ideas.”

You reach for a pair of boxing mitts. You hold them out. “Who’s going first?”

Buck looks to Eddie, then shrugs. “I’ll try anything once.”

You and Buck spar in the ring. You both get quicker as you get more confident, and his punches get faster. You keep up with ease. You don’t stop until Buck’s forehead is pouring with sweat.

You lean against the ropes. “Feel better?”

Buck wipes a drop of sweat away from his nose as he breathes heavily. He nods wordlessly.

You smirk in satisfaction. “Alright, Diaz, you’re up.”

Eddie’s sitting on a stool in the corner of the ring. You could feel his eyes bounce between you and Buck the whole time you were sparring. When your attention shifts to him, he looks like he wants to argue. He must know he’ll lose the argument because he stands with a sigh.

As Buck walks by to trade places with him, he holds the boxing gloves against his chest. Eddie takes them, and Buck’s hand moves to his shoulder. He squeezes and leaves his hand where it is until Eddie approaches you.

You lift your hands and brace a foot behind you. “You ready?”

Eddie's answer is a fist landing on the pad.

He isn’t hesitant like Buck was — his punches are fast and relentless, like bullets coming out of a gun. You struggle to keep up at first, but the two of you eventually find your rhythm.

“What’s got you so pissed?” you ask.

Eddie’s eyes find yours for a moment. They’re dark by nature, but there’s something different about them now. It’s like there’s no trace of him behind them, just pure anger.

“Doesn’t matter,” he eventually huffs out between blows.

“Is it me? Is it Buck?” you continue.

“Neither,” he answers.

“Is it us?”

Eddie’s jaw clenches. He punches a little harder.

“It is, isn’t it?” You prod.

“No,” Eddie says through his teeth. “It’s me.”

You frown. “What about you?”

“Everything. My thoughts, my actions, my relationships.”

“What about your relationships?”

“It’s wrong!”

The room quiets. Eddie stops throwing punches. Your hands fall limply at your sides.

“It’s wrong?” You whisper.

Eddie lets out a sound similar to a growl. He pulls off his gloves, throwing them to the side and running his hands through his hair.

“It’s… wrong,” Eddie repeats, his hands finding their way to his hips. “I was raised in a religion that believes marriage is between a man and a woman. But I was raised in El Paso, which is about as liberal as Texas can get. I have gay family members, and we’ve always loved them the same.”

Buck stands up, carefully approaching the two of you. “So what’s wrong about this?”

“It would be one thing if I was just dating a guy,” Eddie continues. “Dating more than one person, though? Dating a guy and a girl? It’s like… I can’t wrap my head around it. There’s no way my family could, no way that…”

“...That God could,” you finish.

You’re not a stranger to religion, but it isn’t your best friend, either. When your dad got too drunk, your neighbors across the street took you in for a few weeks, and they went to church every Sunday. They were Christian — you’re fuzzy on the exact denomination, but you know they weren’t Catholic. The Richardsons weren’t out in the street fighting for marriage equality, but from the time you spent with them, they seemed more ‘Love thy neighbor’ than ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’ type of people.

“I don’t even know if I believe in God,” Eddie says with a bitter laugh. “I don’t know if I believe in Him, but I’m terrified of disappointing him. How does that even work?”

“You wouldn’t be a lapsed Catholic if you didn’t have at least a little guilt,” Buck offers. Eddie smiles a little, but it doesn’t meet his eyes.

There’s a burning question, and you don’t know how else to ask it. “Do you still want to do this?”

Eddie swallows. “I… I don’t know. I just need… some time, I think.”

Buck wraps an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. He’s much nicer than you.

See, you’re tired. You’ve given Eddie time — a lot of time. You’ve given him time to himself, time to work things through, time to come to you. You’re kind of tired of giving him time. Especially because now, you can hear the clock ticking. There’s only so much time left before everything changes.

You rip off the pads, tossing them to the side near Eddie’s gloves.

Buck frowns as he says your name. “What’s wrong?”

You laugh a little, and it brings tears to your eyes.

“I’m pregnant.”

[loveharlow]

SEVEN [SEASON 2] - 007 (PT 2)

PAIRING ‧₊˚ JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS‧₊˚ [8.5k] based on Netflix’s Outer Banks Season 2 Episode 10

WARNING(S)‧₊˚ swearing, general obx warnings, graphic depictions of injuries/blood, mild violence

NOW PLAYING‧₊˚

A/N‧₊˚ i KNOW y'all hate me but i've literally been through hell and back these past 1-2 months but we are BACK IN BUSINESS XX THEE SEASON 2 FINALE

˗ˏˋ series masterlist ˎˊ˗

“IT’S SO HOT IN HERE…” You groaned, fanning yourself as you slumped against the side of the receptacle. You’d all been enclosed in the space for well over two hours at this point and the exhaustion was starting to settle in…as well as the agitation.

“Nice work, John B.” JJ said sarcastically as you leaned on the blonde's shoulder while he glared at his best friend. “Y’know, these things lock from the outside, right?”

“I was just trying to get us on the boat, JJ…” John B groaned, forehead pressed against the metal wall as he stood limply. “I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”

“Now we’re stuck in here...like rats.” JJ argued, tone short. 

“It’s hot…” Kiara exasperated, stripping off her jacket.

“Okay, JJ, you’re not helping.” Pope dismissed, annoyed as beads of sweat trailed down the sides of his face. He was gripping a random bar, holding on for dear life. 

“You don’t have a whole lotta room to talk, right now, Pope.” JJ retorted. “You said you had a plan but what happened to thinking ahead?” 

“I find your lack of self-knowledge very disturbing.” Pope shot back through heavy breaths. 

“Ohh, okay.” JJ laughed humorlessly, standing from his spot. “Last time I checked-”

“Oh, my God. Shut up!” You and Kiara reprimanded simultaneously — you tugging so hard on JJ’s arm that you managed to get the boy to sit back down as Kie slammed her arm between the two. “Instead of arguing,” You started. “How about we try to find a way out of here?” You offered, mildly agitated yourself.

“We can take the bridge.” JJ offered, shrugging carelessly. You pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration, turning towards your boyfriend stiffly, sighing.

“...What?” 

“The bridge. It’s like killing a snake — we go for the head. And I happen to know that there’s an armory on this ship. I’m talking grenades, SMG’s-”

“Killing everyone here is not an option.” You stopped JJ bluntly, looking the blonde in his eyes. You sighed once more, walking away in an attempt to recollect yourself, isolating yourself from the group and wandering into the very back of the shipping container.

“Well, what’re we supposed to do-”

“We can’t do anything until we find a way out of here, JJ.” John B told the boy. 

You tuned out the boy’s conversation as your eyes found a beam of light coming from behind a mountain of crates and boxes. The observation stopped you in your tracks, squinting your eyes as your thoughts raced. Without hesitation, you began moving the objects out of your way to get to whatever was shining behind them.

After a few minutes, you finally got to what you were looking for — your eyes going wide. “Guys…” You tried, but your voice went unheard over the bickering of the two boys.

“Guys!” You snapped, eyes on your friends on the other end of the container. Their voices came to a halt, all eyes on you as you used your head to motion them over.

“She’s got somethin’.” JJ mumbled as the four of them walked over to you, now able to see what you were seeing.

“Can we fit through that?” You asked smugly, motioning for the window you’d uncovered. 

“Hell yeah.” JJ chuckled, squeezing your arm proudly. “And uh, what about that swiss army knife 'not coming in handy'?” JJ asked sarcastically in John B’s direction, holding his pocket knife in between his fingers — the perfect tool to pry the grate off of the window.

“Just shut up.” JB rolled his eyes as JJ used one of the crates on the ground as a step stool to get high enough to start rooting out the metal grate.

“Okay, sooo…we raid the armory, get weapons, roll back here, and plot the next move?” Pope confirmed with the group as JJ worked, to which everyone nodded tiredly.

“The armory is on the third deck, near the laundry room. Let’s roll.” JJ verified, fingers hooked into the unscrewed grate, ready to pull it off. 

“Hold up.” Pope started, looking around at all of you as JJ stopped in his tracks. “I don’t think we should all go out there…” He cringed. “It’s too risky.”

“What?” JJ said incredulously. “How?”

“...I think you should stay here.” JB added, eyes on your boyfriend. “I have Sarah that I’m gonna go after. And Pope has-”

“The cross.” Pope finished for him. 

“Yeah…” JJ said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Let’s go get it.”

“Also, if you go out there, there’s a one-hundred percent probability that you’re gonna do something stupid.” John B shrugged.

“Okay, first of all, I think the correct terminology is ‘ballsy’-” JJ tried only to be cut off.

“Okay, get down here-” Pope urged, tugging on the blonde’s arm.

“No. Get off-” JJ whisper-yelled as he snatched his arm away but hopped down off the crate anyway. “Dude, I’m a field player.”

“Shhh.” John B demanded. “Look, if we go out there and we get in a bind, we need somebody to look out for us. That’s what we need-”

JJ scoffed, unbelievably. “Okay, I get it, I get it.” He dismissed, jutting out his bottom lip as he trotted over to you, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “Fine. I’ll stay here. Single out the one who got your asses out of the container, cool.” He said. "I’ll be on B team, ‘s fine.”

“I never said B team.” John B said bluntly, blinking.

“Sorry, are you calling me B team?” You asked, mildly offended as you looked up at the blonde, crossing your arms.

“You’re not B team, baby, of course not. I was just-”

“Did ‘B Team’ not just find our way out? Or am I, like, totally losing it?” You asked rhetorically, looking around the cabin with your hands up in surrender. 

“Look, we’re just saying we need people to hang back and hold down the fort.” Pope clarified, hands clasped in front of him. 

“Great, fine. It’s fine, I’ll just stay here with my girl.” JJ smiled annoyedly, throwing an arm over your shoulders as your arms returned to their crossed position.

“Oh, now you wanna stay back with B Team?” You sassed, raising your eyebrows.

“Will you please-” JJ tried before being cut off by Kiara.

“Guys.” She said firmly. “Chill. Look, John B and Pope wanna go alone? Fine. I’ll stay here with Y/N and JJ, I’ll babysit.”

“You guys have fun. It’s your funeral, your game. We’ll be in here, on the bench…” JJ taunted, shrugging nonchalantly as he released his hold on you and walked back to the front of the container.

You watched as John B and Pope climbed the crates on the floor up to the opened window, one behind the other as John B moved the metal grate to the side. 

“Don’t...get shot?” Kie said, attempting to offer some kind of comfort.

“...Don’t get shot.” Pope reiterated sassily, pulling his lips into a thin line. “That’s…disheartening and scary.”

Kie simply shrugged. “It’s all I got.”

“Okay, let’s go.” John B whispered, poking his head out of the window like a dog. “Pope, grab my feet.”  He instructed in a whisper before launching himself out of the window before bothering to make sure the boy in question even had a hold on him. 

“Oh, Jesus-” Pope cursed, watching as his friend fell face first out of the window — you and Kie’s jaws going slack. It seemed John B had managed to catch himself, however, considering there was no screaming or cursing as his entire frame seemed to slide the rest of the way out of the window.

Seconds passed before Pope followed suit, carefully sliding himself out of the small opening. You were quick to tip toe up the crates, hearing unknown voices from the outside which prompted you to carefully replace the metal grate, praying it wouldn’t dislodge itself. 

Letting the object set itself, you turned to face the two people you remained locked inside with, sighing heavily to yourself when you realized how awkward this would be — even if all parties didn’t realize it. 

“...’s just us.” You sighed with a grimace, hopping down off the grates. “Now, we wait.”

NOT EVEN THIRTY MINUTES INTO CAMPING OUT, OR “KEEPING WATCH", THE THREE OF YOU WERE SWEATING BULLETS. Kiara had isolated herself on the complete other side of the container — whether it was to give you and JJ space or avoid you, you weren’t entirely sure. A part of you wondered if you should tell JJ about Kiara’s confession, if that was the right thing to do as a girlfriend. But the other part figured that it wasn’t your place as Kiara’s friend, no matter how rocky of a hill the friendship currently stood on.

“I’ve been thinking,” JJ started after half an hour of silence — you were resting your head in his lap, hands splayed across your stomach as he laid his head back against a stack of boxes and crates. “When all this is over, and we’re just rollin’ in the dough, I’m gonna get a new board.” He concluded, lanky fingers playing in your hair. “I’m gonna deck it out, and I’m gonna go on a surf trip.” He smiled to himself in thought as you stared up at him. “I don't know where,” He shrugged. “But, like, the world’s calling…I don’t know. Name a place.” He requested, blue eyes looking down at you.

You pondered for a moment, fingers tapping on the surface of your stomach before you settled on an answer — eyes meeting his with a small smile. “Spain.”

He beamed, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Then after Spain?”

“...South America.” You said, pouting your lips in thought. “Or South Africa.” You shrugged with a smirk.

“And then Micronesia, maybe? And then we…just ride.” He sighed dreamily. You couldn’t help the pure admiration blooming in your eyes, unable to unglue them from the boy above you as he got consumed by his own daydream. You liked seeing JJ happy. He deserved it.

“Wherever the wave takes you?” You asked, voice soft and full of adoration. 

Your voice seemed to snap him out of his stupor, the blonde looking down at you once more to find your big eyes staring at him like everything you’d ever wanted. Everything he'd ever wanted. “Wherever the waves takes us.” He corrected.

“So, that’s the plan if we were to get a ton of cash? That’s it?” You inquired. “That’s the dream? Surf trip?”

The blonde simply nodded. “Rippin’ jungle break all day long. Bamboo hut, cooking a fish on a fire, and after that, you go back out and hit the waves again.” He smiled once more to himself, dropping his hand to brush his thumb over the curvature of your jaw. “That’s the dream.” 

“Sounds perfect.” You cooed, putting one of your hands over his. Subconsciously, you let your head fall to the side, finding Kie’s eyes across the shipping container. Her own sad, brown eyes were glued where you and JJ’s hands were connected — fleeting between his featherlight touch on your jaw and your fingers on top of his. There was an indecipherable look in her eyes, a look that made your stomach turn in the worst ways.

You loved JJ. But you hated hurting Kiara. And you wonder if being in a position like this would ever get any easier.

The sound of tapping and Pope’s voice broke you from your thoughts. “Hey, hey,” He whispered, face nearly pressed against the grate. “Open it.” He instructed in a whisper, Kiara being the first one to get up in order remove the barrier, allowing the boy into the container. You and JJ stood to get closer to the two, watching as Pope climbed through the opening. 

“You need help?” Kiara offered her friend.

“I’m good.” He strained out a polite denial of the offer, landing on his feet inside the space.

“I thought Rafe got you guys for sure.” Kie worried, shoving her hands in her back pockets. 

“No, we’re chill.” Pope whispered, peeking out of the window once more before letting John B in after him, the brunette struggling a bit to climb back in. 

“All right.” You sighed, finishing your mental headcount. “Let’s put the grate back on.” You suggested as JB landed on his feet.

“No, wait.” Pope held out a hand, prompting you to wait a second. 

Your eyes furrowed at this. “What?”

“Hold on to it.” Pope instructed, eyes focused on the opening as if he was waiting for something. Or someone.

“No, put it back.” Kie urged, ready to replace the grate. Suddenly, a girl appeared in front of the square opening — a pretty, brown-skinned girl, covered in sweat. Your face immediately contorted into one of confusion upon registering her presence.

“Jesus Christ!” She whisper-shouted, taking in each of you one by one before her eyes landed on John B. “I kill you, John B!” She threatened with her accent, climbing into the shipping container as you all backed up to make room for her.

“Who is this?” Kie whispered, eyes on Pope. 

“Just relax, okay?” John B got Kie’s attention on him. “I told you I had a surprise.”

“When did you say that, exactly?” You asked, eyes permanently pinched together as you instinctively backed into JJ for comfort. 

“Who is she? What’s going on?” Kiara interrogated, voice becoming something between angry and frantic. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” John B coaxed, planting his hands on the girl’s shoulders to stabilize her. “Kie, relax.” He tried, tone lowering as he seemed to calm her. “Remember I told you about the girl we met in the Bahamas that saved us?” He asked, eyes connecting with all of yours.

“Uh…Cleo, yeah?” Kiara answered, earning a nod from John B.

Your eyes went to the girl standing on the makeshift stairs, pointing as you gained her attention with the movement. “That’s you?” You asked.

She offered a simple nod in response, allowing John B to continue talking. “She’s gonna help us.” He told Kie before turning to Cleo herself. “...Right?”

“Next time, ask me.” Cleo reprimanded your friend in a low, annoyed tone. This girl didn’t necessarily give you a bad vibe, but this seemed to be working out in your favors a little too well.

“John B.” You started, eyes on his as you jutted your head towards the back of the container and away from the group. “Can I talk to you?” The boy drew his lips into a thin line as he followed you to the back of the container, leaving the remaining four up front.

“What’s wrong?” Your friend asked impassively.

‘What’s wrong?” You asked incredulously, eyes fleeting quickly between your friends and the unknown girl as you took one step closer. “John B, we don’t know this girl. How do you know she’s actually going to help us?”

He immediately began shaking his head, his hands out in front of you to stop your ranting. “I know, it’s risky.” He assured you. “But that girl saved me and Sarah’s lives in the Bahamas. I know you guys don’t know her but I trust her.” He explained. “Do you trust me?”

You pondered for a moment, chewing the inside of your lip as your foot tapped incessantly on the floor — eyes flying back and forth between Cleo and your friends. “...You know I do.”

John B nodded, a pompous smile on his face. “Okay. So, trust me when I say that you can trust her.” He said simply.

You clenched your jaw as you eyed the girl from feet away as she conversed with your friends. 

“...Fine.” You caved, sighing and untensing your body. “But if this is a bad call, it’s your bad call.” You warned before walking away and rejoining the group as JB trailed close behind. 

“You seriously grabbed nothing?” JJ said in surprise, the group continuing the conversation you and John B had missed a chunk of. “Not even a single gun?”

John B sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leaned on some netting hanging from the ceiling. “We tried, okay? I got attacked.”

“This is why I should’ve gone with.” JJ sassed, shrugging from his place beside you. 

“Let me get this straight,” Cleo inserted herself into the boys' bickering. “You five, with no weapons, decided you were gonna hijack this tramp steamer on your own?” She asked, unbelievably. “Do you have any idea who these people are?” She asked, something between anger and fear in her eyes. “Eberhimi? If he catch you, he’s gonna kill you.” She warned. “Dead. Cut off ya fingers.” She exaggerated. Or...maybe not.

“Okay…” Kiara started. “What about waiting until we get to port?” She threw out. “At least then, if something goes wrong, we have a place to run.” 

“No.” Pope shook his head almost immediately. “No, we can’t do that.”

“Why?” Kiara shrugged in offense. 

“Because I’ve run the scenario over one-thousand times in my head, and our best chances are on this ship. There’s fifteen crew members and six of us,-”

“Exactly.” Kiara quipped.

“Three-to-one odds.” Pope said bluntly. “That’s the best it’s gonna get. If we wait ‘til we get there, they’re gonna trap us.”

“We have no chance.” Kiara argued with his logic. 

“No, Kie, there’s something else.” John B added. “...Ward’s alive.”

You couldn’t control the way your neck snapped in the boy’s direction, an immediate wave of confusion and pure anger washing over you. “Excuse me, what?” You spat as the rest of your friends stood frozen, waiting for John B to elaborate on just exactly what the hell he meant. 

“He’s alive, and he’s on this boat.” 

“What?” Kiara finally spoke.

“I fucking knew it.” You scoffed, overcome with disbelief as you turned away from the group, shaking your head. 

“You gotta be kidding me.” JJ scoffed.

“...Are you serious?” Pope asked in a whispered tone. 

John B just nodded despondently. “It was all a setup.” He shrugged. “Blowing up the boat, his confession to Shoupe? Think about it.” He explained. “That was to clear Rafe’s name. And he does what? Goes to the Druthers. And what’s on the Druthers?”

“Scuba gear.” You answered, voice tight as you turned back around, clicking your teeth. 

John B grimaced, tilting his head to the side. “Bingo.” 

“So, Ward’s alive, huh?” JJ started, tone indecipherable. “And he has the gold…and the cross…and Sarah.” He listed, walking to the center of the group. 

“Thanks for rubbing that in.” Kie retorted, rolling her eyes. 

“So, he’s just gonna get away with everything again, huh? Rafe, too?” He provoked, looking at each of you as he spoke. 

You immediately shook your head, a look of borderline disgust on your face. “No.” You threw out. “No, hell no.” You reiterated, tone much more firm this time. “We’re not watching this movie again. Okay? Pope? John B? Do you hear me?” You continued. “You said we need the win. You said that Pope.” You reminded the boy, taking a few steps into his space. “And with her?” You pointed to Cleo. “We’re going to the bridge, and we’re gonna take it. Are you with me?”

“...Let’s do it.” John B opted in, eyes focused on his feet as he took your words in.

“I’m with you.” Pope assured, eyes meeting yours. “And I wanna be the one to take that bridge.” He made abundantly clear.

“That’s what I’m talking about.” JJ praised, cupping your neck and pulling you in to place a quick, proud kiss on your cheek. 

“He’s gonna take the bridge?” Cleo chuckled, referring to Pope. “He couldn’t even take me.”

“Okay, first of all, I was going easy on you-” Pope tried to defend. 

“I went easy on you.” Cleo asserted herself, pointing at the boy.

You all shushed the bickering teens, careful not to be too loud. 

“Relax.” John B directed as JJ began talking, eyes on Cleo.

“If you’re really with us, if we use that knife,” He started, referring to the weapon in the girl’s hand. “We can go up into the bridge, hold it up against the captain’s neck, then we go on the intercom and make him tell the rest of the crew to meet up in the forward hull.” He explained his logic. And for once, his plan didn’t sound so bad. “Once they’re in the same place, bam, we lock ‘em in there and take back what’s ours.” 

Pope nodded, thinking about JJ’s words. “I like it.” He agreed. “It could work.”

“...Are you with us, then?” JJ pressed Cleo, stepping even closer and making unwavering eye contact with the girl. 

“No.” She said without much thought before turning to look at John B, directing her next words at him. “This is stupid.” 

“All right, let’s open these things up!” A voice boomed from outside the container, startling all of you as your gazes whipped in the same direction. 

“...They’re checking the containers.” Kiara stated the obvious. Cleo wasted no time in climbing the stair of crates and peeking outside the “window” before removing the grate. Your heart raced as you watched her quick movements — was she about to rat you all out?

“”Wait. No, Cleo.” Pope tried.

“What are you doing?” Kiara hissed. 

Cleo shushed the pair, carefully placing the large piece of metal on the ground. The five of you watched with anticipation as the girl climbed out of the window, hearing metal clanking from the outside as you presumed the men had begun to open up your crate to search next. 

“Piece of shit’s stuck.” One of the men complained. Good, you thought to yourself.

“Macias!” Cleo bellowed as her feet hit the ground, the girl disappearing out of sight for the most part. 

“She’s gonna tell them. Shit!” Pope automatically assumed the worst. 

“Hold up!” Cleo’s voice boomed from outside as you instinctively covered the opening, also assuming the worst. Until you heard her voice again. “This one’s clear, sir.” She said to the men, the sound of metal clanking from the outside coming to a halt with her words. 

“...You sure?”

“Went through it inch by inch. Nothing but tubing and plastics in there.” You all shared smug smiles of amusement. Maybe you could trust her.

“What if the stowaway had been in there?” The guy pressed.

“Well, he wasn’t, so…” She replied. “C’mon, man. We have work to do. Move your bumper, man.” She dismissed the crew member. And it wasn’t long until you heard footsteps coming back your way.

“Okay…” Pope started. “She’s on our side. That’s good.” 

“Okay, Pope, you’re up.” JJ patted his friend on the back, watching as Pope removed the metal covering once more, revealing Cleo on the other side as she whistled to signal her return. “We’ll wait for your signal, okay?” Pope nodded before turning to the girl waiting outside for him.

“Come on.” She urged, helping the boy out of the container. 

“Thanks for that, by the way.” He showed his gratitude to your new found companion, their voices still close enough to hear. “I don’t know why you did that, but I’m not gonna argue.” He told her. “...Why’d you do that?” 

“Not for charity.” Cleo told him honestly. “Just figure I’m better off with you guys than with Eberhimi.” 

“Right.”

“And now you guys owe me a cut of that treasure.” 

“...That’s fair.”

“All right.” The pair concluded. “How we takin’ over this fort, Chief?”

“...Can I borrow your knife?” Pope asked. 

“...I got a better idea.” Cleo denied. “Come on.” And that was the last of the conversation you all could hear before the sound of their footsteps retreating was heard.

ABOUT TEN MINUTES PASSED BEFORE YOU HEARD IT. 

“Attention, all passengers, all crew, report to the tween forward hull. That’s an order.” The four of you remaining in the crate, shared looks before putting your ears to walls of the enclosed space. “Repeat. All hands and all passengers report to the tween forward hull immediately.” 

There it was — Pope’s signal.

“They did it. They took the bridge.” John B smiled.

“That’s our boy. “JJ applauded, him and John B immediately removing the metal grate for what you hoped to be the last time. “Alright, we split up. Once they’re all in the hull, Y/N and I will lock them inside.”

John B nodded in agreement. “I’ll find Sarah and get the lifeboat.” He informed. 

“What about me?” Kie asked, eyes wide as they went between John B and the pair of you and JJ.

“...Come with us.” You told the girl, your eyes locked with hers. It was a silent gesture, a speechless truce — your way of letting her know that you were both okay. She nodded, a tiny smile on her lips.

“Alright.” She took the offer. 

You nodded in her direction before looking to John B. “We’ll load the cross, meet you, and get outta here.”

“Okay.” JJ gathered you all’s attention. “Let’s roll.” He led the group of you, leaning out of the window and using the barrels below to help himself out. Once he was on the ground, he turned around — hands outstretched to help you out, assistance that you gratefully accepted. John B followed after you and Kiara was the last one out.

The four of you wasted no time in bolting in the direction that Pope and Cleo had gone previously, following JJ as he led you all to the forward hull. John B had already managed to separate himself as soon as you entered the ship, quick on the start of his search to find Sarah.

You, Kie, and JJ ducked behind the walls on either side of the door when you reached the hull. You and Kie on one side, JJ on the other. You heard voices grow as the room filled with passengers and crew members.

“Hey, what the hell is this all about?”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with that stowaway, does it?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

“Psst.” JJ aimed to get your attention - your wide, adrenaline filled eyes going to him as you tried not to move a muscle. “How many?” He whispered. You and Kie took a quick glance into the hull, doing a quick count before turning back to your boyfriend as you both held up three fingers simultaneously. 

The three of you peeked, watching as the room filled with person after person. 

“What’s goin’ on, man?”

“I don’t know. Waitin’ on the captain.”

“He’s supposed to be down here.”

Over the mess of voices, one in particular caught your attention. 

“Where are we going? Where’s dad?” Wheezie? The girl’s meek voice caused you to peek further into the door, watching as the girl in question followed Rose into the hull, both of them being followed by Rafe. 

“I don’t know, Wheezie.” Rose sighed.

You watched them approach the final door to the hull, hiding back behind it in order to not be seen or spotted as Rafe paused in his tracks, whipping his head to the side, just nearly missing the sight of you three. Once you heard footsteps, you assumed he’d gone inside — taking the risk and peeking to find the family of three completely out of sight.

Turning to face JJ, you spoke as low as you could. “That’s all of the crew.”

But he shook his head. “Except Ward.” The blonde reminded you. “We need Ward.”

As much as you agreed, closing the door now was your best bet before the crew got suspicious. “We can’t wait.”

JJ seemed to sit on the thought for a moment before caving in, motioning for you and Kie to help him close the door. With no hesitation, the three of you ran inside and used all of your collective strength to push the door shut, the people inside immediately reacting to the creaking of the metal door.

“Hey!”

“Oh my God!”

Crew members began to throw themselves against the door in an attempt to keep it open and overtake you three, but you had already gained the upper hand. For the most part. Once the door was shut, you and Kie held it down while JJ locked it.

You all left out breaths of relief until you heard one of the voices on the other side.

“Check the other door!”

You, Kiara, and JJ all shared mutual looks of shock before jumping into action, running around to the other side of the hull, almost tripping over one another in the process. 

JJ himself took the lead, managing to shut and lock the door completely by himself before the men inside even had the chance. You all looked at one another, sharing the same victorious smile before going off and taking the ladder down into a lower part of the ship where the cross was being held. 

“Time to jack this loot.” JJ clapped his hands together and rubbed them together in true klepto fashion, being the first one down the ladder.  You followed his lead, watching as he stopped in front of a cloth-covered coffin. JJ didn’t wait a second before uncovering the box, revealing the cross you all had lost. “There she is.” He cooed, staring down at the golden masterpiece.

Your eyes locked with his, the two of you sharing a look. “Surf trip?” He asked lovingly. 

“Surf trip.” You winked, the two of you carrying out a complex handshake. 

However, the three of you paused — hearts jumping out of your chests when the ceiling opened up. But your fear quickly turned to relief when you made out Pope’s frame standing above you, smiles breaking out on your faces.

The pure relief in your chests prompted a chorus of laughs to ring out, eyes on the boy standing above you with unadulterated determination on his face. You all started cheering, forgetting how important discreteness was to this plan.

“Whoo!”

“Whooooo!”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Let’s go!”

You all applauded how well the plan was going. For the first time, it felt like something was going right. In your favor. Maybe the Kooks didn’t always win. Maybe the Pogues didn’t always lose. 

“The time where people do shit to us and we just sit back and take it is over.” Pope declared, standing above you all like a public figure.

“That’s my boy!” JJ praised, punching the air. “Let’s get this done, baby!” 

You three watched as Pope climbed his way to the top of the crane, seating himself and watching as the machine came to life. The trio of you got the cross ready for pick up and drop off, wrapping a loop around the cross with thick fabric, securing it. 

“Take her up, Pope!” JJ shouted from below once the large piece of treasure was ready to go. You all watched in awe as Pope used the heavy machinery to lift the gold, watching it sway violently from side to side on its way up.

“Slow, Pope!” You hollered, watching the cross nearly hit the sides of the ship. “Slowly!”

“Bring her in the middle!” Kie instructed, using the short rope JJ had tied around the bottom to help Pope guide it. Pope did as he was told, but way too fast, sending the cross flying to the middle of the opening in the ceiling, taking JJ with it.

“No! Too far!” You shouted, chasing the cross while trying to lend JJ a hand at the same time. “Too far, Pope!” 

“Sorry!” The boy shouted from the crane operating cubicle. “My bad!”

Once JJ was on his feet, you, him, and Kiara helped to guide the cross to the actual middle. 

“Hey!” A fifth voice chimed in, your heads shooting in the direction of it — watching as Cleo ran around the corner, standing above you all where Pope was just moments before. “Send it up, Pope. You got it!”

“Did John B get the lifeboat?!” Pope questioned from his place above you all.

“I don’t see him!” Cleo replied back loudly, shrugging confusedly. 

“Where’s Sarah?!” Pope questioned further as the three of you keeping the cross stabilized, the boy earning no response from the girl as she waved a hand to dismiss his interrogation.

“Hurry!” Cleo commanded. The three of you watched as Pope lifted the cross, the piece of treasure getting higher and higher in the sky. “Wow…” Cleo's eyes twinkled at the sight of the cross, this being her first time seeing the aforementioned treasure. “Send it this way.” She guided Pope.

Once those two had the cross secured to the crane — You, JJ, and Kie’s job here was done. The three of you released your hold on the cross, letting the pair of them do their task without intervention. You led your boyfriend and best friend around the corner, at the forefront of the three person line, now on your second task to meet John B.

“Clear?” Kie asked, peeking behind you. You eyed the scene left and right before nodding at her over your shoulder.

“Clear.” You assured, tip-toeing around the corner and onto the upper deck. You swiftly walked around, looking for where John B and Sarah should've been with the lifeboat. “I don’t see him.” Rounding another corner, you looked around before your heart dropped when Eberhimi, the captain of the ship, descended the stairs.

You and the man made eye contact — challenging and unwavering as he unsheathed a knife. “Of course.” He gritted through his teeth, brows set into a harsh line. “There’s more of you.” He spat, pointing the knife at the three of you. “Get down on your knees.” He ordered.

JJ was the first to speak, drawing his lips into a thin line as his head jutted to the side. “I don’t swing that way. Sorry, bro.”

“In front of my boyfriend?” You couldn’t help but chuckle — being somewhat acclimated to situations like this. “Wow, you’re bold.” You shook your head in pity. 

“Is this a joke to you?” Eberhimi squinted, looking at the group of you like you were out of your minds. “Get on your damn knees!”

“Yeah, not gonna happen.” Kiara denied as the captain’s patience came to an end, the man charging at you all, swinging his machete at all three of you as you managed to collectively dodge the attack. He swung again, to the side this time. An attack that didn’t land, again. 

JJ took the opportunity to pin the captain’s arm against the wall, rendering the older man somewhat defenseless. You and Kiara used your collective strength to replace JJ’s hold on Eberhimi’s arm, allowing your boyfriend to clock the man in his cheek. “Hit him, Y/N!” JJ directed, you giving Kiara the task of keeping the man pinned as you opened the fusebox closest to his face, slamming the door against his features. “Where’s John B?” JJ asked breathlessly, frustration growing with the aforementioned boy's absence.

“John B!” You and Kiara screamed, looking over the edge of the boat for any sign of the lifeboat. “Bree!” You continued screaming, looking back to find JJ engaged in another brawl with the captain. JJ had the upper hand for a moment — dodging hit after hit until Eberhimi managed to get him one good time in the chest, sending your boyfriend flying backwards, watching as he hit his head against the side of the ship.

“Hey!” You jumped into action, running towards the two men. “Don’t fucking touch him!” You warned, running at the man whose attention jumped to you at the sound of your rapid footsteps coming in his direction. He swung at you but you managed to dodge the swing, just narrowly missing being cut with the tip of his blade but now you were disoriented, unaware that your back was to the older man now.

“Y/N!” JJ and Kie called your name at once. You tried to stabilize yourself, turning in the direction of their voices only to come face to face with the man once more, but this time you weren’t as lucky. As you made another attempt to dodge his swing, you failed — a burning sensation blooming down the length of your thigh as his machete made a long, deep incision from the top of your thigh to right above your knee.

“Y/N!” They shouted once more, watching you get semi-mutilated as you let out a heart-wrenching screech, falling to the floor as your own blood started to pool underneath your injured leg. All you could do was sit, dry-heave, and watch as JJ quickly regained full consciousness, getting up and launching himself on to the man's back.

He managed to get the man into a chokehold and away from you, until he was elbowed in the ribs and hit under his chin — rendering the blonde unconscious and sending him flying overboard and into the water. It was like your entire world was moving in slow motion as you watched JJ fall into the water, your heart dropping to your stomach as your only focus became him.

You screamed his name as he fell, you were sure of it. But you couldn’t hear your own voice in your ears. Somewhere in your adrenaline-driven haste, the pain in your leg seemed to dissipate — pushing yourself up and onto your feet. You angry eyes found Eberhimi, limping swiftly in the man’s direction before he had time to register your movements, giving him no time to defend himself as you used your good leg to kick him savagely in the stomach before punching him mercilessly in the face, sending the man to the ground with strength you didn’t know you had.

You immediately turned your sights to Kiara, who stood to the side, shocked. “Where is he?” You asked through heavy breaths, eyes scanning the waters below for any sign of your blonde.

“Y/N, you need to-”

“Where is he?!” You repeated yourself, much less patience in your tone this time. You didn’t mean to yell at her, but JJ needed help. Why couldn’t she see that? Eyes still trained overboard, you spotted a figure floating face down, motionless. “JJ!”

You didn’t think twice — wincing as you lifted yourself up onto the edge of the boat, paying no mind to your own potentially fatal injury before jumping off into the water where you watched your boyfriend’s unconscious body float, hearing Kiara scream your name before your body hit the water.

You were under for seconds before you were able to fight your way to the top, looking around to find JJ floating limply next to you. “J…” You breathed out, struggling to swim to him — the saltwater eliciting the pain receptors in your thigh to work in tandem with your brain again. 

Despite the insufferable burning sensation in your leg, you continued to swim to JJ — scooping him up by his arms when you reached him, now able to flip him onto his back. His eyes were closed and his chest wasn’t moving, which sent you into a panic of your own. “JJ.” You tried, attempting to shake him but it was hard with the water restricting your movements. 

It was also becoming increasingly harder to keep you both afloat by yourself. “JJ, come on!” You groaned, maneuvering so you could use one hand to lightly slap his face. “J, please. Please, don’t do this to me.” You begged, letting the tears you didn’t know were forming fall down your already wet face.

Holding you both afloat was getting harder by the minute and you were sure only one of your legs was working to tread any water. An overwhelming sense of fear started to overtake you every time your chin dipped below the surface of the waves, wondering how long you could do this. “JJ, please.” You cried, sniffling. “You’re scaring me. I need you, okay?” You breathed. “I can’t lose anyone else.” You whined, crying harder by the second. “I can’t lose you.”

Suddenly, there was a splash in the water next to you, Kiara’s head popping up within seconds as she shook the water from her hair. A part of you wanted to ask her what took her so long but the other was grateful that she came down at all.

“Let him go.” She instructed breathlessly. You looked at her like she was insane, paying no mind to your own vision that was starting to spot. You were losing too much blood, you realized. But you had bigger things to worry about it. You’d be fine, you told yourself.

“No.” You shook your head, holding JJ closer to you. “No, I need to keep him above the water-"

“He’ll float.” Kiara told you, treading water. “He’s already unconscious so he won’t breathe any more water in. But if you try and hold him up, you’ll drown.”

“I’ll be fine-”

“Y/N, you have to-”

“No, I don’t!” You argued, vision going blurry as you shook your head to re-stabilize it. “I’ll keep him up until we find the others.” You told her. “I’m not letting him go.” Kiara seemed to accept her defeat, opting to share some of the burden of JJ’s weight — moving to hold up the other half of his body.

“Where’s John B?” You asked, voice slipping under.

“I - I don’t know.” Kiara sighed. “John B!” She screamed, looking around as you continuously blinked to try and keep yourself awake. “John B! Help!”

You figured all hope was lost until the sound of a boat engine rounded the corner, four blurry figures coming into view. 

“There they are!”

“JJ!”

“Kie!”

“Y/N!”

They all called your names as they got closer, the boat slowing next to you.

“No, no, no, no no…” John B repeated, taking notice of JJ’s unconsciousness.

“Why is she so pale?” Pope asked, referring to the way your skin had lost all pigment and undertones, leaving you looking like a ghost. "How long have you guys been in the water? Is she hypothermic?"

“Help me get them up.” Kiara demanded, releasing JJ to your friends as they dragged him onto the boat, laying him in the center before they began to help you up, not seconds passing before they took notice of the large, deep gash on your thigh.

“What the hell happened?” John B asked, realizing both of his long-time friends looked like they were on the verge of death.

Once all three of you were on the lifeboat with the others, you immediately pushed your way through your friends to reach JJ, despite their protests that you should sit back down. JJ was flipped onto his back, head elevated against the boat.

You began to tap the side of his face, trying to get a response once more before deciding to go further, clasping your hands together and pushing down on the center of his chest. 

“Here, let me-” Someone offered, you didn’t know who.

“No.” You said quickly. “No, I got it.” You assured weakly, but you could feel yourself slipping away, having to recenter yourself every few seconds. 

“I don’t think you do…” They tried once more, but you ignored them — involuntary or voluntary, you weren’t exactly sure. You continued pushing down on JJ’s chest until you saw droplets of water dribbling down his bottom lip, the sight only motivating to push harder until he started coughing. Only then, did you allow your movements to stop as your boyfriend coughed up whatever liquid had leaked into his lungs from the fall.

A small, weak smile crawled onto your face at the sight, the two of you locking eyes for the briefest of moments. “Hey.” You said softly, leaning back as you finally let yourself breathe. The boy looked at you tenderly before rasping out a response.

“...’Sup?” He said, trying to sound cool, sending you a sly smile before it morphed into concern. “Why are you so pale?” He asked, a hand coming up to caress your cheek.

You shook your head slowly, your eyes closing themselves as you spoke. “...’M fine.” JJ’s eyes went to his friends for answers, realizing you were losing it. Then he remembered — his eyes immediately shooting down to your thigh, the blood still leaking like a waterfall, if not faster.

“Shit.” He cursed, sitting up straighter and pulling you into him. “Help her.” He ordered, holding you tight. “Help her!” Was the last thing you heard before everything went completely black.

THE NEXT TIME YOU OPENED YOUR EYES, you were greeted with the heat and glare of the sun and a dull ache in your right thigh, grains of sand pressing into the back of your legs. Blinking your eyes open carefully, acclamating them to the rays of light, you watched as Pope, JJ, and John B drug the lifeboat to shore. A quick glance down at your thigh had you realizing someone had done their best to construct a makeshift tourniquet to help you out. 

Where you were? You had no idea. But you felt better. Somewhat, anyway.

You watched as the three boys plopped the floatation device on the sand, taking deep breaths from the labor before approaching the four of you girls sitting in the shade.

You didn’t miss the way JJ’s eyes immediately locked with yours, a grateful smile on his pink lips at the sight of you awake. He took a seat next to you, pulling you into his side and planting a kiss on your temple as you cuddled into his embrace. 

“Good to see your pretty eyes again.” He uttered, voice oddly soft and gentle.

You playfully shrugged him, not enough to disrupt his hold on you as you let out a light chuckle. “Get away from me, you flirt.” You joked before returning to a somewhat serious demeanor. “Are you okay?”

The blonde shrugged, sighing and leaning against the tree you perched up against. “Still a lil dizzy. But I’m alright.” He said simply. “How ‘bout you, princess? How’s your leg?” 

You nodded, sighing relief. “Much better.” You told your boyfriend. “Was this you?” You asked, referring to the tourniquet that seemed to be constructed from someone’s sock.

He simply shook his head, jutting out his bottom lip as he motioned his head in Cleo’s direction. “It was all her.” He smiled gratefully. “I think we can trust her. She’s saved three of our lives so far.” 

"Three?" You pondered. "Wouldn't it be four?"

"Nah." He shook his head. "You saved my life. That was all you." The praise made your cheeks go hot, burying half of your face into his chest.

Your eyes found Cleo across the sand, locking eyes with the girl. You sent a sweet smile her way, mouthing a ‘thank you’ her way. The girl simply winked and nodded at you. You had a feeling she’d fit in just fine, if she wanted to stay, that is.

“Might not want to thank me just yet, darlin’.” The girl warned, a sly smile on her face as she leaned against her arms. “We still gotta cauterize that thing.” She pointed to your thigh. “And you can’t be asleep for it.”

A look of terror made its way onto your face as you looked up at JJ, a small action that made the group laugh, a miniscule moment of lightheartedness after the unspoken loss.

“Okay,” JJ came down from his laughter. “Anybody know where we’re at?” 

“Deserted beach.” Pope shrugged, taking a seat next to Cleo. “Unknown island.”

“Alright, I’ll take that as a no.” JJ replied to Pope stating the obvious. “Plan A, huh, Pope? That went well.” JJ sassed, to which you lightly elbowed him in the side.

“This is the lowest we can go.” Pope said, sitting with his hands in his lap, hunched over. “We literally have nothing else to lose.” He laughed, humorlessly. “The cross, gone.”

“The gold, gone.” Sarah added calmly, yet sadly.

“Seriously, if we had a nickel for every time we got beat up, I’d say we’re at a dollar-fifty.” JJ threw out.

Kie shrugged, looking up at the fading cloud as the sunset. “That’s more than I got on me…”

“That somehow doesn’t make me feel better.” Sarah agreed.

“Hey, I’ve got a large coin slot on my leg if anyone wants to make donations.” You joked, earning head shakes at your morbid humor.

“Yeah,” John B finally spoke up. “You’re all right. But, I mean, we’ve…” He shrugged, eyeing all of you. “We’ve had some good stuff happen, right?” 

Pope scoffed. “Name something.”

“Um…” John B pondered, looking at the leaves of the trees. “Uh, the boiler room?” He concluded optimistically. Everyone just stared at him. “What? If the boiler didn’t explode, I wouldn’t have gotten away from Rafe. I couldn’t have gotten the Zodiac and gotten us out here.” He laid out a timeline of cause-and-effect.

“That wasn’t luck.” Cleo started, a knowing smile on her sun kissed face. “That thing was gonna blow the second I stopped feedin’ it.” 

“Stealin’ my thunder, Cleo…” John B said lowly. 

“Sorry.” The girl shrugged shortly. 

“Okay, Pope,” Your friend started again. “You’re related to Denmark Tanny.” He reminded, all of you making faces of agreement at this statement. “That’s crazy-”

“And I lost all his inheritance.” Pope said frustratedly, looking JB in the eyes. 

“...You know what?” John B stood from the log he was perched on. “Guys, this is it. This is the Pogue life.” He dreamed, walking closer to the shore. “We are in the Caribbean. It’s our own little slice of paradise. With my best friends, with my family…” He tried to reel you all in. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t wanna do it with anyone else.” He said, eyes mainly on Sarah. “Look, and while you guys were complaining about every little thing…” He trailed, walking over to you and JJ and kneeling in front of you both. “JJ?”

“Hm?” The blonde holding you hummed in response.

John B simply pointed behind himself and smiled, raising an eyebrow. “I was looking at those burly lefts.”

JJ eyed the water that his best friend was pointing to, trying to hide the smile on his features. “There’s some slabs out there, yeah.”

“Just a few?” John B poked, diverting his attention to someone else. “Kie, you see that? I know you wanna get out there.” He continued taunting. 

“No boards.” The girl rolled her eyes, a small smirk on her features.

“Well, we can…bodysurf ‘til we make some boards.”

She sighed, leaning back. “Lame.”

“Pope?” JB moved his attention once more. “Come on, man.”

“...They do look pretty tasty.” Pope admitted, still trying to hold onto his self-pity. 

“Oh, yes, they do.” The brunette smiled. 

“There’s nobody around.” Pope observed with squinted eyes. “We could squat here for a bit. Kind of belongs to us now, huh?”

“You got a point.” You added, breaking your silence. 

“Six-way split?” Pope inquired, doing a handshake with John B. 

“Poguelandia.” JJ started in a posh accent, smiles breaking out on all of your faces as your boyfriend gently removed himself from your side and repositioned you comfortably against the tree before standing to his full height.

“Oh boy.” John B groaned facetiously. 

“I claim thee Poguelandia.” He continued, leaning his arm against a tree with his swiss army knife in hand. “I like the ring of it.” He said, voice returning to normal. “I’m gonna make a flag, it’s gonna have a chicken on it. With a coconut bra, smokin’ a J...in Crocs.” He described, eliciting small laughs from everyone as they envisioned his soon-to-be work of art.

“I could use a J.” Kiara added.

“As long as you're sharing.” You joked with the girl. "Can't turn down the injured girl. Puff puff pass."

“Can we vote on this?” Sarah smiled.

“Shall we get to work?” Pope offered, talking mainly to JB who was right next to him. 

“...Let’s get to work.” He fist-bumped his friend. “Let’s start working on provisions. Set up shop.” They planned, walking into the thick of the trees. 

“Going full pogue?” JJ asked you, offering a hand to help you up as the others stood.

You smiled, rolling your eyes at him lovingly. “Going full pogue.” You joined, voice strained as you got up, putting as little weight on your leg as possible. The seven of you walked away from where you’d been camped out, leaving your first landmark behind with an ‘X’ to mark the spot, in the shape of ‘P4L’  carved into another tree.

Whatever happened back at home, or would happen, in Kildare, it worried you. You didn’t know what was going on or what would happen days from now, weeks…Months. But it was out of your control. And you weren't sure whether you hated that or loved it. Was “Poguelandia” a final moment of rest or the first step towards you and your friends retribution? 

As you walked, you suddenly remembered a quote John B told you that he got from his dad. It was from Euripides…

“The ocean washes away all the evil men do.”

…But you weren’t sure if that was necessarily true. Maybe, the ocean doesn’t truly “wash away” anything. If anything, the ocean makes you remember.

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[themareverine]

— the sea wolf

part 1

pirate!Logan x fem!reader

synopsis: Set adrift in a world waiting to toss her back, Rosalind Abbott is little more than undesirable, a nuisance to these waters. A pretty thing to secure her family’s name. Just existing. Breathing. Surviving. Until she very suddenly isn't, until Logan— until the Sea Wolf.

A/N: pirate!logan, pirate!au, mentions of blood and violence, this will be a co-written series with the one and only, fabulous @bpmiranda.

warnings: this chapter? angst, set-up, and a whole 'lotta surprise surprise!

intro | get on our taglists for updates!

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

Few things are ever as they appear to be, a lesson some learn early. Like a young child slowly experiencing the poisonous truth of her father’s boots on the roof at Christmastime in place of a mythical man with reindeer, a man of magic not nearly as sleight of hand as he’d first appear.

Horizons never as close as they seem, starlight untouchable despite the prose of the nobles—salty air of oceans unsung to reality, tasting bitter and coarse. Cold, cutting to the bone. 

But among them, love—love. A devilish viper through the tall grasses of history and prose, perhaps the deadliest among the foolish things one longs for, covets close to the breast. Little more than a dagger, a pistoleer quick to force hope into dark corners and shallow graves— a hot iron that cuts through the flesh of childish fantasy, of wonder.

Enthroned among all the little things that appear but also swift to vanish, love was the most cruel. A deceptive enchantress waiting to remove ribs and cut to ribbons frivolous fancies and daydreams, steal away futures. 

Prose went to lengths unsurpassed, painting pictures of chivalrous white knights and castles faraway and down. But reality cracks a white-hot, chest-splitting whip, an unforgiving taskmaster demanding blood and sinew and all the things little girls ever hope to dream. 

Imagining herself drowning in Caribbean heat that hangs like wet blankets, mud thicker than blood in winter never appeared to be more than fanciful probabilities when Rosalind Abbott considers the back days of weeks behind her. Nay, months—it had been some months, if recall serves.

Yet still, vacancy in her mother's gaze haunts her, tracing her steps along familiar docks, between the still sentinels of an eastbound fleet-–details barely recalled, could never forget.

Little more than set adrift on stirring waters and fanciful ideas, she’d been unmovable, gripping the rail with knuckles the color of the hoarfrost that paints the trees in the bed of Boston winter, when life is still and the air sweet with cold.

Watching her world, her only ever-known tomorrow fade into the nothings of an appears-close horizon had never felt so eternal, so unforgiving. 

She still hadn’t quite forgiven herself for not paying her father a proper farewell, though it was nothing to stew over—one could hardly be unforgiven, circumstances together.

Not each and every day a father sends his daughter abroad to marry a man he’s never met, only penned—a man merely endowed with title and supposition alone. Decision to stabilize the legacy of a family amidst the swirling rumors of a nation’s drifting allegiances were not made lightly—she, after all, was his eldest daughter. Eldest child. 

“There is a responsibility to be born, Rosalind—just as I married your father for the station of my father, so must you marry for yours. Such is the way of things, my darling.”

Hollow words from the thousand-yard, vacant stare of a detached, grieving mother torn away from an only-remaining child.  

Bartholomew, their family’s firstborn,  preceded her in both birth and death, already a mortal wound to the withering pride of her father’s honor. Cold and buried, this was his responsibility—saild to England. Ensure business with the forefathers carried, marry the daughter of the societally well-off. The day her horse had thrown him marked the beginning of her death—he died, but his vacancy ushered in the ceasefire of her freedom, of all the things young girls, then of twelve, dreamed of. The Abbott name died with Bartholomew, but their blood—well. 

She would ensure their bloodline, that much her father understood. 

What remained of their destiny would be etched through the annals of her name, her womb — descendants would trace their legacy through the lines of time, to this moment. That fateful day her father had buried her brother, shot her favorite mare. Her father’s decision, on all counts. His power was immutable, nearly to God. 

Sending her away had killed their family, what little remained in Bartholomew’s graveclothes and phantom memories. She’d hoped, upon announcement of her betrothal to a generous English officer,  that her father would finally find pride—in himself. Their family. In her.

Like shallow waters over a cragged reef, she’d been cut to ribbons–hopes dashed on the rocks of reality, of absolution. 

Her father hadn’t bothered to kiss her goodbye, to send her with prayer and blessing. No peace, good words. A simple nod and bow, the passing of papers and everything she’d need to meet her escort in an eternally-long six weeks. 

Her mother had passed her their family Bible, kissed her temple. Whisked away at arm by her father.  

No argument, no negotiation. Graves did not open to rise, riotous from the ground on her behalf. Heaven did not intervene. Even as her insides hardened to cold, immovable stone, fear all but a veil pulled unforgivably near.

Alone at the docks, linemen loading her possessions to a small cockboat pointed to the mouth of the bay, she’d spotted the ship. Awaited to whisk aboard the Flyaway Bird, Captain Jonathan Strangle to accompany her across the blue wilds of rolling tide.

Rosalind hadn’t been able to spy her parents watching for her in the throng of the harbor’s day to day, praying only that they’d see her leave. 

“It is decided, Rosalind. What is done cannot be undone – I will not recant my word, for a man’s honor is his word. I am sorry.” 

Not far removed from etched in stone, she’d been sentenced to life as the biblical Samaritan — an unknown in unknown worlds, despised among the proper elite of English society. Rosalind had never been to England, never graced the soil of the mother country, but her father’s journals were filled with retellings of his journeys across the ocean to London, Bristol. Wales, the birthplace of his father.

It was humorous—her grandfather had looked to the Colonies, praying to  escape the undernose of the crown. To forge a new destiny in the wilds of the New World, create a name for their future in shipping lanes. Boston, then, became home. 

Wales may have been their homeland, but Boston—Boston was life, breath.The beating of her very heart rested in her streets, in the rolling tides that lapped at the harbor. Her expression could be found in the changing seasons, in the jubilation of summer laughter with friends on horseback, picnicking at the shoreline. Safe among the lines of the established, hopeful future. Boston—it  was safe, it was living, an alive giant of promise. Better than hope itself.  

Until it was little more than death, a sarcophagus of her future, her wild imaginings and childhood fantasies. Dreams of marrying and traveling down the coast, of establishing a life in the Colonies and generations in this new land, dashed on the blade of duty and responsibility—of business.

A business proposal, a toy for the pleasure of English dignitaries, Viscounts and Dukes, politicians plagued with greed and lust. 

Torrential rain has plagued Tortuga for three nights, earth rising to the streets of the commune like the floodgates of hell—mud is thicker than blood, here. Thick veils of humidity blanket her like graveclothes, an unforgiving swaddle that raises a sheen of pearlescent sweat and heat that burns across her skin, almost simmers.

The rain doesn’t cool the heat of her skin, the ache in her back. Only slickens the mud at her feet, like shackles—every step is laborious, the hem of her skirt heavy to the point of burden. 

Her legs just short of anvils, Rosalind attempts to control breath that comes short and laborious in her chest, sweat stinging her eyes as limp curls bounce around her eyes, almost like serpents. More than once tears have threatened her eyes on this voyage across the town—if this hell could be considered such a thing. Smelling of wet earth and fish, rotting wood and smoke, Tortuga is all but dead in the oppressive rain—monsoon season. She’d heard of it from mullings aboard the Flyaway, from Captain Strangle’s quartermaster, Kent—rain, rain, and more rain. 

Thus far, he hadn’t been wrong — it had been raining since they’d made anchor three days past. 

Slipper impossibly stained and slick under her feet, she stumbles forward, foot sliding through the muck far more quickly than her brain processes—before she can fall, the strong hand at her left grabs her arm, pulls her upright.

Wilson, her escort. A common boatswain, he’d been commissioned to accompany her throughout their time in Tortuga, for her own safety—he really hadn’t left her side since bumping into him upon boarding, more of a friendly shadow than a professional detail. 

More for my father’s reassurances than my own. “Y’alri’, ma’am?” Accented from lands she’d never seen, worlds she’d never heard, his brow falls in concern as he considers her.

Hand still clamped around her arm, he releases only when she nods, hand smoothing over the saturated folds of her skirt. 

Eyes lifting to him, she brushes aside the veil of her hair and offers a placating smile of thanks.

“As well as to be expected,” swallowing back a shallow breath, the back of her hand does little to dispel the sweat above her lip, a fact that sinks her shoulders into a slump. “This heat—it truly is suffocating, isn’t it?” 

“It’ll pass, miss—rain’ll take it away, back o’er the water,” he nods to the expanse of rolling blue ocean off the harbor, hardly the throw of a stone from the main avenue of town, “once this squall quits and we get back to sailin’, anyway.” 

Managing a small huff, Rosalind adjusts her grip on her skirts. Trying to pull them from the clawing mud around her feet, she bites back a dismissive snort, instead it rolls around the back of her throat.

Giving a defeated sigh, her foot slipped forward in the mud, Wilson’s hand taking her by the arm again. Sweat beading on her forehead dripping into her eyes, swiping it away with the back of her hand does little. Humidity has raised even a sheen of perspiration there, as well. 

“It could not come soon enough,” she mumbles, blowing out a sharp breath. Wilson at her side chuckles, shaking his head. Gently he slipped her arm through his, patting her hand affectionately—it gives her so much pause that she stops short, blinking at him. Nobody aboard the Flyaway had shown such elegance, such poise. Grace. Dignity.

“Wilson.”

Such liberties were reserved for intimate couples, the involved. Or, at the very least, the well-bred. The well groomed. 

A cocksure smirk on his face, his wink is not unusual. Childlike light glints in his eye, and it’s genuine. So unlike the looks she’d received in Tortuga since they’d moored here, so unlike any of the glances she’d received from Strangle’s men.

Weeks under lock and key had made her an object to be revered, a treat to otherwise deprived, lascivious men—Strangle treated her like prized goods, as her father had instructed. His care of her was utmost and thorough, his defense of her honor a priority.

She rarely dined without his presence aboard and was even more rarely seen outside his long gaze. He’d become like a second father, in a strange way—while remaining, to an extent, a ruffian. 

When not with the good captain himself, Wilson was her shadow.

“Little far’er on, miss—the Drunken Crow is not t’fer away.” Other hand rubbing along the unshaven stubble on his jaw, his head nods farther down town’s main stretch, in reference to the ale house and sleeping arrangements, if there were a kind way to describe it. 

There never was.

“Sure Miss Jasmine has some good food she’ll lend ya, mebbe a hot bath—Cap’n’s gone out’a his way to make sure yer well looked after, Miss A’bbit.” His hand anchored over her own, another chivalry which surprised her, “‘S he should. You bein’ a proper lady, I reckon.” 

Trying not to smile, she brushed a fallen curl from her face. “You are kind, Wilson,” her eyes cast down the state of her skirts, slippers once so green they’d have made the jungle vermillion with envy.

Little more than nothing, eternally stained with mud and Almighty could only know what else collected in the streets, Rosalind fought the urge to discard them altogether, toes already numb from the chilled mud.

“You wouldn’t know it, present state considered.” 

He shook his head, brow lifting curiously. “Reck’n I would right off, miss — ain’t no girls ‘n this part’a the world look an’ act like you,” the corner of his mouth ticked up, amused, “none’a the girls I know, anyway.” 

Miss Jasmine’s girls, yes. The local whores—Tortuga lacked two things Rosalind was privy to, information available to her being as limited as it were in this part of the world. Civility, order—any sort of lodging that didn’t offer paid companionship and raucous laughter well into sunlight.

While difficult to consider them stains on society given the kind efforts she’d experienced from Miss Jasmine’s girls at Drunken Crow, it was difficult to cut away the warnings of her childhood—of the line that divided her from them. 

Miles did little in the light of trade, and even the colonies being worlds away from the shores of Tortuga, the lines were the same. She felt in their stares, how they ogled her like predators—she was her, and they were them, and no amount of air between them would ever be the same.

And while they were kind—clanned together to allow her one of their rooms, fetched water at Jasmine’s call. All only to do little to hide the knifing glares, regardless of how pleasant their well-practiced smiles were.  

Cold glares, the baseless insults, hollow greetings and goodbyes as Wilson came to escort her out for midday walks around town, Strangle and his men trading wares and carousing the night like leprous dogs. More than once she’d whisked down the stairs for an evening walk, passing through the night’s clientele like a porcelain doll on display—she saw the way the girls, perched on laps, hanging on arms, more skin than not, considered her. With feral animosity, crucifying hatred.

They hated, strongly. Where she’d come from, where she was going, her—they’d eat her alive, if allowed. 

She ain’t one of us, pretty thing from the New World. 

And it was true—she didn’t belong.

Here, in the Colonies, probably in England—set adrift in a world waiting to toss her back, like a fat fish unwanted. Undesirable, a nuisance. Little more than collateral, an object. A pretty thing to secure her family’s name. To upstart the sexual desires of men aboard a ship going nowhere forever, back and forth through time. To sport about the King’s court on a British General’s arm, looking fine and forever, always, here to heaven, just existing. Breathing.

Surviving. 

Jasmine’s quelling glare keeps the simmer contained, the weight of Strangle’s gold in her pockets good reason, certainly. Dogs on short leashes, no doubt – and her smile is as saccharine as ever, bright as the evening moon as Wilson escorts her into the Drunken Crow, boots glazed with mud.

It takes seconds for Rosalind’s eyes to adjust to the change in the light, Jasmine hurrying over in a spin of fine linens and silks, hair pinned neatly at the crown of her head, curls draping over her shoulder—down her bust, the color of dark skies.

A stunning woman hardly older than Rosalind herself, her eyes were keen. Aged. Weathered in a way she’d never seen before. 

Wilson released her arm, Rosalind’s hands brushing at the saturated material of her skirt.

“Afternoon, Miss Abbott,” leaning against the bar of the tavern, her nails tick against the wood, glistening sweat catching light on the high of her cheekbones, “have yourself some fine air, did you?” Brow lifting, her eyes cast to Rosalind’s gown, trying not to look amused—but nothing could ever perhaps be as amused as her tone, “I see you’ve managed to enjoy our fine island’s gifts after the rains.” 

Aware of her state, Rosalind’s eyes cut to the stairs. “I’m afraid it’s less of a gift and more of a curse,” her eyes skip over the woman, swallowing back the thrumming heart in her chest, the weight of her legs more anchor than any ship would ever need, “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Jasmine — I’ll be retiring to quarters for the evening.”

Nodding to Wilson, she offered him a polite smile, “Thank you, Wilson, for your company. Please tell the captain I am well, and thank him for his escort, if you would.” 

Nodding, Wilson scuffs his boot along the planked floor, managing, somehow, to know to bow at the waist. “Yes’m. You res’ well, Miss Ros’lind.”

Without so much as a glance to Jasmine or the women draped along the stairs, he leaves, parting the heavy drape serving as the establishment’s front door with a thick arm. Boots rattling the plank porch, Rosalind remained planted until his familiar whistling went unheard. 

No other words find her, or Jasmine, as she moved towards the steps, minding the mud clinging to her slippers as if life itself sprung within them. Stifled, her legs weigh heavy as she carefully took the stairs, lifting remains of what, once, was her mother’s favorite of her gowns — a green unsurpassed by even budding spring, traced in laces the color of cream and sunlight, her brother had sent it from Bristol during his time abroad.

Hand selected himself, she’d worn it the Christmas he’d returned. 

Much like her life, it would never be the same. 

At the height of the stairs she removes her slippers, bending to take them to hand with a scowl, her nose wrinkled at their state — perhaps, with dutiful effort, she’d manage to restore them to usefulness.

Carefully minding their filth, her eyes focus on the stains of her stockings, how they cling to her skin—cold, somehow, when the rest of her burns with sweat that seems to almost boil against her skin. Every pore glistened, her entire body slick with a humidity she wouldn’t wish for in hell. 

Tired, her temple aches with a pounding only rivaled to infantry drums, somehow managing to keep pace with the skip of her heart in her chest. Little else would be better than a bath and nightclothes, collapsing into bed. If only she would sleep without the haunting phantoms of nightmares, without the presence of guilt and sorrow she carries like a blade between her ribs.

Night will come, and with it, the rowdiness of sailors and men, of pirates—of men whom the town, largely, tolerates but takes money from like fools. 

Sun already begins its slow descent from the sky, sinking like a lead ball of light and warmth sent to curse her bones, to plague her dreams — yes, night. It comes, much as she wishes it at bay, like a stray dog. A tortured lover, a demon.

Very thought of this corridor alive with the heavy thunk of boots and gigglish laughter of working women and sex makes her shoulders slump, raises inexplicable tears to her eyes. 

Home could never be farther, what is worse is its nearness. Boston, home. Six weeks. Merely six weeks and she could return from this purgatory, this hellish nightmare the trajectory of her life has taken—six.

Only six. 

May as well be eternity in going, but only a blink in the hope of returning. 

Whisking aside the curtained tapestry fortressing her room away from the rest of the brothel, she doesn’t catch energy in the air—misses, somehow, the stink of sweat and salt. Man that swirls about the room, thick and alive.

A more practiced woman of the age would know the kiss of rum, taste the chap of leather—but Rosalind is anything but practiced. Distracted by the ache in her legs, the incessant weight of her saturated skirts, she pulls at the laces of her bodice, slippers forgotten beside the hanging tapestry that should, by all counts, be an actual door. 

It is only the ruffle of bedsheets that leaps her heart into her throat, flips her stomach like an upset horse. Fingers at the laces of her bodice freeze, and all too quickly breathing becomes a foreign, otherworldly concept that her mind has forgotten. .

Long shadows from the window flow across the floor, paint the wall like twisting phantoms. Her lungs burn, the light gasp of air catching at the back of her teeth. 

Heavy boots on the floor rattle her bones, and fear grips her in a white-hot forge that knocks about her chest like hammer. Unable to think, unable to feel, Rosalind can hear nothing aside from the racehorsing blood in her ears—the kick of her lungs against her breastbone.

It’s her, and her organs—that’s all she knows. All she feels—

—until a wolfish chuckle viscerally rips her apart, limb from metaphorical limb. 

“Well. What do we have here?” 

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[givekennyabreak]

Irreplaceable. (Kenny Liu x gn!reader)

Summary: A cop arrived along with Tabitha, and she thinks she owns the place; you think it's time to teach her how to be humble.

Rating: T

Warnings: whole lotta cursing, canon-compliant violence, spoilers for S3E8 of From, survivor's guilt, mourning, Acosta slander, reader is jealous but for a good reason, mentions of blood, mentions of gun. Acosta is her own warning.

Word count: 2.15k

Tabitha was back.

She went through the tree, got into a lighthouse, went outside and wound up back in town. She was hurt - scared, you could see the way she looked around with wide eyes at every waking moment.

You talked to her once; it didn't go far, though, as Jim arrived a couple minutes after you finally got the poor woman alone, telling you whatever went on in their life wasn't any of your business.

You flipped him off.

"If you ever need to talk," you told Tabitha, eyes as gentle as possible. "I'm at the station."

Not only did Tabitha come back, she brought in Victor's father with her (by accident, she said. Of course.). Henry, he said his name was, was a gentle man through and through. You could see how much he cared about Victor - the way he tried his best to be patient and reconnect with his son.

He never berated the man, listened to whatever he said with the utmost patience and always tried to remain calm, although you're all only human - he panics a few times, too.

He went to the goddamn caves with Victor.

If that isn’t love, you don’t know what is.

Victor, your first friend in this hellspace; one of the four people you trusted with your life - the other three, obviously, were Boyd, Donna, and Kenny.

The man was a gentle, misunderstood soul. If anyone asked you who was the person who wanted to leave this place the most, out of everyone, Victor would be your answer. He was used to it, yes - but he didn't like the place.

He was tired.

You were tired.

That's why you tried to help him as much as possible.

(Victor told you how he tried to remember what happened with Christopher and the townspeople at the beginning, but it didn't work - he was going to see Sara.

"Does it have to be her? Do we have to do this?"

"Yes."

"Dude, c’mon. She-"

"I know. But it’s gonna get scary, and she’s the scariest person in town."

You blinked up at him. He blinked back.

You sighed.

"Fine. But I'm taking a knife with me.")

Yet, there was a third party who got in town with the two good parts; and, as all is never well in this place, the woman was an absolute menace.

Acosta was her name - surname? Who knows -, a policewoman who refused to change out of her uniform, going around asking people invasive shit and managing to piss you off more times than you can count by berating Boyd, of all people.

Her last stunt was to come up to the station as you were talking to the sheriff about the kinds of food you managed to find with the last group of people who went foraging, demanding him to give her gun back.

She did so without even acknowledging your presence, trading insults back and forth while you watched the scene, flabbergasted; Boyd, tired of her shit, actually gave it back to her without the ammunition (this is why you trusted him so much), and she walked out of the station, without as much as a glance towards you.

"Am I invisible?"

Boyd sighed. "To her? Most people are."

And then - there went your last straw.

Just as you arrived at the diner, ready to give your boyfriend a tight, much needed hug, you caught sight of a blonde ponytail and blue uniform.

"Oh, hell no."

You swung open the inner door, and walked up to the stools just as Kenny poured hot water into a mug.

"Yeah, they… they do that sometimes." He said, as the jukebox played by itself (again.).

Acosta looked at him - really looked at him. “Is that something else you get comfortable with?” A pause. “Look, thanks for the tea.”

He looked down at the mug. “Uh, you didn't even...”

She stood up, body almost colliding with yours. “Excuse me.”

And then, Kenny looked up, eyes locking with yours. He brightened up immediately - his smile widened, and he put the pot back in its place, just to beckon you over with his free hands.

"Good morning, my love." You said, ducking under the opening to the back of the counter. When you straightened up, your boyfriend was already by your side, arms wrapped around your shoulders, drinking in your presence.

The blonde turned around, now staring at you, with furrowed brows and a scowl on her face.

“Mornin’.” He swooped down, lips connecting with yours in a chaste kiss. A sigh left your body, arms encasing around his shoulders, and you heard a scoff sound from behind, followed by the door opening and closing.

You stayed there for a couple of minutes, in each other’s arms, just enjoying the peace and quiet – the rarest thing to happen when in town. You nosed at Kenny’s throat and he inhaled deeply, red creeping up the side of his neck.

“I missed you.” You whispered. He stayed silent for a few seconds, squeezing you tighter.

“You saw me last night.”

You could hear the smile in his voice; this is it, you thought. This is a good change.

Kenny was hurting.

Kenny was mourning.

But the town – the people, didn’t give him the time he needed to go through this, so the best thing you could do to not see him fade away was stay by his side and not let him wither.

(You missed Tian-Chen, too.

She treated you like her own. She loved you, and you loved her.

She told you to stay with Jade and Victor that night.

You shouldn’t have.)

“It’s a few hours too much, still.” You replied, grinning.

Kenny let go of the embrace first, in favor of throwing away the – now – cold tea. "You're veeeery cheesy."

"This is how you love me, anyways."

"Yeah." He sighed, leaning back onto the counter, arms open again. He didn't need to ask - you gladly embraced him, arms around his waist this time, as he leaned down and hid his face near your collarbone.

"I do."

You stayed there for God knows how long, fingers carding through Kenny's soft, thick hair; humming a song you knew he loved, whispering about how your mornings went, and the dreams you had.

You both had given up on the house after Tian-Chen passed away, and Jim permeated the place with his presence (although you knew he meant no harm, the place was suffocating). Kenny moved into colony house, while you stayed at the station with Boyd. Victor would have no qualms about you moving there with him, seeing as he had the safest room in that place, but Henry was there with him, and you didn't mean to intrude.

The both of you left the diner together, hand-in-hand, ready to face the day ahead.

Shortly after, Boyd assigned you with the task of helping him around - there were more people now, and he could use some help figuring shit out. Ellis was panicking - something happened with Fatima -, and the man wanted to help his kid, so you left to do some of his own chores.

Night came.

You slept in the "archive room", a little nook used to store boxes in the station; Boyd had helped you get a bed in there, and that was good enough. There was one little window on the upper side of the room, and, even though you kept it tightly shut (you nailed it, as a precaution), the whispers and giggles still seeped into the space and made it harder for you to sleep.

The sun rose with a golden hue. The orange glow shone through the clear glass, straight onto your face; with a groan, you rose up from the mattress, stretching as your body slowly woke up.

Another day where you got up, did your shit and hoped for the best - except this time, there wasn't even any hope to begin with.

"Tillie's dead." Boyd told you as you got to colony house, a few minutes after him. "We don't know who did it, but it wasn't a creature."

Ellis fidgeted beside his dad; it looked like he wanted to say something, but held himself back.

"You okay, Ellis?" You asked, with furrowed brows. "Is Fatima okay?"

Ellis inhaled sharply. Boyd glanced at him, and back at you.

"She's fine." The young man replied, nodding his head. "Aside from the nausea, and the, uh. The other stuff."

The ultrasound issue.

"Oh. Make sure she's safe, okay?" You said, nodding at the sheriff. "'m going in."

Boyd shook his head no.

"Wait here, please. Kenny and Acosta are inside, questioning the folks."

A burning feeling made its way up the back of your neck, up to your cheeks and forehead - although it was commonly associated with red, you knew what this was: green.

Jealousy.

Now, you wouldn't consider yourself a jealous person in any way, no; but the lingering glances, the manner in which she scoffed with no shame at your affection, how she thought she was the crispiest fucking fry of the batch?

Oh, fuck no.

Boyd and Ellis rushed away while you steeped in your own anger. Not long after, you heard two sets of footsteps walk out of the house, and there they actually were - your boyfriend, and the blue-uniform menace.

Kenny had a troubled look on his face while Acosta - what the fuck was her name, again? - yapped away with no regard to his feelings; obviously, no one would walk on eggshells here when it came to other people's feelings, but this was too much.

"Was what that guy said about Sara and your dad true?"

Enough is enough.

"It's not that simple."

You trailed off behind the duo, your own brows furrowed and fists tightly closed as you breathed in and out slowly.

Do not fight her. Do not throw fists. Do not. Refrain.

"Okay, you didn't think it was worth mentioning the girl that already murdered two people?"

"Look, it's just, uh, she's different now, and Boyd trusts her."

"Who gives a shit what Boyd thinks, okay?"

"Hey!"

They stopped at your shout, turning around. Turns out you were closer than it seemed; four steps were all it took for you to walk up to her stupid face and swing a fist straight to her jaw.

Kenny yelped, rushing to your side as Acosta doubled over, hand cradling her face; wild, blue eyes stared into your own as she straightened up, raising her own fists. Your boyfriend tried to step in, but you walked around, pushing him behind your own body.

"Come on, hit me." You said, ready for a blow. She hesitated, and then - you spoke up. "You're walking around like you own this place. As if you're mightier than anyone who has been stuck here."

Kenny moved, but you lifted up your hand, placing it on his chest. "Hun, please. Sit this one out."

Acosta scoffed. You faced her, seeing the way she looked between you and Kenny.

"Yeah, we met here. Yes, we fell in love here, we got together here. Yes, this has become our routine. Do you think we wanted to be here? You think we chose to stay?" Her eyes softened. "No, we don't. But we're trying our fucking best to stay alive and sane, because that way, we can think and figure out how to escape."

Your fists shook, angry tears threatening to fall.

"You have no idea what it feels like to witness the people we love wither away and get lured in by those fucks by night. So, at least, try to be a little more considerate of these people's feelings, won't you?"

Kenny took one of your closed fists in his own hand, slowly opening it and lacing your fingers together.

"That way, you might be able to actually help someone." You finished, staring at her bruising jaw. "Sorry I punched you."

Acosta swallowed deeply, glancing between yourself and Kenny.

"I never thought about that." She said, eyes finally settling on your own. "I understand. Apology accepted."

Kenny squeezed your hand, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

"Well, that's better than nothing."

You held in a snort, bumping your shoulders together.

"Are you going to come with us?" She asked, tilting her head towards the forest.

You nodded your head. "Yeah. What did you guys find out?"

Just as she opened her mouth to answer, a shrill yell echoed through the place.

"Help!"

Ethan.

Everyone looked towards the boy, as Kenny rushed to ask him what happened.

Acosta looked at you, and nodded; the both of you ran, and you sure fucking hoped this was the beginning of a good teamwork.

[saphflare]

Won't lie, I do think it is wild to think about the fact that probably a majority of people that enjoy Content SMP only know it from the videos on Youtube.

Like they don't know about the secret Arathain and Luxintrus tumblr lore posts, or they aren't in the Rattiest Gang discord to see the lore discussion where the ccs sometimes drop pretty significant teasers or answers regarding the server and its characters. Like they might know the overall story, but they certainly do not know the lore lore that like fundamentally changes how you see certain characters and certain plot points.

Like the fact that most people probably know the Mason as just a silly guy that just snuck in the increased netherite rates and was probably a decent dad to Lux, instead of the Wheelbearer that committed multiple atrocities, including kidnapping at least two children that he psychologically manipulated and subjected to a whole lotta trauma of the religious variety and much violence against (one of which is Lux), and that the increased netherite rates were part of some deal he made with Charter is slightly insane to me. Like just everyone acts like this guy just was there as a guy and that is the extent, when oh boy fellas you don't know the other half of it.

This is also not getting into like any other characters, though compared to the Mason, I can't say the perception difference for any of them is as signficant. But also yeah the Charter lore is also a whole nother can of worms that even I haven't been able to dig up and understand everything about in the discord. But people also keep mistaking Arathain as the characters and that the character that appears after Lux gets killed is not the Mason, but the Augur, who you only know their name if you read the most recent post from Arathain and also fucking ate Mouthpiece in the metaphorical and/or literal way.

Like I am glad that by itself the videos themselves show a clear and enjoyable story for the people only knowing about it from there, and that is the extent they might need to do to engage with it as a fan. But it is just absolutely crazy to me that like a significant amount of people that like Content SMP just will never know the extensive lore because it is never mentioned at all by the ccs themselves and you never would know unless you like happen to accidentally stumble across it and after a few times you get enough clues to try to actively look for it and suddenly it feels like you are now on a scavenger hunt for lore 😭

[messyhairedhazeleyeddude]

Ache // Yandere! Ticci Toby x

Fem! Reader {SMUT}

[Hello, this will be the first fic that I post. What I'm going to give you guys beforehand is some trigger warnings before we get on to it. Other than that, I hope you enjoy it and give me some feedback whenever you're done if you feel in the mood.]

TW // Violence, r@pe, and a whole lotta mention of murder as always.

𓌏 ☒ 𓌏 ☒ 𓌏 ☒ 𓌏 ☒ 𓌏 ☒ 𓌏 ☒ - First P.O.V

Every day, it started like this. Planted in my bed, tangled in my grey sheets, waiting for that one sliver of motivation to get out of my blankets. My room was a mess. Pieces of clothing scattered across the floor, piling up around my dresser, and hanging off of places I tossed them.

I stared over the rest of what I could see while trying to get rid of the bitter taste of soda left on my tongue from last night. The posters I've collected of my favorite bands clung onto the wall for dear life, fading away from how long they had been there. An empty Sprite can stood on my nightstand, left there after my body decided to have its third caffeine crash this week.

It was getting so warm where I was lying that I was starting to overheat, making me shuffle around to stay cold. That wasn't too hard because of how freezing my room was.

When I looked at my window, I noticed it was cracked open. If I didn't shut it soon, it would get worse. But minutes were melting into each other and I didn't want to get up. Why did I love to procrastinate so much? It shouldn't be this hard to move on with my day.

Silence filled every corner of my apartment, leaving me to peacefully rot. Was it selfish of me to be like this? That's what it felt like they were trying to say when I talked to relatives. But that's the reason why I prefer to be shut-in. I never had to hear that about myself. The world outside would remain indifferent. And hopefully, by the time I had to move, I was swallowed into the Earth below.

A sudden vibration of my phone startled me. I mumbled a barrage of curses and reached for it slowly, furrowing my brows and groaning. I could only pray that it wasn't him trying to contact me.

The last time he visited, I no longer felt safe outside. I would check behind me constantly, feeling as if his light brown eyes were glued to my back, and at any moment, he could come back and chop off my limbs until I was a headless torso. Remembering that he existed caused that horrible anxiety to spread goosebumps across my skin. I was shaking as I tried to unlock my phone.

Hundreds of notifications popped up that I had been ignoring, some of them messages from my mom, and the rest were emails. I almost accidentally clicked on one before I found the most recent. "Return library books today," it read. Fuck, I forgot today was the due date for those. Despite not wanting to, I had to get up. I did promise that if I had a reason to, I would.

I peeled myself from the comfort of my bed. My sheets clung to me like glue, trying to pull me back as if it were a bad idea. Fighting against it, I shivered at the sudden change in temperature and pulled down the bottoms of my shorts so they weren't wedged in between my ass.

After not walking for what felt like forever, I took my first steps, a soreness on my left thigh making me place a hand on my dresser for support. I looked down at a bruise from that encounter, biting my lip to distract myself from thinking about it. I need to take my pills or I'll get suicidal. So many things to do. So overwhelmed.

Encouraging myself in my head, I found the strength to go for the door. I opened it and turned down my hallway, going for the bathroom with quick and light steps.

Many pictures of family and portraits were loosely decorated on the wall, a pit in my stomach opened when I stared at them. I lingered on my dad and had to tear myself away from the picture before I felt the need to cry.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I flicked on the harsh yellow light and stood before the mirror, running a hand through my disheveled hair. I reached for the medicine cabinet, the hinges squeaking as I rummaged through it. I grabbed my medication and popped the bottle open, tossing out a tiny pill into my palm. I swallowed the bitter capsule and cringed as it slowly went down.

Turning my attention to the sink, I turned on the cold water and brought my mouth to the tap to take a sip. Then I splashed it on my face after I was done, relieved that the pill was no longer there. On the counter, I focused on the facewash I hadn't used in god knows how long. I missed the feeling of my face being clean. At least, I can't forget about it now.

I poured the runny liquid into my hands and rubbed them together, slapping it on my face and rubbing it in circles to get deep in my pores. It foamed up a bit and burned. If I'm going to be honest, I don't know if I'm supposed to be using this, but it works.

As I was splashing the water on my face again to clean it off, I opened my eyes to a man staring at me in the mirror, causing me to freeze. I could see the glisten of his goggles from here, that blue hood covering his messy hair, but it didn't contain enough around the edges. It was him. The man who attacked me and my dad a couple of days ago.

A scream clawed its way up my throat, but before the sound could escape, I reached for something. Grab anything to protect myself, that's all I needed to do. But before I could, the room blurred as I twisted, my hand grasping a razor for a split second.

I was torn away from it. I felt a hard impact on my back as I was slammed against the wall, the air forcing out of my lungs in a sharp gasp. I struggled to breathe, my hands grabbing onto his wrists while they dug into my neck.

He had me pinned against it and struggling to get any sort of noise out. Slowly, I was dragged up upward and lifted off of the ground. I choked, my vision was fading as his glare burned into mine. He's going to kill me. Just like he did to Dad. He's going to get away with it. I pulled my head back against the wall before lunging it forward to collide it with the serial killer's, his hands faltering their hold and dropping me from the force of it.

I collapsed to the floor and sputtered out several coughs, hunched up in a ball and desperately trying to regain the oxygen he took from me. My neck felt numb, the indents of his fingers bruising and stung like a bitch.

He crouched down to me. I closed my eyes and thought he would finish it right there. But when I suddenly felt his lips press against mine, they shot back open. Breathing heavily through my nose, I stared at his shut eyelids. I glanced down at his lashes, feeling his breath as he sighed. He relaxed into me for a split second before pulling away, lowering his voice to a rough whisper to introduce himself, "It's nice to meet you finally, {F/N}. The name's Tobias."

Struggling to get myself sitting up, I made it by resting on the wall and using my hands to keep me there. My chest rapidly went up and down as I watched his every move. He backed away a bit, but not enough to give me leverage. I repeated, "Tobias?" And his eyebrow quirked up like he was questioning my reaction.

"I can also go by Toby. Whatever you prefer. But I gave you my full name because I really like you, [F/N]," he added. I knitted my brows and shook my head, unable to understand what he was saying. He liked me? He just kissed me? What the fuck?

I pushed myself away from him and got back up, running for it and successfully escaping the bathroom. The front door was right in front of me, I barely got to reach for it before I felt a hand grab a fistful of my hair. No, I almost had it!

Strands of my hair were ripped out as I was yanked backward and thrown onto the couch, falling onto it and yelping in pain. Tears fell from my eyes and I clutched my head, grabbing the part that hurt the most. A headache was coming on and I couldn't help but rock myself to soothe it. I sobbed, "Leave me alone! Please, just leave me alone..." I twisted myself to let out the rest in the cushions, hearing him approach behind me.

After crying for a bit and nothing was happening to me, I hesitantly lifted myself to take a peek. Toby was sitting next to me, almost as if he was waiting patiently for me to finish. When he saw that I was staring at him, he patted his lap and said, "Here. Rest your pretty head and we can get to talking about this, sweetheart."

I was too scared of him to tell him no. It was the first time I felt pure terror from somebody. Like I would never be able to fight back with him. And I was right. I couldn't. The sad truth was that if my dad had fallen to this man, I'm sure I would live the same fate if I didn't listen. Dragging myself, I cringed while laying my head onto his leg, feeling his hand rest on my head and causing me to flinch. "Sh, sh, I'm not going to hurt you anymore. I told you, I really adore you, [F/N]," he reassured me. A part of me wanted to bite his leg to pieces, but if I went along with this until he fell asleep or left, then I could escape and possibly go to the police.

Deciding to go with it, I pretended to enjoy the warmth and snuggled into him. I wouldn't call it pretending actually, he was pretty warm. Toby hummed and it stayed like this for some time. He kept petting me, brushing my hair out of the way, soothing me from the chase earlier.

Eventually, he got bored of it and nudged me to sit back up. I tilted my head and asked, "What?" His hand went to rest on my lower back, applying pressure around it, pushing me forward until I was easing into sitting on him. A smile crossed his face at the compliance. He seemed intrigued by it.

"I didn't think you would give up this quick. I thought I was going to have to give you a couple more marks for memories," he sounded pleased as both of his arms wrapped around my waist. They were much bigger than mine, with a couple of veins etched up around them like vines, and faded scars littering everywhere on his skin. He had been doing this for years by the looks of it. There was no way in hell I was going to escape, huh?

Placing another kiss on my cheek, soft and gentle, his eyelashes brushed against me before he pulled away to speak again, "Do you know what I've been picturing every night to the thought of you, [F/N]?" His hands dropped lower to skim over my ass, lightly gripping, and dragging me toward him. My breath hitched. I didn't say a word.

Toby answered for me, "I've been picturing taking these off..." His fingers gripped around the waistband of my shorts and teased me about taking them off by pushing them down lightly. Continuing that, he said, "Have you to myself for a couple of hours..."

There were so many reasons why I should say no to him and why I shouldn't allow him to touch me like this. For one, he killed my father. He broke into my house and he was physically violent to me. I felt disgusting that he had gotten to this level too. But, I didn't stop him. I didn't say no and I didn't deny it. I looked into this killer's eyes and I leaned onto his chest, giving into what he wanted

When we kissed for the second time, I noticed how chapped his lips were, and opened my mouth a little to swipe my tongue across his bottom one. Toby tensed up. And without warning, I felt his tongue use the opportunity to have an exchange with mine. I gasped through my nose, the escalation getting worse and worse. A blush began to spread across my face.

He lifted me off of his lap to flip me onto the couch, putting both of his palms by either side of my head. I was back to being pinned underneath him. I don't know what was happening to me. Something was wrong with me, I was sick for this. I was sick... because I enjoyed this.

His sweater and shirt fell to the floor as we fought each other with kisses. His teeth bit into my lower lip and pulled it back while I moved to unbuckle his belt. I was giving in to this. I was really fucking the guy that took away everybody I loved in my life.

Barely in any clothes, we both took a moment to stare at each other, oddly feeling like he was admiring me from how he looked up and down my body. Toby took his time, pressing small pecks across my chest up to my neck, snaking his arms around to my back. He unclipped my bra and slipped it off of me. I wanted to cover myself, but I no longer wanted to move. I didn't have any motivation. There was nothing left to fight for.

The gloves and bandages around his fingers felt weird against my skin especially when he played with my chest. He squeezed one, bit the other, and once he heard a moan slip out of me, he stopped to let me process. He complimented me, his voice a bit raspy like he was fighting the urge to do something to me already, "You look even better so close like this, with how foggy those windows would get. It would make me want to break them and threaten you then and there."

I bit the inside of my cheek and he got closer, hooking onto my panties and pulling them down as a smirk spread on his face. My lack of response didn't concern him. He kept going despite that, throwing the thin fabric somewhere in the room before he looked up at me. His hair was in his face and the eyebags around his eyes told me he was more than dangerous. How many times has he done this?

Toby muttered seriously, breaking me out of the moment, "Who do you belong to?" I blankly gazed at him, watching as he stood up and slowly inched his boxers down. I can't speak. I can't tell him that. More scars appeared, his v-line making my eyes linger, and I got distracted. His dick was let out before I could respond.

My eyes widened and I tried to squeeze my legs shut, but he kept them apart as soon as they moved, holding both of my knees up to my shoulders. I was breathing super fast, my heart raced, and I was feeling the ache in between both of my legs. It was nothing compared to when he positioned himself and pushed the tip inside.

Digging my nails into his arms, I cried out in pain and threw my head back, looking up at his satisfied face. Toby groaned, a laugh following behind it, "You don't have to answer. I'll do it for you." He rammed most of what he could, grabbing both of my thighs so tightly that it was guaranteed to be bruised. I screamed out. He was too rough and too much for me to take like this. It hurt. It fucking ached. I was being drilled into the cushions.

Trying to handle it was impossible. He made it impossible for me. His hips connected as he went deeper, loud slaps coming from it, bouncing off and echoing. I didn't want to think about the neighbors hearing me lose my dignity like this. I didn't want to think about the fact my dad could be witnessing this. But it was starting to feel good. Really fucking good. My eyes rolled to the back of my head and after that, I didn't care anymore.

I wrapped my legs and arms around him, pulling him closer and savoring his dick carving into the parts I didn't know were there. Moaning, swearing, and muttering filled the room. We were getting lost in the bliss and saying whatever was on the mind. Or I was. His name left me a couple of times and so did encouragement, "More.. More, please, Toby!"

Flipping around again when he got a little tired, I gyrated my hips and sat on his lap so I could bounce, sliding up and down until I could feel my walls beginning to squeeze. I was close and this position wasn't helping. I held my breath and Toby took notice, pressing his forehead against mine.

"Let it out for me, baby. Don't be shy," he cooed, sweat dripping down his forehead like he was holding back his own. I bit the inside of my cheek and a desperate moan came out, "Fuuuuuck, cummm with! Please!"

He didn't listen to me and lifted me off of the couch with him, holding me up in the air while guiding me down onto his shaft. I went limp and drool fell down the side of my chin as I buried myself into the crook of his neck, biting it a little to vent out the overwhelming pleasure. Toby didn't let up until a couple of more minutes of fucking me passed and I was fucked out enough that my legs were shaking.

When he was about to cum himself, he set me back down, rushing up to my face to give me a facial. My mouth was open from panting and I caught a bit on my tongue, swallowing it when we were back to locking eyes. The rest landed on my nose, cheeks, and lips. He let out a loud groan as he unwinded, pulling away to see the display once he was done.

I lay there. Used. I lay there for him to stare at. Until he walked away for cleaning supplies. To think about what I was doing. To come back down and face the new reality I was in. I was his now and he was mine. And there was nothing I could do about it.

[siren-141]

regret

summary: after a heated argument ensues, frank accidentally does the unthinkable.

pairing: frank castle x reader

warnings: violence, blood, accidental domestic violence, angst, whole lotta comfort

word count: 1.2k

18+ only, minors DNI

main masterlist

“Can you just fucking let me finish?” you yelled across the apartment, stopping in your tracks as the big, bad Punisher continued to lecture and yell back at you.

“No, I’m not gonna let you finish! What you pulled out there was fucking inexcusable-”

“Since when do I take orders from you?”

It was already a long night, and it was going to be an even longer night. Your home was supposed to be your sanctuary, but right now it just felt like another battleground, like the one you just left on the streets of Washington DC.

“You take orders from me when we’re out there and your life is on the fucking line, that’s when you listen to me!”

“I was doing just fine when you met me, what makes you think I need you to protect me now?”

You could feel the vases rattle with each step that one of you took.

You two had finally tracked down the man you had been waiting to find for months now, and it had wound up in a firefight. You were known for your knife skills, the feared anti-hero of the city as you took out bad guys one by one with your array of blades. Your accuracy was like no other for throwing knives, your slashes and cuts were lethal and confident, and you never backed down from a fight. Your gun skills weren’t too shabby either, but you left that up to Frank ever since the two of you teamed up.

It was an odd team – starting out as a working relationship when he stepped into your city, but soon turning into a situation where the two of you became lovers. Your bloodlust matched his perfectly, you had never met a man who could hold his own like Frank could. You could appreciate the way he treated you kindly. It was a stark contrast to how you were normally treated by your enemies. But you didn’t need him to protect you. You had been doing that all on your own since you got here, and you would continue doing it.

The whole problem began when the firefight was just about to end. You had taken out half of the men in that warehouse, slinking around in the shadows; slitting throats, stabbing necks and hearts and arteries, using various takedown methods that you had learned in the martial arts years prior. Frank had set up traps for other men to walk into – which they did, and the traps had worked – and he had either sniped or shot the other men. The enemy was already dead, the mission was accomplished.

Frank stood in the middle of the warehouse, bodies littered around him, carnage from the both of you that you’d leave the DC police officers to clean up. He was so used to his brute force and bullets taking care of everything that he had already let his guard down, standing above the enemy as he studied the dead body.

“Get down!” and the sound of a bullet was the last thing he heard before you jumped in between him and the gunman that you both thought had already been dead for some time now. You managed to tackle the larger man to the ground, immediately unsheathing a knife from your thigh and throwing it directly into the man’s eye. Now everyone was dead. You laid back on the ground, breathing heavy, not even realizing the blood that had begun to trickle from your arm.

“Fuck, are you serious?” Frank all but yelled at you, hoisting you up to your feet with him. He tore a piece of fabric off from one of the dead men and wrapped it around your arm where the bullet had just grazed above your elbow, and he pulled you by the other arm and out of the warehouse.

Now here you were, back in the safety of your apartment, in a screaming match over your decision to protect your partner.

You walked up to him, steps eerily silent as usual. His back was turned to you, too busy mindlessly moving shit around on the hallway table.

“You need to understand that I care about you, Frank, and I’m not gonna let anything happen to you out there on the field-”

He turned around all of a sudden, raising his arms to a shrugging position to go along with whatever he was about to say, but it all went horribly wrong in that moment.

His quick movements had been too fast as he turned, and he had wound up hitting you square in the face. Everything was silent. Everything was still.

Your head was still turned to the side, hand coming up to make sure there wasn’t any blood trickling down from your mouth. Tears had immediately welled up in your eyes before you even knew it – it had all happened so fast.

“Sweetheart-” Frank had immediately pulled you into him, one arm pulling you in by your waist and the other hand cradling the back of your head. “I am so, so sorry. I didn’t realize you were so close behind me, I didn’t mean-”

He could feel you shake with your sobs, and tears began to come to his eyes too. He just held you tight against him, hand petting at your hair in his best attempt to comfort you. He backed away, holding your face in his large hands, getting a good look at you. He scanned your face, wiping your tears away with his calloused thumbs, making sure there were no bruises forming or no bloody nose or lip. You seemed to be physically fine, but nothing about what just happened was fine.

“Please, let’s go sit down,” you nodded, sniffling as you continued to sob. He led you to the sofa by the hand, gently sitting you down and kneeling in front of you.

“I didn’t hear you behind me, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. You know I’d never hit you, you know I’d never hit any woman but especially not you-”

“I know, Frank. I know.” You continued to cry, the emotions just bubbling over from the loss of adrenaline, the pain in your arm, and the heated conversation from just moments before. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, baby, I hit you straight in the face- are you okay? You look okay but are you really okay?”

“Hurts, but I’ll be fine.” He sighed shakily and pulled you into him again, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I’d never do something like that on purpose, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”

You both stayed like that for a while, more minutes than you could count, until you calmed down some. Your mind was swirling with the events of the whole night, how everything was going so well and how everything just went downhill so fast.

-

By the end of the night, you both laid in your shared bed after washing all of the blood and dirt off of you, and after he had properly wrapped your arm. Your head was on his chest, his arm cradling you to him as you drew circles on his skin. Soon enough, you fell asleep, eyes still puffy from the crying, but still so beautiful to him.

“You mean so much to me…I can’t lose you. I don’t know what I’d do if I’d lose you,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head.

[your-unfriendlyghost]

Thinking about your fic where Dallas is Tex’s older brother, where does mark come into play? Is there an au where they can be happy 😭💔💔

Well truthfully, in that fic, I think Mark’s in prison still, like at the end of That Was Then, This is Now 🥲

BUT let’s make an AU where they’re happy!

(TW- mentions of canon-typical violence/canon-typical darkness)

(Not a fic btw- just a rambly outline/headcanons)

In this AU, obviously Dally and Johnny live. (they still both have near-death experiences, but they survive yk?)

And canonically, Ponyboy and Mark Jennings are friends when they’re about 15-16ish. Now that we’ve made Dally survive, the two just end up meeting through Ponyboy. Now they know of each other, but they don’t know that they’re half-brothers. Dally thinks of Mark as a pesky kid who’s more annoying than Ponyboy but less annoying than Curly Shepard, and Mark thinks of Dally as a tough-hood-turned slightly pathetic guy who “Couldn’t even get the cops to kill him right smh” (crude I know but I genuinely think that’s what Mark would think 😭)

Then I’m gonna have Steve (he’s observant- in the book he was the one who found Johnny’s jacket in the lot, and the one who noticed Dally had taken his ring back from Sylvia) and Johnny (also pretty observant, just in more of a literary analysis way than in a physical way) discuss how similar the two are.

Eventually they mention it to Two-Bit, who’s like “Uh yeah they’re half brothers? Obviously?”

And Steve and Johnny are like “The fuck do you mean Pony’s buddy is Dally’s half brother??”

Two-Bit, who I’m making Mark’s cousin in this ‘cuz Emilio Estevez played both of them, goes “Yeah no- his mom, my aunt, cheated on her husband with Dally’s dad when I was like…four or five…which was how she got knocked up with Mark…y’all didn’t know that??”

Anyhow all three go tell Dally, who doesn’t initially care all that much. Mark’s got a stable life, and Dally doesn’t particularly feel the need to be part of it, although he does maybe start inviting the kid along to the drive in with him, Pony, and Johnny just a little more often

Mark is similarly indifferent when Pony tells him, just sorta says “Aw man, why’s Shepard get to have the cooler hood for an older brother??”

But that all comes crashing down when the events of TWTTIN come to pass. Now, instead of getting arrested when Bryon calls the cops on him, Mark remembers Dally. So he runs from the cops and shows up on Buck Merril’s doorstep just like Pony and Johnny did two years prior.

Dally’s initially mad about it- it’s one thing helping Johnny and Pony, and a whole other thing helping this annoying kid who got himself into this mess. But…he can also see himself in Mark, because the kid’s scared and helpless and alone, and is covering it with anger just like Dally always did.

So Dally lets Mark in. Angrily, and with a ton of complaints, but he lets him in all the same.

When the cops come around, looking for the runaway dealer Mark Jennings, Dally denies knowing anything, and the cops lose Mark’s trail and just kinda give up.

Then Dally forces Mark to dye his blonde hair brown (in a reverse-Ponyboy move lol), and bullies Buck Merril into giving the kid a job even with his record. (According to Mark on pg 147 of the book, he only started dealing to begin with because no jobs would take him with his police record) I’m pretty sure that Tulsa is actually big enough that no one recognizes him, especially with the dye job. I mean the town I’m from is a quarter of Tulsa’s size, and I still barely ever run into folks I know without planning it. And I get out a lot. So like if Mark’s at Buck’s place, I don’t think a lotta people will know of him- he’s sixteen, no one who goes there will know him. (And if they do, well, it’s Buck Merril’s place, nobody would dare to call the cops there anyhow.)

So Mark carries on like that, living low…ish…I mean c’mon he’s still Mark Jennings he still causes trouble. Just not so much trouble that Dally can’t keep him in check. He probably does still hate Bryon- just not enough to wanna kill him?? (Although again idk he’s still Mark maybe he wants revenge anyhow…he won’t get revenge tho ‘cuz I have other plot priorities and anyhow I think Bryon’s suffered enough)

Dally and Mark evolve to be kind of like fanon Tim and Curly- not particularly affectionate, but they care for each other. Mark shows it by helping Dally with chores occasionally, and sometimes stealing him stuff like rings and cigarettes. Dally shows it by letting Mark tease him, and by taking Mark places and spending time with him. And letting Mark call himself “Mark Winston”. (Again, Dallas acts like he doesn’t want to- hell, he probably believes he doesn’t want to, he’s pretty good at lying to himself- but he clearly does) (Tim, Johnny, Two-Bit, and Steve bully him mercilessly for this) (Sodapop doesn't ‘cuz he thinks it’s sweet and doesn’t wanna discourage it lol)

Then, about two years later, we’re at the start of my Tex fic, Hail Mary. That plays out about the same, except both Mark and Johnny convince him to help out with custody of a ten-year-old Tex.

Dally is annoyed still, but has begrudgingly grown to like these stupid kids- including Mason, who isn’t technically related to anyone but Tex, but hey he had a shitty cowboy dad too so he gets to be in the “shitty cowboy dad club” lol

I figure Dally stays in Garyville with Mason and Tex during the weekdays, and takes them to Buck’s on weekends ‘cause he does still have most of his life in Tulsa. Sometimes Johnny stays with them in Garyville too, ‘cuz yk, Johnny’s Dally’s best friend lol, and besides he’s not only an adult now too but is also an adult who is much more patient and easy to get along with than Dally.

Mark and Tex are a horrible combination to be around, even though Mark is eighteen now and really should be more mature than a ten year old. Dally has his mischievousness, sure, but neither Mark nor Tex were born with the little voice in their heads that says things like “arson is bad” and “actions have consequences”. Like Dally likes breaking laws- Mark and Tex don’t even consider laws. It’s bad. Dally and Mason leave them alone to go grocery shopping once and come back to see Mark has let the horses into the house, all because Tex triple-dog-dared him to. Another time, after Cole Collins tells Mason not to hang out with his kids anymore, Mark uses Cole’s car to teach Tex how to hot-wire things. Dally nearly murders him. So does Mason. It’s a problem…

Anyhow, those are my thoughts for now, lemme know yours!

[0mg-bird]

Loom ~ R. Abbott x Fem! Reader

Summary: Rhett doesn’t know how long he can live with his tormenting thoughts while you live without him.

Warnings: Angst! A whole lotta angst, jealous Rhett= stupid Rhett, violence and language.

A/n: Inspired by one of my favorite Zach Bryan songs, Loom.

His jaw might fall out of its socket, the way he grinds his back teeth, back and forth, back and forth. Beer in hand, he’s watching from across the bar at the shape of you. Your Wrangler bell bottoms and little black top made you a sight for sore eyes, the way you spun around the dance floor with your friends had him in a trance.

Perry comes back to sit beside his brother, but upon seeing Rhett’s strong gaze, he follows the line of vision straight to you.

“Here we go again.” He laughs, making Rhett face him. “What are you talking about?” He asks, trying to act casual.

Perry gives him an amused glance. “I’m talking about the Tillerson girl.”

Rhett shrugs. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh please don’t do this act with me, it’s a beat horse at this point.” He says, huffing. “You ever gonna get over this little fantasy of yours?”

Rhett swallows hard, looking away. “It ain’t a fantasy, it’s ain’t anything.”

That was a lie, Rhett knew it. You were like forbidden fruit, so sweet, he was desperate to get a taste but how could he when you were you? Entirely too good for him, with a name that couldn’t be seen next to his.

He used to never consider you, not until you came back from college all grown. Now you were as sweet as honey, funny as ever, looking finer than any mountain view he’s seen. The moments you’ve shared alone, the unusual tension, the words that go unsaid, it’s things you think about often. But Rhett never made a move, and in those moments he doesn’t lift one finger to you, you can only think of the way your father and brothers ruined this love affair chance.

At some point you decide it was no use to pine for a cowboy who you pushed you away, so you were going to move on with your life.

Here you were now, dancing with a charmer. Your two step beat was fun, he was a looker too. While you two spun around, Rhett was clenching his beer bottle with a white knuckled grip.

He has this reoccurring dream sometimes, where you and him ran away and made a life of your own. He isn’t so angry, he isn’t feeling anything other than some type of emotion that makes him feel like he’s going through the floor.

It’s the thing that haunts him, it teases him to a life he does not have.

A life he’s afraid to admit he wants.

“I’ll be back.” Perry states, navigating his way to the mens room.

As Rhett is left alone, he finishes his last swig, then goes to get another beer.

That charmer you were dancing with has his hand on the small of your back as he leads you to get a drink. As you stand beside him, slightly leaning over the bar as you talk to the bartender, the man’s hand slips down your back side, playfully pinching and squeezing. You push his hand off, the action makes Rhett alert.

When the man does it again, leaning over to whisper in your ear and getting pushed off again, he steps back into Rhett.

“Hey, could you fucking watch where you’re going?” Rhett snaps, making you turn and face him. “Sorry, Rhett, he didn’t mean too.” You glare at your guy.

“You’re right, sorry.” He throws a half hearted apology to Rhett before diving to kiss your neck.

Rhett knows your awkward laugh well, the one you give when you try to be polite but are still uncomfortable. You give it to the guy you continue to push away.

It feels wrong, his hands on your body, his lips on your skin. It makes Rhett’s breath quicken.

“Hey, I think she wants you to back off.” He grabs the guys shoulder, pulling him off of you.

The man grows defensive, smacking Rhett’s hand away. “I think you should mind your own fucking business and not pay attention to what me and my woman are doing.”

You pause, taking a large step away from him. “Who said I’m yours?”

He chuckles lowly. “Oh come on baby, don’t start this teasing shit now.”

“How about you go fuck yourself.” You call back, turning back for your friends before he tugs at your arm.

Just as you’re about to gasp, Rhett is standing in front of you, gripping the man’s wrist.

“I don’t want to have to do this right here in front of everyone, but I will if you don’t get your hand off of her right now.”

The expanse of his back is shielding you, you can’t see his expression but you know it’s angry.

Your arm is dropped, deep fingerprints are left in your skin.

“I would’ve let you had a go at her after I was finished, all you had to do was ask.”

Those disgusting words fall from his lips and the next thing you know, he’s on the ground.

The ones around leap back, watching as Rhett tumbles around with this charmer you thought was great ten minutes ago.

“What the hell?” Perry shouts, pushing past bodies to pull his brother away.

The two put up a fight, but when Rhett gets pulled one direction and the man gets pulled another, it’s over.

You follow the Abbott brothers out the back door of the bar, Rhett’s still seething, spitting out a mouth full of blood. You slink back quietly, looking up at Perry.

“I’ll pull the truck around.” He tells you, making himself scarce.

“Rhett…” You’re tone comes out quieter than you imagined it would.

He looks at you with confusion and question. “Why do you do this? Why do you find the biggest assholes and hang on their arm?”

You wrap your arms around yourself, the night air colder than expected. “I don’t intentionally do it.”

Rhett scoffs, then pushes his hair out of his face. “Tell me what you want me to do.” He demands. “Put me out of my damn misery and tell me that you’d rather not think of me.”

Your brows furrow. “I don’t want to say that.”

He’s running his hands down his face, blood on his split knuckles. “Then tell me how I get this to stop. This-this back and forth, coy game we play.”

“What game?” You shout, stepping towards him.

“The one where we both know what we’re feeling but don’t do a damn thing about it!”

Maybe it’s the few drinks in your system that’s making you feel like dropping in tears. You blink them back.

“And what am I supposed to be feeling, Rhett? Stop speaking in fuckin’ riddles and just say it with your chest!”

He stomps to you. “How do I make you fall in love with me? How?” He demands, your bodies close in proximity. You stare up at him, not missing the way his chest rises and falls quickly.

“I would’ve fallen in love with you years ago if you hadn’t been so damn stoic. All this talk about our family feuds, about how you don’t bring much to the table and I need more than that…” Your voice shakes, you reach out to hit his chest with both of your hands. “You never once cared about my feelings, so why now?”

He takes the hits you give, though they didn’t really hurt like you intended them to. They hurt deep in his lungs.

“I thought I was doing right by you.” Is all he says, making the first few tears fall down your face.

“I would’ve loved you with everything I had, every fiber of me, Rhett.” Your hands are in your hair, then you take a step back.

“You would have?” He asks, and you nod. “I would…I’m just not sure about now, anymore.”

His heart aches, his fingers itch to reach out for you.

You wipe your face. “Thanks for intervening back there.” You say, then disappear back inside.

He watches the spot you just stood, and the overwhelming feeling of lost love, looms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/n: aghhhhhhhh this was so angsty omg. If y’all like it, lmk, maybe I should do a part two???

[akingdomscrypt]

Make a Mercy Out of Me

Part One

Paring; König x m!reader

Word count; ~6k

Warnings; uhmm.. violence and a whole lotta google translate

(this is my first time using this platform for fics, so please bear with me-)

--- "far from home" ---

You were not a fan of public spaces. Or people in general. You were especially not a fan of overcrowded, rowdy bars - with slippery bodies pressed so close together you could barely take a breath without inhaling someone else's CO2.

You found slight reprieve at the counter, seated farthest from the door and chin propped up on your gloved palm, watching the bartender race around mixing drinks and chatting politely with customers who definitely didn't deserve her kindness. It was a little entertaining watching the woman balance glasses while simultaneously putting on a show for her drunk viewers.

You didn't like being in public, but the bartender in front of you made it a little more worth your while. Besides, you were here for a reason. You had a job to do.

A job that should have arrived almost half an hour ago. They were late, typical. You had expected this; he always pinged you the location for drop-off hours before the person arrived. In fact, you had specifically chosen to wait a good few hours after the initial message for this very reason.

You still ended up being early.

A few more minutes passed before you felt a shift in the atmosphere of the room. Felt the searching eyes land on you, burning a hole through the side of your masked face. You resist the urge to turn around and look for them, knowing they would be by your side soon enough.

A brief moment later - probably the person trying to maneuver through the sea of sweaty bodies - an inconspicuous person seated themselves to your left, dressed in civilian clothes with nothing but a darkly colored medical mask to obscure their identity. They gave a bright smile to the woman behind the counter and waved off her inquiry for a drink.

"So," They began, "how's the weather back home?"

As they spoke, they kept their focus floating around the stuffy room. Expression relaxed and elbows planted firmly on the wooden surface of the bar.

"Bright and sunny." You reply simply, letting the other person know you are alone. That you haven't been followed, your identity compromised - that the last mission had gone well.

"No overcast?"

"None." Your voice is pitched low, almost gravelly as you respond. You trail your gloved fingers along the lip of your own, untouched glass, waiting for whatever this person has in store for you.

"I see," their tone shifts, still keeping on that laid-back persona, to something more professional before they slip into your native tongue.

"Na túto misiu cestujete do zahraničia. Niekde pozdĺž americko-mexickej hranice."

"Dosť ďaleko od domácej základne, nie?"

"Áno."

"A ona mi verí, že sa o to postarám?"

They glance over at you briefly, before their eyes flicker away again.

"Of course."

You nod, pulling out enough cash to cover the drink and placing it on the counter. Moving to stand, you take your drink with you.

Taking a clumsy step forward, as if you had drunk enough to kill a small deer, you stumble into the person sitting beside you. Spilling the contents of the glass all over the front of their shirt in the process.

"Shit!" You exclaim, reaching over to grab a handful of napkins. You begin frantically pressing the thin papers to the person's clothes, muttering apologies under your breath.

"I'm so sorry- really, I am! It was an accident-" you continue to ramble, adding an exaggerated slur to your words as you speak. Their hands reach down to assist you in your frantic movements, the chaos in which your two's hands are moving distracting from the moment the other person slips a small, folded paper into your jacket sleeve.

Once you feel the press of the note against your wrist you pull away, tucking it into your pocket. The glare in their eyes speaks volumes as you back away, even as they mutter a quick;

"It's fine."

Was it necessary? Absolutely not. Was it a delight to see the person splutter and tug the drenched fabric away from their skin as you slunk away into the crowd? Yes, yes it was.

You reach the exit and pull out the door, mentally laughing to yourself at the look on their face before you'd left. Payback for making you wait so damn long. You draw in a deep breath, the air chilly even through the cloth of your mask. It was refreshing, a breath of fresh air after having been stuck in that filthy establishment for a little over an hour.

When you decide you've walked far enough, fingers reach into your pocket. Your pace doesn't falter, continuing at a lazy waltz as you unfold it with one hand. A car's headlights light up the paper as it passes by, illuminating the digits on the note when you bring it up to inspect it.

Coordinates, lovely. Because your handler was nothing if not a fan of the dramatics.

27.5036° N, 99.5076° W

You huff a small sigh, rolling your eyes before pocketing the paper once again. Welp, better start moving.

You get dropped off a few miles south of the city, a little ways away from the river, because apparently flying a helicopter into the heart of it would be 'too suspicious'. Meaning you'd now have to walk through muggy plains for a good hour or two.

Not even halfway out the heli and you were already mourning the loss of the freezing tundra that is your home base. You sling your duffle bag over your shoulder, not bothering to look back at the pilot who brought you into the pit of hell.

The Heli takes off not even a moment after, leaving you completely alone. With a drawn-out sigh and a roll of your eyes, you begin the long trek through this godforsaken hellscape.

The sun is just above the horizon when you arrive at the outskirts of the - now that you're here - fairly large city. Peaking over the edge of the small hill you mentally groan. People.

Not only did your handler send you across the fucking northern Atlantic ocean, but she sent you into one of the most populated cities along the damn border!

When the sun finally begins to set - a pretty mix of purples and orangish hues as the ball of fire disappears over the horizon - you pick up your bag once again and take off down the hill, carefully maneuvering over the uneven ground.

After a few minutes of wandering aimlessly through the streets bordering the city, you manage to find a cheap, sketchy-looking residence for shelter. All it takes is a couple of bills, some broken Spanish, and a fake identity and you're walking up a creaky flight of stairs to your home away from home for the foreseeable future.

Upon twisting the key into the door and hearing that satisfying click sound, you push the door open slowly. Your eyes flicker around the room for a minute, scoping out the space for anything sticking out of place, before you finally step in. Shutting and bolting the flimsy door quietly behind you.

In the room lies a small bed frame, a thin mattress on top, and a worn wooden side table next to it - pushed up against the far left corner. There's a tiny window fixed into the center of the wall, to the right of the bed. Pushed up against the opposite wall is a dusty, wooden dresser. A dirty mirror dangling above it. Farthest to the left of the room is a half bathroom, the door propped open. This allows you to see almost the entire interior from where you stand near the entrance of the room.

You heave the duffle off your shoulder and onto the dresser, taking out a small bottle and then leaving it there as you turn to make your way to the bathroom. It wasn't exactly the most hygienic, but splashing your face with water and using the last bit of your cheap shampoo to clean the sweat out of your hair was as good as it was going to get. After that you exit the tiny room, heading straight for the lumpy mattress near the door.

You grab the fleece blanket from your bag on the way over, discarding the sheets already wrapped on the bed onto the floor - there's no telling what caused those colorful stains, and you weren't too keen on finding out. You place the blanket on top of the now bare mattress, as you figure the heat of the air would keep you warm enough as you sleep. You remove your shirt, balling it up and using it as a pillow as you get comfortable.

As you lay there, eyes flicking around the dark, unfamiliar room, your stomach churns harshly. It had been a while since your last meal, but you weren't exactly eager to fix that problem. Nor did you really have the means to at the moment.

Choosing to ignore the insistent rumbling of your stomach, you nuzzle your face into your makeshift pillow and close your eyes. It takes a little while, but after laying there for an extended period of time, with nothing else to occupy your mind, you eventually drift into a light slumber.

— POV: König —

Capture. No kill.

Those are his orders - and the rest of the team, but that doesn't matter right now. What matters is the very real man - he'd overhead Soap talking to Gaz, wondering if the fabled fool even existed - walking dangerously close to a frail woman under the cover of a thick, noisy crowd.

They'd gotten tipped off to your location by an anonymous caller. Something about you being the infamous man the crew had been hunting these past few years - leaving mutilated bodies in your wake. You didn't discriminate against your targets, but that wasn't what made you so dangerous. No, it was the fact that they didn't know why you killed.

If it wasn't for the sporadic timeline in which you did it, and that your targets weren't specific to a certain city or country - added to the fact that the majority of your killings were either political leaders, or their affiliates (which wasn't limited to the people in power, but included their wives and children as well) - you wouldn't even be on their radar. You would've just been another psychotic serial killer.

In their eyes, you were simply another terrorist. One with no known rhyme or reason for your methods; unpredictable. And that was far more dangerous than your typical run-of-the-mill terrorist. At least they have - no matter how separated from reality - ideals and morals. At least they were predictable.

You had had them chasing your tail going on for two years straight now, leaving them to pick up your breadcrumbs and discover the carnage you left behind.

This all came to a close when one random Friday afternoon they got a hit on where you'd be headed next through the way of a call to Laswell's office landline. They, of course, had wondered just how exactly the man on the other line had known your location - and if the intel was even authentic - but the call had cut to dead air before they could interrogate him. Besides, if this was a real tip, it was far too good to pass up.

And, after a lengthy flight, now they were here. Watching. Waiting. For anything. For you to make a move, for you to materialize from what seemed like thin air. Gaz had had the hunch that, though you would try to blend in, you would be easy to pick out of the crowd. He, on the drive here, had reasoned that though someone like you was likely a master at his craft - there had to be a fault somewhere.

Why else would all of your kills take place under the blanket of the night? It clearly wasn't just to avoid witnesses or catch your victims off guard. Your kills showed great strength, and the places where you left the bodies weren't always exactly… hidden.

Gaz had drawn the conclusion that you must just not be a people person, or that there was something about high-traffic areas that put you on edge. König couldn't fault you for that, he too - as well as some of the others - wasn't exactly the most sociable either and didn't blend well with civilians. You, however, he had said that you would stick out like a sore thumb. Unable to hide the tension in your body, or the urge to fidget with whatever you could get your hands on.

He was right. Here you were; tapping the tips of your left fingers against your thumb incessantly and jaw clenched so tight, König was sure it would snap.

"Got him." Soap spoke into his ear, the man himself being a good few meters ahead of you - tucked away near an alley, leaning up against an old brick wall. The others, after a short moment of silence, muttered their affirmation. Five people had their eyes on you, and yet you seemed to be so blissfully unaware. Too caught up in your anxieties to notice the men stationed on every side of you, waiting for the opportunity to strike.

König watches as the old lady stumbles into you, watches as you scramble to pick up the items that had tumbled out of her shaky arms from the impact. They wait. Wait for your next movement. Wait for you to get away from so many innocent civilians, to the thinner part of the herd.

The moment comes far too soon, you hurriedly shove the fallen objects back into her hands, muttering what is most likely an apology under your breath. After that you look up, eyes flickering around the exposed area you seem to have found yourself in - and that's when it happens. Your icy glare connects with his own, unwavering stare, and your body seizes up.

"Spotted." He grunts out, shifting off of the large crate he had been perched against to disguise his height. "Target headed your way Soap-"

He barely gets the Scots name out, barely has the time to lift his chin to keep his eyes steely on you before the screaming starts. König goes flying backward at the strength of the blast, catching himself at the last minute, inches from getting up close and personal with the clay underfoot.

He gets a glimpse of you - knocked off your own balance and struggling to right your footing - before the cloud of dust and smoke becomes too thick, obscuring you from view.

— —

You wake up before the sun does, covered in a thin layer of cold sweat despite the heat of the room and feeling more tired than you were the day before. The first thing you do is stumble off the bed and to the duffle bag you had left open on the dresser last night. You pull out a change of clothes - a thin t-shirt and a pair of well-worn pants - then zip it back up.

After you change into the new clothing and roll up the dirty, used ones to stuff into the far corner of your bag - you lift the duffle, carrying it over to the bed to tuck it underneath. With nothing else to do but get on with your day, you leave. Making sure you lock the damn thing behind you. You didn't want any unwanted visitors going through your shit, after all.

The sun has risen now and it's time to find out just what your handler sent you out here for. It better be worth it - this damn heat made you want to tear your skin off.

You travel the outskirts of the city as long as you can, trying your best to ignore the crowd of people milling about and just get what you came here for. Hopefully, the what in question would make its appearance soon enough.

You've never been… good at blending in with your surroundings. Sure, you could manage yourself - you were a professional, after all. But being around so many unknowns made you uneasy. A feeling you're certain even the most socially unaware of the crowd could pick up on.

Eventually, though, you have to make a right and dive into the busy streets. Your phone pings in your pocket, letting you know you're getting closer to your destination. You pass by an ungodly amount of bars - seriously, why are there so many? - on your way. Now and again there's a tiny buzz from your phone, stronger as you inch closer to the designated drop-off. Or, at least you think it's a drop-off? What else could it be? There are only so many possibilities in the midst of a populated city.

Thankfully, the what makes its entrance in the form of a suspicious old lady walking your way. Well, suspicious to you. Not as much to the other people around you, as they continue about their morning without even sparing her a glance.

You adjust your mask as she approaches, trying your damn hardest to seem unaware of the person currently beelining her way towards you. A small huff of breath escapes you at the impact, the lady's tiny body carrying much more weight behind it than you had assumed it would, various fruits and other small items coming crashing to the ground.

You scramble to retrieve the fallen objects, spotting another small folded paper in the mix.

"Mis disculpas, señora." You mutter under your breath, silently wishing you'd paid more attention when learning this particular language (at the time you hadn't considered the possibility that you'd ever use this specific dialect).

"No te vi allí." You speak again, the woman uttering her own exaggerated apologies - arms flailing about. Holding most of the objects in your hands, you begin to shove them into her arms; eyes pinpointed on one small white square, getting closer to it with every item you pick up.

When your fingers wrap around the flimsy paper you stand up, passing the last few things - seriously, how did this woman carry so damn much? - to her you lift your head, scoping out your surroundings.

It went against your training, but fuck training right now- because you were pretty damn sure you were being watched, a prickly feeling at the base of your skull. Slipping the folded paper into your pocket, you turn around. You spot them instantly, locking eyes with a giant, blue-eyed man. His eyes are all you see. And they are all you need to see before you're flipping back around and speeding up to a fast-paced walk.

You only get a few steps away before you're launched sideways; crashing shoulder-first into a brick wall. You feel the distinct movement of bone dislodging from its rightful place, and you don't have to look down to know it's likely dislocated. Teeth dig into the soft flesh under your mask, tasting metal as you fight to suppress the scream building in your throat.

You have to get out of here. You need to get back to that damn room and call your fucking handler before these men have the chance to get their grubby hands on you.

You push off the wall, blinking in an attempt to clear the dust out of your eyes. You stumble a bit, nearly toppling over an unmoving body at your feet, but quickly right yourself. Boots hit the muddy ground with reckless abandon, not caring about the sound you're making any more - not worried about being seen as out of place.

Survive. That's the only thing on your mind. Survive and make it to your room. Make it to your room so you can scream bloody murder at your boss. Survive, make it to your room, cuss out your handler, and make it back to the tundra that is your home. You can do that.

You can do that.

You continue running, hand clutching at your injured shoulder to hold it in place. You loop around buildings, twisting and turning every which way as you try to regain your bearings - to find a way out of this maze of alleys. You come to a stop at a dead end, a tall wire fence separating you from the freedom you oh so desperately crave.

Your breath comes out in sharp bursts from your nose, heating up under your mask to the point it has you contemplating ripping the damn thing off. This is compromised by tugging off your gloves and shoving them into a pocket. You're snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of gravel crunching behind you.

You flip around, eyes wide as you catch sight of the man standing behind you. He's not too tall, plainly built, and covered head to toe in makeshift gear. You consider just jumping the damn fence despite the burning in your arm, and not dealing with this guy at all. Before you can decide that, the man is charging at you - screaming out vile half-Spanish-half-English words as he does so.

You don't have time to dodge, too caught up in your head, and the next moment there's a searing pain in your already wounded shoulder. You look up, teeth clenched, glaring daggers at the man. You pull the throwing knife out of your flesh, preparing for when he finally reaches you.

The full force of his weight knocks you off balance, and you both come careening to the clay-packed ground. You manage to roll before that happens, the man beneath you taking most of the impact. You don't have time to stew in your minor victory before he's thrusting another knife at you - this one nicking you in the face, blood welling up and dripping into your eye.

You fight to stay on top, reaching for your own blade that lays tucked away in your civilian outfit - the one you pulled out having gotten lost in the brunt of the attack. Your struggling provides the man with the opportunity to flip you two over, cursing at you and wrestling against your waning strength. Your arm gives in, and he pins it above your head, still shouting directly into your face.

He reaches back and at the same time he drives back down to land another strike on you, you managed to wrangle your knife free. Your hand flies through the air, coming to rest in the juncture between his neck and shoulder at the same time he wedges the blade into the muscle of your thigh.

You pull the weapon out, blood already bubbling to the surface and spilling out, and thrust back in. Over and over again until his grip on his knife loosens, no longer digging the damn thing into your poor thigh, and his body goes limp. You scramble to push him off before you are crushed by his weight, crawling away backward on your hands.

You take a moment to catch your breath, chest heaving with the effort to get as much oxygen into your lungs as possible. After sitting there for a brief second longer, you remember the man you had seen at the city square, and you're hit with another burst of adrenaline.

You clamber to your feet, planting them firmly on the ground a little bit apart to stabilize yourself. Taking another deep breath you look up at the looming fence. Fuck it, you decide, limping over to it.

You struggle to gain any sort of footing at first, but using the pile of crates in the far right corner you manage to scramble halfway up the wire fence before you have to rely on pure upper body strength - not that you have much of that at the moment - to heave yourself up. By some miracle, you succeed. Now sitting unbalanced at the top, you squeeze your eyes shut and bite down on your tongue.

Flinging yourself over the edge, you brace for the impact - aiming to spread the force throughout your entire body instead of breaking your legs. No amount of bracing could prepare you for the mind-numbing pain of your feet hitting the ground - shooting up into your thighs and cutting through your stab wound. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, a muffled cry tearing through your throat.

Your legs tremble, threatening to give out beneath you. Cracking open your eyes you take in your surroundings. You know this place. You're close. So close.

You leave bloody footprints on the stairs as you climb them, bracing yourself heavily on the railing. When you reach the top you're gasping for air, hands fumbling with the key before you insert it in the lock - turning it sharply to the right. You nearly vocalize your relief when the door clicks open, granting you access to the dingy room.

You hurry over to the bed, collecting your blanket, and pulling out the duffle bag from beneath the bed. Unzipping the bag you shove the blanket inside, zipping it back up just as fast. You drop your weight onto the now bare mattress, sitting down as you rush to retrieve your phone from your left pocket.

Blood has seeped out of your wound and through your pants, running down your leg and dripping onto the floor. You ignore it, crimson-stained hands tapping ferociously at the cracked screen of your cell. Somehow managing to type in your handler's number, you wait for her to pick up.

When she does, you're furious - shouting unintelligible expletives and pressing the device close to your ear.

"WHAT THE FUCK, VIK?" You finally find the ability to say more than string after string of curses and threats.

"Calm down, soldier." She speaks, voice low and frustratingly relaxed.

"Calm down!? CALM DOWN!?!?" You yell, blood thrumming in your ears. "Don't tell me to calm down, dammit. I just got blown up, then fucking ran down and stabbed. You need to pull me out of here- I need to get out of here."

"Did you get the target already?"

"Target? Are you even hearing me!? I'm bleeding out in this filthy rundown complex, and you're talking about the fucking target?"

"What do you want me to do about it, Myš?"

"What do I-" you cut yourself off with a disbelieving snort. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Get. Me. Out. Of. Here."

She sighs on the other line, the sound of that damn office chair of hers squeaking in the background. "No can do, soldier. You have a job to do, do it."

"Job? You cannot be serious-" The line goes dead, and you see red.

"She did not just hang up on me." You grit out, grip on the phone tightening. She did.

You seeth, and - not your brightest moment if you're being honest -, in a fit of rage you wrench back your arm before swinging it forward. The phone goes shooting out from your hand, smashing to pieces against the wall to the right of the bathroom door.

You take a minute to think; you are still very much not safe, and no one is coming to help you. You are entirely on your own, you have no one to depend on but yourself.

First things first - you are still very much bleeding out, and your dislocated shoulder isn't going to relocate itself. You stand on wobbly legs, walking until you reach the nearest wall. Propping yourself against it you take a deep breath in, brace your other hand on your shoulder and push. A sickening crack emits from it, along with a burning pressure before it gives way - locking back into its socket.

You let out a strangled whine, exhaling the breath you were holding harshly. Catching your breath you take a minute before limping back over to the mattress.

After sitting down you reach for your duffle bag, lifting it and setting it on the bed beside you as you search through it. You don't have much, but a few pairs of clean shirts should be enough to hold it, right?

Now you just needed something to hold it in place… aha! You reach in for your trusty roll of duct tape - you should really invest in another roll, this one was running on fumes. You never went anywhere without this. Never knowing when it could come in handy. Like right now.

The good thing about duct tape was that it was sturdy as hell and, most importantly, could be easily ripped with one hand and a set of teeth.

You tear the shirt into one long usable strip first, deciding the blood gushing out of your fractured arm was more urgent than your leg. You make sure to wrap it tightly, a sloppy job would only cause more harm than good. Once the torn shirt is firmly packed around your upper arm, you reach for the roll of tape. After fiddling a bit to unravel enough to start, you bring it to the cloth and begin looping around it again and again - until you're satisfied with your now metallic-covered limb. Using your good hand, you pull the roll taut. After which allows you to use your teeth to tear off the end of the tape; fastening it down tightly.

Looking down at your mutilated thigh, you groan softly to yourself. From what it appeared - the man hadn't caught any major arteries. That was good news at least. Not so good news was that the entire upper portion of your pant leg was now soaked with your own blood. You didn't have time to change clothes, didn't even have time to rip open the cloth to get better access to the wound.

Grabbing another mostly clean shirt - at this point, you were going to run out of wearable clothing - you rip that one as well. Similarly to the way you had wrapped your arm, you secure your leg. By the time you finish covering it in duct tape, the roll is empty and you huff. Great.

You go to zip up your bag, only to be interrupted by a knock on your door. Your heart rate picks up immediately, ears straining to hear any commotion coming from behind the door. The door creaks open slightly - had you forgotten to lock it?? -, accompanied by the sound of metal clinking against the faux wood floor.

Hindbrain kicking into first gear you grapple for your duffle, slinging it over your good shoulder and dashing for the bathroom. You slam the door shut behind you, bracing against it. The telltale sound of a timer going off then the impact of shrapnel hitting the other side of the door erupts nearly seconds after the door forcefully clicks closed.

You only have seconds to think as the loud, gruff voices of men fill the room you were just in mere moments ago. You scramble to get your duffle off your shoulder, dropping it to the ground and rifling through it once more.

You pull out a small pistol and pray to a god you don't believe in that the damn thing is loaded. Your fingers curl around the cool metal, and your nerves settle as the feeling grounds you into the present. This is life or death. You've trained all your life for situations like this. And one thing is for certain - you're not going down without taking out as many of these fuckers as you possibly can.

You yank the door open and take open fire. You don't care where the shots land. You just hope they hit something. When the fog settles and you can see again, you take a look around. There's one patchwork armored man on the floor, clutching at his chest as crimson soaks through and envelopes the cloth. One other is gripping his arm, glaring at you with gritted teeth.

He lifts his gun to aim at you, blood seeping through the wound and dripping on the floor. There's a bullet through his skull before he gets the chance to pull the trigger. Deciding to put the other man out of his misery, you load another into his skull as well.

You grimace at the bodies laying in growing pools of their own blood. You honestly felt a little bad for the poor maintenance worker that would have to deal with your misfortune. Oh well, it's a good thing the flooring wasn't carpet.

After retrieving your duffle bag from the bathroom and shuffling out into the hall, you begin to descend. Making your way to the back exit - as you assumed the front door probably wouldn't take too kindly to your presence.

Halfway down the stairs, you hear muttering in the front room. Damn these stars and being placed so close to the front office…

You grit your teeth and try to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible. Something that isn't an easy feat when you're covered in your own blood, have a mystery bag on your shoulder, and a mask obscuring your identity. Still, you somehow manage to pass by undetected. The woman at the front desk keeps her answers vague, and you are a little grateful that past you chose such a sketchy place to take shelter in.

When the voices fade to nothing but background noise you let out a small breath of relief. Your arm aches and the burning in your thigh isn't letting up. You don't know how much longer you can do this, how much longer you can even walk before blood loss plunges you into darkness.

Vision fuzzy around the edges and breath labored under your mask, you stumble around the maze of hallways. You didn't even think there were this many - how many rooms could possibly fit in such a tiny building? You brace one hand on the closest wall, trusting it to support the majority of your weight. Time passes and you're starting to feel a little hopeless that you'll ever make it out alive. Lightheadedness kicks in at the same moment you hear muffled talking around the corner.

"-ooks like he-" One of them says. Your ears are full of cotton, and you cannot decipher their words fully.

"-eah, and he left the carnage for us-"

"- like him-"

You know that you are the him in question. You know they're looking for you. But who are they? Are they with the man from earlier? If so, what do they want with you?

Whatever it is can't be good, you decide. You turn away, opting to go down a different offshoot of the hall to avoid them. Your footing is uneven, shambling down the dimly lit corridor blindly.

Eventually, through some grand miracle, the neon-lit sign comes into view. Your saving grace is in the form of a flickering 'exit' sign anchored above a metal door. Renewed fervor erupts and your chest and you move faster. You're so close- only a few feet away from your salvation.

Granted you still had to get out of the city, and somehow find a way back to your home base… But that didn't matter right now. What mattered was your shaky, bare hands reaching up for the panic bar. It gives way with little resistance, and sunlight fills the darkness that had swallowed you. You breathe in the thick, humid air and find yourself almost grateful for it. Then the overbearing heat returns at full force to remind you why you hate this place so much.

You take a step forward, peaking your head out to check the back alley before you continue - fingers flexing around the grip of your handgun. Seeing that the coast is clear, you open the door more, slipping out onto reddish brown clay. It's a welcomed contrast to the dingy laminate wood flooring you had been stumbling around mere seconds before. Adjusting the duffle bag a bit, you move to fully exit the building.

Your fractured arm is wrenched behind your back before you make it any further. A cut-off yelp escapes you, breath catching at the cool press of metal against your throat.

"Drop it."

You don't register the words at first, too enraptured by the sound of the voice - distinctly of German descent - to cipher the meaning. Low, rough, and oddly appealing.

"Drop." The hold on your arm tightens, the blade inching closer. A silent threat. "It."

The words finally click and decades of rigorous training go out the window, your pistol clattering to the ground.

_____

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