#LET HIS FLESH NOT BE TORN LET HIS BLOOD LEAVE NO STAIN | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

spider-stark · 9 months ago

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INFINITELY YOU

part one // back at the beginning

SUMMARY - In every universe, Peter Parker seems destined to fall in love with you. And, in every universe, he realizes it too late. When universes collide and two of them are granted a second chance at rectifying their biggest mistake, neither of them are willing to let the opportunity go to waste–even if you end up not being the person they thought you were.

WARNINGS - 18+, story will contain mentions of blood, broken bones, weapons, suggestive language, and more. all versions of peter are between the ages of 19-23 in this story. I will try to update warnings accordingly for each chapter, but please read at your own discretion

WORD COUNT - 5.4k

// masterlist // series masterlist // send me your thoughts // playlist // no way home fan fiction //

The world seemed to slip out from under you, fracturing beneath your feet and leaving you to sink into a deep, dark hole.

It was quiet—so unbearably quiet—and the tension between you and your estranged friends had become so thick that you feared it would soon take form and seep into your lungs. Maybe that would be for the best, you thought, wondering if suffocating on your collective grief would somehow be easier than whatever came next.

“Aunt May…” You sputtered, unable to force the words out. Shaking your head, you asked, “Are you sure?”

God, what a stupid question. You almost wanted to slap yourself for asking something so mindless.

Ned’s lips pressed into a thin line, trying to swallow his own sorrow. “I wish we weren’t,” he said with a small, wistful chuckle, still too shocked to fully acknowledge the gravity of it all. “But… yeah, we’re sure. She’s… She’s gone.”

Your heart sank, unable to think of the right string of words to form a reply.

With your mind reeling, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking that this was some sort of cruel joke–the kind where the punchline would never quite hit. But all it took was one look at the red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks of Ned and Mj to know that they were telling the truth.

She was dead—Aunt May was dead.

And, somehow, it seemed as though that wasn’t even the worst part of the mess your friends had gotten themselves in.

“I know that it’s a lot to take in all at once,” Ned started back up, perhaps noticing the way the color seemed to drain from your face. “If you need me to go back over it or explain anything then I can-”

You stopped listening to him, staring blankly at the doormat beneath their feet. They hadn’t even bothered to come inside your apartment, too panicked to waste any time before delving into the details about Doctor Strange and the multiverse and other Spider-Man’s.

But honestly, you didn’t care about any of that.

You didn’t care about string theory or whatever multiversal villains had apparently slipped into your world—because you couldn’t stop thinking about what Ned had said about how May died. It hurt to think about it, the shrapnel and debris that had torn her flesh, the glider that had punctured her side and left her bleeding out in Peter’s arms…

Aunt May had died a horrific and brutal death, and you weren’t sure that there would ever be any way for you to come to terms with that.

“Peter,” you finally spoke, fire raging in your eyes as you looked at Ned. “Where is Peter?”

He spared Mj a sidelong glance, as if silently asking for her permission to answer. Frustration began to prick your skin, crawling up your spine as your stare turned harsh, offended that he didn’t just tell you outright. You knew that things between the four of you hadn’t ended well, but this…

Mj crossed her arms, looking almost as frustrated as you were with Ned’s choice to look to her for permission, and decided to answer in his place.

“Downstairs,” she told you, her tone purposefully clipped as a way to show that the wounds sustained in the downfall of your friendship had not yet healed–and you didn’t care, because you knew that yours hadn’t either.

“Is he…” you trailed off, not sure how to say it. If May’s death had been so brutal, then God knows what kind of injuries Peter might’ve sustained in the fight?

But you didn’t have to speak, because whether the two of you liked it or not, you had been friends—and she always knew what you were thinking. “He’s safe,” she told you, quelling your nerves just a little. A reluctant sigh slipped her lips, shaking her head as she added, “But he’s not okay.”

You knew what she meant—physically Peter had survived the fight with this Goblin man that they had told you about, but mentally…

You understood why she was hesitant to tell you about it, too. Of the three of you, there was only one that had ever been able to delve down into the depths of Peter’s trauma and help him claw his way back out of the gnawing pit that threatened to consume him—and it wasn’t either of them.

And, just as Mj knew you, you knew her.

She didn’t want you around Peter, not anymore—and so if she was willingly telling you that he wasn’t okay, then it meant that she knew how much he truly needed you right now.

“You guys should’ve told me sooner,” you grit your teeth, desperately trying to bite back against the resentment rising in your throat. “You should’ve told me as soon as all of this started, instead of waiting until everything went to shit.”

It wasn’t your intention to sound bitter, but that didn’t stop you from coming across that way. Ned recoiled from your tone like a blow, but you didn’t have it in you to feel guilty right now.

They had been dealing with all of this multiversal crisis bullshit for nearly a week now—and yet none of them had thought to say a single word to you until now. And while you knew that your presence likely wouldn’t have changed the course of events that had unfolded, it still hurt.

And it still made you angry.

“What do you need me to do?” You asked after realizing that neither of them intended to respond to your sharp statement.

“Well,” Ned started, nervously rubbing his sweaty palms against his khakis, “it’s gonna take us some time to figure out where the villains are hiding, and even longer to work out what to do with them. And, since these other Peter’s have dealt with these guys before, we could really use their help…”

He trailed off, once again looking to Mj, this time to silently urge her to finish his sentence.

She rolled her eyes. “We need you to let them stay here.”

Your brows furrowed, glancing between the two of them as if once again waiting for some sort of punchline to hit. It didn’t.

“It might take us a bit–a few weeks, maybe—to find all of them and stop them. And now that Happy’s complex was literally blown to pieces, we don’t have anywhere for the two of them to stay while they help out.” Mj tried to explain. She looked defeated when she said, “We didn’t know who else we could go to that would actually understand.”

Understand.

If you weren’t still reeling from everything they had just told you, then you probably would have laughed at the word. You would hardly say that you understood what was going on—but you knew what she was getting.

Mj’s dad would hardly allow two random men to stay in his house with them, and Ned’s Lola probably wasn’t too keen on the idea either. With Happy’s place destroyed, they had nowhere left to turn.

You weren’t sure how to feel now that you knew they had only come to you because you were their last choice.

At the risk of aggravating Mj, you said, “I wanna talk to Peter.”

“I don’t know if now’s a good time,” Mj swiftly shot back. “I told you that’s he’s not okay—”

“But he’s here,” you stated, nodding your head towards the stairs somewhere behind them that led back down to the lobby. “And you’re insane if you think I’m gonna agree to let two random ass men stay in my house without at least knowing what his plan is.”

Mj bristled at the harshness of your tone; and so did you.

You weren’t used to this.

Mj had been your friend for far longer than she had been whatever she was to you now, and neither of you were used to this—to your once special connection being reduced to nothing more than strained conversations and fractured feelings towards one another.

“Fine,” Mj surrendered, her hands lifting slightly. “Do whatever you want.”

It wasn’t until then that you realized that you had been waiting for her permission, even though you didn’t believe you truly needed it. Peter was your friend—and he had been your friend long before he even knew Mj. If you wanted to talk to him, then you had every right to.

Yet you still hadn’t been able to will yourself to push between the two of them until she had spoken, side-stepping to let you pass. When you started descending the stairs to the lobby, you were shocked that neither she nor Ned followed, offering you a sense of privacy with Peter that you hadn’t expected—as if she still held some shred of trust in you.

You didn’t want to think about it though, unsure of how you felt about that, too.

Halfway down the dank stairway of your complex, you felt a shiver dance along your spine. It prickled your skin and set your nerves on edge, but it didn’t catch you off guard. You always felt this way when Peter was around—as if your body could always sense when he was around, even when you hadn’t yet seen him.

The last step creaked when you placed your weight onto it, and from across the poorly maintained lobby, Peter’s neck snapped in your direction at the sound.

It felt like ice skittered across your bones at the sight of him, your heart lurching against your ribcage.

You had gotten used to seeing Peter battered and bruised years ago. Even before he became Spider-Man, he often found himself the victim of bullies and assholes, rarely going more than a few weeks without a busted lip or a new bruise. But this…

This was different, somehow.

It wasn’t just the blood-stained suit that set your heart racing, nor was it the lacerated skin or his sweat-matted hair. No, those things were normal—in the same way that being bitten by a radioactive spider was normal.

It was even normal to see him standing before you, his chin high and shoulders back, presenting a perfect image of strength even after experiencing something as traumatic as losing May.

Peter’s relationship with trauma had been intimate enough these past few years that you weren’t shocked to see him like this, standing tall rather than balling up and crying on the floor. You figured that was what most others would do if they were in his situation.

But Peter wasn’t like other people.

Peter was a hero—and if you had learned anything about heroes in your lifetime, it was that they were incredible liars.

His eyes couldn't lie, though.

Bloodshot and ringed with exhaustion, his eyes were what had made you feel so sick, your stomach twisting itself into knots.

They lacked the life and hope of the boy you had loved so dearly, replaced with something like rage—a pure, unbridled and unrelenting type of rage. Looking at him now you couldn’t ignore the burning talon that seemed to rake against your mind, filling your brain with thoughts you didn’t want to think right now—telling you that looking at Peter now, with the light draining from his eyes, was the same as looking in a mirror.

“Peter,” a metallic tang danced on your tongue as you dug your teeth into your cheek, biting back against the tears threatening to well-up in your eyes.

Letting your instincts guide you, you rushed across the lobby to where he stood by the front door, reaching for his hand without a second thought.

His suit had been torn along his palm, and as you felt the warmth radiating from his calloused skin, you tried to take some comfort in the fact that at least he had survived—even if you still weren’t ready to accept that May hadn’t.

“Don’t,” He yanked his hand back from you, his voice hoarse. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”

You froze for half a heartbeat, your hand hanging awkwardly in-between the two of you. “I wasn’t going to.”

You weren’t sure if you were telling the truth, but it didn’t seem to matter either way.

Either way, you tried to understand his reaction, even as you winced from the sting of rejection. What good would an apology really do for a boy who had already lost everything?

It wouldn’t bring the light back to his eyes.

It wouldn’t bring May back to life.

“Ned told me everything,” you told him, unwilling or unable to say Mj’s name right now. You clenched and unclenched your fists, painfully aware of the absence of his warmth. “You know I’ll do anything I can to help, so just tell me what needs to be done and I’ll do it.”

Peter scoffed, his jaw tensing. “We both know that what I want doesn’t matter,” he said bluntly. Motioning to your surroundings, he continued, “If what I wanted mattered, then we wouldn’t even be here. We wouldn’t be asking for your help—wouldn’t be dragging another person into this and asking them to risk their life!”

You did your best not to react, knowing that he hadn’t meant it quite as bad as it sounded. It already hurt knowing that you had been Mj and Ned’s last choice for help, but knowing that Peter didn’t want you to be a choice at all hurt far worse—even if it was to keep you safe.

“Well, you’re here now,” you told him, keeping your voice steady. “So you might as well tell me what your plan is—or at least tell me how long I’ll need to play bunkmates with strangers.”

You were lying when you had told Mj and Ned that you needed to talk to Peter before agreeing to let the alternate Spider-Men stay in your apartment—you didn’t care about housing with strangers, aware that there was nothing they could do to you that you haven't endured before.

Selfishly, you had just wanted a reason to come down and talk to him. To see him. To know that he was alive. You didn’t care about anything else.

Sometimes you worried that you didn’t even care about your own life, only Peter’s.

But Peter cared about your life—far more than you would ever want him to.

“My plan doesn’t matter,” he said, his tone clipped, “cause I don’t want you getting involved. And I definitely don’t want you to let those guys stay here, alright? We don’t know them.”

You steeled yourself, resisting the urge to argue with him and instead asking a simple question. “Do you have anywhere else for them to go?”

He didn’t respond, huffing out a breath, already frustrated with the defiance he knew you were about to display.

“You might not want my help, but if Ned’s right–” you told him, gesturing backwards towards the staircase, “–which he usually is—then you’re gonna need these guys.”

“But that doesn’t mean we need you,” Peter protested gruffly.

Your chest tightened, but you kept shoving back against the hurt. Later, you would deal with that later.

“It doesn’t matter if you need me,” you retorted with a defiant tilt of your chin, unwavering as his rageful gaze seemed to pierce through your skull, “because you’re stuck with me either way.”

You hadn’t expected the statement to affect him, but it did, his voice softening slightly. “I always have been.”

“Exactly. So you might as well make this easy on the both of us and not fight me on it,” you declared, trying to conjure up the most convincing smile you could offer. “Let me help, Peter.”

A sigh slipped his lips, heavy with reluctant resignation as he realized he wasn’t winning this battle. “We’ve already lost so many people… I’ve lost so many people. And there’s already enough blood on my hands,” he said, lifting his hands to display the torn, blood-stained fabric, driving his point home. “It doesn’t matter what I say—so let them stay here or don’t, I don’t care. But just know that whatever happens to you, it’s not on me. Because I told you to stay out of it, alright?”

He took a step closer, and you didn’t dare move a single muscle as his lips hovered just inches from your own. “Do whatever you want,” his voice was barely a whisper, laced with a venomous edge that nearly made you tremble, “but don’t expect me to come running to save you when it all goes to shit.”

His words hung in the air like a curse, lingering in the lobby for far longer than he did. As soon as the promise had left his lips, he was already turning on his heel and shoving the door open, abandoning you in the dim space.

You knew better than to think he meant it.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

You stuck your hands beneath the running faucet, scrubbing the blood from a jagged cut on your palm. It wasn’t all that deep, shallow enough that it probably wouldn't even leave a scar once healed. When you were done rinsing it, you cupped your hands and gathered the water in them, splashing your reddened cheeks.

Crying would have been a normal part of grieving for May, and when you forced yourself to look back at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you couldn’t help but wish that you could’ve been a little more normal.

But tears hadn’t been the cause of your flushed appearance—no, because you had never been very good at expressing the more delicate emotions, like sadness.

You were good at expressing anger, though.

You were very good at expressing anger.

After Peter had stormed out of the lobby and abandoned you to choke on his cruel promise, it had taken you several minutes to work up the nerve to go back upstairs and face Mj and Ned. By some stroke of luck you had managed to keep a tight leash on your often volatile attitude, telling them your decision to let the other Peter’s stay with you.

And then you lost control as soon as they left, loosening the reins on your anger and taking the uncomfortable feelings out on a nearby potted plant, shouting curses as you tossed it at the wall.

By the time you thought to clean it up, after finishing another string of irate profanities, your hands had been shaking so bad that you cut yourself on one of the dirt-covered shards. And maybe, once you felt the jagged ceramic dig into your palm, you should’ve hissed or cursed more or stopped cleaning to patch yourself up.

But you didn’t. You stayed quiet, continuing to pluck the shattered fragments off the floor until you had gotten them all, dumping them into the trash before grabbing the broom and dustpan and cleaning the dirt and scattered leaves, too.

There were more important things to deal with than cleaning a dirty wound.

Like making sure none of your friends could see that you weren’t nearly as composed as you tried to seem.

The familiar rhythmic rapping of Mj’s knuckles against the front door made you forgo the bandage you were going to fix to your palm, tossing the rag you’d used to dry your face into the sink and heading straight to the living room.

Carefully shoving your injured hand into your pocket, you opened the door and tried not to look surprised when Peter wasn’t standing in-between Mj and Ned. Of course he hadn’t come with them—why would he? He had already made it clear how he felt about all of this.

It did become significantly harder to mask your shock however when a tall, messy haired boy stepped into view from behind them, clad in a crimson and cobalt webbed suit.

“Get inside,” you hissed a bit harsher than intended, stepping aside and waving the three of them into your apartment.

The last thing you needed was your neighbors seeing an unmasked, alternate version of Spider-Man standing in front of your door. It had already been risky enough that Peter had come here in his suit, standing in the lobby and sticking out like a sore thumb.

Once they were inside, you shut the door and turned to Ned. “I thought you said there were two of them,” you noted, avoiding looking at the lanky Spider-Man who seemed just as desperate to avoid you, busying himself with walking around the room and studying the art on the walls.

Ned shrugged. “He didn’t wanna come.”

“Not that he didn’t want to come,” Mj pointedly corrected him, frowning at his bluntness. “He just wanted to keep patrolling. The Goblin, the one who…” she cut herself off, unable to force the words off her tongue. Scrapping the sentence altogether, she started again, “The Goblin’s from his world, so he seemed to think that he had the best chance of hunting him down. But we gave him the address.”

You didn’t bother giving her an actual response, a subtle nod the only sign you had heard her at all. She didn’t seem to care much, just as unsure of what to say to you as you were to her.

“So,” Ned clicked his tongue, trying to cut through the growing tension. “This is Peter 3!” He announced, gesturing to the other Peter, who was picking up a frame that had been face down on an end table. “That’s what we’re calling him, at least. Y’know, to tell them apart. The other one is Peter 2.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Creative.”

Done dawdling over Ned and Mj, you forced yourself to look at the un-masked hero from another world. He was placing the frame back onto the table—not face down, as he had found it, but up-right. You frowned at the photograph it displayed, a picture of you, Ned, Mj, and Peter from sometime last year.

“You’re awfully nosy,” you told him, your voice like ice.

His muscles tensed, hesitating as he faced your gaze. “Sorry,”

His voice was slightly deeper than Peter’s, his hair a shade or two darker, his features a bit less soft, but still noticeably young, putting him in his early twenties at most. Truthfully, if it weren’t for the suit he was wearing, you would’ve never guessed that he was supposed to be the Peter Parker of another world.

You had expected him to be more… Peter-like, in appearance, and yet as far as you could tell the resemblances were very slight, if they even existed at all.

The mannerisms were there, though. The subtleties of Peter Parker, the things that most people never noticed and yet were ingrained in your mind. He licked his lips, a nervous tic that left you always carrying chapstick in your pocket. His hands hung at his sides and you saw the way his thumb tapped against each of his fingers, starting with his index and ending with his pinky, only to start over again.

Watching him, taking note of every familiar twitch and tic and habit, made something in your chest tighten.

And, when you told him your name, it was as if your icy tone had melted altogether. “It’s nice to meet you.”

For a moment you thought he wouldn’t respond, his throat bobbing as he swallowed roughly, eyes darting around the room. But then, suddenly, he gave you a weak smile. “You too.” A trace of amusement laced his response, too subtle for you to detect.

“We’ve gotta go,” Ned suddenly spoke, jutting a thumb towards the door. “Peter’s waiting outside so he can make sure we get home safe, but-” he stopped, brows furrowing as considered whether he should finish. “But text us later, okay? Just to let us know that you’re okay.”

Your heart stuttered at the mention of Peter’s name, at knowing that he actually had come—even if it hadn’t been for you—but you didn’t mention it.

Instead, you focused on Ned, giving your sweet friend the kindest smile you could muster—which, admittedly, didn’t feel like much. Despite everything that had happened with your friends in the past few months, your fight had never been with Ned. He was just caught in the middle, unfairly forced to pick sides.

And you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him for picking Peter. Not when you knew that you would’ve done the same.

“I will,” you promised.

Ned gave you an equally somber smile before opening the door to leave. Even once Ned was in the hall, already descending the staircase, Mj lingered in the entryway—not for long, a heartbeat, maybe—turning back towards you just long enough to mutter, “Keep your guard up.”

You didn’t have a chance to say anything back to her before she let the door slam shut, following quickly after Ned and leaving you alone with… this guy.

The other Peter had abandoned his spot by the end table, seemingly done with investigating your apartment and left to do nothing but stand awkwardly a few feet away from you, clearly unsure of what to do or say now that it was just the two of you.

“So,” you breathed out, popping your lips. “Peter 3, yeah? Good name. You go by that back home, too?”

He laughed, a suit-clad hand nervously rising to the back of his neck. “Uh–yeah, no, definitely not. Just plain ole’ Peter Parker over there.”

The nervous energy radiating from the boy almost seemed contagious as you started to pick at your nails. “Do you have a nickname?”

He blinked, looking as if he hadn’t heard a word you said. “Sorry, what?”

“A nickname,” you repeated, only for your brows to then furrow. “You have those where you’re from, don’t you? Nicknames? Like, you know, something you go by other than your actual name?”

“Oh! Yes—sorry, yes we have nicknames in my world,” he exclaimed, his pale skin starting to flush.

“I just thought that this whole numerical system thing that Ned’s going with to keep track of who’s who seems a little dehumanizing, yeah?”

“For sure,” he agreed, sucking on his lip as he nodded along with you.

You gave him a second, waiting and waiting for an answer to your apparently long-forgotten question, before asking, “So… Do you have one?”

The slight blush that had tinged his skin instantly darkened, suddenly the same shade of crimson as his suit. His grip on the back of his neck tightened, too, his fingertips prodding into his own skin.

“Sorry-” he apologized for the millionth time, more nervous laughter spilling out alongside it, “I do! I mean, sort of, I think. I don’t know if it’s really a nickname, but back in my world you really just called me by my last name most of the time anyway, so–I don’t know—maybe that would work?”

The sheer quantity of word vomit spewing from his mouth was impressive and likely hard-to-follow for most, but you consider yourself a bit of an expert in the anxious ramblings of Peter Parker.

“In your world?” You echoed, instantly catching the subtle mention. “We know each other?”

Maybe it shouldn’t have been shocking to learn that there were other versions of you throughout the multiverse as well, and yet it was. You figured that it was plausible, of course, considering that two variations of Peter had just been thrown into your world, but for some reason it just didn’t feel right.

You reasoned that anyone would feel that way, though.

“Yeah,” the boy, Parker, answered, a bit clipped. “We do.”

“Interesting.” Your brows lifted, “Are we friends?”

Parker scrunched his nose, his head tilting slightly.

“Yeah,” his voice was an octave higher than before, and if you knew him better, then you likely would’ve called him on the obvious tell. But you didn’t know him, and so you didn’t say anything when he decided to double-down on the lie, “Yeah, we’re friends.”

“Well I guess that means that this is just as weird for you as it is for me, then.” You laughed, trying to add some humor to the situation.

Parker gave a tightlipped smile. “Definitely weird.”

The seconds felt like they stretched into minutes after that, silently racking your brain for something to say, hoping that he might say something—but, eventually, you settled on offering an escape from the situation instead.

“You’re probably exhausted from the whole multiversal travel thing, so if you want, I can just show you the guest room and give you some privacy or something,” you told him, vaguely gesturing towards the hallway.

Parker seemed to relax a bit at the prospect of being alone, loosing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Uhm–yeah, that’d be great, actually.”

He followed you down the short hall, his hand finally falling from his neck and his skin returning to its normal complexion as his nerves began to wane.

“This is it,” you told him, the hinges crying out as you shoved the door open. “It’s not much, but it’s somewhere to sleep, at least.”

Wasn’t much felt like an understatement, though the room was typical for a New York apartment.

A tad bigger than your average shoebox, there was just enough space to fit a full-sized bed, a small armoire, and a single nightstand adorned with an old desk lamp and a little pink teddy bear—a gift from Peter, years ago.

Parker walked into the room, looking around and brushing his fingertips against the emerald quilt. It was a bit old and somewhat thin, but it was better than nothing you supposed, and Parker certainly didn’t seem like he was going to complain about it.

“It’s great,” he assured you, and even though he did sound genuine, you couldn’t help but snort. He looked over at where you still stood in the doorway, giving you a timid smile as he said, “Way better than sleeping on the streets.”

You returned the gesture, lazily lifting a shoulder. “We’ll see if you still feel that way in the morning. That mattress is about a hundred years old, so it’s probably the equivalent of sleeping on really lumpy cement.”

Parker hummed his amusement, carefully perching on the edge of the bed, his smile seeming to deepen when he caught sight of the little bear on the nightstand.

“I guess I’ll let you get some sleep,” you told him, reaching for the door handle, “if you need anything—extra blankets, or something—just let me know; my room’s right across the hall.”

He muttered his thanks, but as you went to pull the door closed, you heard your name fall from his lips. It was strange sounding, strangled and foreign, like he didn’t quite know how to say it. When you turned back to face him, a subtle wince seemed to etch across his face.

“Can I… Can I ask you something?” Parker stammered out the question, his voice faltering like a candle flame in the wind.

You nodded once, fingers still wrapped around the knob, savoring the coolness of the brass against the now-clotted wound on your palm.

He took a breath, his gaze momentarily flickering back to the teddy bear on the nightstand. His thoughts felt heavy on his tongue as he tried to force them out of his mouth, “Are you happy?”

You blinked at him, unsure of what to make of the hope that seemed to cling to each syllable and half-wondering if you’d heard him right.

“I-” you tried to start, only to realize that you had no clue what to say.

There was a fleeting moment where you realized that you could tell him the truth. You could tell him that happiness felt like a distant shore far from your reach, forever obscured by the fiery tempest of a brutal and ancient rage—a rage that, sometimes, didn’t even feel like your own.

But then he looked at you with those big, expectant eyes; eyes that should have been foreign to you, and yet felt so familiar—and you realized that he wouldn’t like that answer.

Sucking in a breath, you evaded his question as best you could. “Ask me again when all of this is over,” you told him, your lips curving into a soft, playful arc, “and maybe I’ll tell you the truth.”

This time when you went to close the door, he didn’t stop you.

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a/n - i wish that i could properly express just how amazing (and terrifying) it has been to rewrite this story. first created at quite possibly the lowest point of my life, infinitely you has provided me with a necessary escape at a time when i desperately needed it. now that i'm in a better position, i found it necessary to give it the plot, writing style, and dedication that it deserved. i'm aware some people might not be interested in a rewrite and that's ok, but for those that are i just wanna say: thank you, thank you, thank you for giving infinitely you (and me) another shot. you're incredible.

if anyone would like to be added to the tag list, just let me know! as of right now, chapters will be posted every other monday, though i may switch that to weekly soon!

part two, titled "crullers & constants", to be released april 1st

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moonsaver · 4 months ago

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Vena jugulară

War carries many things home. Jiaoqiu finds hunger. You find cures.

Warnings/tw; yan!jiaoqiu x reader, cannibal!jiaoiu, descriptions of gore, blood, veins, flesh, all of that nitty pitty, (slightly) suggestive scene, war, ooc definitely, rushed(?) etc..

A/n: 3.4k words. Not that big tbh. I kinda wanted to get it over w/ and thats all. I hope you guys enjoy. I kinda did.

- reader is a nurse who previously assisted Jiaoqiu on the battlefield to help wounded soldiers. I have mainly kept them gn, but i might have slipped up here and there.

"Doctor."

"Hm?"

Jiaoqiu hums and turns slightly to face you. His hands continue to fold the bandages. You eye the stain that's rusting on the off white shade.

"Another one."

"As usual."

A few men carry a stretcher into the tent soon after; dirtied from the filth of war. The stretcher has a man writhing and groaning in pain, but presumably passed out. His leg is injured.

Well, rather, his leg is torn.

A long tear. From the bottom of his knee, just shy of the curve, to the top of his foot. The flesh is almost cartoonishly pink, decorated with blood leaks and torn veins.

Jiaoqiu doesn't flinch, immediately getting to work, registering the anesthesia while guiding you to fetch rubbing alcohol and other surgical equipment. You silently oblige, as the other men leave, dredging on with their heavy boots riddled with mud.

A few moments later, as the last stitch tugs at the skin, Jiaoqiu sputters. You look up at him, concerned. A scruched, disgruntled look on his face, eyes still closed. You look down to see the slightest bit of mara leaking from the body.

"Even if I shall put him back together, what are the chances he may survive?"

He whispers, more to himself than asking you. You stay silent. You stare at his mouth, slightly covered in saliva, most likely from his sputtering.

He continues coughing a few moments more, handing the needle over to you as you hurriedly finish up a knot, then immediately leave to stand by him, shadowing him in worry as he continues coughing for a moment.

"Sorry. I choked on my spit."

You nod, before leaving and proceeding to finish up the work, leaving Jiaoqiu to catch his bearings.

You feel almost traitorous when you have such thoughts, however,

You've noticed an awful lot of things about your senior as of late.

His fur that's seeming to fray, split and gather on almost every surface, making it hard to disinfect and keep things sterilized for the most part. The stressful, or rather constrained look on his face when another soldier is sent his way – soldiers with flesh bursting at the seams of tight skin, blood flowering around the scene. The constant choking he feels from the heavy, thick scent of iron, and more spit dribbling down his chin.

Although, you feel it may be something else.

Granted, you don't ask. You hand him your handkerchief, and continue normally. You don't, however, miss the dilation of his usually thin pupils whenever he stares down at the man on the table. Like a starved predator upon a feast.

His eyes catch yours, too. Both of you stay silent.

–

"Hm, how.. disappointing."

You hum, Jing Yuan reverting to his pondering state, as you beat him at another round of the board game he'd invited you to.

"Battle strategies are your thing, General. I'm almost surprised. Are you letting me win, by any chance?"

Jing yuan laughs, a deep, curt sound that bubbles from his chest.

"Nurse, I would know how much fairness and certainty means to you."

"Hmm.. really,now?"

Your hand grabs his wrist, gripping onto the small guards of his arm, as you catch him trying to steal one of your pieces,

"Touchè".

You huff, letting go of his wrist, his hand languidly placing back the piece, before he repositions to lean the side of his head on it,

"Perhaps your instincts from then still remain."

"Mara struck are awfully dangerous."

"I've heard plenty. And seen, too."

"One tried to stab me with an empty syringe when I turned my back for a second."

Jing yuan hums, his hand hovering over the board decisively,

"Quite peculiar, such a trait."

"Strange indeed."

Jing yuan makes his move. It's time for you to think, now.

You lean slightly over the table, observing and calculating your moves. He continues to speak,

"Were you not infected as was the Chef?"

"Not sure why.."

You mumble out, fingers gently perched on a piece as you contemplate the move.

"You must have. That fever struck you for a month."

Your thoughts stop for a moment. Jing yuan almost smiles, watching the tension of your fingers over the piece,

"It's.. hard to remember what happened."

Your other hand creeps up to wrap around your waist, under the table. Something still faintly aches, but you aren't sure if you can fix it now.

"Chef cared for you quite arduously. That was the last time I'd seen a fox like him so ruffled."

You look up and click your tongue, as Jing yuan's fingers teeter around the pieces. He stays still and smiles, playing it off.

"I was the only one who could assist him. It's a given."

"Hm.. I've been driven to a corner."

You chuckle softly, jing yuan's eyes turning contemplative as you move your piece into position.

"Ah-ah, not so fast."

You blink, looking up at the General as he tuts, your hand hovering over your piece. Did you make a mistake?

He leans over, his hand reaching over to pick a stray hair off of your shoulder. It was short, and pink. Fur.

His hand retracts and languidly dusts it off his finger to the side. Ah, you realise,

"Must be Jiaoqiu's."

"I'd be surprised if it wasn't."

"I have been watching over that pink-haired girl.."

Jing yuan chuckles softly, shaking his head,

"He seems quite irritable since then."

"He's.. clingy. Ever since I.."

He hums, his golden eyes calculative as he decides his next move.

"What a shame."

You yawn, the settling winter thawing under the new sun making the atmosphere more comfortable than chilling, leaning back on your arms.

"I can never understand that man.."

Jing yuan makes his move, and waits for you, as he takes a sip of his tea.

"Foxians are quite interesting."

"Hm?"

Jing yuan's words pique your interest, as you slightly perk up,

"Really? What of it?"

"They react differently to mara."

The board is abandoned by now, as you listen intently, leaning forward,

"Do you know how mara works?"

He sets the ceramic cup down, the liquid in it ebbing gently from the motion.

"Foxians of his lineage have tendencies to act far too soon on their desires, from even a smidge of exposure."

..is he lying?

"It was a strange event he decided to treat such wounds in his past. With you on the line beside him."

"But, I was already working there before him."

"Indeed. That is why I.."

He stays silent for a moment. A small chuckle leaves him, as he shakes his head,

"You should be more cautious."

You blink for a moment, simply looking at him. Under the golden sunlight, it's hard to look away.

Wait.

You look down at the board, as he steadily gets up,

"Wait, you- stole the pieces-?!"

----

You sneeze, and cringe immediately.

Jiaoqiu's unreadable expression is pointed at you, as you look to gauge his reaction. You've always hated the taste of his medicine.

It was more peaceful than anything, other than the looming threat of catching the attention of your "mentor" (or as he insisted). The occasional thick scent of chili and sizzling meats settled into the air, along with the gentle draft of early spring, hints of the winter's cold lingering in the crisp air in the atmosphere. You sniffle and shift in your seat, as Jiaoqiu approaches you.

"Try."

He places a bowl of noodles in front of you. You eye it suspiciously.

"It took me a while to prepare. So don't waste it, disciple."

You look up at him, warily. His closed eyes and sly grin greet you back.

You eye the dark, rich broth that would have had your mouth watering just a few decades ago. The perfectly cut noodles paired with an assortment of seasonings of all kinds – cut meat, hints of vegetables, boiled eggs. It was perfect.

But you couldn't taste it.

Truthfully, after you became sick, nothing tasted the same as it used to.

Your palette must have dulled. You could barely taste anything. It was as though you ate the same food, everyday, every month, every year, with no change in sight. Jiaoqiu's made a bit of a personal mission to try and challenge your dull palette.

"Jiaoqiu.."

You start, softly trying to protest,

"[Name]."

He sits down across you,

"Do you remember when I first served this?"

He leans forward, his chin cradled on his interlocked fingers, knees pressing onto the table. There's a faint smile on his face.

You sigh,

"Yes, back when.. I had a terrible fever, which just wouldn't leave."

"Mhm. It was the only reason you had the energy to walk around."

You continue staring at the dish. A hint of sentimentality at least seems to spark some appetite in you.

"Hm, too soupy isn't it?"

You comment, looking back up at him

"We aren't scarce on resources anymore, are we?"

"You could learn to not alter a few recipes for sentimental value."

"And what? Feed you that ashen bowl of noodles with barely a scrap of meat or any spice?"

You sigh,

"..alright."

You pick up the stationed chopsticks from the side, and stir the noodles slightly. Jiaoqiu's smile widens, as he watches you.

"The broth looks.."

"Remember when your fever wouldn't go down at all? The high temperature was so stubborn."

You shudder at the reminder. You still remember it – the searing burn of the medicine you hastily applied, the following high temperatures and sweat, the constant discomfort of being so unutterably weak you couldn't even sit upright.

You suppose he doesn't like when you nitpick. You resign yourself to eating it quietly.

–––

The sheets are soft, and cold as your bare back settles against them, your head gently hitting the soft pillow behind you. Your fingers absentmindedly trail down to the bandages on your abdomen, tracing the tight-binded edges of it.

Jiaoqiu's back is turned to you as he readies a concoction. One of many he's tried to use to "fix" you.

You sigh, staring up at the ceiling. You would have felt more awkward, more embarassed about having to lay almost half naked in your 'mentor's bed, but considering the recent flare up a few days ago, you couldn't care less.

Jiaoqiu walks around the expanse of the bedframe, and gently settles down on the other, empty side. He placed the paste on the nightstand, as his fingers reach down to undo your bandages.

There is something tender, you think, about having to lay bare under someone who has seen something so ugly, yet persist regardless. Under his fingers, where your flesh seems to either rot, or bloom. Something beautiful, if it weren't for the past pains of war still haunting you two. Something tender, if it weren't for your own flesh rotting into you.

His nose scrunches up a bit as your wound is exposed at the removal of the wraps. Foxians, especially of his kind, tend to have sensitive noses. Specifically for blood, if it makes sense.

Your age-old wound has shriveled and ached for so long, you almost wonder if it's alive on it's own. How have you been? You almost ask, every time you see it for yourself. The tainted flesh almost searing every time another paste, another cure, is desperately smeared on it. Almost as though it is offended.

Jiaoqiu stays silent, for a moment, his eyes slightly opened as he stares down. His hands have moved to your sides, as though framing your outline.

They move up, slowly, as though encasing your ribs. They expand with each breath, skin stretching and moving with the flesh alive underneath. His face slowly dips down, as if in prayer. His lips ghost the dip between your lower ribs, in ancient reverence. You wonder if he might break you open and eat your heart from the cages of your bones.

His lips trace down ghosting over the edge of your skin, where the previously infected part begins. He inhales, slowly, before speaking.

"I don't know how to fix this."

You stay silent. Your hand comes up to the side of his face, his hair tickling the back of it,

"Jiaoqiu. It's alright."

"It isn't."

You watch his face retract, his troubled gaze on your wound. The flesh has been marred and sunken.

"This isn't something you can fix."

He moves, the bed dipping as his weight shifts, the side of his face resting on your chest, one of his hands moving to your stomach, the back of his fingers grazing your skin as it moves up to the centre of your ribs.

"Bitter, sour.. distasteful.."

He murmurs, his fingers absentmindedly tracing your skin,

His face shifts, his lips resting just above your heart,

"Your blood smells like poison."

You still for a moment. His teeth graze your skin. The hot, damp breath wets your skin.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Your heart beats in his ears. He longs to feel it in his mouth. His other hand, still on your side, shifts, the fingers digging into your skin.

For a moment, you wonder what the scene will reel out as ‐ your limp body, a feast under his hungry mouth. Your arteries stringing from the cave of your flesh to his mouth like a bridge, thin veins scattering and puzzling themselves in the crevices of his teeth. You hope he doesn't devour you.

For now, he resigns himself to your skin. His teeth bite. They do not draw blood yet.

---

Jiaoqiu has had more peace, recently.

Here he sits, behind you, entangling the thin stems of flowers within themselves, braiding a flower crown. His nose scrunches, and his ears flit slightly whenever you hand him a fragrant one. You chuckle whenever he comments on it. His head leans forward and rests on your shoulder, as you continue to page through recipes in his book. Medicinal ones.

"Ah, look. It's stained here."

"Hm, gunpowder?"

Jiaoqiu asks, his tail swiping your back, the curled end of it tickling the side of your face,

"I think so."

You continue paging through the recipes, before stopping on a page.

Ah. There's blood.

"Dear, how did that happen?"

Jiaoqiu muses, his fingers paused as he looks at the blood stained page.

"I wouldn't remember."

"Hm.."

The blood smells sweet, despite having sunken into the page almost decades ago. It carries a hint of vitality, still. At least, in his foxian sense.

You turn the page.

---

"Jiaoqiu!"

"Not now–"

"The nurse..!"

Jiaoqiu stops in his tracks, taking his eyes off of his station with slightly furrowed brows, towards the person who's abruptly entered,

"What is it?"

"They're ill! They've fallen to the‐"

Jiaoqiu rushes with those few meager words, swiftly walking past as he asks where you are.

Unfortunately for you, you were trying to gain your bearings on the wooden floor.

This entire month of war specifically, had torn you both down to shreds. Your inventories were looted, leaving you with scarce medicine and many maimed to look after. The enemies were bolstering their presence harshly, and closing in furiously.

Upon stumbling on a rare sight of a wounded enemy soldier, you leaned down to check if they carried anything useful – medicine, maps, anything, when you realised in your haste you should have checked for their pulse first.

And it was in that moment of realisation did you feel a sharp plunge and sting, as the soldier's arm swiftly swung and stabbed you with a small knife.

You wanted to scream, but the overwhelming pain of the intrusion, the visceral splitting of your flesh far outweighed the need to scream. You jerked away, weakly, but hastily, retreating, leaving the enemy with their last bout of energy to laugh bitterly at you.

–––

Jiaoqiu still smells poison on you.

With war came many things. A lost locket on the vast field. A lonely sword in the quiet of the night. A child asleep in front of the door, forever waiting their parent.

And with war, came your eventual poisoning.

Perhaps it was the weapon. Knives edged with venom. It could have made for a lethal weapon.

But something felt odd.

Jiaoqiu's face presses into the warmth of your stomach.

Bitter. Sour. Distasteful. Rancid. Rotting. And Defiled.

Jiaoqiu's mind often wanders to wine reds. The pulling of sinew arteries, the sharp cut of a blade through flesh. The slow leaking of myoglobin or blood through the cutting board.

Sometimes, it had wandered while he tended to patients.

Blooming flesh, at incineration of skin due to sharpnel, or burnings. The vigorous pumping of the heart at the sight of blood draining down slowly, outside it's confinement, ever so oblivious to the lethality.

Jiaoqiu had craved flesh. Flesh beyond the slaughter of a Lamb, of a Cow, of any animal.

Flesh, right under the safe confines of human ribs.

Sweet, sweet viscera of the Liver. The expanse of Lungs. The tightly wound cartilage right above and below the muscles. Bones that leaked marrow.

The heart.

But he hadn't dare consume.

With war, came hunger.

Hunger he had not experienced like any other. Hunger that devoured him whole. Hunger so vast he could feel his insides churning and dissolving for the capacity of the appetite he would need to fulfill.

A hunger for you.

Poisoned, and permanently so. It's safe to say his attempts to 'fix' you, weren't necessarily innocent.

He shifts, his face moving to your neck, nose tickling the edge of it as his lips linger on your nape. Unprotected spinal cord. His canines expose and gently press on the tender skin, the pressure increasing, waiting for the breach of the skin.

You laugh, airy and sweet.

"What are you doing?"

Jiaoqiu retracts, slightly. Staggered, shallow breathing as he struggles to restrain himself.

He stays quiet. You grow nervous at the strange silence.

"Jiaoqiu?"

"[Name]."

His head turns slightly, eyeing the open recipe book on your nightstand. The night's gentle breeze wafting through the open window agitated the pages, slightly uncovering the blood-stained page for a second.

"What is it?"

You quietly ask, sensing the slight tightness in his voice,

"You poisoned yourself."

Your breath hitches, a shock rendering your body paralyzed for a second.

What?

You shift and turn to face him. His eyes are open, staring endlessly into yours. You break into a cold sweat, his slitted eyes almost cutting through you. Your heart beats harshly in your chest, as your breathing staggers slightly.

"Jiaoqiu?"

"While concocting that medicine for yourself.."

He whispers, his hand pushing down on the pliant bed as he leans forward, making you lean back in turn,

"What are you–"

"In your haste, did you ever think to use the right ingredients?"

He's towering over you, as you look at him, eyes almost blown wide, pupils dilated, breathing heavily. You don't notice it until you realise how out of breath you feel, despite the chill of the night air causing chills on your skin.

"The.. ingredients.."

You stumbled into your tent, almost meeting the ground, your arm on reflex grabbing onto something sturdy, as you gasped and panted. Your other hand presses onto the wound on your abdomen, as you cry out, abruptly interrupted by a sharp inhale at the pain. Tears singe your eyes, but your heart is beating too loud, and you're too pained to cry yet. You grunt as you pull yourself up, your bloodied hands sifting through the cacophany of items on your own desk, shuffling in haste for something,

Eventually, you hurriedly concocted a simple but powerful herbal paste, smothering it onto the blaring and irritated, bloody wound, seeping and crying incessantly of blood into your hands as you lathered it onto the wound in great pain. You ignored the uncharacteristic burning of the paste, hurriedly trying to wrap the bandage onto yourself, before too much blood was lost.

"Do you realise? That paste.. if you messed up a single point in the recipe, you'd poison yourself. Each ingredient was selected to neutralize the other."

Erratic, shallow breaths leave you as he looks down at you. What have you done?

This is poison. This is the curse.

The curse you carried after the war. It was never mara that could affect you.

And it was the poison Jiaoqiu had longed to taste.

His face dives down into your neck again, his fangs ghosting your jugular vein,

"Do you realise what truly courses in your blood?"

A cold bead of sweat drips down from the side of your forehead. Death could possibly taste sweeter, you imagine.

"I can't wait to taste it."

And his teeth sink.

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pricetagged · 16 days ago

Text

The usual from me, I'm afraid. I'm back at my nonsense, typing up wife-hunter John while I take a break from tidying my apartment (: Here's part iii! (there will be more reader/john in part iv )

Masterlist l Previous

Content: More stalking, manipulation, voyeurism & marital sabotage. John's a bad man and I want him viscerally <3

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

It tears at him, rends flesh from bone with sharp little teeth. Corrugated. Rusty. It poisons his bloodstream, boils blood to madness and burns to feverish pitch.

It's a trap of his own design, and he just had to poke at it. He set it up, jaw wrenched wide and trigger taut and, god, he had to touch it. Had to feel the bruising pleasure bloom then give to something sharper. Sweeter.

In his more reflective moments he wonders if setting up the cameras was a good idea. He's a possessive old bastard and he's torn; not because of any hand-wringing morals, no. No, but rather that he's left himself licking along the knife's edge, close enough for it to cut if he presses hard. He can touch it. It's in his grasp, but he's not fully confident that he's the only one wielding it.

There are too many variables still.

And it's left him here, testing the pressure of the razor-sharp rim and wanting to dig deeper. (He fisted at himself harder than usual that night, flesh aching and engorged and throbbing as the cold metal of your wedding ring bit at the veins and ridges of his length).

The screen is his most hated ally. Pixels and light; the blue sheen. The static blur that raises the hair on his arms as he caresses your image. It's the sweetest torture, watching you boxed in by the four corners of a machine. Gazing on only the impression of you, shadowy and reflective, pacing the monitor. It's peiskos, but wrong. He has you in his home, but can only see and touch you in artificial impotence. It drives him wild, makes his throat ache and his head hot watching you, but not knowing how you taste.

That's not him, he thinks, having something that he can't fully possess. Even the bottle of 1926 Macallan locked in his cellaret has been cracked open, rolled around the palate and savoured before returned to the shelf. Locked safe behind glass, yes, but within reach.

He has to see you again. The trap is tightening, and isn't it funny that it's caught him too?

(His hand moved faster, pleasure simmering as he watched your wide eyes turn glossy and your voice grow thick. 'I don't know where it went! It must have fallen off in the garden, I swear!' Even being unable to taste it, to lick at your tears and feel you tremble-

-it had him tensing his thighs, body clenching in anger and heat as he listened to your apologies. As he listened to your pathetic, half-hearted moans. The way you gave in so sweetly, so eager to please and make good. Your husband's disgusting, breathy grunting. Weak. Unsatisfying-

-But it had his palm tightening around the tacky, swollen flesh at his tip. Slit leaking as the rage boiled his blood and sent it south in a paroxysm of rapture).

He sees Buck before he sees you. It's a necessary evil. No, that's not quite right. It's inevitable; it's reasonable. He needs to lay the bait, shuffle the leaves over it and let nature take its course.

It's a classic pub. A real boozer, where the floor is always slickly sticky and the walls are a cheery, tobacco-stained yellow. The kind of place that serves only pork scratchings and pints.

Your husband didn't expect to see him there. Fox in the henhouse, only he's too stupid to realise that he's the bird.

"System is running well, mate! Thanks. This round's on me," he claps at John's shoulder and does admirably well at hiding his nerves.

It has him smiling into the pint glass, schadenfreude as your husband subtly stretches his aching palm and paints on a wary smile.

(Foot hovering just above the spring; steel teeth ready to -)

"You here alone?" John sips at his drink, eyes scanning the dingy room until - yes, there in the corner he sees a familiar Union Jack cap. Good lad.

"No, no. My mates have just left. Like to linger, you know, for the company," he sends a wink to some pretty thing nursing a G&T by the window.

"Not enough company at home?" he tries to make it light, hoping that the gravel in his tone could be mistaken for interest. And it is, really, if prey drive could count as mere 'interest'.

Buck scoffs, rolling his eyes in a way that looks a lot like rolling belly-up. 'Tell me I'm a real man, look at me! I've got the pick of the flock'. "You know how it is. Gets boring, fishing in the same hole all the time, eh?"

"I wouldn't know," he hums, eyebrows drawn low in faux-consideration. Meets him dead in the eye, lets the mask drop for a just a second. Let's the words come out flat and dangerous. "I've never had a problem reeling in what I want."

The words linger, settling heavy and awkward in a way that has him licking his teeth. Tension so thick he can chew it, feel the fat and gristle rend under the strength of his jaw. It's heady watching the way your husband flounders, not sure how to react until the pack leader backs up and loosens the canines at his nape. Lets him breathe. It's a joke, really. Go on. Laugh. And he follows suit so easily. It's almost boring, he thinks, with eyes cold and muscles frozen under his fake smile as he watches the man chuckle.

"You've gotta stay, Price, that's a good one. One more drink, c'mon." Funny. He thinks that it's his right to give orders. He thinks that John's staying at his command.

John taps twice at the foamy rim of the glass. Catches his sergeant's eye from across the room. "Sure, why not."

It's time.

It's masterful, really, how well Gaz slips over. Greets Buck like an old friend. Drops hints and in-jokes that have the man chuckling along as his eyes flit about with confusion.

"Can't believe I've run into you, here. I thought I'd seen the last of you when you moved house, what, a year ago?" Kyle slides into the barstool on the left. Boxes him in, piggy in the middle. "Still with that finance company?"

"Yeah, yeah it's been a while," he trails off. Too proud to admit that he doesn't know Gaz. Has never met the man. John can feel the way his eyes keep flicking towards the side of his face. Needy. Histrionic.

"You lads catch up, have fun. I'm away for the night," he sets the empty glass at the bar with a soft thud. Makes a show of introducing himself to Gaz and waving the two of them off.

In the cool air of the smoking area he has a moment of fika. Cars roll by on a distant road. The muffled sound of laughter and murmuring filters through frosted pub windows. The rich, heavy smoke of his cigar swirls around and around until he's closing his eyes in the haze. It's slow, calming, and he takes a moment just to appreciate the hand that he's about to play.

He thumbs over the smudged screen of your husband's phone. Only 2 missed calls and 1 text.

>>Sorry to go on at you, but you said you were finishing work at 5 today. It's nearly 8 now. Can you at least let me know where you are? We were going to start that series tonight and I've been getting worried waiting for you :/

Poor, sweet thing. Polite, too. All love and care wasted on the pathetic, juvenile lump slumped over the bar right now.

(It whets his appetite, seeing how well-trained you are. How you toe the line, defer to the farcical rules set out for you in your relationship. 'Stay at home. Don't blow up my phone.'

Would you come to heel for him? If a weak, useless hand could shape you so well, what could a strong one do?)

<< Sorry, baby. I goty caugtht up at the pub w some friends. HAd a few drInks. Cmome and get me? [LOCATION SHARED]

He flicks the stub of the cigar away as he pockets the phone.

Curtains up; show about to begin.

He settles into his seat, a well-worn booth. Threadbare, stained upholstery and faded coasters. It's shadowy here, tucked away in the corner but offering a perfect line of sight to the door. And right by that very door is Gaz, your husband, and the pretty thing from earlier.

The bell jingles; wind whistles in.

Gaz lets his grip slip, lets your husband slump in the seat until his head is resting against the neck of the woman he was chatting up. Fingers inching up her thighs as she laughs and flirts back.

"What..?" it's too noisy in here to hear you, but he's listened to your voice over and over. He knows just how your pitch is rising. The slight crack on the final consonant.

You stand, face screwed up as you try to make sense of the situation. But two plus two can only ever equal four, and your husband's hands up a skirt can only ever equal-

"Hi, gorgeous. Here to meet someone?" his sergeant grins up at you. Plays the charmer so well. "Got an empty seat with us, if you fancy it."

There's a little bitterness cutting at the furl of your lips. You're holding it in so well but, god, the words must burn, coming out like bile. "What, sure that I'm not interrupting something?"

"No, no. He said he's just having a little fun. Said he wants something warm before he goes home to his bitch wife," Gaz chuckles, leaning towards you like he wants to whisper a secret. "Bit sick of hearing his complaining, if I'm honest. Makes her sound like a right harpy. But you could take my mind off it."

"Not sure about that," he sees the way your chest hitches. Sees the sob that you swallow down as you steel your expression. "I am the 'bitch wife'."

And it's magnificent. Kyle's played his part so well; stuck to the script like he's performing at The Globe. An ad-lib here, an improvisation there. He hands you a napkin, rubs at your shoulder as he looms over the treacherous tableau he fashioned for an audience of two. You, and John. Ache and Hunger; betrayal and mastery. He maneuvers you, keeps you from causing a bigger scene as he hauls your husband by the scruff of his jacket. Choreographs the steps so that John can see every last microcosm on the universe of your face.

It's his set, his design. He's the architect, director, and audience all in one.

(And that foolish, stupid player of yours tugged at the lure. Found himself swinging, tied up in the string).

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

Ik reader wasn't really present here, but had to get the ball rolling (: Also I've been stressed and not sleeping so forgive me for this being a bit...

And yes. John stood there and put all the typos in that message on purpose. Unhinged.

#also u can decide whether or not buck was really ranting about his wife to gaz #but i imagined it as an elaboration on gaz's part because he's good at his job and has to make his captain proud (:#báirseach writes #captain john price #dark john price #john price/reader #john price x reader #cod fanfic #cod mw3 #cod mwii #cw stalking #cod x reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months ago

Text

The House Guest 8

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Summary: an old acquaintance calls in a favour, leaving you with an unexpected house guest.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You grab towels from the linen closet and turn down the hall. Only a few steps before you reach the bathroom door. You peek inside as Bucky examines his wounds. You hold back the salty bile at the back of your throat as you see the torn flesh. He’s entirely unfazed by the blood oozing from him.

“Um, here,” you choke out.

“Thanks,” he reaches to take one of the dark towels. You suppose you’ll need new ones.

You stand silent and confused. It’s all very strange. You just watched a man wrestle a bear and he doesn’t seem to care a lick about any of it.

His shirt is shredded and red and dumped in the sink. His bare chest rises and falls calmly, a cluster of dark hair at the center that spreads across his bulky chest. His stomach is just as thick as a layer of extra flesh bulges out above his boxers. He’s built better than any of the locals with their variety of beer belly or rail thin.

“Here, put some pressure on it for me,” he orders.

“Huh?” you blink before you react.

You put the towels on the counter as you step into the cramped bath room. You put your hands on the towel against his side and he reaches for the zip-up pouch on the counter. Black, leather, entirely unfamiliar. He flips it open and reveals an array of scissors, tweezers, and other medical tools.

“You travel with that?” You ask, keeping your eyes up as you struggle not to glance at your hands.

“Never know,” he shrugs as grabs your bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“Never know what? When you’ll wrestle a deadly creature?”

“Like I said, I’ve faced worse,” he insists, then puts his free hand against yours, pushing it hard against him. “More. Lean into it. You need to stem it just a little.”

You gulp and nod. “Are you okay? Dizzy?” You ask.

“Fine. Let’s just get this cleaned up.” He turns his attention back to the kit as he wets a thick wad of gauze with the alcohol. “I’m gonna sterilise bit by bit. You move the towel, keep it firm...”

You once more dip your chin. You hold your breath as you work in tandem. You’re silent. You swallow loudly and wobble.

“Don’t lock your knees,” he warns. “And breathe.”

You exhale and steady your legs. He should be the one feeling so woozy. As he works around the towel and you move it to reveal the bits of mangled skin, it’s a little less unnerving. His confidence helps to sooth your hammering heart.

He tosses the bloodied gauze in the bin and grabs a long curved needle from the kit. Oh god. You don’t know if you can handle that. You shift to lean against the doorway.

“You don’t deal with this a lot? All the way up here, what would do in an emergency?” He wonders.

You peel your dry tongue from the roof of your mouth, “is this not one?”

He chuckles. “Not even close.”

He sterilizes the needle and threads it. You can only watch helplessly. The house is cold and yet heat roils off of him. Your brow is beaded with sweat and your back burns.

The longer you stand in the tight space of the bathroom, the more you’re aware of his nudity. The top of his boxers is stained with blood. Still he works without hesitation. As he pokes the metal tip through his flesh, you hold back a wretch.

“Alright,” he puts his hand against the towel. “Go.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just... lot.”

“It’s good. I got it from here,” he turns the face the mirror. “Go on, wash your hands. Have some water. And breathe. I don’t need you fainting.”

You don’t argue. You just go. You wash your hands for a long time in the kitchen, scrubbing your palms and nails. As you shut off the tap, you remember your coffee, left outside in the panic of your furry encounter. It’s probably cold now and you’re not going back outside. Not yet.

There’s a bit left in the pot. You claim it in a new mug and take out your phone from your robe pocket. You can still smell the bloody iron. You have bars.

You don’t think, you just tap Sam’s name and wait as you scowl over the table with your hand on your mug. It takes two tries for him to pick up and when he does, he sounds groggy.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“He fought a bear,” you say, if only to hear it out loud.

“Bucky?”

“Who else? Sam, he’s bleeding all over my bathroom.”

“Well, did you call someone?” He asks, not a glean of concern in his voice.

“No, he said he didn’t need it. He’s sewing himself up. Sam, do you not—a bear. A bear.”

“I mean, that man isn’t going to die because of a bear. His own stupidity, sure, but not that.” He chuckles.

“Are you laughing?” You hiss.

“It’s funny. I’m picturing it now. Oh, tell me you recorded it.”

“Sam,” you snap.

“Ah, come on. He’s fine. You’re fine. Is the bear fine?” He groans and you hear jostling on his end.

“It ran off,” you say.

“Then you know what, sounds like he did you a favour. He got rid of a pest,” he insists. “Just too bad you’re stuck with another type of pest.”

“Which you brought here.”

“You’re doing a service to your country,” he says.

“Again, Canadian. I don’t know how you keep forgetting.”

“I don’t but we’re close allies. NAFTA or whatever,” he snickers. “Take it easy, okay? He’s alive, you’re alive. Things are going well. I expected you to call a lot sooner.”

“Splendid, well I’m calling now,” you retort.

“And what exactly do you want? Should I come all the way up there and get him? Send a bus ticket? Or maybe I should have a serious conversation with ole Buck,” he taunts.

You twitch. You don’t know what you want. You think you’re still in shock.

“Look, I’m gonna send you some money, right? Take care of this fool,” he says. “Consider it sent and done. Now, I gotta go deal with Sarah. Trust me, she’ll have a few of her own words for me too.”

“Fine, whatever, Sam. But we’re even after this. You don’t get to drop anymore fugitives on my doorstep.”

“Ledger wiped,” he assures. “Go make sure the old man isn’t bleeding out.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #the house guest #series #drabble #mcu #marvel #winter soldier #captain america #avengers

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cutiecusp · 5 months ago

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One last call.

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x König x Reader.

TW. Talks of death, rivalry, filthy language, angst, betrayal, an established relationship, NOT a HOA! kissing, mild inappropriate boundary crossing. MDNI! (Also, I couldn't find the credits to this image, if someone does, lemme know!)

You were bleeding out.

A mission gone wrong.

Bad Intel means you were the only one left alive.

Hiding behind a crate, you manage to drag your body out of the snow, using the wood as a shield from the elements. Teeth chattering, you call Simon, your ex fiance.

"Ghost." He answers.

The breath gets punched out of you by the cold, so you take a minute to gather your breath, and your thoughts.

"Si." You murmur, just loud enough he can hear you.

"Why are you calling me?" He answers bluntly. Your relationship has been rocky for months, missed dinners, birthdays, missed milestones, the anger issues after a tough deployment... You had regretfully called things off before this deployment.

"I.. I got hit, Si. Dodgy Intel." You explain, pain low in your body.

You hear him grip the phone in his hand, his voice gruff.

"Fuck! I can get Price to get Nikolai-"

You interrupt him, wincing as you shake your head.

"No, It'll be too late, Si. I just wanted to hear your voice."

"I'm on my way." Came the clipped reply.

You let out a dry chuckle.

"Always so bossy."

You pause, your breathing shallow.

You manage to roll onto your back, your eyes glossy with tears.

"Sorry, we never got to fix this." You say softly.

A gunshot rings out in the silence, before heavy footsteps crunch in the snow.

"I'm not alone." You whisper.

"Stay on the line, love. Don't leave me." Simon replies.

Over the next few minutes, the sound of singular gunshots ring through the snowy compound. A single pair of boots crunch through the deep snow that's piling up on the ground.

"Whoever it is, they are making sure people are dead." You whisper, fear taking over you as you realise you can't move, your injuries won't allow you to escape quickly.

Simons heart sinks.

"Play dead, hide in the snow, stay alive till I come for you, I'm getting in the chopper now.. please love. I'm coming."

All you can do is lie there, tears frosting down your cheeks as you realise you are next. The door to the storage room you are next to is kicked open, but you are silent.

Large footsteps sealed your fate as the imposing figure spots your boots.

"Oh, I forgot one." Came a thick accent, causing you to freeze.

"Ah, a little maus... far away from home."

He kicks your boot, pain throbbing through your body as you swallow a scream.

"Such a pretty one, too.." in your eyeline, you see a behemoth of a man, a hood covering his face, blood staining his entire front. He pauses when he sees your face.

"Ah, I've been looking for you."

Fear grips you, but you dare not move.

Your phone falls from your hand as he stands on your wrist, and your eyes finally meet his. Deeply dark, crazed and focused on you.

"Who's there with you, love?" You hear Simon say over the phone.

"Ah, Geist..." the masked man calls out.

"König?" Splutters the reply.

"In the flesh."

"Leave her out of this!" Simon yells, his voice loud through the call.

König laughs, squatting over you, pulling you by your tactical vest to pull you flush against him, his eyes roaming your body.

"She's a pretty one, would make such a lovely trophy." He calls out, antagonising Simon more.

He traces a gloved hand down your cheek, and you can't look away from him. His body is pressed tight against yours, and you can feel every inch of him.

"She's pretty broken, too. It looks like my men did their job in getting her to me."

Your eyes widen, he was behind this?

"Why?" You whisper out, cursing your shaky voice.

"Why? He took everything from me, my wife, my future... so I'm here to repay the favour. An eye for an eye, you call it?"

He removes his helmet, uncovering his face, scarred and war torn, pale and seething.

"Beg for your life, I want him to suffer like i did."

You shake your head, refusing to play his game.

"Don't touch her!" Simon roars down the phone.

"I'm on my way to you, and I'll finish what I started." He continues.

König laughs dryly.

You try and pull away, pulling his fingers off your vest. He grips harder, forcing you closer, his breath warming your cheek.

"I like a struggle, little lamb." He warns, his eyes deadly cold. You pause, your body limp.

"Ah, there's still some fire in you. I see why he likes you." He pulls out his pistol, the metal shining in the low light.

"I won't tell you again. Beg."

You spit at him, his cheek coated in your fluids. Scoffing, he swipes it from his cheek and brings it to his lips.

"So. Fucking. Defiant."

His gloved hand slaps your cheek hard before pressing his fingers into them, tilting your chin up, demanding him to look at you. He leans down and presses a kiss to your lips, surprisingly soft. Marking his territory, claiming a victory.

"I didn't want to do this, but he left me no choice. I wanted you for myself. I even tried recruiting you to my team a few times, but you were his.." he spits.

"Now, I want to give you the opportunity yourself. Come with me. I'll get you medical treatment. I'll give you a good life. Or you can die in the snow, I'll make it quick."

You hesitate. You weren't ready to die. You had unfinished business with Simon. But you were tired of being second to everything, tired of making excuses for him, tired of being let down. Your vision was starting to get spotty, and you knew this was the biggest choice of your life.

You look at König, and realise you two were the same. Your lives had been taken apart by a common denominator.

His eyes soften. He nods, understanding your unspoken answer. He picks up the phone, addressing his rival for the last time.

"I won." He says simply, while shooting into the wooden crate behind you, the loud gunshot echoing the painful cry from the phone.

Hanging up, he looks down at you, your shocked gaze never leaving his.

He gathers you in his arms, striding back to his vehicle.

"Time for a new life, little lamb."

Your eyes flutter as your body relaxes for the first time in what feels like forever. Almost missing the way he snaps a picture of you, sending it to Simon via your phone.

"An eye for an eye. She's mine now."

...........................

A/N I wasn't sure about this one. I'm not good at angst, but I hope I did the idea justice! Back to matchmaker later! Xxxx

@xoxunhinged @muneca-lemon-steppa @livingoutsidethetardis @gardenof-venus @misshugs @soraya-daydreams @frudoo @renpodz @yesornowaitidontknow @thevoiceinyourheadx @shadowdark00 @rynbeerose @lunamoonbby @incredible-walker @identity2212 @pukbadger @urbimom @corvid007 @wordsfromshona @shadows-empress @m00xy @canyonmooncreations

@evie-119 @havoc973 @kylies-love-letter

#call of duty #call of duty mw2 #fanfiction #simon ghost riley #fanfic #call of duty modern warfare 2 #simon riley #ghost #ghost simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #konig #konig headcanons #konig x you #konig x reader #konig x y/n

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gofishygo · 5 months ago

Text

nikto + reader blurb

notes: mostly fluff, sex mentioned but no explicit scenes, slight body horror (nikto's scars), canon typical violence [mentions], god i love it when characters manage to heal and come to terms with their past and fall in love

honestly hoping n praying that nikto learns to live the softest n slowest life ever after meeting reader.

he's never gotten a day of comfort in his life, not after those interrogations. scared away both women and men in and outside of the military ever since then- face and body already nothing short of brutish and jagged angles, a bulk of muscle and fat that shadowed over every figure, weathered down to a near-macabre sight at the result of warfare. now the right half of his gum is exposed, torn apart by shrapnel and knife carvings that dragged across his face. sliced-off nostrils, yellow teeth poised at the world that had wronged him like a vulture preparing to feast- it was his unfortunate charm, the one that left him so often kicked out of brothels and whispered about in bars and revered in the barracks, smoking freely without disturbance in places where such had been outlawed years ago. of course he sees you- all keen and watching innocently, so starry eyed that it seems to blind you from his nature.

nikto would look down at his hands and see them as none further than machines. structured with bone and flesh to take down targets, but a puppet to the whims of the other voices that thrived only in his head. he was no more than the manifestation of his disorders, only set to take down the corpses that kortac had pointed at, the ones that kortac claimed to have wronged him.

and then you truly slip into his life, all doe-eyed and star-crossed. he thinks its none other than blasphemy, some sort of sick joke when you practically glue to him at the coffee shop, fixed on the crossword puzzles between his calloused hands. prodding around and occasionally chirping answers, some curious, but unfortunate, little thing that ended up right between his jaws. and he tries to spit you out, brush you off- your greetings at bars, parks, streetsides, alleyways none other than ignored with cold eyes and a masked face. but your laugh, sweet words- it trickles between cracks, melts the solute of stone, and soon enough, you're in his bed at seven am, tucked under his arm. he'd given you what you've wanted; held your body as gently as he had the ability to, growled some praise in your ear, let you sob into the pillows.

so he doesn't expect it when you show up at his door once again, oh-so-lovely smile on your face. certainly even more surprised when you keep coming, and cant deny the way his head goes a little fuzzy when he sees the notes you leave while he's in deployments, how you fold his sheets and put some flowers in a vase you'd bought that rested on his kitchen countertop. he leaves the door unlocked now, gives you the keys, and lets you in when the nights are cold.

you teach him things- how to tell if he's dreaming. learns to see his hands as more than accessories to murder, uses them as indicators to split his reality from the ones owned by his voices. you're teaching him how to make coffee and trim flowers and all he is learns is how to look at the world without staining it with blood. but it's okay- you help steady his shaking hands, hold the kettle of boiling water with him, and the weeks eventually unfurl into years.

and now, he wakes up next to you every morning, stays in bed cuddling with you until you reluctantly have to shove him away because although he's retired you still have a job, and he waters the plants and feeds the dogs outside, waiting only until you and the furry critters are well away to smoke. but it is not out of stress, no longer to rid himself of his heads, and more of a bad habit now. and the hole that the lack of conflict has left in him is so filled with you and your smile and your patience, with taking care of the garden, making coffee, helping with your paperwork. the never ending spurr of his voices still keeps him up at night sometimes, leaves him twitching. but it allows him to watch you fall asleep, feel your pulse under his cupped hand, even through the throbbing pain.

this is what life is meant to be like, maybe. taking off his mask and unbuckling the straps so he can feel your lips against what was left of his.

#୧ ‧₊˚ 📧 ⋅⸜#honestly this was just straight yapping.... the brainworms have infested........#cod x reader #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod mw3 #cod nikto #nikto x reader #nikto x you #cod x male reader #cod x gn reader #cod x fem reader #nikto call of duty #nikto #call of duty nikto #mwii nikto #nikto cod

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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

Text

Lazarus (Ghost x Medic!Reader Pt. 2)

"According to tradition, Lazarus never smiled during the thirty years after his resurrection, worried by the sight of unredeemed souls he had seen during his stay in Hell..."

Word count: 5.7 k

Tags and warnings: Angst, fluff, soft smut 🔞. Slightly possessive!Ghost. Graphic depictions of past suicidal thoughts. Dating, kissing, cuddlefucks, emotions (the most daunting cw there is). Unfettered prose about a grown man's complex trauma. Reader is female and works as a medic at the base. Ghost POV.

Summary: You've just started dating Ghost. (This is a standalone sequel to Refugee)

She tastes round and sweet after the tang of blood and smoke and metal of the field. She feels like warm cascading water after the bleak, dead weight of a gun that leaves his hands throbbing with recoil. Her skin returns the memory of Paradise until it overrides everything else.

She's a soft blooming to the senses.

And his have been blown wide, torn apart, shot full of noise. There's an amputated, burnt stump where there should be a limb and some soft skin. But still, a blast that burns flesh from bones is not that different from her soft whisper that has the power to level him like a nuclear wind.

. . .

They're some kind of a secret, although he doesn't know why exactly.

Perhaps because she knows enough by now. She knows he's a dead man.

A ghost.

And women like her don't date apparitions. They deserve more than just bones and a haunting: they deserve flesh and blood and solid ground. She deserves far more than promises he has no power or right to give.

He has no mandate for life. His is a half-life, and stolen; he's living on borrowed time.

She doesn't only protect his phantom, she shields herself from talk and rumors. It's only understandable. He takes everything she gives him, which is more than he deserves.

He fucks her to ruin on the conference table people share in the meetings. He makes her leak all over his desk during quiet afternoon hours of his office; he makes her come on his tongue in the fucking hangar after a long day, just to get the taste of dry desert sand off his mouth.

She stops complaining about propriety after that. After all, she's the one who came there on his call and allowed him to rip her pants down when there was only settling dust to accompany them in the quiet hall.

It doesn't take long to see that the woman's not actually complaining at all. She fucking loves it when he barges in and simply takes her.

And he buries himself inside her like she's the base. His home after a mission, his destined location after deployment. She lets him fuck her practically anywhere except on the floor.

That's his place. And he has no problem with lying down there in the filth, especially if it means he gets to watch how she sits on his cock until that pretty little face distorts with pleasure that looks like pain.

His field pants and navy blues have cum stains after his visits while she cleans herself up in no time, fixes her hair and looks as innocent as ever. His mask smells of cunt when he's trying to concentrate on missions, and the scent of her juice makes him hard while he's supposed to be instilling brass into bodies. He smokes cigarettes just to drive the maddening taste of her from his tongue.

He's gonna get killed one of these days. The irony doesn't escape him: it's not a bullet or a grenade that will take him, but that sweet, hazy memory of her cunt.

She's an obsession. He injects himself full of her like the most pathetic addict.

Until one day, she says it can't continue like this. That it won't do to rut like animals until the smell of mad sex coats the room she's supposed to stitch and staple people in.

It causes a small panic till she asks him to visit her.

In her home.

It sounds serious: it sounds like she wants more than just his cock. And he's fucking terrified.

Women think about whether to wear this dress or that on a date: he thinks about whether to put on the mask or not – he meditates on it for two whole hours. Everything else is clean and in order; he looks like a human and not a soldier. But he can't rid himself of the skeleton.

There's a storm coming when he reaches her place. It electrifies the air until his spine is full of thunder.

She seems surprised – happily so – when she finds him at the door, decent as can be. He gets one of those innocent smiles which are pure sin beneath.

"You came."

"Sure."

She doesn't ask why he's always wearing a mask. She takes what he has to give, which is his all, which he fears will never be enough.

"There's food–"

She lets out a delightful little noise when he picks her up and carries her to what looks like the biggest and softest bed he has ever laid a woman on, ever laid himself on.

So, she likes luxury. Or at least, comfort.

Softness. Hugs… Support.

And kisses, apparently, because his mask is lifted without permission. Not that she needs one.

"Simon, I made you some dinner," she laughs in his mouth, and he's smiling – she's the only one who makes him fucking smile.

"Later," he rasps with a sore throat – he has become soft, too, and it's her fault. He has barked orders all day, but with her, his voice always comes out quiet and calm.

Where her domain at work consists of harsh lights and sterile frigidity, her home is dark and warm like a womb. His senses are filled with lemon and thyme – she has made something he's never tried before, something… Mediterranean, perhaps. A culinary ambrosia for someone who has lived on dog food and tried to thrive on it.

It's a pity that he's a barbarian, and here for dessert. As much as he likes the dainty little thing she has put on just for him, it's not cunning enough to stop him from ripping it to shreds.

She protests at first with a posh little gasp, but then she spreads her legs like it's open season and he's the VIP customer. The laced, pathetic little thing lays in wreckage around all that softness creaming just for him, and his mouth shoots full of water.

The feel of her is better than sinking a knife between two ribs. She's velvet on his scar and coarse stubble and for the first time in his life, he curses the mask. She moans all around him, tries to grab him by the hair still under the black fabric.

And it makes him want to rip it off and let her yank and tug to her heart's content, grab his hair and push his face as deep inside her cunt as it goes.

He tries to fit inside her apartment, a serene space filled with scented candles and clean carpets and frilly little curtains that shift in the restless night wind.

He tries to fit inside her.

The attempt always makes her moan and tremble and sigh. It's hard to focus on the task at hand when he wants to freeze the moment to where her lashes flutter and she stops breathing for a second – when she takes him in with grace and hunger.

"Oh fuck…"

She swears this time, watches with helplessness and an open mouth as his cock slowly disappears inside her. Then she looks up at him like…

Like she's missed him.

"You're a brute," she whispers, eyes shining.

"Thought you liked brutes."

"I made you dinner and you…Ah…"

He arrives home, heavy and loaded with yearning.

First things first.

It has been a week, and there's been no time to relieve the pain, nowhere to go and wank off the sickness that festers inside him every second they're apart. And she's the only one who can cure his disease. But he does feel like a brute for not letting her feed him. When was the last time anyone made him anything?

The sea is booming now, roaring behind the window she has left open. This time, they're not fucking at the base, in some corner of a room with a lock hurriedly latched on. He's fucking her amidst doused lights and a seaside breeze that enters their skin through an open window. He's at the beach, even when there's no sun. The sands are even more stunning with a gathering storm.

He fucks her like a dog, and she looks at him with weak love in her eyes. She's looking up at him with those big, wet eyes like he's the best leader there is - like she's counting on him. Like the people under his command, those who ask for his advice, ask for the next move.

It drives him fucking insane.

It's even better than a good round of sex: that unbound look of adoration. His mask is a poor shield against all that. She slips past it like she's the expert in clandestine warfare here. And suddenly he doesn't want any more secrets. There's a ton of them already; he carries the weight of them in his soul.

He's an underdog, always has been, but he's also a hound for claiming her as his that night.

After he's done fucking her to oblivion, he descends. She comes alive like a jolt of lighting in his arms as he kisses her, then sucks the tender skin of her neck. Everyone's going to see it, he makes sure of that by using the tiniest amount of teeth to finally mark her. She moans an equal amount as she does when she's clenching around his cock.

"Did you just give me a hickey?" She asks, breathless when he's done.

"High time, don't you think," he mutters. The woman will look glorious on the beach and highly improper at work.

Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas…

"You're unbelievable." She only laughs at his obsession. The woman’s not afraid at all, even when she’s face to face with a monster. The sunshine of her smile pairs well with the crackle of thunder outside.

"You want a beer?"

He's too drugged to answer with nothing else than a surprised, drowsy blink. She laughs again and takes it as a yes, which it is. He stares in awe as the woman walks to the fridge, all naked and lax from his treatment, takes out a bottle, opens it, and brings it to him. She takes none for herself; she only serves him like he's some kind of a king. When he takes a sip, she smiles again: lighting flashes somewhere in the distance and gives her an aureole of light, a halo of an angel for a second.

"I'm gonna go take a shower." The wink she gives him makes it perfectly clear that she wouldn't mind him joining her. But as she goes by the mirror, the vision of his claim stops her.

"Simon…"

He gets a scolding, and it only makes the corner of his mouth tug.

"No concealer is going to cover this."

"That's the point," he takes another sip while lying on her too-soft bed. She shakes her head before walking to the shower. The eye of the storm is above him, and everything's silent, like he's lounging on a dream.

The bottle in his hand sweats cold condense in his hand, and like always with her, he finds himself in the present moment. He drinks the beer in less than ten seconds, then takes the mask off and leaves it somewhere among the sweat and cum stained sheets.

It's the first time she has seen him without the shield, the first time she sees his body in full light. Every protrusion of white scar, every part of uneven skin, every marring of two and three stage burns is visible as if he is on a well-lit stage.

"Well. Pleased to meet you."

The smile that greets him, the veil of surprise that draws aside to reveal pure delight and marvel is more than worth the risk. She's frozen in time with a bottle of shower gel in her hands, too preoccupied with the trust he has decided to arm her with. She now has power over him, but he proceeds to do what he came here to do. Which is to make her sing a second time.

"For what do I owe this pleasure–"

The bottle falls on the tiles with a soft plunk as he steps between her legs and lifts her against the wall.

On that, she doesn't only kiss him; she takes the scar of his lip between hers and sucks. The warm water is nothing compared to her hands which sweep up and down his back and release years and years of tension. She whines when he only gives her shallow thrusts, then tries to claw his back to get more of his cock. It makes him chuckle.

"Needy," he comments on such delightful hunger, and she lets out the most annoyed, frustrated noise he has ever heard on her.

"Stop teasing, Riley…"

She tends to use his last name when she's fed up with him. It's supposed to create distance, but it only makes him latch himself onto her more fiercely.

He could torture her, delve deep, dig out even more frustrated sounds from her, but that's a quest for another time. He grants her wish along with his own and slides fully in. She kisses him through the whole fucking, and he feels like he's in boiling water, cooking until the raw meat grows tender and prepared.

And he realizes he's not actually fucking her: he's making love to her. He didn't even know he could do that.

When they've had their fill, the water takes away his gift. It feels wrong that something meant to be inside her leaks down some filthy drain. It's like a testimony, an illustration of his whole life: that his essence, his worth, belong in the sewers.

"You're a beautiful man," she whispers on his skin while caressing his back filled with past torture. His stomach churns, he feels like throwing up and falling asleep at the same time. An odd sensation.

She holds his mutilated corpse under the descending water and breathes life into him. The vomit never comes. He exhales history on her skin, inhales some peace in its stead.

In the morning the sound of thunder has been replaced by myriad birdsong.

. . .

He never meant to bring her here, but the wind on the beach is too harsh today and she's cold. It would be ungentlemanly not to get her a jacket from his apartment when it's only a few hundred meters away.

"To say that this place needs a woman's touch would be an understatement, Riley."

There's little else here but a tv and a fridge. He doesn't need either of them, but they're there to remind him what a home should look like. She takes the deafening silence and barren wasteland well, far better than he ever imagined she would.

"Y'can touch anything you want."

She turns and raises an eyebrow – he already knows that look. He's in for it now.

"Smooth... Very smooth." She walks to him and pushes him to the armchair. Not with force, because she doesn't need it. He falls to the sagged old thing like it's suddenly cloud nine rather than his old deathbed.

He waits for her to climb onto his lap and ride him until the chair breaks under the weight of their love. He could use a new chair anyway.

But she doesn't do that.

She gives her what this place has been missing.

A woman's touch.

Her mouth is hot as hell, wet like the gulfs that used to drown men in the sea centuries ago. She's a siren with her songs, but this time, she's quiet.

The room is not: the deathlike silence is suddenly filled with wet urgency and sloppy sounds of adoration. All his hauntings recede to the shadows like the blowjob is a whole exorcism.

His head falls back, and the first charred moan coats the air like it's been entombed for decades. And it has.

She is encouraged by the sound, and the tongue that sweeps the underside of his cock sends him jolting from his shallow grave.

Jesus fuckin'–

"Fuck…" He tries to blink back tears or death while looking at the crumbling paint on the ceiling. He feels equally worn out on her tongue: old and a lot of work, but a woman's touch is like magic.

"Mm–h." She dares to moan on his cock as if it's the best thing she's had in her mouth in decades, too. She even brushes her fingertips over his balls like they're some newfound treasure. They pull taut under her touch, stupefied by the sudden attention.

He can feel the upcoming blaze. It gathers at the base of his spine, his cock is brick-heavy in her mouth, and she won't stop – fuck, she goes even deeper…

"Fuckin' hell, pet…"

His thighs bunch and spread, a scorching groan erupts like he's a volcano and not a man. That's when she gives his cock a long, torturing suck, and he's gone, there’s no time and space other than her hot velvet mouth that surrounds him like the hot core of a star.

She adds a hand at the base of him, and he explodes so hard that he barely has brain cells left to worry about whether she will choke on it. But she doesn't even gag, even if the first spurts must be more than generous.

Fuck, this woman…

He melts in the chair while she finishes the rest of him, takes all he has to give, like she always does. They're an odd pair: an angel and a demon, and he feels like he's finally saved, resurrected – this room, this chair has never seen anything like this.

It's different with her, the emptiness that comes after. It's not filled with grief but deliverance.

He wants her to know what she’s just done, but he knows the things he's good at, and he knows the things he's not. Words are one of those things. She moans and begs and shatters and swells in his arms, she takes on a volcano and resurrects corpses long since dead, and he still doesn't know how to tell her. That he's hers, that he wants to make her feel as good as he bloody fucking can. He could be tortured for days and he still wouldn't know the right words. He tries to tell it to her in other ways and sees how she settles.

He would rather kill the whole human population on this earth than see her settle for anything.

So he forces the strange words out, fleshes them on his tongue and pushes them through teeth to haunt the stale air of his apartment that has never seen such love before.

"I missed you."

Of course it sounds so odd that she laughs. Bitter, too.

"You missed my tongue."

"No. I missed you."

She finally raises her eyes to his, doesn't try to blink back the watercolors. Those eyes are shining; they're beckoning.

"I missed you too," she says, then lays her head on his thigh like she's only a humble servant begging for mercy.

It's a farce. He's a skeleton, a ghoul of useless rubble while she's celestial; she's summer, a fucking empress.

It rips his chest to see her on her knees on the dirty floor, that she's comforting him in a chair that should've been his disposal site. The leather was supposed to be painted with shards of bone and puddles of pink-white brain; this room was supposed to echo with a single blast of a gunshot, not with roars of fragile love. He would've been found relatively soon, the neighbors wouldn't have had to complain about the smell: after all, the military takes care of their own. A lieutenant's absence wouldn't have gone unnoticed, even if everything else in him would never have been missed by anyone.

He brushes her hair, and she sighs, oblivious to his past hell. All nine circles of it, an inferno that would put poets to shame. And she doesn't know she has pulled him from the depths just by smiling.

. . .

"Promise to come back."

"Yeah I promise."

He can't promise that. Fuck, that he wants to.

Every bullet acquires sound, like that birdsong from her little window. They gain weight, they start to carry death. It used to be his power: to bring destruction. He was put on this earth to reap.

Now he's alive.

He's suddenly a man who can be killed.

Now everything's bright like he's a newborn trying to get used to a world full of pain. Light and sound and time and space; mortality.

Sharpened instincts have never been his friend. It used to be a simple dance: knife out, knife in. Drop 'em.

Line the sights and deal extinction. Walk like a ghost until the battering ram announces there's death coming.

It takes him a while to understand where the sorcery lies.

It's in the senses. She's sensuous.

"Simon–"

He hears her in the shaded crevice of rocks, catches phantom notes of vanilla from the dry desert air that tries to push through the filthy fabric of his mask. She’s with him just before the hatch opens, and for the first time in his life, he hesitates before the jump.

She tastes round and sweet after the tang of blood and smoke and metal of the field. She feels like warm, cascading water after the bleak, dead weight of a gun that leaves his hands throbbing with recoil. Her skin returns the memory of Paradise until it overrides everything else.

She's a soft blooming to the senses. And his have been blown wide, torn apart, shot full of noise. There's an amputated, burnt stump where there should be a limb and some soft skin. But still, a blast that burns flesh from bones is not that different from her soft whisper that has the power to level him like a nuclear wind.

He has to learn how to come back to his senses. It's a joke that makes him wish he could shed tears. Luckily, she's the best teacher he could ever have.

"Fuck, Simon…"

He tries to quit smoking just to be able to taste her better. A scorched tongue is a curse when a man can't get enough of cream and silk.

"I need you. Need you so much. You don't even know..."

He knows. He knows that the depth of his need surpasses hers; it always has and always will.

The last time he saw her wasn't at the base; it was when he woke up to the sight of her foraging for orange juice from the fridge with his sweatshirt on. She combined sultry lace and bare, smooth skin with an old, black hoodie.

And it swallowed her. All his darkness. She only looked sleepy and content while being smothered by all that dark cotton.

"I'm gonna make some breakfast," she announces upon seeing he's awake. "You like bacon and eggs?"

What the fuck did I do to deserve you.

She knows full well she could offer him a chest filled with gold, and it wouldn't be half as tempting as her little American breakfast.

"That'll do."

He was supposed to go to the shower but instead, his feet take him right back to her. She gives him a pleasant hum when his hands fall on her shoulders and start to rub some stress away. He knows it will make her moan, as it does now. She leans a little into him, surrenders to his treatment.

"Simon… Do you come here just for sex?"

The hiss of cooking bacon almost drowns the question. Just one syllable less, and the question would be as she originally meant it to be.

Does he come to her just for sex.

"No."

She turns to look at him with a shy little smile. It makes him want to crush her against that counter until those lips part with a helpless sound.

"I like your cooking."

"You…ass," she laughs, shoves him lightly.

He treats every day like it’s his last with her, waits patiently for her to realize he is not the man she thinks he is. Under the bones he wears there’s only more bones, nothing more. She can feed him all she wants, but it will only make him more hungry; and a day will come when she sees he’s not actually a man at all but a yawning, six feet grave.

The black cotton hugs her and makes it falsely look like this woman belongs to him. It’s another round of torture to see how she takes his shirt, takes his cock, plays with the only things he can give her for a while or two.

She has the sweater on as she gives him the softest farewell smile. She adds a few words, some more detail to her request. In truth, it's his new protocol.

"Promise to come back to me."

He doesn't ask for the sweatshirt back.

She's left with it and his promise.

. . .

"Poor lass's always sulking when you're on those solo missions."

He knows that Price might know about them by now. But if Soap knows, everyone knows.

He doesn't care: after all, the woman doesn't even try to conceal the seductive looks and dreamy smiles she gives him whether there are other people present or not. They're not a secret anymore. Perhaps that's the way she wants it to be.

But the information Soap gives him is new.

"She is?"

He goes straight to her after the plane lands. Doesn't give a single fuck about that smug look the boy gives him.

She looks slightly surprised as he simply walks in: she can see he's filthy. He has grime on his hands, on the fingerless gloves that make it easier to operate a gun when there's no threat of sweating. He smells of smoke and ruin, gasoline and tobacco – a lousy compensation for her, a ridiculous substitute to calming his nerves when he knows the mission is going to be tricky. It already pisses him off that her cream will be mixed with smoke and disease again. He knows his weaknesses, which aren't many. But with her, he has learned it's not about the quantity.

The sorrow is briefly disguised from him. It's admirable: the way she tries to hide even the plainest of things. He knows her by now, knows that the sun casts shadows too. She should know he's the one she can cast them safely with.

The throat between the shoulders burdened by work and worries looks fragile in his hands. A bird's neck he could wrench without breaking a sweat.

"Mmh. I love your hands."

"Just my hands?"

He shouldn't be touching her with his filth, but he can't help it anymore. If she loves it, who is he to argue back?

Love your hands too.

Fuck, I love your smile. Your tits, your lips. That little pout you got when you don't get what you want right away.

I love–

She sighs. Then she cranes that beautiful neck, clings to him with one, tiny hand. "Why are you here, Simon?"

"Heard you were sulking," he mutters in her hair.

"What…?" She laughs. She laughs, but she's not happy. "What on earth are you talking about?"

She's shy. Reserved. Hiding behind a wall of humor and sunshine and smiles. His darkness penetrates it all.

"Heard you're devastated when I'm gone," he tries even more softly.

She could take it as arrogance. One of his lousy jokes. But she knows better than that.

"I am," she finally says, angel-soft. When she turns, there's finally sorrow in her eyes. She looks up at him, up, up, again with that stare that says I am yours to command. On the brink of tears; tears he wants to battle to the abyss. But his muscles are no use here.

Her lip trembles, just a little, when he brushes his knuckles over her cheek.

"We can't have that."

"We can't?"

"No."

"Well what are you going to do about it?"

Her voice is soft, pleading. It's not a demanding question: the woman's simply out of it. She wants assistance, assurance.

What are your orders, sir?

She worries too much. Up until this point, he thought it’s just because she's dutiful, responsible, one of the best employees there is. But she's not tense from work.

It's not just the missed you's she whispers when his skin is at its most thin.

She fears losing him.

Stone-cold realism is required in his field of work; no sleight of hand magic can help him when he's facing the unavoidable. If the mission is impossible, he doesn’t take it. Because he can't change the unchangeable; he can't fight the inevitable. They both know he can't promise anything.

They both know he will do his best to come back. There was a time he would’ve considered it a blessing if he didn’t. Death used to be his only ticket to some peace.

She gives him an impossible mission, and he can't say no. Leadership is about taking care of people. His people. And she's more than just a subordinate.

He grabs her by the waist and raises her to the counter, relishes the way she gasps. She weighs nothing in his hands after cold, hefty cannons. It’s almost like she gains wings and flits to the tabletop designed for him to take her. It’s the perfect height for him to simply open his pants and alleviate her pain.

"Gonna fuck you until you cry."

She sighs. "You can't solve every problem with a gun or a cock, Riley."

The woman knows how to penetrate him, too. The stabbing doesn’t stop even when her thighs part slowly - she knows, just as much as he, that this is the best way to remind her just how alive he is. This is the only thing he can give her, and he is damn right going to deliver. His hand covers half of her thigh as he brushes a thumb over the sensitive inner side.

"You sure about that?"

That look of desperation makes him hard already. Her hands go about his neck in a perfect paradox with what she whispers next.

"Honey… Not here."

She calls him honey. As if this tar-black madness is only golden nectar to her.

"No?"

It’s not only sorcery, but necromancy: how she’s brought him back from the grave. No wonder such arts are considered dangerous. This is forbidden, and still, he cannot stop.

"Ya want me to stop?"

"...No."

He leaves most of her uniform on because he is in too much of a hurry to get between her legs. The woman molds herself against him the second his tip meets her folds.

"God, you feel good," she sighs as he slides in. It's like a prayer: both her words and his return back to the base. Alive.

"So fucking good…"

Fuckin' tell me about it.

She whimpers and clutches him like a little leech. Almost cries already.

"That's it. You just hold onto me."

If someone heard the way he's cooing in her ear, they would deem him soft in the head. He doesn't give a fuck.

Her moans chime inside his head like the softest, most beautiful opera. He has never been a man of high culture. The whole civilization could go to hell for all he cared. But she sings to him so beautifully that even a man like him can finally see the appeal. Legs wrap around him even tighter than those small hands until he doesn't know who's holding who here.

"That feel good..?"

"Yes… Don't stop, just don't stop."

She's almost limp in his arms. Good. He's managed to relieve that tension already.

He goes deeper, deeper, and a tiny hand that saves people instead of slaughtering them grabs him by the shirt, probably in an instinct to try and catch some skin. He can't see her face but the body against him trembles and shakes as he spreads her wide and pours love in her.

"No need to sulk, sweetheart. I got you."

She's crying, or laughing, or both. Of course she likes pet names paired with support. He adds it to the list of things the woman loves, the things he can give her. He hopes, half expects that she will shed some tears after shattering around his cock. She needs a good cry as much as she needs him. And nothing feels as good as this: being needed by her.

When she comes with an arched back and a scream he fears and hopes will reach every other officer here, he knows he can let go too. He's done his duty: now it's time to collect the reward. It's not transactional, she's not work, but she's still his responsibility. The woman's paycheck is fatter than anything he could ever get from his employer. He's inside her, but that doesn't mean she isn't inside him too. She's embedded in him in ways that threaten to swallow him and leave him on the shore like bleach-white bones on a beach. He stays inside her long after the waves have passed. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he doesn't dare to move.

"I still have your sweatshirt," she sighs while holding him.

"Good. Looks better on you."

"I sleep with it sometimes," she whispers and wraps herself around him so tight that he wishes he could be there every night to send her to sleep. Now she only has his memory as a company, some darkness far too big for her. "Sleep in it, actually."

His mind is like a wheel that turns around nothingness. There's nothing to hold on to; he's falling through starless space.

The eerie sound of gunshot echoes in his head, he thinks about the splatter of brain matter on the armchair; how there's at least one person in this world who would cry from hearing the news.

And not just any person, but her; a whole summer in one woman. A midsummer sun, missing some forgotten, weatherbeaten bones on a beach when there's plenty of flora and fauna to shine on.

"If you ever break your promise…"

She sniffs in his neck, and his embrace tightens instantly.

"Would rather die than break it."

His promise doesn't make any sense. Or perhaps it makes every sense. She finally cries like she's supposed to.

"Shh. I'm here now."

I'm not dead.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley fluff #simon riley smut #ghost x you #ghost smut #ghost fluff #mw2 fanfic #ghost x female reader

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yaut-jaknowit · 1 month ago

Note

Hello! I binged a lot of your Yautja fics over the last couple days, and I love Vic and Uihoy. However I've had an angst thought in my head about one day, Vic would be alone. The human reader has a much shorter lifespan, and Uihoy is much older. They'd both lose the reader first, but then Vic would lose Uihoy one day too. Despite him teasing Uihoy about his age, maybe something happens that reminds Vic that both of his partners will one day leave him. How does he react in this scenario???

Till All Are One

Character: Vic'tao (Male) x GN!Reader x Uihoy (Male)

Word Count: 3062

Summary: Throughout the years, you've given them the best of memories and new scars. Vic'tao never expected it to be so sudden. He doesn't know how to reel it in after everything he's been through.

Author Note: Okay... this actually made me cry. I gave this idea thoughts before in the past but never dwelled on it. BECAUSE they'll always have each other!

Masterlist

Ao3

Excitement vibrated through his blood. Each block and strike only caused his energy to spike higher and higher. The hunt always called to him. It would always call to a hunter.

A snarl exploded through his throat when his claws raked through skin and flesh. The beast gave a hearty cry and stumbled. It went head over end and slammed its back into the ground. A long divot in the ground was created when it slid a few feet. Then, it scrambled to get back onto its feet. The off yellow Yautja was on it before it could.

Two sharp blades rammed straight into soft tissue. A piercing roar that rumbled the ground and shook the trees exploded into the air. Vic’tao held on tightly. Black claws refusing to let the trophy escape from his grasp. He doubled down his efforts and skimmed the blades up the beasts furry torso. More black blood stained the leafy ground and himself. Vic’tao bathed in it then was promptly thrown off.

Pain exploded up his back when he slammed sideways into the trunk of a tree. A grunt pushed all the air out of the yellow Yautja’s lung. It left him dazed for a few precious moments. He was able to gain his bearings just to see the barreling form of the beast launching itself through the air. Vic’tao yelped a curse and barely had time to roll to the side.

Claws raked at his exposed flank. His own neon green blood spilling to add to the mixture.

Vic’tao spun around while on his hands and feet and narrowed his bright yellow eyes on it. The creature had its claws lodged into the trunk of a tree he once was pinned to. A smug smirk sprouted to life underneath his biomask. His dah'ktes are retracted back. Vic’tao pulled out his ki'cti-pa and expanded it to its full length.

Right as the beast unlogged its claws. Another curse fell from hunter’s mandibles. Vic’tao is forced back as the prey lunged at him again the moment it was free. An untamed wildness in its horizontal slit eyes. He wanted to claim it as his and hang it above the shared bed back on the ship. A gift he would give to his two mates.

Blood dribbled out of a new cut on his forearm. Immediately, his thoughts are brought back to the present. Dangerous, deadly fangs are aimed at his face. Vic’tao thrusts his ki'cti-pa into the beast’s open maw. It narrowly dodges the hit. The tip slicing at its cheek. It slithers its head to the side and latches onto the combistick in his hand.

The weapon is torn from his grip and crushed between teeth he nearly met. Anger washed over Vic’tao. Red, hot, burned through his veins as the treasured combistick is tossed to the side. His razor sharp dah'ktes slip out of their sheaths, slicing through the air. A deep bellow vibrated through his chest. His sight completely narrowed on the beast. He will kill it. He will skin it. He will take the skull. For Uihoy. For his treasure.

With a roar like howl, Vic’tao sliced through the air. As sharp as the blades on his arm. It didn’t had time to comphred the speed he extruded before its head lolled onto the ground. The body stayed upright, as if trying understand what had happened. Then, it dropped. Black blood soaking into the leaves and dirt ground.

Another bellow shook the very ground he stood on. Victory. Vic’tao’s chest heaved with each deep breath for the nitrogen and oxygen in the air. His eyes wide and snapped to every tiny movement or sound around him. But, he forced himself to ease into a calmer state and looked down at the head at his feet. With a huff, Vic leaned down and lifted it up. This thing nearly killed him. A story he could not wait to tell his mates back at the ship.

Waste couldn’t come to the body. By him lonesome, Vic’tao carved the richest of meat from various areas. The black meat was stored in a bag on his back. Safe and secure. The Yautja departed to let scavengers to take care of the rest he couldn’t carry or use.

By the time he arrived back at the ship, the sun had lowered itself in the sky. Pink and orange danced across the darkening sky. Vic’tao took a moment to look up and find the sight beautiful.

Once in sight of the ship, Vic’tao slowed his pace until coming to a stop. Tension filled the air in way that made his chest constrict. He almost lost his grip on the skull but his muscles tightened up. Vic’tao sprinted through the foliage and scrambled up the ship’s ramp.

All of his senses narrowed down on the strongest of his mates smell. His feet stumbled and nearly sent him flying into a wall. Vic’tao was barely able to catch himself in time to enter the shared bedroom.

In all of Uihoy’s glory, he was knelt down in the oval shape concave bed. The elder’s great head bowed.

The skull dropped at Vic’tao’s side. He took a tentative step forward. Then another. Until stood at the edge of the bed.

Wrapped in softest of furs was the ooman that wormed their way into their lives. Their eyes were closed. No movement. Their chest didn’t rise or fall.

He stumbled into the bed while ripping off his biomask and tossing the damned thing away. “No, no, no,” the hunter whispered and held his hands over your peaceful form. They shook.

A purple hand reached across and carded his fingers through Vic’taos. That brought the younger male’s attention up to his other mate. Tears prickled the corner of Vic’s dull yellow eyes. The life in them gone the moment yours left.

“Thi-this can’t be!” Words that further broke the elder’s heart. His fingers clenched Vic’s hand harder. “We… we had time.” There was plenty of time to spend their lives together. It felt like yesterday when they first met. This ooman that had carved their own space. Vic’tao… he wanted to go out and kill every creature he could lay his eyes on. Take all the lives. Because the love of his life was gone.

Even if he knew it would happen sooner rather than later. Ooman’s were fragile.

“Vic…” Uihoy trailed off at first. He didn’t know what to say in a moment like this. Your health had suddenly dipped without a moment’s notice. No amount of help from their advanced medicine would’ve saved you. Your suffering would’ve been prolonged. Uihoy couldn’t bear to see that, even if it meant for you to see Vic one last time. Your cries…

“I’m sorry. You… I couldn’t get ahold of you. They had suddenly just-“ Paya, it was difficult to get the words out. A male of great words couldn’t even tell his mate what happened. “Their health had taken a turn. It was sudden. I believe it was… organ failure. There was nothing I could do.”

Uihoy felt useless. With everything that Yautjas had, to save a ooman in a terrible moment wasn’t possible. The medicine they possess could do nothing. He had to watch their mate writhe and scream in pain until he put them out of their misery. Quality of life.

Immediately, Vic’tao’s head snapped over to the biomask discarded haphazardly to the side. His feet stomped across the metal floors. He swiped the metal off of the ground and forced it onto his face. With practice ease, he maneuvered to the incoming messages page.

Nothing.

A growl sounded from his throat. He zoomed into the settings. His heart dropped onto the floor. The notifications had been silenced. For the hunt. Automatically.

The mask was torn from his face and chucked into the nearest wall. It bounced off with a screech of metal and slide along the floors. Vic’tao turned and slammed his fist into said wall. A sizable dent left in his wake. But, Vic’tao didn’t care. He wanted to tear apart everything in his path. How could… how could he let this happen? He would’ve abandoned the hunt at a moment’s notice he knew.

All he has left was when you wished him luck and to bring home a good trophy.

He brought home a trophy. But you weren’t able to see it.

Tears dripped down and wettened the floor. The aches and pains in his body reactivated, tearing open wounds. The blood stained the floor alongside salty tears.

Warm, coarse hands touched at Vic’tao’s tense shoulders. He jerked at the feeling of another then let the muscles go lax. Vic’tao’s head hung, eyes staring blankly at the metal floors. Blue-grey tresses curtained around him. It took every single ounce of will left over inside of him not to collapse into his mate’s arms and sob.

The purple Yautja guided him around to face him. A gentle hand tucked underneath Vic’tao’s jaw and picked up his head slightly. Just enough to see those dull eyes. A sight that broke Uihoy’s heart.

“Vic-“ Uihoy started.

“Don’t! I failed. I failed them. I failed you. I should’ve known. I should’ve sensed it,” Vic’tao put himself down and ripped away from Uihoy’s soft touches. Said male whimpered and let his arms fall to his sides. “I should’ve never left to go on that hunt!” You had wanted the meat and begged Vic’tao with those sweet eyes of yours to get it.

If only.

A tense quietness entered the air. Orange eyes stared at yellow and blue scales. Uihoy sighed and stepped back up to his mate. His thick arms encased Vic’tao’s waist. The male tensed up at first then turned around. His own arms latched onto Uihoy like a life line. He was all that Vic’tao had left in this word.

A tough exterior to the outside world. Once you break through, he’s one of the most loyal, softest, strongest people you’ll ever meet. Even after his heart is shattered by death.

Throughout the years, it did become easier. That strain on his heart weakened slowly but surely. Don’t get him wrong, he still is extremely heartbroken with their little mate’s passing. It still is heavy on his heart. But… he learned to live with it. That’s what made life just slightly easier. He kept you close. The trinkets you’ve created for them decorated them or their ship.

Held close to their hearts.

They had found a space among the planet you had passed on. Small, shrouded, but they learned when night fell. The spot lit up with rocks that reacted with the three moons above. Like its own stars.

Your body had been laid to rest and covered in a hole no creature would get to. The weapon you had created for him that was destroyed was placed as the marker. The one item he departed without. Everything else, despite it breaking, he kept it in the workshop area. Vic’tao never tried to fix them. They were left to their original state. The items you created with your bare hands.

Like no other day, both Yautjas find themselves deep within the brush. The breeze flushing into their face. Downward from their prey. Prey that could feed them for a while. A hunt for survival rather than another trophy to add to the wall.

Each Yautja adorned in their armor, biomask, and weapons glanced at each other. Their eyes hidden. But they knew. They somehow knew what the other was saying without a single word. A team that’s been together for two hundred years at least.

Uihoy moves first and pushes past the foliage that hides them from sight. His feet silent on the plain-like grounds. He’s the first to reach an old, hoofed creature. The information is relayed back to Vic’tao.

Said Yautja begins to stalk around in the same manner. His head on a swivel while going in from a different direction. To block off the way back into the herd. They had to drive it away from the rest of the herd. Far away enough the big buck won’t dare leave the others behind to save this one.

“In position,” Vic’tao whispers over the comm. system, eyes watching the lumbering giant feed. Muscles relaxed, tail swaying every once in awhile, head down. Uihoy gave a short response.

Each waited until the count of three.

Like coordinated hunters, they sprung from the underbrush, weapons at the ready. Uihoy drove his combistick into the brown, wiry hide of the creature. The sharp end slicing through its flesh like paper. It ended up in a spot after the ribs end next to the spine.

Vic’tao latched onto the other side with his wrist blades entering at the muscular shoulder area. Red blood sprayed at first, coating his newly cleaned armor.

The creature cried out a warning and pain while it attempted to rear up. Vic’tao shifted down to bring his weight more on the front. The added five hundred pounds prevented it from throwing them off. It’s large, sharp horns were thrashed wildly, side to side. Vic’tao felt one hit its mark at his flank and dragged him up.

The only thing that saved him was his blades. Vic’tao stayed attached to the beast and slammed back down. Green blood poured from the terrible wound on his side. He locked his jaw. The blades are pulled out and aimed at the jugular.

It bucked its hips up. Uihoy tumbles into Vic’tao. The younger male misses his shot and is forced to grip the horns he was once sliced with.

Uihoy is thrown down onto the vulnerable ground. The air knocked out of his lungs. He’s flat on his back, gasping for the lost air. Vic double downs his effects. The struggle is fierce. It takes all of his strength to turn the creature’s head away from Uihoy’s direction. Out towards the open, empty field. Away from Uihoy and the alerted herd.

Instead of seeing it, he felt when Uihoy was back on the haunches. Vic’tao grinned to himself and shifted his position back onto the shoulder. The purple Yautja is grappling to the hind quarters as the beast bucks multiple times. But, Uihoy knows better. His claws sink true into the flesh under wiry fur.

Bellows and bleats from other creatures echoed through the air from different animals. Its chaos as they began to stamped away from the scene, taking the big bull with them. One thing off of their plate.

Each buck and rear caused the creature’s energy to deplete. Both Yautjas have settled down in their respected spots and held on tightly, using up less force. It wasn’t long before it heaved for air and could on shake violently. Its head straining to reach for Vic’tao. Anything to gorge the Yautja with its horns. But, the younger male was able to watch out. A lesson well learned.

Then, its thick legs gave out from underneath it, sending it to the ground in a heap. Vic’tao stayed on the shoulders and glanced back at Uihoy. A simple nod sent to the other. The purple Yautja tore his combistick out from the backside. Purposeful strides led him to thick neck of the hoofed creature.

A simple bow of respect given to it before he reared the spear back.

Vic’tao is knocked off the back and falls to the ground. Hooves and a barrel underside is all he could see. Instinct drives him to miss getting stepped on. It’s like a dance on his back, twisting and rolling out of the way. Until he gets a moment to ram the dual blades on his wrist up into the soft underside of the beast’s belly. Into its heart.

One last cry. The yellow Yautja barely has time to roll away as it crumbled to the ground. He’s on his feet the instant he’s free, at the ready. But it doesn’t move. The eyes blank and void of all life.

A smirk graces his features. They had done it! He glanced over at Uihoy for a moment only to snap his head back. His mate was on the ground. Bright, green blood coated his entire front side. Vic choked on a gasp and rushed over to Uihoy’s gasping body.

The beast had gouged him with a horn. All the way from his belly button and up to his sternum. Uihoy lays on his side, inners spilled onto the ground. Like a gutted prey.

“Uihoy!” the younger Yautja cried and frantically moved between Uihoy’s face and the deadly gouge. Until the purple Yautja raised a shaky hand and cupped his cheek. Vic cried hard. They were too far from the ship. Nothing could save him even if he got him to the ship.

He felt like he was losing everything all over again. All those years ago with you, their little ooman, little hunter. “Please, no.” Vic’tao carefully rolled the elder onto his back and crowded his face. Gentle, trembling hands gripped Uihoy’s features.

The two shared one last kiss.

A tug on his tress had Vic pulling away to find the dying eyes of Uihoy. “Put me… out. Can’t suffer, like this,” the elder pleaded with Vic’tao. His yellow eyes snapped wide. Tears continuously dripping down his face. Vic couldn’t believe what he was being asked of. Kill? Paya save him.

As Vic says his mate’s name, Uihoy tightened his grip. “Do… it.” He wasn’t dying quick enough. He was suffering, bleeding out with his guts spilled to the ground like prey.

Vic’tao swallowed hard around the building lump in his throat. The blades on his wrist had been retracted after the kill. His eyes find Uihoy’s as he raised the razor edge to the elder’s throat. With a simple slash, blood drains quicker. Uihoy is gone in less than a minute.

The sun rises and falls for some time. Vic’tao stays there at his mate’s side despite the growing need for food and hunger gnawing at his insides.

For once in a long, long time, the male was alone in the universe. Once a family full of love and laughter and teasing. Only left to be a grouchy, snarling, bitter male to face the universe. He’ll soon meet Cetanu. He’ll soon see his mates again.

#yautja #predator #yautja x reader #yautja x you #predator x reader #alien vs predator #yautja x human #predator x you #predator x human #x reader

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pandapetals · 3 months ago

Text

Stay With Me

old man logan x fem!reader - angst, set during logan film, logan injured, established relationship, mentions of death, no y/n used, no reader description, hopeful ending

a/n: sorry for writing this shit. i'm emotional rn due to my period and being sick.

Logan comes back injured again and you debate whether you should stay or leave because you can't keep watching him kill himself.

read on Ao3

The blazing sun prickled sweat from your skin as a gust of hot wind swept across the barren landscape, stirring up dust and sand. This was the middle of nowhere—a wasteland, forgotten by the rest of the world—but it was your home now. Isolated, bleak, but safe. At least, it was supposed to be.

Your arms were crossed, eyes scanning the horizon, searching for the familiar black limo. It had been days since you last saw Logan, and the worry gnawing at the pit of your stomach was becoming unbearable. You knew he wasn’t doing well. His healing factor was fading, almost gone, and each time he returned, there were new scars. New wounds that didn’t close as quickly. Grey streaked through his hair now, more prominent with every visit, and his eyes... his once-sharp, steely gaze was dulled by spotty vision.

The question haunted you, whether you wanted to admit it or not—How much longer can he survive like this? Would he even last another year? Another month?

You should’ve been inside, checking on Charles. Instead, you were out here, frozen in place by the gnawing fear that today, Logan wouldn’t return at all. And if he did... how bad would it be this time?

You spotted it just as your mind began to spiral with worst-case scenarios. The black limo, limped along the horizon, dust trailing behind it like a funeral procession. The familiar knot of dread tightened in your chest as you watched the car slowly crawl toward the makeshift home you’d built out here. He had made it back—but something told you this wouldn’t be a quick recovery.

When the limo finally came to a stop, the door creaked open, and Logan practically spilled out onto the cracked earth. Your heart jumped in your throat as you rushed over to him, your feet moving before you could even think. His body was slumped, his clothes torn and stained with blood. Too much blood. You could see the jagged gashes across his arms, his chest, his side. Deep cuts that weren’t healing.

“Logan!” you called out, voice tight with panic as you dropped to your knees beside him.

He groaned, brushing you off with a grunt as he tried to push himself up. “I’m fine,” he rasped, his voice rough and ragged, like gravel scraping together.

“You’re not fine,” you snapped, your hands hovering over his injuries, unsure of where to start. His body was a mess of torn flesh and bruises, the telltale signs of another fight he couldn’t fully walk away from. “Logan, you’re bleeding everywhere.”

Logan let out a pained chuckle, his lips curling into a grimace. “It’s just a scratch, darlin’.”

You glared at him, frustration bubbling up as you struggled to keep your emotions in check. How many times had he said that? How many times had he limped through that door, barely holding himself together, only to shrug it off like it was nothing? This time was different. You could see it in his eyes—the exhaustion, the pain. He was getting worse, and it terrified you.

“Let me patch you up,” you muttered, your voice softer now but still laced with anger. “You’re not invincible anymore, Logan.”

He didn’t argue, which in itself was alarming. Instead, he just gave a slight nod and allowed you to help him to his feet, his weight heavy against your side. You guided him inside, to the small, cluttered living space where the first-aid kit was always waiting.

Logan collapsed into the nearest chair, his breathing labored as you grabbed the supplies and knelt beside him. His blood-soaked shirt clung to his skin, and you winced as you peeled it back, revealing the extent of the damage. Gashes deep enough to need stitches, burns, bruises—he looked like he’d been through hell and barely crawled out alive.

You worked in silence for a while, cleaning the wounds, stitching up the deepest cuts. Logan winced here and there, but otherwise stayed quiet, his gaze far away, lost in whatever battle he’d just fought. His hand rested limply on his knee, trembling slightly.

“Logan, you can’t keep doing this,” you said after a long stretch of silence, your voice strained with the weight of all the worry, all the fear you’d been holding back. “You’re not healing like you used to. I... I can’t keep watching you come back like this. You’re dying.”

He grunted, barely acknowledging your words. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not!” you snapped, the frustration finally boiling over. You paused, trying to steady yourself, but the tears that had been threatening to fall stung at your eyes. “I’m scared, Logan. I’m scared that one day, you won’t come back. That I’ll lose you. And you won’t even care.”

Logan’s jaw clenched, and he looked away, refusing to meet your eyes. “I’ve been through worse.”

You stared at him for a long moment, shaking your head. “That doesn’t make this okay.”

Logan remained silent, his face set in a hard, stubborn mask, like he always did when he didn’t want to talk about his mortality, about how much time he had left. It was the same damn argument every time. He would dismiss it, pretend it didn’t matter, and you would let it go because you couldn’t force him to care. But this time, it was different. You couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine, not when his body was falling apart right in front of you.

“I can’t watch you like this,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I can’t keep patching you up and pretending you’ll just walk it off like before. You’re not invincible anymore, Logan, and if you keep going like this... I’m gonna lose you.”

Logan didn’t respond. He just closed his eyes, his breathing heavy and labored, as though every word you said weighed him down more.

Eventually, exhaustion took over, and Logan’s body slumped in the chair. He’d fallen asleep, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. You stood there for a long moment, watching him—watching the man who had been your strength, your anchor, slowly fall apart.

Your heart ached with the weight of everything unsaid, but you knew you couldn’t stay. Not if this was how it was going to be. Not if he was going to keep killing himself and expect you to watch him die a little more each day.

As you zipped up the bag, you heard a low, gravelly voice behind you.

“Where are you goin’?”

You froze, your heart leaping into your throat. Slowly, you turned around to see Logan standing in the doorway, his hand gripping the frame for support. His face was pale, his body still weak, but his eyes... they were wide with something you hadn’t seen in a long time. Fear.

“I can’t do this, Logan,” you said softly, the words catching in your throat. “I can’t watch you die.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, and he limped toward you, his body swaying slightly as he fought against the pain. “You’re not leaving.”

“I have to,” you said, your voice trembling. “I can’t just sit here and watch you destroy yourself.”

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to grab your arm, though his grip was weak. “I can’t lose you,” he rasped, his voice breaking with desperation. “I’ve lost... I’ve lost everyone. I can’t lose you too.”

Your heart clenched at his words, the raw vulnerability in his voice. Logan never let himself get emotional—he always held everything at arm’s length, especially when it came to his own feelings. But here he was, standing in front of you, broken and desperate, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re killing yourself, Logan,” you whispered, tears blurring your vision. “I can’t keep watching you like this. I can’t.”

“I’ll take care of myself,” he promised, his voice rough but full of urgency. “I swear. I’ll do better. Just... don’t go. I need you.”

You stared at him, your heart torn between the overwhelming love you had for him and the fear of what staying would mean. But the way he looked at you, the pain in his eyes... he wasn’t lying. He was afraid of losing you and he was letting his guard down to show you.

“You promise?” you asked, your voice barely audible.

Logan nodded, his hand squeezing yours. “I promise.”

For a long moment, you stood there, the weight of his words settling between you. Then, slowly, you let out a breath before dropping the bag to the floor.

“Okay,” you whispered, stepping into his arms, feeling the familiar warmth of his embrace as he held you close. “Okay.”

Logan held you tightly, his breathing ragged but steady as you allowed yourself to believe him.

#logan howlett #wolverine #logan howlett x you #x men wolverine #james logan howlett #logan x reader #old man logan #angst #reader insert #x men logan #x men #mcu #marvel #the wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine smut #logan wolverine #hugh jackman #ao3 writer

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sinning-23 · 1 year ago

Text

Net (Shanks x Siren!Reader)

warmings; none

enjoy loviesss

Pt.2 found here

Scales of opal catch against the harsh netting, tearing them from your tail. You thrash around, breathing raged as you claw feverishly. Tears fill your eyes as the horror of your situation settles in.

You’re surrounded by men, all of whom are either too afraid to come closer or are simply watching you spiral into a panic attack. The sound of your jewelry clangs as they tangle with netting. You scream, the men covering their ears at the pitch and ferocity of the sound.

Your native tongue rolls off your lips with a hiss and you pull some of the net off your face and arms, it's wrapped tightly around your dorsal fin, the digging drawing more blood now. It mixes with the puddle of seawater on the deck, staining it red. They'd kill you...use you, sell you maybe.... mermaids were nice, but a siren...sirens were more of a treat considering they are far harder to catch

Helplessly, you curl into yourself.

"Captain, it was caught in one of the nets." One speaks, the rest of the men making space for this so called 'Captain' to observe you.

The blow of a sword never comes, and your scales are met with a gentle, warm touch. You flinch, trying to crawl away only to have the net that was very much so injuring you, tug against a tail. You yelp, feeling your legs begin to form from being dry for so long.

You still fight, trying to use the shredds of the net to cover. It proves to be unnecessary though, when a much larger, less torn piece of fabric covers you.

"You’re injured. Let us help." He speaks, finally earnign your attention.

And there it is. The calm silence that makes you slow. Lucky is what you were, that you'd been accidentally caught by a different kind of pirate. His eyes scan yours, not a hint of malice written in them.

Your gills are melding into your skin now, not completely hidden though, they always seemed to leave a sparkle behind along the flesh there. Your whole body did, hints of what looked like glittery scale tattoos covering parts of your neck and shoulders. He cuts the net now, your new legs scratched pretty deep.

_______________

The bath was warm, somehow soothing against your injuries as you gently cleansed your body with a simple soap and cloth. The red-haired Captain insisted you stay in his quarters for the time being, just until you were washed up and relaxed. You didn't speak, still trying to comprehend the language, your brain far more advanced in the sense that you only had to listen to one or two conversations to pick up a language. The light rapping at the door pulls you from your thoughts your eyes focused on the slap of wood.

"Yes?" Your voice is shaky, as if unsure of how to use it.

He clears his throat, trying to find the words.

"You're more than welcome to stay aboard until your injuries heal. And, then you're free to go." He explains, awaiting a response.

They weren't going to kill you? Had you actually lucked out and landed amongst some, less violent pirates? No. No they were definitely violent, but maybe only when they needed to be? Earlier had they seen no reason to be violent with you? Or fearful?

They really did just want to help...guilt floods your chest and you one your mouth to speak, an accent slightly remaining from your native tongue as you try to adapt to the English.

"Thank you"

_____6 weeks_________

Your legs were fully healed now, but you had yet to make your great escape back to the ocean.Mostly in slight fear of being captured by a ship far less friendlier but also in fear of never seeing him again. You had managed to spend every minute of the last 42 days shadowing him, helping his crew, and making yourself useful. At this point, you didn't really want to leave, and damn it could he tell.

You shared more...intimate touches than any Captain would a crewmate, and you couldn't help but melt at the new feeling. He was charming funny, and witty. He ensured you were safe, always having your pinkies interlinked or keeping you close in any way he could.

One night, he found you sitting alone at the ships helm, hair being blown by the breeze and moonlight dresses you in aglow. Your skin is illuminated with glitter, most likely just your biology as a mermaid. In any case, he's entranced. And while he takes in your calmed form, he hears it. The thing that made you a siren in the first place. that beautiful, beautiful voice. Low tones and melodies whisper lyrics he couldn't understand but he didn't care.

He just wanted to hear more of it. You freeze when one of the floor boards creaks underneath him and your head whips around in surprise. Shanks throws his hands up in defense and you flash a smile in return.

"Are you spying on me?" you joke, moving to come face-to-face with him. He shakes his head with that boyish grin.

“Not innitially, your voice caught me off guard guppy." He teases, the nickname making your heart jump.

"Why dont you go back home?" He asks, seeing your gaze move to the pitch black ocean below.

You swallow, debating wether you should amit to your current feelings for the Captain.

" Im scared I'll be captured again... and if I leave what if I never see you again." You voice, inhaling sharply whenhe wraps around you in a warm embrace.

You return it, finding yourself breathing him in with a smile, your arms squeezing him just as tightly as he was squeezing you.

“Then stay, y/n. With me.” He speaks, lifting your chin so your eyes meet.

You only nod, your lips connecting with his in a silent agreement. It’s soft but feverish, your bodies flush against one another and for once you were thankful to have been snagged in that net.

#x reader #reader is black #one piece #headcannons #one piece live action #opla shanks #one piece shanks #shanks x reader #shanks #one piece shanks x reader #reader is a mermaid

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leviathanleva · 8 months ago

Text

Daisy

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader [DARK FIC]

Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

........................

[Graphic Description of Gore]

[6.1k words] 🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼 Chapter 3 "The Vault"

The flickering ceiling lamps only exacerbated the grim atmosphere, but they did slightly help with finding your way. They also hid the majority of the massacre, but you weren’t blind to the horrific scenes of vault dwellers strewn up and skinned and prepared for processing. You’d wretched and convulsed at the sight, clutching at the wall for support and fighting back tears of terror, and if it hadn’t been for your empty stomach you would have most likely thrown up all over the ghoul’s boots. There was so much food around and the raiders still chose their twisted ways and treated the corpses of their victims, human beings, as cattle in need of rationing and preparation. It was engraved in them, you guessed, after living so long in an apocalyptic, hellish world, eating people was as natural to them as breathing. You tried to justify their actions even if they made no sense, but after seeing cut-open bellies and spilled intestines and dribbling blood as the corpses were hung to drain, you couldn’t.

No matter how difficult a life, nothing could pardon such barbaric actions, not when the cans of cram and sacks of tatoes were right there. The raiders didn’t kill and butcher out of need, they did it out of pleasure, they drew with blood on the walls, bludgeoned flesh and bone to a pulp, stripped skin bare, and let bodies dangle like slaughtered pigs.

The more gore was presented to you on a rusty platter, the smaller your pool of empathy became until there was nothing but the screaming aftermath of gunshots sounding right above your head. You still jittered, but didn’t flinch anymore, he had you, you were safe with him. His boots echoed with menace through the corridors, beckoning the raiders to their end, while your delicate bare feet glided over grime and glass and chaos.

He used you as bait once the raiders were close enough to spot you, your history with them causing a sudden urge in them to let go of their logic and self-preservation and charge headfirst into a shotgun barrel. You would have minded, but he was death incarnate with a weapon, and you were so set on restoring the sanctity of your vault, your home, that you were ready to do just about anything. He killed until there was nobody else with a heartbeat except you and him. He killed so casually, that you almost believed it to be normal.

Once his end of the bargain was done, you started searching, straining both mind and vision for that particular room with a false bookcase. You guided him past the vegetable field, through the cafeteria, and rushed past the school because there were too many bodies piled up for you to stomach. He followed with minor protests, but mostly kept quiet and alert, acting as a guard hound while you pursued the location of the emergency storage. It was only when you ended up in the residential wing with a confused noise that he spoke up.

“You’re lost, Darlin’, admit it.”

You shot him an angsty look over your shoulder, arm outstretched in front of you as the white flashlight installed in the Pip-boy illuminated the vault hallway. When you enter the first home, just the structure of it is enough to tell that you’ve got the wrong place, you scowl, but trudge further inside anyway.

“I’m not lost.” you retort, refusing to let his remarks leave a stain on your photographic memory, and pace around the tiny complex. “It should be in this wing, I just need to find the right room.”

“Whatever you say…” he hums in mock and purses his lips, then opens the metal door wider before stepping in after you. He lets you explore, his eyes skimming with disinterest over the homey aesthetic he was so alienated from that it didn’t even ring a bell of nostalgia. His sights lock on the fridge and his feet react faster than he’d thought possible. Bingo.

The self-powered beacons perched over the whey field creep through the windows and it’s enough light to scarcely brighten the complex. It would have been a haunting sight if the ghoul wasn’t with you and a timid part of your consciousness tapped at you, reminding you that he wasn’t going to be present for much longer. You hadn’t planned on dwelling on such a thought for long, but you had no clue what to do once he was gone. Left alone to fend for your life with no skills or experience aside from dry theory accumulated from years of reading, there wasn’t much you could do except live off the remnants of the vault and try to keep the garden alive.

How would you be rid of all the corpses though?

It would take years to restore everything, or at least the parts that were salvageable, you’d never be able to swap the broken windows or replace the shattered light bulbs.

You scurried off the nasty reality of your future and proceeded to kneel in front of a shoe cabinet. Your feet were irritably sore and in desperate need of protection so you sunk your arms to the elbows in the darkness, the flashlight distorting under the pile of slippers and sandals.

“You’re not mad, Mister?” you ask and turn back to find the ghoul waist-deep in the refrigerator, rummaging as a cacophony of clinking bottles and stuttering plates soundtrack his rampage. He looked almost domestic and you had to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from smiling. “Cuz I haven’t found the storage yet?”

He resurfaces at your question, a bowl of mashed tatoes and a platter of grilled cram cradled in his embrace, traces of soy milk stained his lips. He wiped his mouth on his shoulder and tossed the food on the kitchen counter before resting on his elbows while flicking his tongue.

“Plenty of Pip-boys layin’ around.” he shrugs simply and rips his glove off before sticking two thick fingers in the tatoes. “Can make a small fortune outta those.” he offers you a toothy grin before licking his fingers clean.

“Please use a fork, Sir.” you grimace at his tasteless display before turning back to your task at hand.

“Mind your business, Smooth-skin.” he grunts and sinks his teeth in a thick slice of cram, scarfing it down as if he’d not eaten in days. He scoffs at your faint giggle and waves you off, too high on the idea of a proper meal to care for your coquettish snip.

You continue to dig through the assortment of old shoes, relishing his vocal satisfaction as he feasts. He chews hastily, taking breaks every few bites to wash down the food with whatever juice or milk he blindly pawed at on the fridge door. After tossing away a pair of white fluffy slippers and jamming your hand against a leathery surface, you pull out a left-footed cargo boot. It’s stuck, tied by the laces to something crammed deeper in the cabinet and you feel your way until you find its twin. Once freed, you look them over with a tilted chin and a contemplative look.

They seemed remotely your size, with a pair of thick socks they’d probably fit perfectly and they were preserved and sturdy enough to withstand some broken glass.

“You think they’ll miss these?” you raise the boots in display and ask before thinking about how stupid your question was.

The boiled corn cob pauses just shy of his parted lips and he stares at you like you’d grown a second head. The silence that befalls is one of realization with a twinge of melancholy and you avert your eyes as your mouth twitches into a small frown. The shoes are lowered to your chest and you hold them close in wordless mourning, face dimming, shoulders lowering.

“Oh right…frick.”

“They’re dead, Sweetheart.” he speaks softly, a hint of pity hidden beneath the layer of rasp. “Don’t think they’ll miss anythin’ anymore.”

In truth, you didn’t mourn the rest of the vault dwellers. They were strangers who’d shared the same living facility as you, there was no attachment there except for baseline human empathy. What you grieved over was your sanity, the solitude you’d be subjugated to and you’d grown accustomed to being alone, but after knowing the atrocities that had occurred and the reasoning for your lonesome existence, you doubted things would go well. You’d be forced to fend for yourself and there was no guarantee that another wave of intruders wouldn’t end up on your doorstep.

You picked at the soles of the boots absentmindedly, ignorant to the sympathetic stare targeting the back of your head.

You weren’t accustomed to caring for your needs, having been coercively babied all your life and lacking basic skills. The only bond you’d ever had was with your father and the knowledge that you’d eventually stumble upon his corpse riddled you in goosebumps. You dreaded that sight, eyes dampening at just the thought and mind failing to even picture such a sickening image.

You drag an arm over your drippy nose, sniffle and stand.

“Need socks.” was all you managed before hurrying to the bedside closet at the other end of the complex, hiding behind a wall and out of the ghoul’s prying gaze.

This was fine. You’d figure it out as you went. There was no point in worrying over things that haven’t happened yet, right?

You shone your flashlight into the closet's depths after flinging it open, searching for a ball of stretchy material, anything that remotely resembled a pair of socks. Shuffling came from the kitchen area, a throaty grunt, a few clanks, and the shattering of porcelain. Paying no mind to the ghoul’s ruckus, you sift through the clothing hangers, stopping only when an intricate floral pattern catches your eye. You tug at the cloth, pulling it off the bar and hooking a finger around the clothing hanger before straightening it out.

A dress, pretty and frilly at the bottom, littered with small hand-sewn red blooms, sparkling white and in pristine condition. It reminisced of better times when people reigned over a peaceful and bountiful land, when radiation existed only in the confines of nuclear factories and cannibalism was scarce and very taboo. Your dull expression softens with a doting smile as you coo over your new fit before tossing it on the bed.

Your search continues shortly after, rummaging and scanning, digging deeper until you find a small raft overflowing with undergarments. A pair of black tights and heavy woolen socks later, you pass an anxious glance at the edge of the wall separating you from your overly grumpy bodyguard before tugging the straps of your dress off your shoulders.

“What the hell are you doing in there!?”

“I’m changing!” you rush to answer, shimmying out of your dirty, torn attire before sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling the socks over your feet. After taking note of the now gooey gash on your ankle, you decide to postpone wearing tights until it’s been cleaned and bandaged. You swallow back a lump of anxiety and make disinfecting the wound your top priority…once you find the storage unit that is.

“Hurry up!”

Once the boots were secured, you neatly tied them up and scurried to slip on the new dress in case the ghoul decided he’d had enough of waiting and barged over in his typical unruly fashion. It fit you so well, but there was no time to enjoy yourself, you tossed the tights over the junction of your elbow and patted down the frilly edges grazing your knees.

The world came crashing when the zipper got stuck.

“Freaking fiddle sticks…”

You tried and failed to resolve the dilemma, patting blindly at your upper back, reaching over your shoulder, and coiling an arm behind your waist. Even when your fingers did manage to find the zipper again, it was jammed and no amount of vigorous tugging helped and you didn’t want to apply more force lest you cause a tear. A small whine, dainty and annoyed, bubbled in your throat and you hung your head back and stared up at the ceiling in despair. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a jut at you for daring to find a sliver of happiness.

“Uh…Mister?” you call out, weak with embarrassment as you slowly succumb to the walk of shame. You round the corner slowly, apprehension in every step and boring a shameful visage. “I need help…please.”

Your lovely bounty hunter had sprawled out on the counter, his hands resting on his now full belly, one perched up knee swaying nonchalantly as his other leg kicked dangled leisurely in the air. His hat rested over his face, obscuring his vision as he breathed slowly, in utter bliss for the first time in a long while. The shotgun once secured on his back was tucked under his neck. The empty plates were carelessly chucked to the floor when he’d made room to lie down and now you knew what all that ruckus had been caused by.

It would have been quite the heartwarming sight if you weren’t currently wallowing in self-pity.

He rouses at your beckon, sitting up and readjusting his hat and giving you his best acid scowl for disrupting his peace. Then he notices your pained expression and skittish shifting and quirks a nonexistent brow.

“The hell’d you do?”

Ah yes, the sardonic question a parent would ask their misbehaved child after yet another minor disaster. That’s exactly what you need at the moment.

“I – ” your teeth grit, jaw tightening in discomfort. A sad puppy-eyed stare plastered on your droopy features as you stand next to the counter before reluctantly turning around and brushing your hair out of the way to expose your back. “ – It’s stuck…”

A snort of laughter fills the dim complex and you shrink in utter humiliation, fussing at his reaction like the wimpy thing you’ve been demoted to. He turns in his spot and his knees encase your frame as he slopes closer.

“Can’t even dress right.” his berating smirk nips at the back of your neck and earns a sigh of defeat.

Cooper Howard wasn’t a man to regret many things and he’d done enough awful deeds to have him kicked out of a church if he ever dared set foot in one. Not putting his glove back on, however, would be one of those regrets. When his disfigured fingers dipped beneath the hem of your dress to hold it steady as he worked the zipper free, he brushed against your skin and it was so soft that he nearly missed the feeling altogether. A pang of something awfully warm wrapped around his ribcage like a vine and he was so shaken to the core that he forgot he needed to breathe.

You felt like the past, all lovely and nice and tender, as if ripped from a time he struggled to recollect and let go of both, and you were thrust in his hands and he didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do with you. All charming smiles and sugary words and naivety that had him torn between hatred and incessant thirst for more of whatever it was you did to him. So addictive yet so detrimental.

He chalked it up to lust, a guttural craving any normal man would feel when presented with a cute little thing like you. But it wasn’t that at all. It had nothing to do with any carnal human craving.

You were a gateway to what he used to have, a walking memory of who he used to be.

It made sense if your story was true. Being tended to all your life while locked in a lab orchestrated to be your private room, it would leave anyone silk-skinned, bright-minded, and burden-free. But that didn’t ease him, it didn’t falter him from feeling like he was drowning.

You were the even tune of midnight jazz, a slice of hot apple pie, and a fresh cup of Joe on a Sunday afternoon; a little piece of heaven he’d never asked for and a cruel incarnation of damnation he’d always feared would catch up to him.

“Is it fixed?” you peep, saving him from the jaws of his mind, and look back, happily unaware of his self-destructive internal dialogue. The darkness hides the strain hovering over his distant gaze. “Did you manage?”

“ ‘Course I did.” he barks and is back to normal in an instant, pulling the zipper up before letting you go. “Done.”

He makes sure to secure his glove back on and cusses out the invasive thoughts.

“Thank you so much!” you grin with glee and throttle away like a victorious toddler. “How do I look?” you twirl with pizazz, then remember the tights dangling off your arm and bunch them up in one hand in case they took away from your dashing performance. “Don’t mind those.”

The ghoul scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief at how stupidly charming you are, and slides from the counter before reaching for his shotgun. You take his reaction as a good sign, satisfied with your new, clean look, and brush down the dress with the back of your hand.

“Les go.” he clicks his tongue at you, motioning with his head before fiddling to load his weapon. “Can gawk at yourself plenty when I’m gone.”

His remark receives no pushback. You follow suit, back into the benevolent corridor with hanging dead lamps, stepping carefully next to him with Pip-boy pointed straight ahead. It felt good to not have to constantly worry over a stray piece of debris catching on your feet anymore. Now your footsteps sang in tandem with your bounty hunter’s albeit much lighter and more frequent. With eyes darting from wall to wall, you peeked into each adjacent living complex. The sting in your ankle continued, snapping at your every move and your grip on the tights hardened. Your nails sank into the material for purchase as impatience nibbled at your nerves.

Apartment after apartment. Nothing even remotely resembled the room you were looking for, but it had to be here somewhere. The vault plans didn’t lie and neither did your memory.

You nearly tripped over a stray cable while ogling a bright pink suite layered with fuzzy rugs.

“You sure you ain’t just sendin’ us on a wild goose chase?” the ghoul asks while cracking open another steel door for you to inspect, then dips his hat and lilts “Ain’t gonna shoot you, Sweetheart. Don’t need to lie anymore.”

“I wasn’t lying, Mister.” you look up at him with hurt and he keens, blinking slowly at you and deciding to leave it at that.

Whether it was due to exhaustion or that look, he wasn’t sure.

If you were this set on proving to him there was a storage full of medical supplies and provisions he wasn’t going to stop you. There was plenty of food and drink to stay a while and his current bounty wasn’t notorious enough to top a fresh bed and a full meal. The caps weren’t worth it compared to what you’d offered him and he had enough vials to last him a while before any feral symptoms started poking through.

“It’s somewhere here, I know it is, these are just the wrong rooms. But the map showed it was in the living quarters to the north. It has to be a bigger space and with a bookcase in – ”

A hand clasped gently over your mouth, cutting your ramble short.

The ghoul grips your arm and shines the Pip-boy at the end of the hallway, the tense look on his face making your stomach knot. He takes one step forward, leaving you to linger behind him and you would’ve liked to believe it was to protect you, but it was most likely to get you out of the way.

You hear his gloved hold tighten around his shotgun and bite back the need to ask him what he’d picked up that you hadn’t. You never noticed the almost silent steps that had slowly crept closer and yelped when you were roughly tossed behind him as he spun around. The shot nearly left you deaf and the bloodied kukri barely missed your shoulder, having been a hair away from the strap of your dress.

You shriek along with the gargled gasp, latching onto the bounty hunter’s coat. The loud thump that followed made you duck and wrinkle your nose.

“Oh my jeez. Oh my God!” you glimpse from behind him reluctantly, forcing your tightly shut eyes open.

The raider twitched, clutching his blown-to-bits shoulder as a puddle of blood formed beneath him. He choked for air, coughing out a storm of crimson and it made your knees weak. The smell of gunpowder was sharp and overwhelming and your head spun with a nauseating speed.

“Guess I missed one.” the bounty hunter leers and the absolute insouciance at his actions sent a chill up your spine. He unclasps the hunting knife strapped to his belt and twirls it between his fingers, then tosses you a warning glance. “Look away, Sweetheart. Ain’t wastin’ another bullet on this shit.”

The heels of his boots clinked closer to the raider convulsing on the floor and with a shaky sniffle, you forced your legs to move. The pleas of a desperate man rendered defenseless and feeble, the churring taunts of his merciless killer who squatted over his prey with blade readied. A sickening noise punched you right in the gut, so raw and revolting that you covered your ears the moment you stumbled into another suite and slid down behind the front door. Clutching at the sides of your head, fingers curled and nails delved into your scalp to ground you, you died a little inside.

The reality of your existence, the consequences for being alive hit you full force, ripping you out of the tranquility that had befallen both you and the ghoul. Peace never lasted, and neither did joy, not in a world bathed in chaos and destruction.

The two curt knocks on the door made you flinch.

“Come on out, Scaredy cat.”

“I’ll – ” with a twisted tongue and a clenched throat, you murmur out words to keep him away because you didn’t want to see the blood he was wiping off his knife. “ – I’ll be right there. Just looking…for a false latch or something.”

What a horrible excuse…but he didn’t question it and you were so thankful.

His steps crinkle over broken glass and pieces of discarded metal plates. The tension lifts off your shoulders when he leaves with a grunt. You rub at your face with a timid breath, jaw easing as your lips part to accommodate your forceful inhales. The gloom of the apartment embraced you in your self-indulgent grovel.

To imagine someone lived here only a day ago was to concede to hysteria.

He saved your life again. And still, you were left shaken and bothered and speechless and burdened by what would have happened if he hadn’t been there to rip you away from death’s claws. The possibility of there being more raiders skulking about hadn’t been a thing until this one nearly chopped your arm off. Your arm was still there though, intact and function. All because of him. A dilapidated, volatile guardian angel that looked like a grilled chicken and sounded like a fizzled-out radio station and he meant more to you than anything ever had in your short, secluded life. What were you supposed to do without him when he finally left and you were sealed into a blood-soaked, corpse-ridden underground bunker with just your thoughts as company?

You slapped at your puffed-out cheeks ferociously.

This was fine.

It wasn’t fine, but there was nothing to be done, you’d work with what you had, you’d manage somehow. You had to.

The ghoul whistled you over, loud and clear enough for you to hear even while tucked away safely in your corner. Enough spiraling. You stood and with a determined huff, exited the complex only to see him standing in front of an open door with crossed arms and a tilted head. He noticed you from the corner of his eye and nudged his chin.

“This it?”

You poke your nose inside the spacious room.

It was the vault president’s office, completely untouched and eerily still, made to resemble the quarters of high-ranking officials from the olden days. Thin sheets of wood were plastered over the walls and the floor was carpeted and clean, the large windows overlooked the fields and dining area. An elegant leather chair was neatly set behind the paper-ridden desk in the center of the room, and yellowing files peak from every single drawer and bookcase. Everything seemed organized in spotless order, even the mugs on the coffee table were arranged corresponding to their color. There were so many paintings strewn about, past vault presidents, men and women in distinct white coats, same as the one your dad had always worn, supposedly scientists.

He leaned against the doorframe as you barged inside, watching your newfound zeal with a half-smile.

You pressed the tip of your middle finger to the wall and slowly extended your other arm at a precise angle, then moved it barely to the left. With a calculative spark imbued in your eyes, you take deliberate steps and move your stiff arms mechanically as you work out the location of the hidden storage. It looked ridiculous and you were well aware as you maneuvered about like a possessed puppet, but without any tools to point the way this was your only crutch.

“Three feet to the left, diagonal to the glass case with the cat sculpture. One step back and turn to what should be west. North should be to the right, then. And…”

“There.” you state once your hand points at a particularly overdecorated bookcase. “That’s it. Has to be.” you step towards it with determination, throwing away documents and an old plastic globe until there was enough space to grab at the shelves. It creaks when you give it a solid tug to test its stability. You bite your lip in contemplation before turning back to the ghoul. “Think you can move this, Mister?”

“You better be right, Sweetheart.” he tutted, but complied, pushing himself off the doorframe before joining you. He towers over you and rests his hands against the polished wood. “Move.”

You did as told and gave him some room.

He managed to slide his fingers against the back of the bookcase and spread out his legs before letting go of a throaty groan and pulling with all his strength. Your knee jittered with the need to step in and help, but you hesitated, succumbing to your manners and letting him do the heavy lifting. The last thing you wanted was to insult his capabilities or hurt his man-pride.

The case toppled with a thunderous crash and its contents spilled over the carpet, some trinkets bounced off your boot and rolled under the desk. The wooden planks that had been hidden behind it were slightly caved in compared to the rest. A thick carving resembling a door was engraved in them along with a small rectangular shape just a few inches to the side.

This was it.

“Hallelujah.” he chuckles and kneads his shoulder while flexing it, brows raised and eyes settled on the hidden entrance and glistening with wonder. “Guess you weren’t lyin’ after all.”

You clumsily step over the mountain of books and smashed wood, arms extended for balance until you’re close enough to press down on the rectangle. With a whirling hiss, the wood slides to the side and a hole perfectly shaped like a Pip-boy appears. You stuck your hand in without a second thought, beyond impatient and on the verge of crying because your ankle was burning so intensely you wanted to just rip it off.

The door gave way with a few audible clicks and the storage lit up instantly, you guessed the lamps didn’t depend on the vault’s fusion cores, another little trickery to keep this place hidden. The power management engineers would have most likely noticed the excess electricity being used for a room that wasn’t supposed to exist. A smart move and also for nothing, everyone was dead.

The cynic in you cackled.

You were quick to rip your hand free and enter, spotting the hefty array of medical supplies gathered over a metal cart, driven by pain and discomfort and lacking the self-control to keep it a secret any longer.

“Well, I’ll be…” the ghoul gapes at the overflowing storage, pleasantly surprised and nodding to himself. “Consider your debt repaid, Missy.” he plunges his knife into a sack of tatoes and promptly empties it.

His arm swipes over a metal shelf of stimpaks, greedily bunching them up and into the sack as he licks his teeth at the upcoming profit.

When you don’t reply to his remark he finally takes his gaze off the mounds of supplies and medicine and looks to you.

You’re a mussing mess, abrupt jitters causing bottles of pills and packages of bandages to pile at your feet as you scour for something specific. Initially, he opts to leave you be and focus on his own task, but when a disheartened noise slips past you he caves.

“The hell’s got you scramblin’ about like a cornered rat?”

You wince and turn back with a trembling frown. Your search had come out fruitless, the plan was spoiled at the absence of any antibiotics and you internally cursed for not stopping by the med-bay earlier and checking there first. Then again, you needed a key card and you weren’t fond of checking the pockets of decapitated vault residents just for that. But your open wound didn’t care for your antics. Now your ankle was probably red, still oozing and by how it rubbed against your sock, it was even more irritated and sickeningly sticky.

His stern look was relentless and you sucked in a breath before speaking.

“I can’t find any antibiotics…for my ankle.” you swallow a sob like a child caught red-handed trying to sneak past a broken vase. “The cockroaches – One of them bit me or cut me I think and… And it was fine at first, but then it started getting infected and I thought I’d find something here to help, but I don’t think only spirit will help so I thought antibiotics, but I can’t find any and it hurts so bad now – ”

You halted when his jaw stiffed and did nothing when he stomped close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him. The sack was slumped by you and as he glared you simply averted your eyes to the floor.

“Sit.” he commands in a rigid tone, forcing you on your rump as the coldness of the tile floor seeps through your dress. “ ‘N take it off.” the tip of his boot nudges your foot before he tugs his pants up and squats in front of you with elbows resting on his thighs.

It’s only after you slip off your now-ruined sock that he cringes in annoyance and grabs your calf to turn it for a better view. Angry red outlined the open gash and the dead skin that still clung to it was soaked in colorless stickiness. He pressed on the side of the wound, shooting down your attempt at escaping with a scalding look, and more goo was excreted.

Radroaches were clean creatures, he’d seen them grooming themselves more than hunting for food. However, being mutated by radiation did tend to add some spice to their bites and you trudging around barefoot for a good full day had only added to the accelerated decay. Nasty little cut that was.

“Stupid git.” he hisses and stuffs a hand in the sack. “Nothen’ a lil stimpak can’t fix though. And lucky for you, we hit a goldmine.” the large syringe glints under the blaring white lights and he pushes at the base to snuff out any air bubbles before lowering it to your calf. “Now hold still.”

The sight of the needle makes you stiffen, a plethora of memories flashing past your widened eyes, and you’re overtaken by such a raw desire to get away that you nearly kick him off balance in your struggle.

Too many years stuffed full of constant medications and transfusions and scalpels and cuts and taking blood samples and fucking needles. All your life you’d suffered through nothing but medical treatments and the first day spent away from such hell had you realized just how traumatizing it had all been. Obligated to just take it because there was no alternative, you were never given a choice in the matter. You weren’t ready for this again, seeing that stupid needle so close to your skin made your heart drop in your stomach.

“Wait. Mister, wait. Wait!” you grab onto the metal bars of the cart as his grip on your calf tightens painfully.

“Quit fussin’!” he all but growls and pulls you back in place once you’d made some progress in slipping away. His tolerance for your display vaporizes when you land another inadvertent kick to his knee. He lets your calf go and reaches for the back of your head, grabbing onto a fistful of your hair and jostling you still. He’s right in your face and spitting acid. “What the hell’s wrong with you?!”

“The needle.” you hiccup and wrap your sweet little fingers around his forearm. Tears swell in your eyes from both pain and fear and it does something to him again, but he doesn’t relent. “The needle…I can’t – ” you whimper and plead, crumbling in his hold. “Please don’t, Mister…”

He’s taken aback. The menace drains from his gaunt features, baring snarl gone, and his grip on your hair loosens.

“You’re kiddin’ me.” his eyes roll from you to the stimpak as if you’d said the most mind-blowing bullshit he’d ever heard. He dangles the wretched thing in front of you, watching you follow it incessantly, not even blinking. “You’re scared o’ this?”

You make a noise of displeasure and avert your face when he brings the stimpak closer. For once his mocking laugh isn’t welcomed. When he’s assured you’re not just being a brat and actually hold a crippling distaste for the needle, the ghoul pulls away with a scoff.

He thinks, rubbing his knuckles against his jaw while you sit between his knees, immobilized by his grip.

“Well shit...” he lets you go and you bonelessly slump back into the cart.

He’s not one for comfort, doesn’t know what words to use to help you overcome your dilemma; he can’t just jam the stimpak in and risk striking a bone, can’t slide it in gently because you’ll go into another fit. He could just leave…

“Look at me.” he beckoned and snapped his fingers at you. When that didn’t work, he grabbed your face and squished your cheeks, forcing you to obey by giving you a sharp jerk. He leans close enough for you to feel his breath hit your nostrils and of course, it smells like cram. “I said look. At. Me.”

Your eyes go from dazed to bulging when you feel the needle press back against your calf. A pathetic ensemble of bleats accompanies your heaving chest and you hold onto his wrist like it’s the only thing keeping you from dying on the spot.

“Shhhh – shhhh – shhh, ‘s okay Sweetheart.” he hushes you with peculiar softness, stifling your meek complaints and scolding your eyes back to his own when he sees your attention dart down to your leg. You wince briefly at the prickle and his pinkie and ring finger leave your cheek and settle at the edge of your jaw, pressing down and rubbing ever so lightly. With an even push of his thumb, the syringe is emptied. “There you go…” he gives your cheek a good pat and leans away, resting on his knees. The pack of gauze you’d carelessly tossed away in your rampage was picked up and ripped open. “The good news is, you don’t need no stitches…but how d’ you intend to survive if you can’t even use a stimpak?”

“I’ll…” you smile in pain and it’s so crooked it rivals his. “I’ll figure it out.”

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 4 >>>

🌼 Daisy Masterlist 🌼

Masterlist

Tag list: @bountydroid @judgementdays-girl

#cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #fallout tv series #the ghoul fanfic #the ghoul x you #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul fallout #x reader #fallout the ghoul #fallout show #the ghoul

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shhhsupertopsecret · 3 months ago

Text

Orestes - Jason Todd

Prompt: “It’s rotten work.” “Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

an: While I can appreciate fanon Jason, I prefer emotionally and romantically stunted canon Jason. Canon typical violence

WC: 1079

The left side living room window was always unlocked. Slightly dangerous game in Gotham, but sacrifices had to be made. For him, you would take the gamble. It had been a few days without any sight of him. While this was not uncommon, the twisting in your gut followed his absence every single time. It was a persistent reminder of the ever-present danger he was in. So, the window remains unlocked. So, you pine. And you wait.

You lay half-conscious on your couch, the TV bathing the living room in a faint blue light. Perfectly fitting of your melancholia. Then you had quite a startle. There was a gentle knock at the window. That was the sign that Jason couldn’t get in on his own. You jumped up, your heart jumping with you. You all but ran to the window to pull Jason inside. He swayed on his feet, his face obscured by that stupid helmet.

The extensive first aid kit already lay prepped on the coffee table. You could run a medical clinic from your one-bedroom apartment. You got Jason to the couch as gently as possible, as gently as you could move a six-foot-200-pound man. He was almost completely dead-weight.

With gentle hands, you moved to the sides of his helmet, pushing the release buttons and pulling it off. Jason’s face was ashen, his eyes glassy and unfocused—was it exhaustion or pain? You couldn’t tell.

“Hey, Jay.” You cradled his face, thumbs gently swiping the tops of his cheekbones, as you took in his damage. Multiple lacerations marred his skin and a bullet wound had torn open the flesh of his side. He closed his eyes and leaned into the point of connection. A black left eye too.

“I’m sorry.” He was always sorry. Jason could never accept help without guilt. To you, it was an honor to be the one who he trusted, a fragile gift. Jason Todd’s trust was a rare commodity. You would give anything to make him quit, but he wasn’t him without the Red Hood. So you loved both of them.

“Nothing to be sorry for. Let’s get you cleaned up, huh?” With a pace so slow you appeared to be still, you peeled what remained of the blood-stained shirt off of Jason’s body. Your hand grazed the litany of puckered scars from previous gunshot wounds. Your eyes were always drawn to the y-shaped autopsy scar that ran down his chest. The scar in a crude letter J that lived near his clavicle. It wasn’t that Jason was fragile, far from it. How much could one person take? You did everything you could to take some of it from him - to carry it for him.

You started the familiar process. Examine, clean, stitch. You pull the jagged edges of skin together with secure knots. If you didn’t have an iron will before, you do now. All the while, he clings to consciousness. You can finally breathe after the last suture is knotted and snipped.

“Why do you do this for me?” Jason’s words disrupt the silence.

“Am I supposed to leave you on the sidewalk?”

“Maybe.” You knew he believed that. He doesn’t believe in affection without strings. He had never known a healthy relationship model. You tried not to let it offend you when he waited for the other shoe to drop.

“I hate when you say shit like that. I do this because I can and I want to. I really want to. I’ll take care of you for as long as you’ll let me - might force you to endure it longer than that.” Jason did let his lips curl into a small smile at that.

“Bed or couch?”

“Bed.” His voice cracked, his words more of a croak.

This time, Jason was a bit sturdier on his feet and hobbled beside you to the bedroom. You slide into bed and turn over the sheet on his side. He slides into bed as gracefully as he can manage. His skin was painted an alarming purple against the stark white sheets. You remain a respectful distance away. Would you ever tell him you love him? Was it just one more thing for him to carry? You would like to think that your overwhelmingly fond demeanor had told him all he needed to know. So was his silence hesitance or rejection?

It was faint at first, you could barely feel it. Sure enough, a pinkie interlocked with yours. You braved a look at Jason’s face.

“Thank you.” His sincerity burned your skin.

“Of course, any time.”

“That’s not what I meant. Thank you for everything. It’s hard for me to be…open. But, you meet me where I am at. You care.” His eye contact made you nervous. Jason is not world-renowned for his emotional honesty. His eyes continued to peer at you, waiting for your response.

“I-Undoubtedly, I care. You find that hard to believe sometimes. But I do.” Jason turned on his (non-injured) side. He interlocked his fingers with yours, bringing both your hands to rest on the pillow in between your heads. He stared somewhere behind your head, losing what little bravado he had.

“I think I love you. I think I do. I love you.” Jason blundered through his sentence while maintaining eye contact with the wall. His palm was sweaty. You could swear your heart was going to come out of your throat.

With bravery you did not know you possessed, you put your hands to his face and brought his eyes to meet yours. It was moments like these that reminded you what Jason had lost. He looked like that 15-year-old boy, looking for validation in a foreign warehouse. And you adored him.

“I love you, Jason. I know I do.” You both sat in the weight of your words.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Absolutely. Totally. Entirely.”

“It’s rotten work.” You wish he could quantify his self-worth. You don’t understand how someone you loved so utterly could loathe themselves. You would remind him, every day, if he let you.

“Not to me, not if it’s you.” Jason bridged the gap between you, throwing his arm over your middle and pulling you close.

“Can we stay like this for a while?” Embarrassment lingered in the red of his cheeks. You could feel the weight and warmth that radiated from his arm. It felt safe.

“Of course.” You let the man you loved hold you until you both fell asleep.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #dc #batfamily #batfamily x reader #dc x reader

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seeyalaterinnovator · 2 months ago

Text

The Halocline - Rhett Abbott x Reader

Summary: Reader gets roughed up a bit, Rhett comforts her

Warnings: reader is the victim of violence, descriptions of wounds, descriptions of a panic attack, no spoilers for outer range

Word count: 1.9K

Authors note: My friend sent my a requests with rhett abbott saying "Hey, just look at me. Breathe." ... I shamefully finally got around to it.. so here we are...

Keep reading below the cut

The cool Wyoming night air brushed against your exposed skin, each step carrying you closer to the Abbott house. Certainly someone was here, if not Rhett, since he wasn’t answering his phone. You prayed he was just asleep or his phone had died, and that’s why he wasn’t answering any of your calls. The porch groaned under your feet when you hobbled up the steps, up toward the door.

You knocked once. No answer. It was late, late enough that most of the house would likely be asleep by now, having to get up early tomorrow for chores around the ranch. Cecilia was a light sleeper though, that you could count on. So you knocked again, this time with a little more force. Still no answer.

“C’mon, Rhett!” You cried, voice hoarse from the sobs that wracked your body earlier, raw from screaming for any kind of help that never came.

Your fist pounded desperately against the screen door, the tinny noise echoed into the open air and died off in the howling wind. There was always someone in the Abbott house, of course except when you needed them the most. “Shit.” You mutter under your breath.

Goosebumps rose along the flesh of your arms, the reddened welts from earlier burning as you sucked in a deep breath and tried to figure out your next move. Tears welled in your eyes as a hopeless feeling settled deep in your chest, but you refused to let them fall, not until you were somewhere safe again. Trembling, torn up hands reach up to scrub at your face as you turned toward the barn.

You noticed a faint yellow light flickering through the cracked barn door, likely forgotten by someone earlier. It wasn’t the comforting embrace of Rhett, but it would have to do. The barn was far better than trying to walk back to the pit bar to get your car and risk running into Trevor again. God knows what he would try this time. Maybe if you were lucky one of the Abbotts would find you here in the morning when they started their morning chores around the ranch.

So with a grunt, you slowly made your way over to the barn where you would hopefully hide out amongst the bails of hay. Your footsteps were heavy, weighed down with exhaustion as you crossed into the barn, the dusty smell of hay and motor oil hitting your nose. To your surprise, a familiar form was hunched over the back workbench, a white cowboy hat hiding a head full of sandy brown hair. You nearly could have collapsed from relief.

“Rhett?” You swallowed around the lump in your throat.

“Sweetheart- what are you doin’ out here so late?” Rhett inquired, turning as he wiped his oil covered hands on an old rag.

Stood in place, you couldn’t muster the strength to step any further into the light, to expose yourself to the careful scrutiny of his deep blue gaze. The sweet, lopsided smile that pulled at Rhett’s thin lips was discarded quickly, the tattered rag left on the dirt floor when he noticed the tear stained sheen on your cheeks. “Sweetheart? What happened?” His voice was heavier this time.

“I-..” All the air in your lungs dried up, leaving your chest deflated and empty. Paralyzed, your panicked gaze met his as you tried to choke in a breath. No air came though. Rhett saw your chest spasm with the effort of trying to suck in air. Quick to action, his booted feet carried him over to where you stood, though dread took pooled heavily in his gut.

“Jesus-” He gasped, his warm breath puffing out against your battered face. The first thing he noticed now that he was closer was the gash that marred your forehead, a steady trickle of blood trailed down the side of your temple and down your cheek. The second thing he noticed was the smattering of dark splotches that shadowed your skin, likely to be deep purple bruises by the morning. The third thing he noticed was you were without the sweater you always had on at this time of year. The neckline of your shirt was torn, seams ripped and stained crimson. You trembled in your spot, still frozen in place, skin peaked as shivers wracked your body.

Rhett was quick to shuck off his jacket and drape it over your shoulders and tuck you into the warm fabric. His large, steady hands ran along the length of your arms, trying to rid you of the constant shivering. “Honey- who did this to you?” He kept his tone level, despite the anger that welled up inside him.

You tried to answer, mouth opening around the Tillerson boy’s name, but all that came was a strained croak. Hot tears fell down your cheeks, burning as they rolled past the areas of broken skin. Hiccups soon took over, and breathing grew even harder. “Oh god!” You say between cries, grabbing a fist of hair and tugging at it hard enough that pain pricked your scalp. Anything to distract you from this drowning feeling that resided heavy in your chest.

With as much tender care as he could, Rhett grabbed a hold of your wrists and detangled your vice grip from your hair. His warm hands came to rest on your flushed cheeks, careful to avoid any area that looked cracked open. His touch was firm and steady as he squeezed just enough, holding your head steady and in line with his. “Hey..” He loosed a breath, barely a whisper as he searched your eyes.

“Hey, just look at me. Breathe.” He instructed in a collected manner, held you steady in his grasp despite thrashing like a bull against his hold. “Sweetheart, breathe for me. You can do it.” Wild eyes met his, and for the first time that night you finally felt safe. At first, your breaths came in frantic puffs, but you focused on trying to force the air from your lungs and exchange it for new air, inhaling deeply and blowing it out on a steady controlled exhale.

“That’s it, good job. Keep goin’.”He encouraged, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead, despite the dried blood that flaked against your skin.

You stayed like that for a while, breathing in and out, until Rhett was satisfied that you weren’t going to pass out on him from a lack of air. Now that the adrenaline had eddied away, your head throbbed in time with your bounding heartbeat. You winced, shying away from the light once again. “Rhett I-”

“Let’s get you inside and cleaned up, okay?”

There was no fight left, so you allowed Rhett to guide you into the house and up the rickety steps to the first clearing, where his room was. His hand stayed put on your low back, a calming presence as he pushed you into the threshold of his room and shut the door, careful not to wake anyone as it creaked shut.

First he pulled off his jacket from your shoulders, blue eyes roaming over your skin. Now that he was in better light, he could see the large welts that covered your arms, and how your shirt was ripped in more than one place. His lips pressed together to keep the questions at bay, now wasn’t the time for an interrogation. He needed to get you patched up and in bed.

“Come on.” He spoke softly as he took hold of your hand and brought it to his lips before he tugged you toward the bathroom.

You hovered awkwardly in the doorway, unsure what to do with yourself. That was okay, Rhett knew what to do - probably better than anyone else in this house. His hands peeled away your tattered shirt and tossed it aside. He helped you sit on the countertop before turning on the faucet. The sound of the water filling up the sink was the only noise as you watched him rummage through the closet in search of the well used first aid kit. Rhett made quick work, using a pack of gauze to clean up your forehead so he could assess the damage. He didn’t think you’d need stitches, but he held pressure for good measure. You sucked in a breath, trying to back away from his hand. He muttered a soft sorry while he leaned in and pressed a warm kiss to your forehead.

“I was at the pit bar.” You mumbled, averting your gaze to your hands which gripped your thighs tightly. “I was just on my way out when Trever Tillerson wouldn’t let me past.”

The words were heavy on your tongue, like you didn’t quite have the right words to say. Rhett didn’t stop cleaning your wound, needed to keep his hands moving so he didn’t do something stupid like track Trever down and kill him. You knew he was listening though. A muscle in his jaw ticked when you mentioned the name, he knew what kind of reputation Trever had. “I tried to push past him, told him I wasn’t in the mood for his antics tonight. He didn’t like that.” The tears came softer this time, only rolling down your flushed cheek when you squeezed your eyes shut. “No one else was around, I tried calling out. He-”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it. Not right now.”

“Thank you.” You sighed.

Rhett finished cleaning your wound in silence, placing an antibiotic ointment over the open part and smoothed a bandaid over the broken skin. His hands firmly grabbed your hips and helped you off the counter, led you back into the bedroom. He grabbed one of his old t-shirts, knowing how much you liked to sleep in them.

“Arms up.” He instructed, sliding the tshirt over your head and helped you slide your arms through the holes. He then knelt down before you, sliding off your jeans, his warm hands grazing along your thighs. You grabbed ahold of his shoulder to steady yourself as he helped you step out of the fabric. “There you go.”

As Rhett stood back up, he looked down at you, his gaze uncertain. A line formed between his brows, his eyes bouncing between your own as if searching through your soul. He whispered a soft ‘c’mere’ and pulled you into his strong embrace. His hands wrapped tightly around your shoulders and tucked you against his chest. You inhaled deeply, smelling the familiar, comforting scent of leather and tobacco he always carried. This was what home felt like. You nuzzled into him, muscles releasing the tension they held onto.

“I love you.” Those three words felt right, certain even. Despite the night’s events, you knew you would be okay as long as you had Rhett.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” His pressed another kiss to the top of your head, and then tucked you under his chin. You listened to the steady beat of his heart, slightly faster than it usually was, as it thudded against your ear.

It would be alright. This was your home. Rhett was your home.

[A/N]- this was inspired by the song The Halocline by Hippo Campus <3

#rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott #rhett abbott fic #outer ranger #outer range fic #tw violence

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